'The Troubled Man' ~ Henning Mankell

I suppose beginning with the final novel in a book series is not usually recommended, but as this was a book club choice, I really had no option. I had seen the Swedish television adaptation, of Henning Mankell's 'Wallander', which I really enjoyed, so I thought that I could just hop in.  I think my sheer optimism was my first mistake!
The brutal truth is that I didn't really enjoy reading this book, although I can see much to appreciate here.  We have a brooding, melancholic central character in a stark and bleak Swedish landscape.  He deals with the flotsam and jetsam of society, the criminals, the broken, the lost, and each case effects him in a different way.  Although the story is told in the third person, the reader feels like we are inside Wallander's head as he ponders life and death, and re-lives old cases and old love affairs.

In reality, most of the time, he wanders from place to place beating himself up about his broken marriage and his fractious relationship with his daughter.  In this novel, Wallander becomes a grandfather, and so he has another family member to worry and fret about. This ensures that the better-sweet memories he has of being a father is a central theme of this text.
As detective thrillers go, I don't think that Wallander did much detecting; mostly helpful clues in the guise of letters and witnesses turned up out of the blue while other police-officers handed him all the more vital pieces of information.  As for 'thrilling', well I found the book left me more depressed than thrilled, dealing, as it does, with death, old age and saying goodbye to one's youth.  Of course, Wallander's granddaughter does bring new life to the story, but it can hardly outweigh the sheer tonnage of gloom in this book.
One cannot ignore Mankell's highly visual writing style, albeit stark and sparse for the most part. I leave the book feeling as though I have holidayed in Sweden and have enjoyed the odd vodka and glass of wine there myself. Indeed, Wallander spends so much of the novel eating and drinking, that even I was fearful for his ever increasing blood sugar levels.
So, I do not think I will be dashing out to purchase my next Wallander novel, but I can understand why others might want to.  I will be satisfied to join him again on television re-runs, where the faster pace seems to suit this slow-moving detective all the more, in my opinion.

'When All the Others Were Away at Mass', by Seamus Heaney

It is Mothering Sunday and a time for us to reflect on those who have cared and nurtured us through childhood and beyond.  My thoughts on this subject are best captured by Seamus Heaney in his wonderful poem, 'Clearances III' dedicated to his mother, Mary Heaney, who died in 1984.  Here the poet considers the moment when he was left alone in the house with his hard-working mother, preparing the Sunday lunch 'while the others were all away at mass.'  He says, 'I was all hers', but we can tell that what he really means is, that she was all his.  In the silence, their knives dip in and out of the water, the two doing a sort of dance together.  In this small, everyday activity, the boy and the mother come together and share a mutual love.  This is the time that Heaney remembers when he thinks of his now deceased mother, the silent moment that he felt closest to her:

'Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.'

Heaney gives us such little detail, he leaves so much unsaid, but that is the beauty of the poem: the silences.   Everything you need to know about their relationship is there in these few lines:  she is the provider of food, the giver of life, he the adoring son, coming to aid her.  We wonder why they did not have to get mass.  Had she already been, having gone at the crack of dawn, or was she or he at home sick?  Had she been nursing him back to health?  This might be why, later in the poem as his mother is dying, with some sickness of her own, that he returns to this memory.  While the priest beats out the prayers of the dying, it is the silence of that lost moment that he most recalls, that active, vital mother that he most yearns for.
I love that it is that most Irish of vegetables, the humble potato, that binds this silent Irish boy and his mother so closely together; the 'potato' and the 'water' being so symbolic of domestic Irish life.
So, for those of us who have sons and who know too well the beauty of those quiet moments and the simple joy of doing things together, Heaney's words echo like a truth always known.  So, for all those women everywhere, mothers (sisters, daughters, carers, nurses) who keep the world in hot dinners, clean linen, warm hugs, long conversations, bright smiles, empathetic tears, and future generations... this poem is for you.  Happy Mother's Day!

Clearances III  

Taken from 'In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984' by Seamus Heaney.

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
.....
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

Click here to listen to the poem