The captivating allure, intuitiveness, and timeless, classic glamour that Edna O’Brien exudes are artfully counterbalanced by a natural sense of worry. An inherent worrier, she’s perpetually at the behest of a concurrently active brain, engaging with diverse concerns. A profound thinker, yet undeniably hardworking, O’Brien frets as a young girl would, while dispensing commands such as: “We need to eat before engaging in conversation.”
Her alluring persona is instantly punctuated by a sense of authority, presenting herself as a concerned, down-to-earth grandmother who caters to the wayfarer. She scrutinises me as a doctor would a reluctant patient while interrogating me about my harrowing expedition from Heathrow.
Suddenly, the geographic extent separating Dublin and London expands grandiosely. However, having lived a significant portion of her life in England, O’Brien is profoundly familiar with her native Ireland and its current realities. “Maintaining regular contact with Ireland was very important to me. How else would I be able to write about it? It’s not uncommon for writers to write about Ireland whilst living abroad – in fact, it often helps to bring more perspective.”
Ireland shapes her narrative canvas, with Co Clare being her sanctuary, a “nourishing brew”. Yet, London appeals to her. “Writing is a solitary pursuit. With fewer social distractions here in London, I can write more effectively.” Writing a novel is definitely a lengthy process. “It took me four years to pen down this book.”
O’Brien admits to being unfamiliar with London and rest of England. “I am acquainted with the road outside my house, that’s all really.” It becomes apparent that writing is time-consuming and necessitates tranquillity.
With the release of her 17th novel, The Light of Evening, looming, she demonstrates a mix of quick wit, humour, practicality, and clear-cut nervousness. “The release of a new book represents stepping into the battleground. But authors must be resilient like boxers – ready to face the punches and persist in the ring”, she avers, curling her hand into a fist.
Although anticipation for her upcoming book launch in the United States has stirred positive feedback, the familiar anxiety and fatigue is setting in as she faces the prospect of another round of press interviews and public presentations. Her resilience is unquestionable, highlighted by her recent swift recovery from a serious illness that landed her in intensive care for a period of ten days. “I nearly lost my life,” she shares, her tone tinged with still disbelief.
Often, the blurred lines between her personal life and career has shaped the public perception of her. She concedes that the limelight on her private life has at times cast a shadow over her writings, a fact that she finds unsettling, and at times, diminishing.
Her recent commentary on one of her heroes, Beckett, being the focus of countless myths, discussions, rumours, adulation, inscrutability and extravagant narratives, is somewhat reflective of her own journey. Ireland, the muse for many of her works, has not always been kind to her. “My life has been far from being filled with laughter or tranquility,” she notes, employing a sense of irony tinged with a slight sense of humour.
Despite the setbacks, she has always managed to find amusement in the contradictory nature of Irish attitudes. Her simple terraced home exudes understated charm. The entrance hall is somewhat dim. The plain kitchen leads to a small urban garden.
She guides the way up a steep, narrow staircase to a conventional living room. There is a palpable sense of comfort and warmth in the room, signs of a house lived in, adorned with a strong literary theme. In the afternoon, the room is soaked in sunlight. Rows of bookshelves line the walls, with select titles exhibited on the forefront; works by prominent authors such as Mandelstam, Chekhov, and of course, Beckett. The austere portraits of Beckett and Joyce stare back from the black stone hearth. Artistic paintings are hung around the room, occupying the limited wall space not already claimed by the books.
In a room that encourages contemplation, adorned with fresh blooms and a collection of postcards, one could hear the muffled din of Kensington from the window. Occupying a couch, O’Brien rummages for something she intends on bestowing upon me. It’s her essay on Beckett, which she composed for the Guardian. Convinced that I might not have gone through it, she expresses her desire for me to read it. She dedicates 10 laborious weeks to its creation and revises all the work from beginning to end, before submitting.
She supports the view that a writer’s worth should solely be based on the text they produce. Despite this, the reality of judgement is far from it – a concept she is familiar with. No matter what she did, it would not have painted a more precise image of the scenario.
Roughly 14 years have elapsed since our initial meeting in this very room, where I interviewed O’Brien right before the launch of her twelfth book, ‘Time and Tide’. As before, she imparts the same energy of a zealous reader turned successful writer, dedicating herself to the literary profession.
“An education,” she described literature in that past interview some 14 years ago, a revelation many share. O’Brien presents a similar persona, with minor signs of aging, now employing lesser makeup on her delicate features. She still retains her slight stature, her petite hand soft against mine.
Edna O’Brien paints a picture of a bygone era where femininity reigned, with women in soft clothing, boasting slender frames and romantic rather than sporty.
A previous encounter with her from about 20 years ago resurfaces. While employed at a Dublin bookstore during my postgraduate days, a gracefully aged woman in her iconic hat and 1940s outfit had approached me for a copy of O’Brien’s ‘Mrs Reinhardt and Other Stories’.
A male colleague quickly stepped in to assist, presenting the book to her with the reverence usually reserved for a silk glove misplaced. As she departed, he watched after, acknowledging, “That was Edna O’Brien,” with a passion I didn’t comprehend back then.
Returning to current times, I find myself in her residence one September afternoon, conversing about literature, making references to Chekhov, Flaubert, and Faulkner. Her vibrant presence makes it easier to interact, her riveting conversations quickly transforming an interview into a discussion between fellow readers.
Edna O’Brien, with her sharp and analytical mind, has always had a knack for maintaining her perspective. Her critically acclaimed biography of James Joyce wasn’t a surprise to everyone, as she is known for her astute literary understanding and her multiple-layered responses to text. Recently, her thought-provoking essay on Joyce’s Exiles added another feather to her cap.
Even though some perceive her attractive features as part of her success, O’Brien has consistently enjoyed a professional writing career for over four decades, a detail her critics seem to overlook.
Upon meeting her, one quickly recognises the resonance she shares with great writers like WG Sebald and Virginia Woolf. O’Brien is an articulate speaker, expressing her ideas with clarity and precision, her speech characterised by a melodious, west of Ireland accent. Few writers can match her skill in reading aloud.
In discussions, she deliberates over her choice of words, occasionally pausing to seek the most appropriate expression. Her reservoir of literary references is drawn upon spontaneously.
O’Brien gestures to a new play she’s written (a soliloquy by Mrs. Gentleman, the wronged wife of the unnamed man) while confessing her profound reliance on her sight and memory. She states, “If I were to lose my eyesight, it would devastate me. If I lost my memory, I’d be done.” A touch of pleasant banter is hinted at her approving observation of the “purple stockings”.
When questioned about her book and its perceived rage-filled content, she ponderally replies, “Angry? Perhaps there’s anger within it. There’s unquestionably a sense of liberation, but anger would not have sufficed to fuel the core.”
“The Light of Evening” delves into the bond between mothers and daughters, an association portrayed as “profound and somewhat incomplete”. The author, who is a mother to two sons, expresses her yearning for a daughter, “I do regret. I would have cherished a daughter for the companionship, and I believe I would have harmonised well with that relationship.”
Her insight into women’s experiences is pivotal to her creations, resulting in parallels being drawn between her, Colette, and Jean Rhys. Through novel series, such as “The Country Girls” (1960), “The Lonely Girl” (1962) and “Girls in Their Married Bliss” (1963), O’Brien boldly pioneered discussions on sexuality from the perspective of young Irish females challenging a prudish masculinity.
Her work made her both celebrated and feared, an icon and a cause for scandal. More novels ensued; further challenging societal norms with vivid dissections of feminine sorrow and sexual dissatisfaction in books like “Night” (1972), the sombre, distressing soliloquy from middle-aged Mary Hooligan. She explores human passion and most crucially, the shame that goes with it. “Passion makes individuals uncomfortable, but passion is indispensable to literature,” she states.
As an author she pairs empathy and inquisitiveness. Language is her weapon, emotion her binding agent. Her recent book commences with Dilly, a past figure who is among O’Brien’s most empathetic characters, getting ready to be hospitalised. Prior to surrendering to medical practitioners, she had sought advice from a spiritual healer who admitted his limitations. “A man has talent for one thing but not another . . . It’s best if you trust the specialists in Dublin.”
Consequently, Dilly’s destiny is determined. Yet, before the inevitable, Dilly reminisces about her youthful period employed in Brooklyn. O’Brien’s mother had also journeyed to America before spending her mature years in Ireland.
“The memories of my mother haunt me. She passed away in 1977. She did not advocate my choice to become a writer, yet I have wanted to pen down her story for years,” expresses O’Brien, whose conceptualisation of her mother’s story has finally found expression in her new novel.
Her letters flowed in an abundance, narrating her everyday experiences in Co Clare, which attested her inherent writing ability, despite her disavowal of it as sinful. Initially, I wished to publish these as ‘letters from a mother’ but the different storytelling threads that emerged and are now part of this book took precedence, incorporating a portion of those letters.
The vivid depictions transported me back home; the rooms, the stairways, the trees, the flora, the climate and all else. A significant part of this layered narrative is penned in dramatic and profound prose, portraying five different tales embedded within a main narrative. The letters included in the novel feel authentic, filled with a mother’s affectionate and occasionally reproachful love.
An example began with, “Beloved Eleanora,” detailing an incident of a shaky ladder, which almost resulted in an accident when the mother was painting a ceiling for her daughter’s visit. She understood and appreciated Eleanora’s penchant for well-decorated ceilings, referring to one in the Vatican crafted by experts. The mother cherished Eleanora’s letters and the thoughtful gifts from her pay, demonstrating her enduring love. She expressed her preference for allocating resources to maintaining Rusheen, the place she resided for over five decades, over her personal indulgences.
The author concedes that her new novel borrows substantially from her own life’s realities. Eleanora, the daughter in the story, is also a writer who has survived an unhappy matrimonial life with a disparaging husband, who belittled her literary works. He claimed to have re-edited her books and derogatorily labelled her as a literary Bessie Bunter. While the novel includes aspects from her life, she ensures it’s a work of fiction and would have chosen to write an autobiography had she desired to merely recount her life’s events. She relishes that novels allow her to give her story wings.
Addressing her book, ‘The Light of Evening’, she reveals that it brought to her attention certain undisclosed facets about herself and her mother. “It could as easily have been named The Light of Midnight”, she declares.
O’Brien’s accomplishments are now judged in relation to both her preceding body of work and personal life. A shared experience between her and John McGahern is having their books banned in Ireland, thus producing novels that also serve as important social history. However, McGahern eventually gained esteem in Ireland, while O’Brien, despite her considerable readership and high praise from notable writers such as Philip Roth, Harold Pinter, and Harold Bloom, has never fully received similar recognition from literary or academic institutions.
Nevertheless, O’Brien has recently experienced few uplifting moments. She was awarded the first Ulysses Medal for Literature by UCD, and Tuamgraney enlisted her to inscribe her words on a stone. She readily accepted and wrote, ‘Tuamgraney/ Home of my home and fount of my fictions . . .’ and then, in Gaelic ‘ . . . Tá mé bhuíoch diot [I am grateful to you].’
When asked how she perceives herself, O’Brien dismisses being an icon or a victim, and rather prefers to be seen as a survivor. She admits to being a bit of a worrier, yet opts to be viewed as an inching warrior. Believing that her books serve as her voice, she absorbs her unique experiences, chronicles and shares them.
When prompted about her current state of happiness, she expresses, “Well, I’m not unhappy.” She describes it as the most optimistic perspective one can have amid current world events often filled with violence and war. Born the same year as US writer, John Updike, O’Brien notes that unlike her experience, Updike’s works and not his life or appearance were the basis of his evaluation.
Richard Ford may be handsome, but his literary contribution is what truly counts. Edna O’Brien has not let go of the anger that met her later storytelling, particularly her works such as the ‘House of Splendid Isolation’ (1994), featuring an IRA figure at its heart, ‘Down by the River’ (1997), which explored the X Case, and most provocatively, ‘In the Forest’ (2002), which depicted a tragic outsider, Eily Ryan, based on the real-life murders in Co Clare of Imelda Riney, her young son, and a town priest.
The local populace reacted furiously to these depictions, denouncing her for perceived insensitivity. Tackling local events in literature always carries a risk, a cost O’Brien is all too familiar with. “Kindness is something I recall,” she quips, swiftly adding, “the hurts, though, they’re hard to forget.”
She remains uninterested in appeasing others by softening her stance or toeing the political line. As she puts it, the rise and fall of the Irish economy, the so-called ‘Celtic Tiger,’ is a tale waiting to be told. If her vitality permits, she plans to take on at least a portion of it. Her conversations often include mentions of her sons Sasha and Carlo – Sasha, in particular, seems to be stepping into a protective role. There’s a suggestion that they crave more conventionality from their mother. However, O’Brien is known for her frankness and grand gestures, opting for emotionally charged language like “savage,” “passion,” and “blood.”
Her love for literature dates back to her earliest years. She would often recite verses by Yeats and fantasise about Maud Gonne, even during her bicycle rides – which were always a tad wobbly – to the pharmacy institute she attended on Mount Street, Dublin.
“Pharmacy was a more suitable choice of study for me over literature. I indulged in books concerning natural science. In my opinion, being overly literary is not beneficial. Reflecting on Mrs Virginia Woolf’s work, I admire her articulate and impactful essays and reviews, but her novels, she wryly remarks, fall short at times. Yet, ‘To The Lighthouse’ remains a favourite of mine,” she confesses.
Unzipping a sleek black case, she reveals the Ulysses medal – a broad, flat silver disc attached to a vibrant blue ribbon. It bears semblance to a sports award, and in some ways, it is, given O’Brien’s long history of literary endurance, with a commitment to keep striving. Under the right light, her blue-grey eyes spark with a hint of green.
She calmly points out that the reflection is nothing more than the yellow flowers gracing the window sill. An unintentional streak of ink is smeared across her teeth, a leftover trace from her nibbling pen. “I appreciate it. I’ll ensure to remove it. My teeth may bear ink – as though my soul does too.”
Descending the narrow stairwell leads to the welcoming kitchen where she extends the offer of more sustenance. A lone book, Daniel Woodrell’s Winter’s Bone – an American authored piece, rests on the table. “Please take it,” she urges. “You’ll enjoy it. It’s exceptional. I was requested to stand testimonial for it and I obliged. I assure you that you’ll appreciate this book,” she articulates.
When O’Brien, the bibliophile acknowledges the potency of the book, the conversation veers to her marked dislike for insipid writing. “It’s worthless unless it’s authentic, containing truth and emotion. What elevates a book to spectacular heights? When its author vouches for its truth, and it indeed is so. Like a tale spun by Chekhov.”