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He refers to a nearby town as Ballymore and the summer spot as a nearby village,. In the present, he is in mourning and having a difficult time dealing with his grief.
He drinks too much, ignores his work, and is intent on seeking some answers, or something he can hang onto, from his past summers when he was young.
We meet the Grace family: Carlo, Connie, their children Chloe and Myles, and their minder or perhaps governess, Rose. This family is perceived by Max as his social superiors but he is drawn to them for many reasons — partly curiosity, partly out of loneliness, and somewhat out of boredom.
The Graces fascinate him, especially noticeable while he relates his experiences with them as a boy. However, with all the time that has passed between then and now, their once large summer home has become a boarding house, and he seeks it out to stay in and perhaps looks to his past to help him heal.
He argues with himself, chastising himself at times for not being clear about a point. Sometimes he will make the point again — the same point using different words.
Sometimes he corrects his course in the narrative with an addition that makes it clearer. Sometimes he says he is digressing too far or embellishing, so scratch that, and this is how it was.
This is not a long book, although it definitely is not one to attempt to rush through. I was a very willing passenger on this journey with Max and there were times that something he said startled my own past memories into my reading experience.
Countless times I had to set the book down and indulge in my own personal reveries. I wanted to mention the words — some of them I had to jot down because I might need them some day: This novel is a masterpiece of words used exactly as they should be precisely when they need to be.
I had several quotes highlighted that I especially savoured, and then I changed my mind about adding them to my review. Please, please read this exceptional novel and discover them for yourself.
Of one thing I am certain: View all comments. My second-hand paper book added a medley of vague aromas of its own.
Not something to read on Kindle though for me, nothing is. Scents This is an intensely sensual book, but not in the usual sense. Max frequently mentions the smell of things.
Not all are pleasant, but they colour his memories in a profound way. Smell and taste are interdependent.
Even touch is easier to recall and describe. Banville prompted me to to try, though. Sit or lie somewhere comfortable, quiet, and dark.
Then remember or imagine touches: Now add sights and sounds: You can see and hear and feel it all. But smell and taste?
Think of a favourite food siu mai. You can see it, you can feel its texture, and hear the sound as you bite into it.
But can you describe, let alone experience its taste and smell? Back to the book Max and Alex narrate in exactly the same rambling, occasionally introspective, self-centred, curmudgeonly, largely guilt-free, and invariably misogynistic voice.
The writing is sweet and sour. There would be no other way to live with death. His muteness was a pervasive and cloying emanation.
As an art historian, Max is familiar with touching up portraits: They both have a problematic daughter, referred to by two names beginning with C.
Both had, or fantasised about, a youthful relationship with a mother figure, the similarly named Mrs Grace and Mrs Gray. And in this case, the inadvertent temptress even offers him an apple.
Most importantly, both have past and present tragedies, and revisit the former to understand and cope with the latter. The ending is rushed too many events and revelations and I do not like Max or Alex - to the extent I almost wonder why I like these books: I liked in particular… the cheesy tang in the crevices of her elbows and knees… In general she gave off… a flattish, fawnish odour, like that which comes out of, which used to come out of, empty biscuit tins in shop.
Being here is just a way of not being anywhere. Only they were in my way, obscuring my view of the future. In time I would be able to see right through them, my transparent parents.
Now and then a breeze from outside would wander in absent-mindedly. She accepted me as a supplicant at her shrine with disconcerting complacency… Her willful vagueness tormented and infuriated me.
Originally recommended by Dolors, in relation to The Sense of an Ending. Her review of this is here: View all 62 comments. Jun 09, BlackOxford rated it really liked it Shelves: The Depths of Vocabulary John Banville loves words just as they are.
Words like losel, and finical, gleet, scurf, bosky, cinerial, and merd that will really screw up your spell-checker. Add his ability to put these words together in velvet sentences, and combine sentences into exquisite narrative, and voila: Inspired by Henry James?
Very possibly, particularly by The Turn of the Screw and its permanent mystery. Nonetheless, uniquely and unmistakeably Banville.
View all 40 comments. Dec 02, Robin rated it it was amazing Shelves: Nude in the Bath and Small Dog, Pierre Bonnard, What has this luminous painting of a female bather to do with a book called "The Sea", you might ask?
More than you might think. We can see by virtue of the recognisable images of female form and bathtub, the general gist of the painting. But the image goe Nude in the Bath and Small Dog, Pierre Bonnard, What has this luminous painting of a female bather to do with a book called "The Sea", you might ask?
The moment is almost certainly of a younger Marthe, though. These memories and images are as elusive, as distorted, as tricky as the painting.
But when brought together, they capture the luminosity, pain and newness of a pivotal summer in his youth. His aching melancholy is always felt, an aging man who can only look back and piece together as best he can, a story that is at once innocent and vaguely sinister.
This exploration of memory, grief and loss washes over you with many waves, dragging you under to the murky depths. Reading John Banville is like gazing at a painting.
His poetic style is incredibly evocative and visual. He brings his readers to the scene, right up close to his subjects.
We can smell their breath, we can see the little imperfections. At the same time, we are not entirely sure how this person got there, were they wearing a blue dress or a floral one?
He meanders between past and present, revealing just enough, a trail of literary breadcrumbs. Each brushstroke works with the next to complete the story.
This Booker Prize winner is gorgeous, a masterpiece, delineating the difference between literature and just plain fiction.
View all 57 comments. Drowning in the grief which comes with the vast and ruthless sea of loss, he decides to seclude himself in the little coastal village where he spent his summers as a boy.
A flood of unavoidab "And I, who timidly hate life, fear death with fascination. A flood of unavoidable memories charged with haunted emotion and digressive meditations recreate that dreamy atmosphere that only childhood can nurture.
New found memories which serve to wash away his conflicting emotions between the impotence of witnessing life quietly fading away and the cruel complacency of ordinary things allowing death to happen indifferently.
We are human beings after all. And the guilt and the anger and the violence which come after our beloved have been irrevocably usurped from us, leaving us alone with all that self-disgust, with no one to save us from ourselves, hating them, the gone, even more.
Banville threads a complex pattern between the gratuitous dramas of memory, past traumas and an intolerable present which engages in eternal conflict with the enduring intensity of the natural world which, with all its ruthless beauty and nonchalance, mocks at our human insignificance.
Memories may say nothing but they are never silent , pulling and pushing, futilely turned the wrong way, urging us to be drowned and get lost in them, never to return.
But somehow these little vessels of sadness, these sinking boats we all are, sailing in muffled silence in this hollow sea of impotence and disregard, manage to catch the smooth rolling swells coming from the deeps only to be lifted and carried away towards the shore as if nothing had happened.
And as our feet touch the ground we realize that our lives have been, in spite of everything, in spite of ourselves, acts of pure love and only for that, they are worth living.
View all 93 comments. May 17, Lizzy rated it really liked it Shelves: Night, and everything so quiet, as if there were no one, not even myself.
I cannot hear the sea, which on other nights rumbles and growls, now near grating, now afar and faint.
I do not want to be alone like this. Why have you not come back to haunt me? Is the least I would have expected of you.
Why this silence day after day, night after interminable night? It is like a fog, this silence of yours. An infinite weave of contemplative and melancholic fee Night, and everything so quiet, as if there were no one, not even myself.
An infinite weave of contemplative and melancholic feelings of a man lost in his sufferings. It is about the impossibility of hope; the harshness of loss, and the inescapability of pain.
A convulsive probe into the past, it revisits times gone by that sets it all adrift. Constant guilt for what could not have been changed, accounts of resentments, and the restraints and combat of a man to the intimacy of grief.
All coupled with constant images and metaphors of a turbulent and immeasurable sea. There were things of course the boy that I was then would not have allowed himself to foresee, in his eager anticipations, even if he had been able.
The story is narrated by Max, a retired art critic, who is mourning the death of his wife, Anna, and now living at The Cedars, which he remembers from his youth.
Whether recalling those days when he lived with his family in more modest surroundings and gawked eagerly into the house and its inhabitants, the Graces.
John Banville impresses with his beautiful, splendid and brittle writing. His protagonist Max is governed by his whims, which twists and weakens before its sorrowfulness, his mourning, the sutures of old dislikes, and the trace of his fossilized tears.
These days I must take the world in small and carefully measured doses, it is a sort of homeopathic cure I am undergoing, though I am not certain what this cure is meant to mend.
Perhaps I am learning to live among the living again. But no, that is not it. Among meditations on losses and presages of death, we encounter once in a while a specter of happiness, might we dream of hope?
Like the sun that steals a chance to come through on an overcast and dark sky, with its rays reflecting alluringly in the tumultuous sea. How does Banville present us with a scene not so wistful, how can he, amidst so such melancholy, bring up moments of joy?
His only escape is through remembrances of a long gone past: Those moments invariably invoke the sea with its vastness and its depths, along with its mysterious personal allure.
Still that day of license and illicit invitation was not done. Grace, stretched there on the grassy bank, continued softly snoring, a torpor descended on the rest of us in that little dell, the invisible net of lassitude that falls over a company when one of its number detaches and drops away into sleep.
Suddenly she was the centre of the scene, the vanishing-point upon which everything converged, suddenly it was she for whom these patterns and these shades had been arranged with such meticulous artlessness: All is not darkness; the memories bring back those long ago days of lightness.
Thus, there are furtive moments of carefree recollection that appear to console our protagonist: Happiness was different in childhood.
It was so much a matter of simply of accumulation, of taking things - new experiences, new emotions - and applying them like so many polished tiles to what would someday be the marvelously finished pavilion of the self.
I have always loved the sea with its ever changing tides and undercurrents, and its massive waters always invoked sentiments of peace or turbulence in me; never of melancholy and sorrow.
Thus, Banville through Max seems to view a different sea from mine. No matter what sea we contemplate: Could a more austere sea invoke the sentiments Max tells us in his narrative?
No, I do not think it comes from the sea but from inside. However, there are rare moments of peace and hopefulness, even if short lived.
And ultimately he returns to his sufferings and the loss that so ravaged him. We forgave each other for all that we were not.
What more could be expected, in this vale of torments and tears? Do not look so worried, Anna said, I hated you, too, a little, we were human beings, after all.
Yet for all that, I cannot rid myself of the convictions that we missed something, that I missed something, only I do not know what it might have been.
Thus, Anna tried to liberate Max of his guilt. Yes, we are allowed to hate those we love; and if we can hate is solely because we loved.
However, Max was not ready to give up on his guilt that still hangs on together with his memories of Anna. Still drowning in his grief, from his hard and recent loss, we read and feel for its inevitability, like the tide that stops for nothing, and Max unavoidable memories hurt and haunt him.
His memories only escalate his sentiment of gloom and remorse. I have to confess that this was one of the scattered moments where I read more than the beauty of Banville well-chosen words; his suffering with the loss of his wife touched me deeply.
I sat in the bay of the window and watched the day darken. Bare trees across the road were black against the last flares of the setting sun, and the rooks in a raucous flock were wheeling and dropping, settling disputatiously for the night.
I was thinking of Anna. I make myself think of her, I do it as an exercise. She is lodged in me like a knife and yet I am beginning to forget her.
However, Max not ready yet to let Anna go, calls for her in his immense sadness, like a sinking boat that is missing the saving grace of a gracious wind that picks up on the waves of forgetfulness, which would push him to a safe shore and acceptance.
Yes, I was carried away by his lyricism and kept going between quotes. Banville mostly gives us poetry in prose. There was no storyline, no plot and it worked perfectly.
I ended loving it for its poetry but not loving it so much for his characters. Yes, Max is not the kind of protagonist I appreciate. Yes, the themes are explored to the fullest.
Yes, Banville tells his tale alluringly, with a delightful language that few writers can glue together. His insights are certainly great literature.
But it left me wanting more, wanting a protagonist I could fully comprehend and grasp. Perhaps it is not so terrible to be left wanting more, hence do not judge me harshly for my dissatisfaction.
View all 38 comments. Jun 08, Fabian rated it really liked it. I just have to say it: The narrator chronicles, basically, two points in his life which left him devastated.
His first ever, and his latest, all revolve around the I just have to say it: He meditates on the last one of these presages of death, that looming event itself, so final and sad—and the end really is like dynamite.
The poetry which had been glimpsed at before creates a lasting impact on the reader at its speedy conclusion. Here is a paramount example of how the ending makes the book.
View all 8 comments. Oct 05, Will Byrnes rated it liked it. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers.
To view it, click here. This is a Booker Prize winner. The language in this short novel is very, very rich, evocative and annoyingly, sent me to the dictionary far too many times for comfort.
Banville is just showing off, descending into literary affectation perhaps. Two time-lines interweave as Max, a retired art critic, now living at The Cedars, a grand house of note from his youth, recalls those days when he lived with his family in much more modest surroundings and peered longingly into this place.
Of course, it wa This is a Booker Prize winner. Of course, it was not wealth per se that drew his 11 year old interest, but the presence of The Graces, not a religious fascination, but a family.
A pan-like, goatish father, Carlo, an earth mother, Constance, white-haired and thus summoning Children of the Damned notions twins, a strange mute boy, Myles, who is sometimes comedic and sometimes sinister, a maybe-sociopathic girl, Chloe, and another girl, Rose, who appeared to be a mere friend, but was their governess.
That this is left unclear for much of the book seems odd. Young Max enjoys the social step up he gets by hanging out with the twins, and is quite willing to go along with their cruelties to subservient locals, but is most taken with Constance Grace, pining for her in an awakening sexual way, until, of course, his heart, or some bodily part, is stolen by Chloe.
There is a scent here of Gatsby-ish longing, and Max is indeed a social climber. Death figures very prominently in The Sea.
I will spare you the final death scene, but Max does indeed cope with death, the passing of his wife, Anna, contemplation of his own ultimate demise and how death, as personified by the sea, not only affected his life, but seems always with us.
This is I suppose a novel of coming and going of age. Banville is quite fond of deitific references, finding a different god or goddess for each of his characters.
And his art-critic narrator sprinkles the narration with references to paintings. Sadly for me, I am completely unfamiliar with the works noted, so may have missed key references.
Max is not a nice person. I was almost satisfied with the ending, which recalls the most significant event of his youth, but I felt that it left unsatisfactorily unexplained the reasons for its occurrence.
I was also frustrated by the slowness of the book. Although it is a short novel, it seemed to take a long time to get going. And the central characters do not call out for any of us to relate to them.
All that said, while I might not award it a Booker, I would recommend it. The language is sublime tote a dictionary while you read.
You will need it. View all 18 comments. Oct 06, Jim Fonseca rated it it was amazing Shelves: A gentleman reflects on his life, especially his youth, after the death of his wife.
He returns to the formative landscape of his childhood, a modest seaside town and inn in Ireland. It is also the site of the formative tragedy of his childhood.
In effect, we have a coming-of-age novel as reflected upon in later life. Instead of the psychological depth of Danish author Jens Grondahl reflecting on his marriage in Silence in October, we get lush descriptions and beautiful turns of phrase.
Thoughtf A gentleman reflects on his life, especially his youth, after the death of his wife. Thoughtful, slow reading; a treasure with many lines to savor.
View all 10 comments. Sep 16, Vessey rated it really liked it Recommended to Vessey by: I wish to thank my wonderful friend Seemita, who is truly an amazing reviewer, for inspiring me to read this book.
It is a special kind of language. The language of the dead, of those long gone, of the forgotten, the misunderstood, the hurt, the mad and, sometimes, the content.
What do they tell me? What does silence tell me? What does it tell Max Morden? It tells him a story. The story of his life.
It embraces him, caresses him, whispers to hi I wish to thank my wonderful friend Seemita, who is truly an amazing reviewer, for inspiring me to read this book.
It embraces him, caresses him, whispers to him of everyone and everything lost. He holds on to it. It is his only companion, his only friend, the lover that will never tire of him.
It is his secret path to a better world. The world of the past. He knows and understands it like he has never known and understood anybody, including himself.
I know so little of myself, how should I think to know another? Has he truly wanted to? The past or the present? And when we cannot find refuge in the past, the present is painful, the future unattainable, unimaginable, where is the sanctuary?
Is it within us? What does lay within us besides ourselves? Those whom we refuse to let go of? Max believes that no one is truly gone as long as they are remembered.
We die, yet, we go on living. Time passes, nobody can escape change. And the more we walk within the realms of our own minds, the more we realize that we are like the sea.
We are cruel and merciful, placid and tempestuous, generous and harsh, known and mysterious. But unlike it, we are boundless. I am there, almost there.
What do they eagerly whisper to us? What song do they sing to us? What is revealed, what is left concealed? Are we ready to take that chance?
Are we ready to immerse into the depths of the dark and mysterious past, are we ready to face the cold and painful present, do we dare hope for the obscure future?
Who are we, what stories do we have to tell, and to whom do we tell them? Sometimes silence is the only one that listens. And sometimes it is not.
I think it fits perfectly View all 63 comments. Sep 13, Katie rated it liked it. The narrator of The Sea is an odious man. As a child he hits his dog for pleasure; he pulls the legs off insects and burns them in oil.
He makes constant allusions to his acquired humility and wisdom but he comes across throughout the book as largely ignorant and arrogant.
Because Max is present The narrator of The Sea is an odious man. Because Max is presented as a mediocrity with artistic pretensions I was often perplexed how seriously Banville wanted us to take the rarefied outpourings of his sensibility.
At times it seemed like the ambition of this novel was to write as many pretty sentences as possible rather than a novel. You could save yourself time by simply reading all the favourite quotes here rather than the entire novel without missing very much.
Like I said I was never sure if he was sending up his character by making a lot of his lofty musings deliberately vacuous, of no consequence whatsoever.
Neither did it explain anything. The Sea might be described as a grumpy meditation on growing old. I much preferred The Untouchables which had a plot, a sense of purpose Banville could embroider with his elegant prose.
View all 33 comments. Jun 04, Agnieszka rated it it was amazing Shelves: The past beats inside me like a second heart.
Max Morden had met once gods. They came in the guise of Grace family. Father, noisy lecherous satyr. Mother, oozing sensuality indolent goddess, will become his first erotic fascination.
Chloe, very mature for her age, feisty girl with rather strong personality and Myles, shy and impish boy. There was Rose yet, nanny or governess, a sad nymph holding a secret in her heart.
They rented at the seaside a summer house, called The Cedars. And no The past beats inside me like a second heart.
And now, half a century later, widowed and lonely Max is in that place again. I was always a distinct no-one whose fiercest wish was to be an indistinct someone as he disarmingly admits.
He takes a room in the Cedars but memory plays tricks on him. Everything has changed though seems to be the same and invariant. Only the sea appears to be unchangeable.
What is he looking for here? Alleviation, calm, death, answer, missing piece of the puzzle? This memorable summer, painted with golden sun and inky shadow, creates the first plan of the novel.
Just then Max had gained this sad knowledge that there is always a lover and a loved and which role he would be playing in that act.
There is another plan as well also given in flashbacks. These two plans are mixing alternately with his present stay at the seaside.
Such is the nature of memory that one recollection leads to another gradually unveiling more and more from our past and showing intimate image of our life.
The sea then, with its tides, is a record of that process, coming to terms with loss, dismantling of memory, family, love, past.
And concluding paragraph is profoundly purifying. I do not remember well that day when the gods departed. But I know where I can find them now.
They remain incessantly like insects caught in a drop of resin, like the blades of grass trapped in the amber. They possessed for good this mythical land, that distant Arcadia of my childhood.
And I believe that still have the key to that land. View all 21 comments. Mar 07, Kathy rated it it was ok Shelves: The Sea really bugged me.
The plot of the book, such as it is, finds middle-aged Max Morden retiring to a rented house by the sea, near the "chalets" where he spent his boyhood summers, The Sea really bugged me.
And besides, my book is filled with Beautiful Prose. Perhaps my favorite novel of the last thirty years Gilead relies more on character than on plot.
In the passage, Morden describes the photographs his terminally ill amateur-photographer wife has taken of fellow hospital patients -- all of whom have, apparently cheerfully, consented to expose their scars, wounds, and afflictions for the sake of.
I got stuck, as I read this passage, trying to figure out why the people in the photographs had agreed to present their private suffering in so public a fashion.
Then I realized they were props, placed on stage to be rearranged and remarked upon, to give the leading man something to do while he wows us with his method acting.
He makes him live again. It was, he says, "as if nothing had happened. Jan 19, Darwin8u rated it it was amazing Shelves: The first was given to me by a girl I liked in HS, but never got around to reading it or dating her.
I was finally inspired or moved? It was nearly perfect. It is easy to borrow images and allusions from other critics.
It is a snap to fit the Banville piece in the puzzle among his Irish peers piers? It is easy to play the literary cousin game and compare Banville to Proust or Nabokov or Henry James.
These things are all true. They are also all fictions and obvious short cuts. Two Man Bookers by Irish novelists about drowning, death and memory.
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When we die on the inside, the outside is left wandering dangerously by the sea. Dolby Digital Dolby Surround 7.In pastthat very table held his lean legs and strong arms to heighten his nubile passion for Mrs. And ultimately he returns to his sufferings and the dreamhack ergebnisse that so ravaged him. Drowning in the grief which comes with the vast and ruthless sea of loss, he decides to seclude himself in the little coastal village huuuge casino club he spent his summers manchester münchen a boy. Manchester münchen he is a different type of stylist than Hemingway. Recent Examples on the Web Hers is fuller: View all 38 comments. Now if the assembled company will askgamblers tangiers casino me, I am off to eat plain zweiback, drink tap water, and stare at a blank wall for a while, until my senses are defatted. Flamethrowers, WrestleMania, and Dwayne Johnson. I do whitebet remember well that day when the gods departed. We all have a small box, tucked carefully under a bed huuuge casino android cheat inside an old cupboard, whose only purpose in our lives is to reshuffle it. There was Rose yet, nanny or governess, a sad nymph holding a secret in her heart. Retrieved 29 June Of course I could, but I did not, and therein lies the absurdity of even asking. He was appointed literary editor in The ending is rushed too many events and revelations and I do not like Max or Alex - to the gmx casino I almost wonder why I like these books: