Patrick McGrath (1) (1950–)

Phew! McGrath’s previous novel The Wardrobe Mistress was underwhelming and disappointing. Still, I buy whatever he writes and this one was much more like his older work. This time out the disintegrating mind is inside the head of Francis McNulty, former poet and resistance volunteer of the Spanish Civil War. As much as he insists the ghoul he sees is real and is somehow Generalisimo Franco, we doubt. He’s forgetful and fighting to exert the last of his independence.

There is a balance of show more atonement and revenge here that is nice along with some wry insights into his own character. So much so that I wonder if any man can see inside himself so dispassionately or clearly. Maybe he only wants us to think so. While McGrath does the unreliable narrator very well, Francis is not one of them. Even if the ghoul is a product of his own dementia or delusion, he believes it and tries to explain it. Painstakingly, haltingly he also explains himself. He is tortured by his betrayal of his one true love, another volunteer in the war. Imprisoned and sentenced to die, Francis is no Sidney Carten. The opposite. And while all too human, it is all too heartbreaking as well.

Some choice lines -

(in reference to himself and the ghoul) “But death be not proud, I thought. Take him now before he can do any more damage. Or to be precise, before he can do old Francis McNulty any more damage, for I am frankly haunted.” p 11

(in reference to his older and beloved sister) “Dear God but I despair of these women who abandon their filters in age and just say whatever comes into their heads.” p 20 (not me, I love these ladies and look forward to being one!)

(once more in reference to the ghoul) “And to live in the world and carry within myself this what - mystery - this knot of fog - impossible to articulate without arousing suspicion that I am, yes, going mad - this is now my task as I see it.” p 57

(convinced her father shouldn’t live alone, but come to live with her and her husband she says)
“Oh, Papa, Papa, what does that matter now?
You notice the now? Some freight it carried, that now - when your life is all but over, she meant, when you are so very close to the grave you can practically count the worms.” p 82

Oh and vocabulary word! Persiflage - n. Light and slightly contemptuous mockery or banter.

Wonderful! show less

Patrick McGrath is master of the unreliable narrator. His skill is applied with precision and deliberation. Even though I know Gin is unreliable, her judgment and opinions to be taken with the mightiest grain of salt, he eventually lulls me into complacence. I fall under a spell of sorts and frame my perceptions to align with Gin’s; no matter that I know better. And in the end, when McGrath pulls the curtain back to reveal the truth I knew was there all along, I’m still astonished. I show more also know and love McGrath’s adept use of foreshadowing and I shouldn’t be surprised by anything that happens, but yet I am. This is my fifth McGrath novel and even though his style pervades, he manages to create widely diverse situations and characters.

This time we have a couple of ill-fated lovers who indulge in a very 1950s style of bohemian living. Typical enough, but the circumstances are tilted and the narrator of their story definitely biased. She is willfully blind to her brother Jack’s faults. She willfully scandalizes Vera, his lover and mother of his children. She willfully aggrandizes his art and his calling. He is the perfect father and brother at all times. Even his faults are made magnificent and part of his higher calling. We know this cannot be true, but still, McGrath makes it all seem so reasonable. So right.

The descriptions of life in the wretched Port Mungo are shrouded by the mists of time and distance. We weren’t there. Our narrator wasn’t either, but yet we find the expected truth of what we’re told comforting. Of course Jack is an exile; he wants perfection and won’t settle for anything less. Artistic credibility and integrity are noble pursuits indeed. Vera’s abandonment of him and their daughters is almost on cue. We expect it and raise Jack even higher in our esteem in the face of her cowardice and selfishness.

But then the cracks appear. Why did Jack so easily let Anna, his surviving daughter, go to his proper, upstanding brother Gerald? This in the face of the zeal with which he persevered as Peg’s father; his martyrly devotion to show up Vera’s shortcomings so starkly. Why has his return to the New York art scene been so tepid and lackluster? Why has Vera continued to fall back into his life with such unexpected regularity? Why does Anna display behavior so contrary to her Sussex upbringing? The façade crumbles and reality is bathed in the full light of Vera’s scorn and Gin’s disbelief. Very well done and an intriguing, hypnotic tale. The Rathbone Curse indeed. show less

Not up to McGrath's usual work, but an enjoyable book none-the-less. The first chapter sets up intense foreboding and import. The creepiness factor is high. I love how throughout the course of the narrative, Sir Hugo keeps telling us that he's a "scientist" and that his empirical sensibility has been tested, but not bested. Even without his spasms of superstition - Unreliable Narrator alert! Still, I can't help but love the guy. Here's what he thinks of the popular press -

"I was much show more relieved when, after a few days of rabid excitement, they [reporters] lost interest in us, having fresh rubbish with which to titillate their readers. And mass literacy, they tell me, is a boon." p. 64

OMG, what would he say in the face of the media now? Reality TV? The internet? Oy. Poor Hugo.

As much as I love McGrath and savor his books, I can't rate this one very highly in comparison with his others. I kept waiting for the magical moments of madness. None came. Sir Hugo's irascibility and humorous asides were terrific, but sane. And I also kept waiting for the illusion to come down, for Fledge or someone else to come fully into the light and make us realize our assumptions were wrong. Usually in McGrath's books the narrator's unreliability is finally shown in piteously harsh light, but not so in this one. George's death and Fledge's flaunting are interesting and stir up our emotions, but Sir Hugo is helpless and there isn't so much likable about either man to stir pity. Still, it's a rich character study and a voyeuristic look inside a dysfunctional household. show less

Short story collections are the hardest things for me to review, but I love McGrath so much and this particular edition is so beautiful and satisfying that I have to try.

Let’s start with the book itself - published by Centipede Press in a run of only 300 it is signed by McGrath, Joyce Carol Oates who wrote the introduction, Harry Brockway who drew the illustrations and Danel Olson the editor. McGrath's signature here let me verify that another on my edition of Trauma is in fact, a genuine show more signature. Since I picked it up that way and didn’t see him do it, it was a nice little bonus. As is the whole book. I only heard about it in a roundabout way and have no experience with Centipede press, but when I saw it I knew I had to have it. Not just because I am a big fan, but because I only had his novels, none of his short fiction and now I have all of that, plus essays, criticism and book introductions. I only have one of those in my treasured edition of Frankenstein which is illustrated by Lynd Ward. Originally I think it was published by Centipede, but mine is from Fall River Press.

The book is printed and bound in Italy and weighs a metric ton. I love books with nice heft. There are several monochromatic illustrations throughout as well as a full-color dustjacket which is dramatic and very appropriate to the work. I also love the small production touches - the graphic themes adorning the title pages, the bookmark and the endpapers. Also it doesn’t have deckled edges!!! I hate deckled edges.

Writing Madness is an especially apt title given a common theme of McGrath’s writing - insanity and the unraveling of a mind. I don’t know how I overlooked this, but the fact that he was raised on the grounds and buildings of Broadmoor Lunatic Asylum, as they say; this explains a lot. Since his dad was a psychiatrist and administrator of the hospital, Patrick got an eyeful of madness in all its forms. In writing his approach is not without sympathy, but it doesn’t coddle or romanticize mental illness either. Many of the stories collected here feature various forms of it, but also touches of the arcane and the bizarre.

While reading this dense and diverse book, it occurred to me to compare McGrath’s writing to Bradbury in the sense of their mastery of English and how to nuance their sentences and word choices to transcend mere information. With sure control, both writers make you feel; they give you more than just a story, they give you emotion and a fully-realized idea that must encompass the language itself. I am in awe of both men’s ability and how differently they executed it.

“An hour later he was still there, walled up in a dungeon of self…” Lush Triumphant p 63

A village called Gryme and Ravensgloom its boarding school - “Originally the country house of an eccentric Liverpool merchant with a fortune made in the slave trade, it had been appropriated by the Order in 1867 and converted into a tortuous complex of cubicles and classrooms, wherein the priests had begun instructing the sons of the Catholic gentry in two dead languages and a Spartan regimen designed to tone their physical and spiritual gristle.” Ambrose Syme p 73

“That first meeting, then, was on in which we quietly corrected each other’s preconceptions.” The Arnold Crombeck Story p 85

Why be dormant or in a torpor when you can estivate?
Why say belch or merely burp when you can say eructate?
Why use many words to describe a circular function when you know the word epicycloid?

His work is full of wonderful, dictionary-grabbing words that convey so much more than their more quotidian counterparts. The fact that you might not know many of them contributes to your sense of unease and gives you more discomfort than just creepy descriptions and situations.

Then there’s pacing and tension. Sometimes it’s teasing and almost playful. In Down the Rift we’re introduced to a crumbling mansion and its crumbling aristocratic inhabitants; it’s a bit forlorn and nostalgic and then he gives us a scene, unheralded by anything, of a man preparing to hang himself with some unusual sartorial choices. So wonderful, bewildering and in a twisted way, funny.

Sometimes he drops a bomb on the reader. You’ll be going along, absorbing the story, quelling your goosebumps and trying to fathom the unnamed narrator who is telling you things he can’t possibly know, when, boom! - he explains the narrator’s connection and a bit of what is to come. It’s surprising in its perfect timing; giving me a jolt of joy and reassuring me as a reader that I am in very good hands. I won’t tell you which story so as not to spoil that little morsel for you.

There is a lot more in the book and a lot more I could say here, but I’ll wrap up. If you have never read McGrath and have an abiding appreciation for all that is Gothic; get thee to a bookstore. If you are already a fan, this book is a must even if you have some of his short fiction already; it’s a lovely object and has additional content not included in previous books. I wish McGrath had commented or editorialized a bit on the stories themselves, the way Stephen King sometimes does, but that’s the only thing I would want except for more stories and essays. Thank you Centipede Press and all whose love of McGrath brought this little gem to life. show less