Description
“It’s Doyle’s bravest novel yet; it’s also, by far, his best.” npr.orgFrom the author of the Booker Prize–winning Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, an acclaimed, haunting novel about the uncertainty of memory and how we contend with the past.Just moved in to a new apartment, alone for the first time in years, Victor Forde goes every evening to Donnelly’s for a pint, a slow one. One evening his drink is interrupted. A man in shorts and a pink shirt brings over his pint and sits down. He seems to know Victor’s name and to remember him from secondary school. His name is Fitzpatrick.Victor dislikes him on sight, dislikes, too, the memories that Fitzpatrick stirs up of five years being taught by the Christian Brothers. He prompts other memories—of Rachel, Victor’s beautiful wife who became a celebrity, and of Victor’s own small claim to fame, as the man who would say the unsayable on the radio. But it’s the memories of school, and of one particular Brother, that Victor cannot control and which eventually threaten to destroy his sanity.Smile has all the features for which Roddy Doyle has become famous: the razor-sharp dialogue, the humor, the superb evocation of adolescence, but this is a novel unlike any he has written before. When you finish the last page you will have been challenged to reevaluate everything you think you remember so clearly.
Additional information
| Weight | 0.21 kg |
|---|---|
| Dimensions | 1.50 × 14.00 × 3.74 cm |
| Author(s) | |
| Format Old` | |
| Language | |
| Pages | 224 |
| Publisher | |
| Year Published | 2017-9-12 |
| Imprint | |
| Publication City/Country | Canada |
| ISBN 10 | 0735273146 |
| About The Author | RODDY DOYLE was born in Dublin in 1958. He is the author of many acclaimed novels, including The Commitments, The Van (a finalist for the Booker Prize), Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (winner of the Booker Prize), The Woman Who Walked Into Doors, A Star Called Henry, The Guts and Love. Doyle has also written several collections of stories, as well as Two Pints, Two More Pints and Two for the Road, and several works for children and young adults including the Rover novels. He lives in Dublin. |
"It's his bravest novel yet; it's also, by far, his best." —npr.org“The closest thing he’s written to a psychological thriller." —The New York Times Book Review“Roddy Doyle always takes us deep below the laughter, into the reality of who we are, the reality that we can never hide from who we’ve been. This time achingly.” —Linden MacIntyre, author of The Bishop’s Man, winner of the Scotiabank Giller Prize“Smile retains the usual pleasures of Doyle’s sharp dialogue, well-drawn characters and evocative but undemonstrative prose. It’s also a smart book about the performance of masculinity, the impact of religion on social mores and, most potently, the complicated ways we deal with the after-effects of trauma. . . . It’s guaranteed to make you think. You may be driven to find other readers to discuss it, over pints.” —Maclean’s “Reading Smile, one is swept along—as in all Doyle’s novels—by the vibrancy of the language, the vivid sense of character and place, but nothing prepares you for the final few pages where, in a twist of imaginative brilliance, everything you have read is turned completely on its head.” —Daily Telegraph“Like all good literature, [Smile] will inspire debate but also admiration for the courage of a hugely successful writer who refuses to be predictable and uses the novel to challenge both the reader’s sense of ease and the nature of the form itself.” —John Boyne, The Guardian“[The] early scenes demonstrate Doyle’s gift for capturing the witty and often cruel banter that animates Irish pub talk. . . . The terrible costs . . . are revealed in a violent, dreamlike finale that will send many readers back to the novel’s first page to reassess everything they’ve read. It’s a risky move on Doyle’s part, but it works brilliantly.” —Toronto Star“A book that made me feel I really was in the presence of a master.” —Sebastian Barry, The Observer“Roddy Doyle’s latest novel, which begins in a Dublin pub, seems to be straightforward enough. . . . What it turns out to be will surprise even his most ardent fans.” —Winnipeg Free Press“Smile’s shock value isn’t in graphic or harrowing detail, but in its dizzying twist, which upends expectations.” —The Times“Doyle turns the novel on its head. . . . The ending is a daring tour-de-force.” —The Scotsman “[F]resh and bracing from page one. . . . It isn’t until the final pages that the reader understands just what Doyle has done, and it might take a rereading to appreciate just how well he has done it. The understatement of the narrative makes the climax all the more devastating.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) “Readers anticipating Doyle’s trademark wit and warmth will instead encounter a psychological mystery with an enigmatic ending that will have them flipping to the beginning looking for clues. Doyle’s ability to convey so much meaning through rapid-fire dialog in the Irish vernacular is unsurpassed. His commentary about the Catholic Church, sexuality, and repression is searing.” —Library Journal “Doyle flavors a compelling character study with a soupçon of suspense, misdirecting readers for a powerful purpose that is only fully revealed at the shocking, emotionally charged ending.” —Booklist |
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| Excerpt From Book | —Victor? I looked up when I heard when I heard my name but I couldn’t see a thing. I was sitting near the open door and the light coming through was a solid sheet between me and whoever had spoken. My eyes were watering a bit – they did that. I often felt that they were melting slowly in my head. —Am I right? It was a man. My own age, judging by the shape, the black block he was making in front of me now, and the slight rattle of middle age in his voice. I put the cover over the screen of my iPad. I’d been looking at my wife’s Facebook page. I could see him now. There were two men on the path outside, smoking, and they’d stood together in the way of the sun. I didn’t know him. —Yes, I said. —I thought so, he said.—Jesus. For fuck sake. I didn’t know what to do. —It must be – fuckin’ – forty years, he said.—Thirty-seven or -eight, anyway. You haven’t changed enough, Victor. It’s not fair, so it isn’t. Mind if I join you? I don’t want to interrupt anything. He sat on a stool in front of me. —Just say and I’ll fuck off. Our knees almost touched. He was wearing shorts, the ones with the pockets on the sides for shotgun shells and dead rabbits. —Victor Foreman, he said. —Forde. —That’s right, he said.—Forde. I had no idea who he was. Thirty-eight years, he’d said; we’d have known each other in secondary school. But I couldn’t see a younger version of this man. I didn’t like him. I knew that, immediately. |
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