Being at home for two weeks is most definitely not conducive to writing but it does give me the opportunity to plunder my mother’s library. I’m reading The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry, which I’m not sure whether I’m enjoying. The first few pages I was blown away by the lyricism, but now, a third of the way through, I’m wishing he would pare down the flowery language and just get on with telling the story. Some beautiful similes though:
At twilight his father stands behind him at the window, a low man in his black clothes and his white skin pale and damp like a dandelion under a stone.
An old sycamore is a lovely thing with the bark gone to elephants, as ruckled and rough as elephants.
Isn’t she dour too, a deal of the time, dour as a fallen loaf in a cold oven, a disappointed loaf?