My PA gang held our book club meeting in Florida, even though the story - History of the Rain by Niall Williams - takes place in Ireland. (Well, it did rain in FL, so that counts. )
We are our stories. We tell them to stay alive or keep alive those who only live now in the telling. That's how it seems to me, being alive for a little while, the teller and the told. (back blurb)
Ruthie Swain is the daughter of a dead poet. She's living in FaHa, County Clare, and recovering from a collapse in college. She's in her attic room, with the rain rushing down the windows. She writes Ireland, with its weather, its rivers, its lilts, and its lows.
I loved Ruthie. I loved all her references to her dad's books as she puzzles her way through family history. She's a twin, and slowly tells Aeny's joyous short life. I laughed out loud at her descriptions of town folk. I teared up at other writings - p. 311 But the fact is grief doesn't know we invented time. Grief has its own tide and comes and goes in waves.
Williams writes lyrically, humorously, and with a passion for Ireland - its quirks, its people, and its rain. That's a character itself. I loved this book - it meanders, it goes off on a bender, and it's gentle.
Take your time, find a comfy chair, pour a cuppa, and settle in for History of the Rain. Let the words pour over you and enjoy.
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