Volcanic Airs: An English comedy (The Mountjoys Book 4)

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Then Mimi's mother decamps abroad to escape her three unmarried sons--who promptly descend on their sister in Eyot, with extremely disruptive results. Infuriated by the brothers, Mimi and Edmund flee to France. But hot on their heels come an attractive woman from Edmund's past, the tenacious brothers and a ghostly presence with its own singular perspective on Edmund's book. Will Mimi conquer her mistrust of Edmund--and can she deal for once and for all with her trio of impossible brothers?

Scandals, schemes and suspicions sparkle in this witty comedy of love and laughter. Escape into another world and delight in the lives of a host of fascinating characters.

Volcanic Airs: An English comedy

This is the England of Wodehouse and Downton Abbey, where wickedness and scandal lurk beneath the superb self-confidence of the upper classes. Other books in this series. Children of Chance Dawn Murphy. Add to basket. Unholy Harmonies Dawn Murphy. Brotherly Love Dawn Murphy. This is a moment that in terms of sheer fright equals anything in Sheridan LeFanu—or in Stephen King, for that matter. It is also the shadowline of the story, beyond which nothing is ever the same.

Precisely what happens to the narrator at that moment is withheld until much later, when the truth of everything that had happened previously is also revealed. It is an astonishing tour de force. It is, in fact, the landscape of Hell, which, as the Irish novelist Aidan Higgins has pointed out, is unmistakably that of the Irish midlands around Athlone: flat, fertile, and unremarkable, downright sinister in its ordinariness.

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This landscape of Hell is all part of the great exercise in Manichaean depersonalization that is The Third Policeman. In the eternal struggle, evil seems to have triumphed; or, at least, everyone casually makes room for it. Truly, it is no ordinary police station, and the policemen in it are far from normal guardians of the law. They are, in fact, demons, albeit Irish, well-mannered, and superficially pleasant in demeanor. The narrator soon learns not to get them started on bicycles, on which subject they have extravagant theories, and enforce unorthodox covenants.

In this world, for example, cops steal bikes to regulate the exchange of human and bicycle atoms. After a while it all sounds quite reasonable, really. The novel has that bizarre quality of the fantastic rendered ordinary that is typical of such authors as Gogol and Kafka and the Nabokov of Bend Sinister and Pale Fire. More precisely, like At Swim-Two-Birds, it is a nightmare. And as in a dream, total inanities are uttered in a conversational context, and the purest gibberish seems to make perfect sense. What else is it but that? The Sergeant gave me a look which I am sure he himself would describe as one of non-possum and noli-me-tangere.

The policemen are also dab hands at manual manufacture—of sets of fifteen small nesting boxes, for instance, the fifteenth and smallest of which is invisible. As indeed he does.

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It goes on and on, in like vein. And as always, the parody—in this case, of scholarly prose—is priceless. Yet he can veer aside and produce pure Irish poetry that makes even hell sound beautiful. But a hell it remains. But the only upshot is that they join forces again to go in search of the strongbox. And so the mad merry-go-round goes on, with no prospect of release—although Eternity, one of the policemen points out, is just a short stroll down the road, then a mere elevator ride upstairs.

Indeed, Beckett is the only other writer known to me who can wring so much laughter out of so little hope, although some of the Russians, notably Gogol and Dostoevsky, come close, and one or two of the French modernists, such as Celine and Camus, live in the same emotional neighborhood, without the guffaws. But The Third Policeman is so entirely successful on all of its many levels as to be virtually sui generis.

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And it is a real pity it was not published sooner. One example will more than suffice:.

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Lower down the cliff, they noticed a group of boys throwing stones at the sea birds in the bay. Leave no tern unstoned. Or do I mean excruciating?

And so on, in standard Mylesian fashion. Corkadoragha, according to young Mr. Nor is there any reason to expect things ever to change, but, thanks be to God, there are potatoes enough to go round. No lightness of touch is evident here; nor, alas, is it apparent in the later works, the novels The Dalkey Archive and The Hard Life and the play Faustus Kelly , which contain only flashes of brilliance. Depression and the drink had taken over.

As Myles, he threw caution to the winds; he cared not a jot for critics or posterity, and let fly at one and all with unbuttoned exuberance, in person and in print.

Volcanic Airs (Mountjoy, book 4) by Elizabeth Pewsey

The target of a fair amount of his ribbing was his erstwhile mentor and by now long-dead nemesis, James Joyce. Some thinkers. True, resemblances there are. Both started off very well under unfaultable teachers, both were very proud, both had a fall. But they differed on one big, critical issue. Satan never denied the existence of the Almighty; indeed he acknowledged it by challenging merely His primacy. Joyce said there was no God, proving this by uttering various blasphemies and not being instantly struck dead.

And of course the long-running columns in the Irish Times , and various anthologies and spin-offs of this and that, made him a well-known Dublin personality. And my ratings of books are often out of sync with others on LT I have to say that I would be a little leery of starting a book that others had rated less than 3.

Chatterbox and Katiekrug! Karen O. We can have no idea how others are coming to a book - are they distracted?

Rivers of molten lava high up Pulama Pali - Kilauea Volcano Hawaii

Is this their first exposure to a particular author or genre? Are they familiar with, or even at least interested in, the context of, say, the Biafran war that informs Half of a Yellow Sun? I'm actually thinking of not assigning a numerical rating to my reads next year - not just for the reasons talked about here but because they are so "of the moment" that over time I find them somewhat misleading.

Somebody raved about it to me but I was totally turned off by the mediocre writing, the complete plot predictability and the ridiculous excuses the author used to lecture the reader. At one point a highly educated, cosmopolitan lawyer asks her client "what's a ghetto? Thank you all for bringing me back to my senses. I just have to realize that I'm a different kind of reader, and live with that reality! And not expect other people to understand what I see in books I like, and don't see in books that I dislike -- like overly simplistic, stupid ones.

I definitely understand the urge to read for escapism and guess what, I do it too! But even then, I want the writing to be good, or the plot to be intriguing and tricky and twisty enough for me to be engaged, and the characters to be intriguing. It doesn't have to all be uber-literary, like Sigrid Nunez. A lot of the books I rate 3. For all that I am absolutely in favor of everyone having a right to an opinion, I am starting to worry that people will just steer clear of low-rated books. And since sometimes people will down-vote books on Amazon for reasons not related to the content it's about a subject on which they disagree with the author, or the author has said something on Twitter that they hated, for instance or rate the books mistakenly thinking they are rating the vendor bizarre but true But how many readers miss out on stuff that they might enjoy?

How many never even try to read something different? As is the name of some authors -- if they sound too "foreign" or unpronounceable. I overheard someone say that at the Athenaeum a few months ago and was left standing there, my jaw hanging open. I will keep rating my reads simply because it's a way of capturing my immediate reaction to a book that I read.

That said, I have altered ratings when I've re-read a book and found it either better or less appealing on a second read. My chief concern with respect to books that are "of the moment" is that people become so obsessed with certain books -- The Goldfinch , say, or Lincoln in the Bardo or Manhattan Beach , that everything is about THAT book.

It's assumed that it is a work of great merit that will certainly endure. But that's what people thought of Quo Vadis , or the novels of Pearl Buck.

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