The Gathering – Anne Enright

The Gathering is an exploration of grief and memory.  The novel opens in Dublin (Enright is Irish) with the suicide of Liam Hegarty.  Liam is survived by his sister Veronica, our protagonist, who progresses through the narrative from despair into a sort-of redemption.  Most interesting are Veronica’s memories as they resurface throughout the book:  both Veronica and Liam were victims of sexual abuse. 

This was the first time I’ve read Anne Enright.  The Gathering was a winner of the Booker Prize, and it is obvious why – the writing is flawless.  The book is raw; Veronica’s misery vibrates on every page.  But I won’t say I exactly “liked” the book: it was so packed with emotion that it took a long time for me to get through it.  Maybe “appreciated” is a better word, but that sounds so banal.  And the book was definitely not banal.  I had to read it like I would eat a very rich dessert – in small bites, in several sittings.

Do you do that?  Or do you read everything at the same pace?  I notice that the older I get and the more scatterbrained I become (which I consider to be part and parcel of having small children – or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I begin to wax hypochondriacal about early-onset Alzheimer’s), the more I need to take heavy books in small doses.  They are still rewarding of course, perhaps even more so because of the effort it takes to get through them, but they take me some serious time and concentration.  In brief, I’d say that this book requires sobriety.  Don’t drink more than two glasses of wine and expect to follow Enright’s stream-of-consciousness psychological narrative.  (There is a reason this blog is called “Lit Lush,” people.) 

But back to the book.  What I found most riveting was Enright’s pitch-perfect description of what happens to a psyche when loss occurs.  Consider this passage, from Veronica:

I thought about this, as I sat in the Shelbourne bar – that I was living my life in inverted commas.  I could pick up my keys and go ‘home’ where I could ‘have sex’ with my ‘husband’ just like lots of other people did.  This is what I had been doing for years.  And I didn’t seem to mind the inverted commas, or even notice that I was living in them, until my brother died.

This was probably my favorite paragraph in the entire book.  Grief brings perspective, more than anything else does.  The most normal parts of life take on a surreal quality (“home,” for example) when we are faced with the previously unimaginable.  The loss of one’s most pivotal person (as Liam is to Veronica) has the capacity to completely unmoor.  When I lost my mom ten years ago, it was unbelievable to me that people were still driving in cars.  Heading to the grocery store.  Picking up their mail.  This is what Enright does best, here – she shines a light (no, a 1000-volt spotlight) on that space or disconnect between the grief-stricken and the rest of the world.  In The Gathering, that space is a chasm.  But that is the product of loving someone enough.  Toward the end of the book, Veronica realizes (and I love this quote, too) that “being part of a family is the most excruciating possible way to be alive.”  Absolutely.  Because if we love people, and have the great good fortune to live a long life, we will eventually lose many of the people who we love.  We don’t have a choice; life just works that way. 

YIKES.  What a turn this post has taken!  Sorry for the detour into morbidity.  And I even took my Zoloft today.  Next post will be lighter – I’m planning a list of must-have children’s books.  In the meantime, as long as you are psychologically healthy and on your meds, read Enright.  But don’t say I didn’t warn you.