https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/oct/10/the-river-capture-mary-costello-review-james-joyce This beautifully modulated novel about a Joyce obsessive whose life has stalled bends Ulysses to its own ends “Barefoot, Luke O’Brien descends the stairs of Ardboe House and stands at the window on the return landing.” From the beautifully modulated opening sentence of Mary Costello’s second novel, we know we are in Ulysses territory (first line: “Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed”). A teacher on a career break, Luke has returned from Dublin to his ancestral home in Waterford, overlooking a bend in the Sullane. The family were not quite “castle Catholics”, but the O’Briens nonetheless had money and status, and he is the last of the line. A Joyce obsessive whose plans for a book have come to nothing, Luke is so immersed in Ulysses that he thinks in its language and rhythms, and sees parallels with Leopold Bloom, Stephen Dedalus and Joyce himself in the most minor occurrences of everyday life. He is also a metaphysician, compulsive connection-maker and – perhaps – bipolar: “A touch, maybe. Occasional highs, definite lows. Restlessness. Some hubris … Certainly nothing that warrants intervention.” Luke is becalmed. Like the book on Joyce, his plans to renovate Ardboe have barely got off the ground and his four-year career break has slowly stilled to almost nothing: “Some days, sitting in the same position, he thinks he has been there for a few minutes when, in fact, hours have passed and suddenly it is noon or afternoon or four o’clock and the day outside has entirely changed.” He does very little except visit his elderly aunt Ellen, who lives nearby; her sister, his aunt Josie – “slow, they’d call her now” – died not long ago, and Luke still mourns her. His attachment to and identification with women is even more striking than Bloom’s: “Alone, he contemplated the feminine in himself and, stirred by desire at the thought of being part woman, he massaged his nipples, ran a finger along his scrotal scar, the vestigial seam of a foetal vagina … he suspected that, at certain times of the month, he still possessed traces of a rudimentary menstrual cycle that, prone to the pull of celestial bodies, affected his entire organism.” Continue reading...
|