Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #885762 in Books
• Published on: 2004-03-19
• Original language: English
• Binding: Hardcover
• 358 pages

From Amazon.com
Ireland is once more the source of great, and disturbing, fiction. Most of us will not have heard of Maeve Brennan before opening this volume, yet the quality of her stories is cause for wonder. The first several are autobiographical sketches of her childhood in 1920s Dublin. In one, she takes her brother with her to the Poor Clare nuns, a closed order. Because the little boy is only 2, he gets to see the hidden lives about which his older sister is so curious: "I imagined them, silent and swift, of all ages, descending upon Robert from every part of the convent." In another, following the treaty that turned Ireland into a free state, "some unfriendly men" twice come looking for her father, a Republican. One raider even thrusts his head up the fireplace, only to cover himself and the living room in soot. Despite the disarray, her mother rejoices. "And with us chattering a delighted, incredulous accompaniment, she laughed as though her heart might break."

In Brennan's acute hands, this proverbial phrase has more sorrow than joy about it, and in the collection's two other sequences, the emotions are far more raw. Husbands and wives are deadlocked in loveless marriages--the men longing for escape, the women desperate for contact. These are visions of powerful feelings, powerfully quelled, and there are some heart-freezing juxtapositions. One story ends with a young couple coming together; in the very next, 27 years later, ill will is everywhere.

But Brennan, whose life seems to have been even more tragic than that of any of her characters, can also anatomize peace, or at least respite. In "The Carpet with the Big Pink Roses on It," Mrs. Bagot and her child and pets (also on the shakiest of ground with Mr. Bagot) fall into an afternoon slumber. "They all slept safely. There wasn't a sound in the house. Nobody came to the door. Nobody saw them. There on the bed they might all have been invisible, or enchanted, or, as they were for that time, forgotten." Alas, such states of grace are momentary in Brennan's houses. According to William Maxwell, the title novella--a brilliant anatomy of envy and hate--"belongs with the great short stories of this century." So do several other pieces in The Springs of Affection.

From Library Journal
This collection contains all of Brennan's Irish short stories, all but one originally published in The New Yorker between 1952 and 1973. The 21 stories are divided into three distinct cycles. The first set is autobiographical in nature, chronicling Brennan's Dublin childhood, while the remaining cycles bring the reader into the lives of two Dublin families. Brennan depicts everyday scenes from family life using beautiful and emotionally charged language. The stories featuring Hubert and Rose Derdon are particularly stunning in their stark comparison of home, represented by a warm hearth, comfortable appointments, and a beautiful garden, and family relationships, governed by fear, hatred, and emotional distance. The stories in the last cycle are hopeful, only briefly skirting the periphery of unhappiness and despair. The autobiographical sketches are wonderfully written, and descriptions and events return in the fictitious stories. An introduction by Brennan's colleague and editor William Maxwell provides background and commentary on the author's life and work. Highly recommended.
-?Dianna Moeller, St. Martin's Coll., Lacey, Wash.
Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Kirkus Reviews
A treasured staff writer for The New Yorker from 1949 to the mid-70s, Brennan, who died in 1993, receives fresh, well-earned attention in a collection of her 21 Irish stories, all previously published either in Christmas Eve (1974) or In and Out of Never- Never Land (1969,) together with a frank introduction from her editor William Maxwell. The stories appear in three groups, the first autobiographical, and the second and third concerning two separate families, each of whose quietly desperate circumstances is detailed in a series of overlapping vignettes. For Rose and Hubert Derdon, the state of things surfaces in ``A Young Girl Can Spoil Her Chances'' when Rose, as always, goes to a Mass commemorating her father's death, now 43 years ago, leaving Hubert, as always resentful at the upset of his morning routine. Later, he wants to make amends, and remembers a blue hyacinth he'd given her years before and how happy she'd been to receive it. The truce established between them when he asks her about it, however, collapses as his habitual criticism of her resumes. In the third group, the Bagots--Delia, Martin, and their two young daughters- -fare only marginally better: Martin sleeps in a separate room and has only minimal communication with his family; Delia keeps an immaculate home but hardly ever leaves it. The loss of their firstborn son three days after his birth was a shock they never recovered from. In the extraordinary title piece, Delia and Martin's wedding is remembered after their deaths by his twin sister, spinster Min, who took their furniture and his wedding ring to her flat the better to indulge her satisfaction at having survived Martin, whom she feels betrayed his family to marry. With an understatement often approaching brilliance, the suppressed emotions and diminished lives echoing here make clear that this voice of the last generation deserves to be heard anew. -- Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.

Customer Reviews

STORIES THAT RESONATE WITH TRUTH...
...and that truth is, as the 'troubles' of Ireland are frequently called, 'a terrible beauty'. These stories by Maeve Brennan, all but one of which originally appeared in The New Yorker, are of that level of truth. The author was born in Ireland and came to America at the age of seventeen with her family - when they returned, she stayed...and she remembered. Sharing these stories - some perhaps autobiographical, perhaps not - with us is a gift we should treasure, for they reveal not only deep, moving moments about the characters they portray, but about ourselves.

The stories collected here are divided into three groups - the 'perhaps' autobiographical tales (told from the first person); and two groups that center on the marriages and lives of two couples, the Derdons and the Bagots. There is a sadness that permeates most of these stories - although there are moments of humor contained in them, to be sure - that sings in that peculiarly Irish way of sorrow that is too deep to voice otherwise. The marriages of the Derdons and the Bagots are soaked in the dampness of resignation - a resignation to lives that must be accepted in lieu of anything that gives more satisfaction or happiness or joy. It is a resignation that is heartbreaking. I think we have probably all been touched by its cold hands at one time or another - when we are lucky, we can shake off their grasp. If we give ourselves up to it, the weight will grow and grow throughout the length of our lives. Perhaps in seeing what that weight has done to the lives of the people depicted here, we can find the strength and will to shrug off that weight.

Brennan's prose is marvelous - it captures everything vital in the lives of these characters, right down to the faded, damp-stained wallpaper in their homes. Their hopes - which are invariably just as faded, if not more - and dreams, their joys and sorrows, are all depicted so vividly that we feel them at the deepest level. That's an amazing accomplishment in writing - these stories should be more widely read for that reason alone.

William Maxwell, Maeve Brennan's friend and editor at The New Yorker, contributes one of the most illuminating and touching introductions I've ever read - it's incredibly useful to the reader's appreciation of both the author and her work. I would suggest reading it a couple of times before entering into the stories themselves, and again when you've finished them.

This collection is a treasure - I stumbled on it by chance, another unexpected discovery. 'Luck of the Irish'...? Perhaps.

Beautiful/ugly rendition of a country that no longer exists
Maeve Brennan was one hell of a writer and that's saying something for an Irish person.

Although her stories bear no resemblance to the country now (rich, self-satisfied, and smug), they describe the Ireland of my memories. Acerbic. Jealous. Snobbish when there was nothing to be snobbish about, as if there ever is.

This book is one of the most-underecognized marvels I have read. She nailed Ireland, a certain type of Ireland, not the current version, even though she spent most of her life in the States. The title story beats anything in Dubliners in its viciousness and observation.

She also helped me, when I read the book after her death, come to peace with my own mother's death. But enough of the navel searching - this is, first and foremost, a powerful piece of writing. You are left in awe. Well, I am.

Beautifully Written, Harsh In Their Judgement
Mr. William Maxwell wrote the introduction to this book. He clearly was a man who valued Ms. Brennan as a writer and a friend. His introduction is as jarring as many of the stories, and it sets the tone for the tales the book contains. After reading this introduction to, "The Springs Of Affection", I would even reevaluate her other collected stories, "The Rose Garden". The quality of her work is not the question rather how her personal life drove the commentary the stories held. Mr. Maxwell refers to the premature end of her writing life and the cause, which was tragic. Though these stories were written before her troubles began a reader has to wonder if they explain so much about this woman who stayed in America at age 17 when her Family went home, and with a brief exception spent her life alone as well. These stories are full of bitterness, regret, and lives that were unfulfilled, children wished for, marriages unwanted, and a decent into madness for one.

The final story that is the title of the book is one of the best short stories I have read. The final story also could serve as a summary of the worst that the previous stories hold. It is riven with hatred, selfishness, and a woman who relishes the possessions of the dead no matter how close they were to her. Her preoccupation with the faults of others, and her one accomplishment of having outlived them all, is a portrait of a person more miserable than that of Dickens' Ebenezer. However this woman is worse, for she neither seeks an affirmation of life and is acutely aware of whom she has been for almost nine decades.

The other stories will document the gradual decay of relationships whether between family members or those who have wed. One husband is driven to sobbing not because he grieves for his dead wife; rather he realizes he lacks the ability to care enough to grieve. A mother looses a child and rejects her religion with an enthusiasm that is jarring. Those who have children often have little use for them, and those who are bereft of issue spend their years bemoaning their absence.

Mr. Maxwell described the stories with words like ferocious and devastating; they are all of that and more. It is a beautiful collection from a woman who was a brilliant writer who laid bare the darker sides of human nature without pause or apology, and felt no need for a redemptive or soft ending. Indeed the final story may be the hardest of all. For if a reader is left standing at the beginning of the final chapter, they will undoubtedly be flattened by its close.