Sally rooney

Jaded and adrift: I Want You to Be Happy, by Jem Calder, reviewed

Two people make an awkward stab at a relationship, even as both flounder under the realities of modern life. Yes, we’ve seen elements of I Want You to Be Happy before – and it even comes with an endorsement from Sally Rooney. But Jem Calder still succeeds in offering something fresh, and the novel stands on its own two feet as an intricate analysis of love in the 2020s. Chuck and Joey meet at a nightclub. He is in his thirties, recently single, with a steady job as a senior copywriter. She is in her early twenties and works as a barista. The chapters alternate between their perspectives as their relationship develops. It’s a very east London book. The couple’s dates include a trip to ‘an independent bookshop, whose branded tote bag they both owned’.

The oppression of Sally Rooney

Almost a decade ago the Irish academic Liam Kennedy published a tremendous book with the title Unhappy the Land: the Most Oppressed People Ever, the Irish? It is a dissection of one of the most curious pathologies in the world: the desire to have been oppressed; a glorying in being repressed. Kennedy, like a few other brave writers (Ruth Dudley Edwards, Malachi O’Doherty, Kevin Myers) has the courage to point to an under-examined seam in Ireland’s history. Specifically he takes aim at the mawkishness that exists in contemporary Irish affairs. The desire to be the first victim, perhaps the greatest victim, of all victims, anywhere in the world. You see similar strains of aspiring victimhood in other mini-nationalisms.

The peculiar appeal of ‘sad-girl literature’

From our US edition

A stack of books balances on a fluffy white Michael Aram bedspread: Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation, Lisa Taddeo’s Animal, Candice Carty-Williams’s Queenie and Lily King’s Writers & Lovers all touted as “sad-girl lit-fic book recs.” Lana Del Rey’s lugubrious melodies play on repeat; “I’m pretty when I cry” and “baby blues / baby blues,” in particular, are favored lyrics. This is a specific quarter of TikTok (or BookTok), the lachrymose world of “sad-girl lit.

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Is the hype for The Bee Sting justified?

From our US edition

On a recent visit to the bookshops of New York, I found all the usual suspects front and center. If you wanted David Grann, Amor Towles or Salman Rushdie, you had come to the right department; if your tastes veered more toward the Air Fryer Cookbook, that particular whim would be well catered for, too. But the single book I saw on most prominent display everywhere I visited was the new novel by the Irish author Paul Murray, The Bee Sting. A shop assistant in McNally Jackson professed herself an admirer of both writer and work. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We sell a dozen copies a day, sometimes more. It’s hit a chord with people in a way that other books just don’t.

Murray

A literary pilgrimage to Dublin

From our US edition

From the lilting normcore of Sally Rooney’s Normal People to the frenetic genius of poetic, post-(post?) punk band Fontaines D.C., I’m drawn to talented Irish voices of late. Martin McDonagh’s Oscar-nominated tragicomedy, The Banshees of Inisherin, won three Golden Globes, and my heart, to boot. And quite rightly. It’s news to no one that the Irish have always been exceptional storytellers; some stereotypes stick because they are true. Plenty of the finest words ever written hail from the town of the hurdled ford, Baile Átha Cliath, Dublin. This fact was recognized by UNESCO in 2010, when they named it a City of Literature.

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Why don’t men read novels?

From our US edition

It’s hard to move on the literary internet — or that nest of inky vipers, literary Twitter — without coming across a piece that expresses one of two opinions: the first, that men don’t read literary fiction and that this limits their understanding and experience of the world; and the second, that the figure of the heterosexual white man has been crudely and cruelly excluded from the literary debate. “Bring back our Roth, our Amis, our Updike,” these commentators cry, as if they hadn’t received enough acclaim and attention in the past few decades, and if reading them had become illegal rather than just moderately unfashionable.

A gentle soap opera with nudity and book chat: Conversations with Friends reviewed

It’s official: television has a new genre. Its features include leisurely half-hour episodes, plenty of literary chat, several scenes set in libraries, not much humour and lots of close-ups of the thoughtful faces of clever young Irish women. It would also have presented a serious dilemma for teenage boys growing up before the internet, in that there’s not a great deal of exciting incident but there is a reliably high quotient of sex. The genre in question is, of course, the Sally Rooney adaptation – which, having laid the groundwork in 2020 with Normal People, has now cemented its new-genre status with Conversations with Friends.

The art of the love triangle: from Conversations with Friends to Closer

The BBC3/Hulu 12-part adaptation of Sally Rooney’s debut novel Conversations with Friends (2018) comes hot on the heels of the success of Normal People (2020) – the author’s second work (2018). Normal People surprised some with its graphic but sensitive depiction of sex but won over even older viewers (well my mum liked it) due to the finely drawn characters and convincing acting by the two leads, relative newcomers Daisy Edgar-Jones and Paul Mescal. Indeed, for Edgar-Jones, Normal People has provided a calling card with producers, leading to her being cast in comedy-thriller Fresh (2022, Disney+),  true crime drama Under the Banner of Heaven (2022, FX) and upcoming adaptation of Where the Crawdads Sing.

Sally Rooney on steroids

To lessen the side effects of chemotherapy I am prescribed a corticosteroid. I take a whopping dose around the treatment dates and a maintenance dose the rest of the time. The physical side effects of prednisolone are sweating, insomnia, a gargantuan appetite and a moon face. The mental effects are similar to those of decent coke: an afflatus of delightedness and collected wits spoiled by an indiscriminating faith in the truth of my own thoughts, and an overwhelming and grandiose desire to express these marvellous thoughts verbally to other people. Grandiosity in an invalid is not a good look. But people excuse it.

The cult of Sally Rooney

From our US edition

Sally Rooney is preparing to publish her new book, Beautiful World, Where Are You. But reports are emerging of near-hysterical behavior more suited to a (pre-cancellation) J.K. Rowling Harry Potter novel than an elegantly written work of literary fiction. Pre-publication proof copies of the novel have sold on eBay for hundreds of dollars, despite the US publisher Farrar, Straus and Giroux having explicitly asked recipients of the advanced reading copies not to resell them, and even a promotional canvas tote bag is realizing nearly $100. Meanwhile, when the book is published in the US and UK on September 7, 50 British retailers will be opening their doors early on the day, so eager purchasers can get their Rooney fix shortly after daybreak.

sally rooney

Young female Irish writers are setting a new trend in fiction

Publishers everywhere are looking for the new Sally Rooney, which is odd since as far as I know the old one is still around. As a result Ireland, which has never lacked literary talent, is giving us a lot of debut novels by young female writers this year. True, being the new Sally Rooney makes a change from being the new Irish Chekhov, but it is a high-risk strategy when many are called but few are chosen. Here are two of the most prominent debuts, with more, including Elaine Feeney’s much-vaunted As You Were, due in the coming months.

Superbly convincing: Unorthodox reviewed

When I lived briefly in Stamford Hill I was mesmerised by the huge fur hats (shtreimel) worn by the local Hasidic Jews, and the wigs worn by their wives, and the almost tubercular pallor of their children. I often wondered how such a remote, aloof and archaic sect could possibly relate to 21st-century London. The answer, of course, was that they didn’t: they were like ghosts from another age, walking the same streets but not of this world. I wished I could get a glimpse of their private lives — and now, thanks to Unorthodox (Netflix), we all can. Loosely based on a memoir by Deborah Feldman, it tells the story of 19-year old Esther ‘Esty’ Shapiro (Shira Haas) who flees her ultraorthodox Jewish sect in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, for a new life in very secular Berlin.