On the surface, this novel seems like it would not be up my alley at all. It has several features that have put me off other recently-published books by Irish authors: a nervy, precocious heroine who is conspicuously described as being thin and not eating much, a limited number of characters who are all highly educated and neurotic, a 2010s-Ireland setting. But those reservations disappeared once I got into the book. Like a couple of more famous examples of books of this type, the narrative examines social class and power dynamics in relationships, but with a seriousness and intelligence sorely lacking from the more-hyped examples.

This book actually engages with the issue of social class in Ireland and how it relates to this country's specific history. Alannah, the heroine, and her husband are specific people from specific places and contexts, and the different ways they approach and see the world are described and portrayed with real depth and understanding. Alannah is not just Irish, in a generic, vague way easily digestible by other Anglophone audiences, but specifically from somewhere around the Louth/Meath border, and this is conveyed without needing to name any particular towns or regions. The social context of her "castle Catholic" husband is equally fluently evoked. This requires a quality of observation and ability to elegantly fold these "tells" into the narrative that far exceeds anything I've read in the other books that this novel is often lumped in with. The flashback relationship between a younger Alannah and the English film director Harry provides a framework to subtly explore the uneasy intimacy between England and Ireland, without being in any way heavy-handed.

But explorations of class and nationality are not at the heart of this novel, despite being a significant part of it. The story, such as it is, focuses on the almost religious power of memory. Alannah is frequently taken out of her (fairly neurotic) head by something that reminds her of the intense few weeks she spent with Harry in a rural cottage in her home county many years before. Be it a sight, a sound or a smell, the function of these triggers is to override Alannah's analytic functions and send her into an irresistible reverie. Some other reviewers here disliked the writing style - I think it's beautifully written and very moving. The power of memory can send us into verbose flights of fancy, even while we try and remain objective about the reality of our pasts. The first-person narration provides a sense of intimacy, as Alannah tries to reckon with the past flooding into her mind and body, with all the overwhelming power of nostalgia.

In general, I appreciated the writing style. It is quite elaborate in parts, but I never felt that the author was losing control of her material. The descriptions of the natural world, the fields and forest near Harry's cottage, and the uncanny atmosphere in the landlady's house are vivid and compelling. The Dublin-set scenes evoke the actual city as I remember it, always remembering that it is beside the sea - an evocation that links up with descriptions of the same Irish Sea coast near Harry's cottage, in the region Alannah comes from. In general, I am not particularly impressed by the style of writing lauded by critics as "pared-down" - I believe it takes a lot more skill to write expansively, elaborately and even, dare I say, emotionally, which Campbell succeeds wonderfully in doing.

I'll finish this review with a quotation of one of my favourite passages (there are so many!) that, for me, sum up the combination of lovely language and intellectual seriousness that I found so absorbing in this novel. Five stars.

We walked to the coast road and the Irish Sea. I've known that water all my life. It's a filthy sea, a mutinously fuming sea of fungal colour and gull colonies; a trade sea, a snot-green sea. It is different to the Atlantic, an ocean of utopias: the Irish Sea exists to ship cargo and kill. Its coastline is the waste of Empire.

Amidst smashed public baths and piers, slipways and little castellated guest houses, smooth alcoves in harbour walls, one almost hears the phantom cranking of a music-box, the sailor's hornpipe, the departed carnival. England has eternally just pulled out of the place.


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