Verwandte Artikel zu Solar Bones

Solar Bones - Softcover

McCormack, Mike

 
9781616959531: Solar Bones
Softcover
ISBN 10: 1616959533 ISBN 13: 9781616959531
Verlag: Soho Press, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

Longlisted for the 2017 Man Booker Prize
Winner of the Goldsmiths Prize
Winner of the Bord Gáis Energy Irish Book Awards Novel of the Year 
An Irish Times Book Club Choice

"With stylistic gusto, and in rare, spare, precise and poetic prose, Mike McCormack gets to the music of what is happening all around us. One of the best novels of the year." —Colum McCann, author of Let the Great World Spin and TransAtlantic 

Solar Bones is a masterwork that builds its own style and language one broken line at a time; the result is a visionary accounting of the now.

A vital, tender, death-haunted work by one of Ireland’s most important contemporary writers, Solar Bones is a celebration of the unexpected beauty of life and of language, and our inescapable nearness to our last end. It is All Souls Day, and the spirit of Marcus Conway sits at his kitchen table and remembers. In flowing, relentless prose, Conway recalls his life in rural Ireland: as a boy and man, father, husband, citizen. His ruminations move from childhood memories of his father’s deftness with machines to his own work as a civil engineer, from transformations in the local economy to the tidal wave of global financial collapse. Conway’s thoughts go still further, outward to the vast systems of time and history that hold us all. He stares down through the “vortex of his being,” surveying all the linked circumstances that combined to bring him into this single moment, and he makes us feel, if only for an instant, all the terror and gratitude that existence inspires.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mike McCormack is an award-winning novelist and short story writer from County Mayo in Ireland. His previous work includes Forensic Songs; Notes from a Coma, which was shortlisted for the Irish Book of the Year Award; Crowe’s Requiem; and Getting It in the Head, which was awarded the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature and was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. He lives in Galway.

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the bell
  the bell as
  hearing the bell as
    hearing the bell as standing here
    the bell being heard standing here
    hearing it ring out through the grey light of this
    morning, noon or night
    god knows
    this grey day standing here and
    listening to this bell in the middle of the day, the middle of the day bell, the Angelus bell in the middle of the day, ringing out through the grey light to
    here
    standing in the kitchen
    hearing this bell
    snag my heart and
    draw the whole world into
    being here
    pale and breathless after coming a long way to stand in this kitchen
    confused
    no doubt about that
    but hearing the bell from the village church a mile away as the crow flies, across the street from the garda station, beneath the giant sycamore trees which tower over it and in which a colony of rooks have made their nests, so many and so noisy that sometimes in spring when they are nesting their clamour fills the church and
    exhausted now, so quickly
    that sprint to the church and the bell
    yes, they are the real thing
    the real bells
    not a transmission or a broadcast because
    there’s no mistaking the fuller depth and resonance of the sound carried towards me across the length and breadth of this day and which, even at this distance reverberates in my chest
    a systolic thump from the other side of this parish, which lies on the edge of this known world with Sheeffry and Mweelrea to the south and the open expanse of Clew Bay to the north
    the Angelus bell
    ringing out over its villages and townlands, over the fields and hills and bogs in between, six chimes of three across a minute and a half, a summons struck on the lip of the void which gathers this parish together through all its primary and secondary roads with
    all its schools and football pitches
    all its bridges and graveyards
    all its shops and pubs
    the builder’s yard and health clinic
    the community centre
    the water treatment plant and
    the handball alley
    the made world with
    all the focal points around which a parish like this gathers itself as surely as
    the world itself did at the beginning of time, through
    mountains, rivers and lakes
    when it gathered in these parts around the Bunowen river which rises in the Lachta hills and flows north towards the sea, carving out that floodplain to which all roads, primary and secondary, following the contours of the landscape, make their way and in the middle of which stands
    the village of Louisburgh
    from which the Angelus bell is ringing, drawing up the world again
    mountains, rivers and lakes
    acres, roods and perches
    animal, mineral, vegetable
    covenant, cross and crown
    the given world with
    all its history to brace myself while
    standing here in the kitchen
    of this house
    I’ve lived in for nearly twenty-five years and raised a family, this house outside the village of Louisburgh in the county of Mayo on the west coast of Ireland, the village in which I can trace my seed and breed back to a time when it was nothing more than a ramshackle river crossing of a few smoky homesteads clustered around a forge and a log bridge, a sod-and-stone hamlet not yet gathered to a proper plan nor licensed to hold a fair, my line traceable to the gloomy prehistory in which a tenacious clan of farmers and fishermen kept their grip on a small patch of land
    through hail and gale
    hell and high water
    men with bellies and short tempers, half of whom went to their graves with pains in their chests before they were sixty, good singers many of them, all
    adding to the home place down the generations till it swelled to twenty acres, grazing and tillage, with access to open commonage on Carramore hill which overlooks the bay and
    this pain, this fucking pain tells me that
    to the best of my knowledge
    knowledge being the best of me, that
    that
    there is something strange about all this, some twitchy energy in the ether which has affected me from the moment
    those bells began to toll, something flitting through me, a giddiness
    drawing me
    through the house
    door by door
    room by room
    up and down the hall
    like a mad thing
    bedrooms, bathroom, sitting room and
    back again to the kitchen where
    Christ
    such a frantic burst
    Christ
    not so much a frantic burst as a rolling crease in the light, flowing from room to room only to find
    this house is empty
    not a soul anywhere
    because this is a weekday and my family are gone
    all gone
    the kids all away now and of course Mairead is at work and won’t be back till after four so the house is mine till then, something that should gladden me as normally I would only be too happy to potter around on my own here, doing nothing, listening to the radio or reading the paper, but now the idea makes me uneasy, with four hours stretching ahead of me till she returns,
    alone here for four hours
    four hours till she returns so
    there must be some way of filling the span of time that now spreads out ahead of me, something to cut through this gnawing unease because
    the paper
    yes
    that’s what I’ll do
    the daily paper
    get the keys of the car and drive into the village to get the paper, park on the square in front of the chemist and then stand on the street and
    this is what I will do
    stand there for as long as it takes for someone to come along and speak to me, someone to say
    hello
    hello
    or until someone salutes me in one way or another, waves to me or calls my name, because even though this street is a street like any other it is different in one crucial aspect – this particular street is mine, mine in the sense of having walked it thousands of times
    man and boy
    winter and summer
    hail, rain and shine so that
    all its doors and shop-fronts are familiar to me, every pole and kerbstone along its length recognisable to me
    this street a given
    this street is something to rely on
    fount and ground
...

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Verlag
Soho Press
Erscheinungsdatum
2018
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1616959533
ISBN 13 
9781616959531
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
232
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
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