TransAtlantic: A Novel
By: Colum McCann / Narrated By: Geraldine Hughes
Length: 10 hrs and 42 mins
Yes, McCann can write, but it’s still Literary Fiction, and we all know I’m a pretty dismal person when it comes to all that…
Stay with me here as I tell you about my early 20s whenst I was sans job and without an address or telephone. There was this AWEsome dive of a saloon called The Showdown where I basically lived. If my sister wanted to get in touch with me? She’d call the bar… I was like THAT, ya see.
And everyone else there? Well, it was FRAUGHT with wannabe writers manning the bar, and well-read barflies hanging around waiting for Happy Minutes when a mug o’ brew was 10 cents, and the rest of the patrons sat before pitchers of beer and feverishly poured down their thoughts into journals, capturing their own alcohol-driven genius in ever-increasingly illegible scrawls.
Why do I tell you this? Because waaaaay back then, there appeared an Irish guy, a writer he called himself, who made all the girls swoon and delighted all the menfolk with his tales of globetrotting and crossing the US on bike.
It was Colum McCann, the author of this here TransAtlantic, and at the time he made my eyes roll with his preening about what a great writer he’d be, all the whilst making goo-goo eyes at all the ladies for bigger tips. Turns out, however?
The dude can write! I’ve got plenty of his works in my Library as his stuff goes on sale a LOT, esPECially at Kobo, but it took St. Paddy’s Day and a Wallow in All Things Irish to get around to tacking him into my week’s Listening. Cuz, see, I’ve still not forgiven him for his brazen swagger and boasting.
Okay, down to the book. I hear tell that McCann, now a FAMOUS author, feels that writers should tackle the epic and pack it full of the itty bitty details. And thus, dear Accomplice, we have Literary Fiction explained.
Cuz there’s really no plot here, and this is a series of episodes that span the world and tiptoe through time. It starts with two fliers, scarred from service during WWI as they attempt a transatlantic flight, goes on to Frederick Douglass’s trip to Ireland to make all aware of the plight of slaves, the evils of slavery, and then it rests in the 1990’s as a peace between Northern Ireland and the IRA is negotiated by an American senator. And through it all, and wrapping things up, several women have their stories told as they lightly, with the barest of butterfly wings, touch on history and bring things through to the book’s conclusion. Irish maid Lilly takes off from Ireland to survive American tenements and then to pass on her story to strong women keen on suffrage, on careers in photography, on displaying their strength by suffering losses and carrying around inert men.
As with all literary fiction (No caps here cuz the breed o’ writing kinda annoys me), the focus is on the writing, the word choices, the figurative imagery. McCann has a muscular style reminiscent of Hemingway (I’m still galled by his strut), but he appears to pride himself on being able to capture the nuances of all things female (My first intro to his writing was a wordy snapshot of a jaunty nun in little socks as she dashed hither and yon). He’s LOUSY when he tackles massive issues like The Troubles and the Civil War, but he’s glorious when he brings the suffering of the Famine to light. Even Douglass, who escaped torture and cruelty, is taken aback by the anguish bringing the Irish to their knees as they collapse, unable to search for food even one more step.
I was kinda taken aback by narrator Geraldine Hughes as the book opened, as she has a very harsh and strident tone to her voice. Kobo only offers certain set speeds, so I was forced to x1.5 to make her tolerable (She plods ominously, but I think she’d have been okay at maybe x1.3…). Having done this, I could then settle into a fairly decent performance. I think she was a good choice given McCann’s writing style, but I really would’ve been happy with some warmth which didn’t show up until the final woman’s story—She has a lot of trauma in her life—but all in all, Hughes worked out well enough.
Which brings me to the final part. Oy did it go on and on, or what? I get it that we’re rounding out history with present day, but I really did not need to hear about the price of petrol or a sick dog who bounces back, or about a few flings in the character’s past that come to mind when she flunks a sobriety test. It all just went back and forth, back and forth, and I was happy when the book FINALLY ended abruptly.
I had thought this was the best book of the week, given the writing crafted. But that was before I hit Jess Kidd’s offering. Still, if you’re looking for beautifully phrased breezy writing with different eras from both sides of the Pond chronicled? Look no further but give this one a try. Me? I found it a jolly decent enough Listen to be eyeing what-all is in my Library with pleasure. It’s just that I don’t feel any real urgency to get to the next one, at least not until next St. Paddy’s Day.
And for the love of Jiminy H. Cricket! Do NOT look into the soulful peepers of McCann on any of his book jackets! Seriously, I saw him using the same gaze on female saloon patrons left and right.
Shameless!
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