Langrishe, Go Down (Irish Literature) by Aidan Higgins

Langrishe, Go Down (Irish Literature) Reviews

• 
  MJ Nicholls

  Aidan Higgins is one of Dalkey’s most-pubbed authors, so my curiosity took to me to his work (via this non-Dalkey edition of his first novel). Beckett described this novel astutely, and somewhat contemporarily, as “literary shit,” and I have to agree with Sam in this instance—this here is some shameless literary shit. Higgins is the exact opposite of Dalkey’s other Irish superstar Flann O’Brien—sincere, lyrical-to-the-nth-degree, robustly modernist where Flann was loosely postmodernist—and the plot and tone more akin to the Irish miserabilism that would become popular in the wake of Angela’s Ashes. If he remains lacklustre in his content, Higgins fits the Dalkey mould in his play with form—narrative POVs are switched and several techniques like interior monologue and free indirect style are deployed (in a way that is quite common nowadays—to call this “experimental” would be a long shot). Plot-wise: three miserable sisters in a crumbling estate. One of them has an affair with a German wastrel. For fans of overly lyrical literary shit in a modernist stylee, this will meet your needs.
• 
  Gerard Cappa

  A new(2016) edition with the bonus of an insightful afterword from John Banville.
  
  The blurb tells you all you need to know as far as plot - "the youngest of the four sisters embarks on a reckless love affair, set against the backdrop of a crumbling 1930's Europe" - and there are no surprises along the way. The predictability, though, doesn't matter, I didn't read this to find out what happened next. Higgins constructs, or recreates, his atmospheric world and that is enough.
  
  'Evening.Steam on the surface by the far bank. Cattle come to drink. House-flies. Dragon-flies. Carried down. Winding river. Its bends. Overhanging foliage. Ash. Elm. Beech. Ash. A cat on the river wall. Black cat. Washing itself. Complacent. River wall. Endless river. Tireless river.
  Bats fly at night. Meadows full of white daisies and buttercups. Swallows darting over the hedge. The currant bushes in Springfield garden. Dry fumes of their musty branches. Otto favours blackcurrant jam.'
  
  Banville tells us that Beckett declared it to be 'literary shit' but also told Higgins that 'in you, together with the beginner, is the old hand'.
  
  'Ending, ending.
  -That monotonous condition of the soul, Otto said, halfway between fulfilment and futility, which comes with living in the country.
  Futility, futility.
  - Among bats, Otto said, which have connection in the autumn, the sperms can remain dormant in the uterus throughout the whole of winter and impregnate the ova in the spring.
  Ended.
  Two springs, two summers, three autumns and two winters.
  That was all; and now all over'
  
  
  
  
• 
  Bettie

  
  Bettie's Books
  
  The shelving, status updates and star rating constitute how I felt about this book.
• 
  John Doyle

  A vastly underrated novel, rich and teeming with subtleties. In the long Irish tradition of the big-house novel and at the same time a sharp allegory about the temptation and erotic pull of Fascism. An attractive German charms and seduces a lazily self-absorbed household in the 1930's, and then destroys everything. You'd have to be dense not to see the meaning of it.
• 
  Old Man JP

  A beautifully written but fairly boring story. It is about sisters, all spinsters, of a once wealthy family living in the their rundown house and living uneventful lives. Most of the story focused on only one of the sisters, however, and that is the youngest, Imogen. She has a love affair with a fairly unpleasant German man and this occupies most of the book. This was my first book by Aidan Higgins and I was impressed with his lyrical prose but his storytelliing left me somewhat disappointed.
• 
  A. Mary

  First published in 1966, this novel still reads as something different, something spare and original, as Hopkins has said. It is the story of a quartet of spinster sisters and an itinerant German scholar, and yet, at the same time, it isn't. Only two of the sisters enter the play, and one of those only peripherally. Imogen and Otto are the story. The book's structure is part fragment, part narrative, and Higgins plays with point-of-view and time and place, just enough. There's finesse here. Any more of that would be self-indulgent. The two characters are so wonderfully drawn, so separate, for all that they are lovers. Otto is animal as much as intellectual. He embraces and accepts his animal side as much as Imogen suppresses hers. They meet needs in each other, each uses the other to selfish ends, and the pacing, the struggling, is so skillful. Because of its structure, the book puzzled for the first third, and then, even though all was not yet clear by any means, pieces began to cohere, and the blend of story and telling is ultimately a gratifying experience.
• 
  Laura

  Undeniably beautiful writing but no narrative to speak of. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid.
• 
  qtasha

  I need to read this book again, this a masterpiece of Irish Literature. The film is not bad either.
• 
  Omar Abu samra

  This is pure and fresh literature, this is a real piece of literature. Well, vielleicht, Aidan Higgins born as a writer.
  Das ist incredible.
• 
  S̶e̶a̶n̶

  
  This slow burn dirge chronicles one familial example in the decline of Ireland's landed gentry. After the Langrishe patriarch passes on, his four adult daughters fade away into spinsterhood on the family land, slowly selling off bits and pieces in order to survive. The bulk of the plot dwells on the youngest daughter Imogen, who steps out of spinster character to fritter away a couple of years in the company of a freeloading German scholar. Far from the usual Dalkey fare, the book stays the realist course with nary a nod to the experimental save a slightly rearranged timeline and a few shifts in point-of-view. It felt particularly oppressive to read this heavy verbal stew of despair and melancholy in the balmy early days of summer. The style is not one I typically read these days, but I will toss in an extra 1/2 star for Higgins' use of the phrase ignotum per ignotius—first time I've seen it used in a novel. I'm hoping for a better experience with
  Balcony of Europe, which I also checked out from the library.
• 
  Lyn

  Very beautiful, very dark, very Irish. I would recommend a good stiff drink when you're done.
• 
  Socrate

  IN autobuz becurile ardeau slab, portocaliu, în spatele geamului opac, înclinat: înşirate sub plasele de bagaje luminau panourile publicitare cu cercuri repetate, de lumină meschină. Un chip palid ce părea să fi înţepenit, o pândea în geam. Stătea lângă fereastră, pe la mijlocul autobuzului, simţind cum stomacul începe să i se întoarcă pe dos. Gaze fierbinţi de la motor se amestecau cu mirosul de tutun tare, brut, cu mirosul fumului de ţigară, care îi era cel mai neplăcut din toate, şi cu alte otrăvuri exalate de două ori douăzeci de plămâni de truditori. Erau cu toţii acolo, în jurul ei, într-o mare duhoare de transpiraţie şi de trupuri nespălate. În acea atmosferă înăbuşitoare, saturată de fum, alţii, mai robuşti decât ea, nu încercau aceste neajunsuri, emanând, fiecare, propriile efluvii de căldură şi bunăstare. Apoi geamul se înceţoşa din nou: picăturile de umezeală începură să se condenseze, dâre ude porniră să se prelingă în jos: faţa din geam se descompuse şi dispăru.Mâinile îi stăteau în poală, desfăcute, una peste alta, în mănuşile gri de căprioară, închise cu butoni – mănuşi care vorbeau de timpuri mai bune – cu biletul de întoarcere emis de Compania Irlandeză de Omnibuze vârât în despicătura mănuşii stângi. Ferestrele erau închise ermetic şi pasagerii, zgârciţi la vorbă, mulţumiţi, fumând, stăteau umăr la umăr, expirând aburi de bioxid de carbon. În autobuzul care, în acest timp, se târa înainte prin noroaie, te înăbuşea acea căldură umană colectivă pe care o găsea dezgustătoare şi, în acel loc urât mirositor, se simţea singură. Locurile aglomerate îi făceau rău, claustrofobia ei nu se împăca de loc cu ele: călătoria cu autobuzul, mai ales, o îmbolnăvea.
  
    Îşi scoase mănuşile. Lipindu-şi palmele, şi le simţi umede; le depărta una de alta, îşi pipăi fruntea şi constată că era tot umedă. Simţi în mod precis că îi este greaţă. Ziarele de seară purtau, sub titluri mari, ştiri de război: Venta Deldiablo şi Portalrubio căzuseră: Madridul fusese din nou bombardat de către artileria insurgenţilor.
  
    Taxatorul îşi făcea drum încet, strângând banii de bilete. Când îi veni rândul, ea îi dădu biletul fără un cuvânt şi fără să-şi ridice privirea, văzând numai taşca uzată de piele şi cleştele de perforat. Taxatorul îl luă cu degetele lui boante şi pătate de nicotină; trecu mai departe, în timp ce examina biletul, şi îi spuse ceva, politicos. Nu răspunse.
  
    Bine înfofoliţi împotriva asprimii vremii, pasagerii citeau că italienii se înarmează, că Herr von Ribbentrop ţinuse un discurs provocator la Târgul de la Leipzig, că Papa binevoise să acorde audienţă Monseniorului Pisani, Arhiepiscop de Torni. Generalul Franco vorbise în legătură cu marşul spre viitor al Spaniei libere. La Melbourne, pe o vreme destul de răcoroasă de vară, Australia serbase o nouă victorie la cricket asupra Angliei, în meciul de baraj. Cercuri repetate de lumină meschină, adieri calde de aer dulceag şi greţos.
• 
  David Murray

  Helen's bus journey and her arrival into the cold, damp, decaying country in Celbridge will remain with me, written with such force and such attention. As will her funeral, so clumsy and prolonged. The love story between Otto and Imogen, less so - it initially captivated and excited but it lost its conviction and when found, it was all over.
• 
  Taylor Allgeier-Follett

  The writing and form is extremely masterful and very interesting. However, I just didn’t get that into the book as a whole. The form variations kept me awake/engaged reading it, rather than the actual content.
• 
  Catherine Jeffrey

  Three sisters are now living an impoverished life in their parents large house. We are on the brink of world war 2 , then we go back 6 years to discover the story behind Imogen’s love letters to Otto. A beautifully descriptive stories as nature encroaches on the estate as it falls into ruin.
• 
  Tashia

  Depressive Literary Irish Masterpiece. My kind of books serious and glum The kind of books most people don't like especially Americans. This is the second time reading this book 📗 I want to read it again.
• 
  Ted Farrell

  This is a sad story of the decline and slow death of a family in nineteenth-thirties rural Ireland and the big house in which they lived. The author’s powerful prose evokes moving images of life in the time between the wars.
• 
  Sevelyn

  “Lost” classic, beautifully written.
• 
  JimZ

  Winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Award in 1966.
• 
  Erik Wirfs-Brock

  There are many reasons why one starts a book; I picked up thos one because Harold Pinter had adapted it into a tv movie (which I have as yet not seen) because who doesn't like all things Irish. The novel is written well enough, but there is something of the underwhelming about it. It situates the reader very well in 1930's Ireland, but it lacks a certain denseness of writing would have made up for it's lack of a complicated plot, or really much of a plot at all. The novel is for the most part about the love affair between a grubby scholar from Germany and the youngest of a group of sisters living on a decaying estate, and it plays out almost exactly as I expected. Bloom of love, disillusionment, unwanted pregnancy, portents of World War 2 in attitudes and ominous political events. It's modernism, but no Joyce or Woolfe. That being said, modest books can also be appealing. Every book doesn't have to have groundbreaking prose or a cast of thousands, and this little book i read over a few days and quite enjoyed.
• 
  Melanie

  I use the word "read" in the loosest possible sense - after the first 100 pages, I stopped truly reading and started skimming, and I only did that because it's a book club book. It's terribly low brow of me, I know, but I do so like a plot in my novels, and I just couldn't find much of one here.
• 
  Robert

  Sorry to say that it was difficult to read. The lead male character had few redeeming qualities. He seemed like a weak imitation of Hesse's Knulp. The author seemed to be imitating Joyce and Beckett. There is some beautiful writing and nice imagery, but didn't hold together for me.
• 
  Mark

  Recently deceased and much ignored Irish writer, who was really quite a talent. Re-read this after a period of some years; inscription on front par said I bout hit Jan 13 1979. Well !
• 
  Martin Roberts

  Exquisitely written, but says very little.
• 
  David Markwell

  Higgins at his best. A concentrated burst of meditative prose.