Smile

Review by New York Times Review

WE WERE EIGHT YEARS IN POWER: An American Tragedy, by Ta-Nehisi Coates. (One World, $28.) After his best-selling "Between the World and Me," Coates could have cashed in with a standard miscellany. Instead, this master class in the essay charts his ascension as perhaps the important critic of our time. REVOLUTION SONG: A Story of American Freedom, by Russell Shorto. (Norton, $28.95.) George Washington is the hub of Shorto's book, which artfully weaves together the stories of six individuals from the Revolutionary period to give a sense of how far-reaching a phenomenon the War of Independence was. SCHLESINGER: The Imperial Historian, by Richard Aldous. (Norton, $25.95.) Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. has found in Aldous an agreeably judicious biographer who gracefully balances an appreciation for his subject's talents as a writer of narratives and speeches with an acknowledgment of his shortcomings as a political analyst and aide. SMILE, by Roddy Doyle. (Viking, $25.) Doyle's 11th novel is the closest thing he's written to a psychological thriller: The protagonist's life goes off track after a stranger from his past shows up, reminding him of their Catholic school days amid signs of a deeper darkness the narrator refuses to confront. THE IMPOSSIBLE PRESIDENCY: The Rise and Fall of America's Highest Office, by Jeremi Suri. (Basic, $32.) A historian traces the changing role of the presidency from Washington onward, arguing that as the job has become increasingly complex it now involves more than a single person can handle. SCALIA SPEAKS: Reflections on Law, Faith, and Life Well Lived, by Antonin Scalia. Edited by Christopher J. Scalia and Edward Whelan. (Crown Forum, $30.) This collection of speeches and writing by the famously argumentative Supreme Court justice, who died in February 2016, offers a clear picture of his originalist interpretation of the Constitution. THE THREE LIVES OF JAMES MADISON: Genius, Partisan, President, by Noah Feldman. (Random House, $35.) America's fourth president shifted his political orientation at least three times in his life. Feldman marks the changes in his nuanced portrait of the founding father. THESE POSSIBLE LIVES, by Fleur Jaeggy. Translated by Minna Zallmann Proctor. (New Directions, paper, $12.95.) A Swiss-Italian writer presents short impressionistic takes on Thomas De Quincey, John Keats and the French Symbolist Marcel Schwob. FRIENDS DIVIDED: John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, by Gordon S. Wood. (Penguin Press, $35.) Wood traces the long, fraught ties between the second and third presidents, and sides almost reluctantly with Jefferson in their philosophical smack-down. The full reviews of these and other recent books are on the web: nytimes.com/books

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

A man walks into a pub, orders a pint, and is soon accosted by a man from his past he can't quite remember. The first man is Victor Forde, recently returned to his childhood neighborhood and trying to ingratiate himself as a regular. Living alone in a sad apartment, he is, he says, separated from his celebrity-chef wife and working on a book about what's wrong with Ireland. Flashbacks to education in a Christian Brothers school, to life with his wife, hint at something wrong as does the reappearance of the mysterious man he comes to know as Eddie Fitzpatrick. As Victor returns to the pub night after night, and to his memories day after day, 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. Revealing the twist would ruin the experience: let's just say Victor is hiding a trauma readers will be all too familiar with. Strong stuff.--Graff, Keir Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The latest novel from the Booker Prize-winning author of Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha explores the intricate psychology and history of a failed Irish writer who has recently separated from his famous wife. Having rented a cheap apartment in the unnamed Irish hometown he'd left behind, Victor Forde passes his bleary nights at Donnelly's, a nondescript local pub where he soon runs into a forgotten, ornery schoolmate, Fitzpatrick. From there, the book's structure takes some twists and turns as Fitzpatrick forces Victor through difficult recollections of his Christian Brothers school years, his poignant courtship of his celebrity chef wife, and the controversial pro-choice radio interviews that made him infamous. A revelation brings the relationship between Victor and Fitzpatrick to a violent conclusion, leading to an ambiguous twist ending sure to spark debate in readers. Doyle skillfully depicts the triumphs and tragedies of the everyday, how the aging process humbles and ennobles, and how a single hasty decision made in one's youth can define and destroy a mind and thus a life. (Oct.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

As controversial Irish radio commentator Victor Forde, 54, contemplates his life, he often returns to the five painful years he attended St. Martin's Christian Brothers School. What remains these 38 years later are fearful memories of cruel classmates and teachers prone to unpredictable violence. Newly single and intent on ingratiating himself with a group of regulars at his neighborhood bar, Victor forces himself out of his dingy apartment every evening to meet and mingle. When an odd duck by the name of -Fitzpatrick confronts Victor one night, claiming to be a schoolmate, he pushes Victor to revisit his worst nightmares. 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. VERDICT This slim novel may not evoke many smiles, but the masterly language and honesty make the grim subject matter bearable. [See Prepub Alert, 4/10/17.]-Christine Perkins, Whatcom Cty. Lib. Syst., Bellingham, WA © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A return to form for the Dublin novelist, who illuminates the troubled psyche of a writer who can't quite bring himself to write.After hitting his peak renown a couple of decades ago (Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha won the Booker Prize in 1993), Doyle has sometimes seemed to be drifting on autopilot. Not here, where the first-person narrative is fresh and bracing from Page 1. Victor has come to a pub looking for a place to become a regular after his recent split from his wife, a TV celebrity with a weekly show. In the pub, he encounters a man who says he remembers him from school and seems to know more about him than anyone besides Victor himself should. As Victor returns to his single-man's flat, and to the writing that haunts him because he can never accomplish much, he muses on the life that has brought him here. He remembers the Christian Brothers, his teachers, one of whom molested him at least once. He remembers his days as a rock critic and then his move into political journalism, which resulted in his chance meeting with the beautiful, irresistible Rachel. She would become Ireland's television sweetheart, beloved by all, but for some reason she loved only Victor. The reader can't figure out why. Victor can't figure out why. The friends he makes in the pub can't figure out why. "What did she see in you?" one asks. Their split is also something of a mystery. Meanwhile, Victor keeps running into that same guy in the pub, the stranger who has now become his best friend. "He'd knowhe knewmore than I'd want known," Victor fears, more than he'd want to tell the others in the pub or even the reader. The writing that obsesses him is "about the rot that is at the heart of Ireland," that is within Victor himself, a corrosion that began in his school days. 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. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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--Victor? I looked up 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. --What was the name of the Brother that used to fancy you? he said. He patted the table. --What was his fuckin' name? His shirt was pink and I could tell that it had cost a few quid. But there was something about it, or the way it sat on him; it hadn't always been his. --Murphy, he said.--Am I right? --There were two Murphys, I said. --Were there? --History and French. --Were they not the same cunt? I shook my head. --No. --Jesus, he said.--I hate that. The memory. It's like dropping bits of yourself as you go along, isn't it? I didn't answer. I have a good memory - or I thought I did. I still didn't know who he was. He moved, and put one foot on top of a knee. I could see right up one leg of his shorts. --Anyway, he said.--It was the one who taught French that wanted your arse. Am I right? I wanted to hit him. I wanted to kill him. I could feel the glass ashtray that wasn't there any more, that hadn't been on the table since the introduction of the smoking ban a decade before - I could feel its weight in my hand and arm as I lifted it, and myself, and brought it flat down on his head. I looked to see if anyone had been listening to him. I could hear the remains of the word 'arse' roll across the room. I hated this man, whoever he was. But I nodded. --Fuckin' gas, he said.--And look at us now. Would he fancy us now, Victor? --Probably not. --Not me, anyway, he said. He slapped his stomach. --You're not looking too bad, he said. His accent was right; he came from nearby. He took a slurp from his pint - it was Heineken or Carlsberg - and put the glass back on the table. --You've done alright, Victor, he said.--Haven't you? I couldn't answer. --For yourself, like, he said.--I see your name all over the place. --Not recently. --Fuck recently. I wanted to go. --You did great, he said.--We're fuckin' proud of you. I wanted to move house, get back across the river. Home. --Victor Forde, he said.--One of us. A minute before he'd thought my name was Foreman. --You married that bird, he said. I shouldn't have, but I nodded again. --Fuckin' hell, he said.--Good man. There's no end to your fuckin' achievements. --Who are you? I asked. He stared and smiled at the same time. --Are you serious? --I know your face, I said. --My face? He laughed. Straight at me. --My fuckin' face? he said.--Jesus. I was - what? - seventeen. The last time you saw me. Am I right? I didn't know - I didn't know him. But I nodded. --Will I give you a hint? I didn't nod this time. --Síle Fitzpatrick, he said. The name meant nothing. --Who? --Go on - fuck off. --I don't know her. --Síle. Fitz. Patrick. --No. --You fuckin' do, he said.--Wake up, Victor. Síle. You fancied her. Big time. All of you did. She was a bike. Síle Fitzpatrick. She was the bike. Yis all said it. I hadn't heard that phrase, 'a bike', in years. It was like a piece of history being taken out and shown to me. A slightly uncomfortable piece of history. --No, I said. --Blonde bird, tall, Holy Faith, Bowie fan, woman's tits. She was starting to come together; I thought I was remembering someone. --You all fancied her, he said again. --And you didn't? --Well, I did. But I couldn't. --How come? --She was my sister, he said. The laugh exploded out of him, as if he'd been holding on to it for years. There was nothing funny in it. The girl was in my head now, Síle Fitzpatrick, but I wished she wasn't. I wanted to tell him that I didn't know her. But I could see her sitting on the low ledge outside the chipper, her back to the glass. I was inside, looking at her hair, her shoulders, her white uniform shirt tucked into her skirt. I wanted her to turn and look in. I wanted her to look at me. --You remember me now, I bet. I didn't. But I remembered his sister. --Yeah, I said.--I do now. Sorry. What was his name? He'd been in my class for five years; he must have been. Fitzpatrick, Fitzpatrick. I had it. --Edward. --Good man, he said. I knew him, and I'd known him years ago. I knew his face and I'd known his face. --Eddie, I said. --I kind of prefer Ed these days, he said.--More adult. He shrugged. --Finally had to grow up, he said. What he'd told me just before he'd laughed - one of the words came back and nudged me. --You said 'was' . You said she was your sister. --Yeah, he said. --Was, I said. --Yeah. -- Sorry - , I said.--I don't - . She's not - ? --Dead? --Is she? --No, he said.--No. We're not close, just. --Oh. --Yeah. --Grand. --Say no more, says you. The gap was beginning to close. 'Say no more, squire' -  the Monty Python line was straight from the schooldays. --You meeting someone? he asked me now. --No, I said.--No. Just having a pint. --Same as myself. D'you live near here, so? I hesitated. I didn't want to explain. --Or just visiting? he said.--Slumming it for a bit. --No. --No? --I live down the road there -  five minutes. --Oh grand, he said.--So this is your local. --Not really. --Fuck this, he said. He stood up and picked up his stool; he'd scooped it from under himself before he was upright. I didn't have time to cower. But he turned to the table beside us and lowered the stool one-  handed while he grabbed a chair with the other and dragged it across to him. He sat down, and back. --That's better. There was even more of his leg on show now. He didn't seem to be wearing underwear. --So, he said.--Yeah. I waited. --I was away myself for a bit, he said. --Were you? --Yeah, he said.--Here and there. Nothing special. But Síle. She'd love to hear from you. He'd guessed it: Síle was the only thing I liked about him. --I hardly knew her, I said. --Go on to fuck. --It's true. --Yeah, yeah, he said.--She fancied you. Big time. Had me plagued. Is he going to college? What's his favourite Bowie song? Is he going with anyone? A right pain in the arse. --'Heroes', I said. --What? --My favourite Bowie song. He laughed. He sat back, almost lay back, and barked at the ceiling. There was grey pubic hair poking out of his shorts. He sat up, adjusted his crotch. Had he caught me looking at him? --D'you know what? he said.--I'd say she'd still be interested in knowing that. --What? --Síle, he said.--She'd love to know that 'Heroes' was your favourite Bowie song. I don't believe that, by the way. Now maybe, but we're talking about - when? 1975 or '6. 'Heroes' was released in 1977. So you're spoofing. As usual. You can fuck off, so you can. Vict'ry.   I should have stood up. --Remember we used to call you that? he said. I should have just left. He might have followed me but I should have walked out and kept walking. I'd have been giving nothing away. Because I found out later, he already knew where I lived. Excerpted from Smile by Roddy Doyle All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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