Five Novels by Irish Women I’ve Read

I’m a great fan of Irish writing but it seems to me that Irish women, in particular, have been excelling themselves over the past few years. Here are five favourites each with a link to a review on this blog. I’m sure there’ll be more to follow.

Sheila Armstrong’s first novel, Falling Animals, lived up to expectations raised by her short story collection, How to Gut a Fish. It spans a year in which the authorities try to trace the identity of a corpse found on an Irish beach one August morning, within sight of the shipwreck that caught fire some time ago, some say the work of the shipping company wanting to hurry along their long-drawn-out insurance claim. Witnesses come forward but details are sketchy. A year to the day after the discovery, a memorial is unveiled filled with names of those who’ve perished at sea. Armstrong’s novel is a mosaic of often strikingly poetic narratives from those connected to the dead man. A fine novel which reminded me of Jon McGregor’s Reservoir 13 both in its structure and the quality of its writing. High praise indeed.

Set in 1985, Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These follows timber and coal merchant Bill Furlong who finds himself faced with a moral dilemma. Bill has lived in New Ross all his life. His illegitimacy marks him out but he’s done well thanks to the generosity and kindness of Mrs Wilson, his mother’s employer. On the Sunday before Christmas, he delivers a load to the local convent and makes a dreadful discovery. There’s long been gossip in the town about the young girls taken in for ‘training’ in the convent laundry, often pregnant when they arrive, but the town’s people have looked the other way. Keegan tells her story from Bill’s perspective, a decent man well aware that life would have been very different had it not been for Mrs Wilson. Lyrical yet spare, Keegan’s empathetic, compassionate writing reminded me of both Colm Tóibín’s and John McGahern’s, two of my favourite writers.

I know many can’t stand Sally Rooney’s writing or avoid it like the plague based on her reputation as an introspective chronicler of her generation, but her influence on Irish women’s writing can’t be denied. Her award-winning debut, Conversations with Friends , follows Frances and Bobbi – once lovers – who are drawn into an older couple’s orbit, meeting their friends, attending dinner parties, bumping into them at Dublin’s arts events then invited to join them for a holiday. Bobbi develops a crush on Melissa, then Frances takes an initiative which leads to an affair with Nick. Rooney smartly captures the awkwardness of young adulthood. She has a knack of making the most mundane observations both interesting and amusing. I found her novel curiously addictive.  

Orla Mackey’s Mouthing tells the story of Ballygowan, tucked away in rural Ireland, over several generations beginning in the 1960s when Joe and Mona Muldowney enjoy a brief period of happiness after their brutish father dies, liberating their mother. Mackey’s characters tell their stories in a vivid vernacular, much of it threaded through with an enjoyably dark humour. Each has their own distinct voice, most not short of opinions about their fellow villagers, some sharp-tongued and judgemental, others more forgiving. They take a lively interest in the business of others but many have secrets of their own to protect and there are tragedies whose effects are far reaching. I thoroughly enjoyed this cleverly constructed debut, told with a pleasingly acerbic wit and a sharp eye for human nature balanced with compassion.

The main protagonist of Sara Baume’s Spill Simmer Falter Wither is fifty-seven-year-old Ray, barely able to string a sentence together in public, his greasy plait trailing down his back. On one of his weekly forays, he spots a notice in a shop window showing a dog as ugly as he thinks himself. At the pound he finds the terrier, bad-tempered and alone, about to face the chop and takes him on, more for practical than sentimental reasons. Soon this odd pair are inseparable. When One Eye’s terrier nature comes out, the dog warden knocks at their door. Appalled at the prospect of losing the only friend he’s ever had, Ray packs up the car and drives off into an unexplored world. As its title suggests, Baume’s novel is told in poetic, sometimes musical language. She paints gorgeous word pictures of the natural world, weaving observations of the changing seasons through Ray’s narrative The novel ends with a vivid epilogue which almost mirrors its gut-wrenching prologue. 

Any novels by Irish women you’d particularly recommend?

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