Michael Barnes
It's obvious. The first thing to note about McBride's debut 'a girl is a half formed thing' is its use of language, grammar, syntax or lack thereof, and punctuation. I have seen it described as 'stream-of-consciousness' and that is as good a descriptor/warning as any. Read as fragmented gasps and spurts and appears childlike at first reading. Usually starting a new book I try to read the first fifty pages in a one sitting to decide if I want to keep reading and for this novel I needed that to feel that I had a reasonable grasp of what was being conveyed. Even when I was more comfortable reading I never got passed a sense I was translating or deciphering the prose, rather than just reading as I do with other books. Not since Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker have I had to put in so much effort to read understand what I was reading.
It was also a hard read because of the harsh unforgiving treatment these children receive in an earlier Ireland that the catholic church held sway. The country described in the Pogues song 'thousands are sailing' "The land that makes us refugees, From fear of priests with empty plates, From guilt and weeping effigies".
Central through our unnamed narrator (spoiler the final line of the book is "My name is gone") is her brother three years older than her suffering from a brain tumour as infant whose brain has been damaged by the cancer and the surgery never to recover toa full life and then to die in his early twenties.
Our narrators life is also horrendous she is raped by her uncle. Even with her conflicted sexual response it is certainly rape, for she is only thirteen, which makes it paedophilia as well. Following this recounts sexual encounters as joyless and violent compulsion reminiscent of nothing so much as the self-harmers who cut themselves as a form of release from unbearable emotional stress. Throughout the novel angry Catholic virtue of her virago mother, expressed in speech rhythms that catch with uncanny accuracy the way that people actually talk.
The protagonist's end is heart rending in its inevitability. Summarised by Mark Byron Senior Lecturer, Department of English, University of Sydney "The narrator is dragged under by her failure to coalesce an identity sufficiently resilient to the burdens of her experience".
This was not a pleasant nor enjoyable read for me but a worthwhile one none the less.
It's obvious. The first thing to note about McBride's debut 'a girl is a half formed thing' is its use of language, grammar, syntax or lack thereof, and punctuation. I have seen it described as 'stream-of-consciousness' and that is as good a descriptor/warning as any. Read as fragmented gasps and spurts and appears childlike at first reading. Usually starting a new book I try to read the first fifty pages in a one sitting to decide if I want to keep reading and for this novel I needed that to feel that I had a reasonable grasp of what was being conveyed. Even when I was more comfortable reading I never got passed a sense I was translating or deciphering the prose, rather than just reading as I do with other books. Not since Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker have I had to put in so much effort to read understand what I was reading.
It was also a hard read because of the harsh unforgiving treatment these children receive in an earlier Ireland that the catholic church held sway. The country described in the Pogues song 'thousands are sailing' "The land that makes us refugees, From fear of priests with empty plates, From guilt and weeping effigies".
Central through our unnamed narrator (spoiler the final line of the book is "My name is gone") is her brother three years older than her suffering from a brain tumour as infant whose brain has been damaged by the cancer and the surgery never to recover toa full life and then to die in his early twenties.
Our narrators life is also horrendous she is raped by her uncle. Even with her conflicted sexual response it is certainly rape, for she is only thirteen, which makes it paedophilia as well. Following this recounts sexual encounters as joyless and violent compulsion reminiscent of nothing so much as the self-harmers who cut themselves as a form of release from unbearable emotional stress. Throughout the novel angry Catholic virtue of her virago mother, expressed in speech rhythms that catch with uncanny accuracy the way that people actually talk.
The protagonist's end is heart rending in its inevitability. Summarised by Mark Byron Senior Lecturer, Department of English, University of Sydney "The narrator is dragged under by her failure to coalesce an identity sufficiently resilient to the burdens of her experience".
This was not a pleasant nor enjoyable read for me but a worthwhile one none the less.