This Is the Ritual by Rob Doyle

Published in the UK in 2016; published by Bloomsbury USA on January 24, 2017

This Is the Ritual is a collection of stories that might be classified as experimental. As is the tendency in experimental fiction, some of the experiments work and others don’t. Doyle also tosses a bit of nonfiction into the collection. This is what you get:

“John-Paul Finnegan, Paltry Realist” is a rant by John-Paul Finnegan during a ferry ride, who explains to Rob Doyle that the Irish are afraid of literature and too stupid to read it. He defends Paltry Realism, a literary school of his own invention, in which writers eschew style or quality and produce as many never-to-be-published words as they can fit on a page each day. Paltry Realism contrasts with Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness style by presenting “a machinegun of consciousness, or a self-bludgeoning of consciousness, … a kind of insane vomiting of language.” The story (it’s really more of an existential rant than a story) is quite funny, despite the serious themes it raises, although readers who dislike foul language will want to stay far away from it. The story points to, and continues, the tradition of Irish writers having a love/hate relationship with Ireland.

In “No-Man’s Land,” a young man with mental health issues chats with an unemployed alcoholic while taking a walk through a largely abandoned industrial estate on the outskirts of Dublin. Listening to the older man, the younger man gets a glimpse of his future self.

“Exiled in the Infinite” is an essay about Killian Turner, an Irish avant garde writer who, like Beckett and Joyce, wished to be considered European rather than Irish (a comment upon Beckett and Joyce that Rob Doyle also makes in “John-Paul Finnegan, Paltry Realist”). The essay didn’t convince me to read Turner, although he seems to have lived an interesting life.

“Paris Story” describes a writer who is jealous of the success of another writer and gives her story collection a spiteful pseudonymous review, about which he feels guilty after they marry. Apart from the bare bones in that one-sentence synopsis, the story didn’t make a lick of sense to me.

“Outposts” is a collection of half-formed thoughts, existential observations made in various locations around the world. Whether the thoughts are produced by healthy minds isn’t at all clear. In his Acknowledgements, Doyle explains that the story consists of phrases snatched from a variety of sources. Some of the story seems self-referential — the struggling artist tiring of the struggle to make art, relationships torn apart by honesty or dishonesty — and a lot of it seems to be about the fear of life, but I can’t say that this collection of well-crafted half sentences resonated with me.

“Barcelona” is the city to which Alicia moved when she escaped from a bad relationship. With just a few observations of a few months in her new life, the story develops Alicia in surprising depth.

The aging youngsters in “Mexico Drift” explore nihilism and violent sex, having adopted attitudes of “world-hating defeatism.” There is barely enough content in this story to qualify it as a character sketch of dreary characters.

The narrator of “Anus — Black Sun” discovers the meditative benefits of watching a porn clip that shows nothing but an immobile anus. I’m just not sure what to make of that.

The narrator of “On Nietzsche” wants to write a book about Nietzsche but is so intimidated by the scope of the project, and so obsessed with the fear that he will die before he completes it, that he does nothing. This leads him to develop a philosophy of his own, centered around boredom (after he abandons a line of philosophical inquiry centered around a stinking toilet). Doyle’s observation that the best literature is fundamentally boring might apply to this story. It’s dull, but it is one of the better stories in the collection.

“Three Writers” purports to be a collection of essays exploring the work of three writers, two of whom never published. Since I can find no evidence that the writers actually existed, I assume this is a work of fiction, perhaps a place for Doyle to set down ideas for books that he didn’t bother to write himself.

The narrator of “The Turk” feels sexually inadequate (a common theme in these stories) in light of his competition with a Turk for a woman’s affection. I can’t say I found much value in this one.

“Final Email from P. Cranley” purports to be the reproduction of an actual email Doyle received, written in the abbreviated form that is common to text messages. The sender is in San Francisco and clearly struggling with mental health issues, including religious delusions that are exacerbated by his consumption of hallucinogenic mushrooms. It is what it is, and what it is isn’t terribly interesting.

“Jean Pierre-Passolet, a Reminiscence” purports to be a discussion of a writer the narrator interviewed. I think Doyle used this story to show off his own knowledge of literature and philosophy which, while impressive, does not make for compelling fiction.

There are moments of truth and clarity in these stories, but there are also moments of drudgery and insignificance. Since the former outweigh the latter, and because I like writers who take chances, I’m recommending this collection, but only for a few of the stories.

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Here Are the Young Men by Rob Doyle

Published in Ireland in 2014; published in the United States by Bloomsbury on June 16, 2015

A common theme of literary novels is that people are all the same in fundamental ways. The theme of Here Are the Young Men is that people are fundamentally different.

The young men to which the title refers have been raised in the suburbs of Dublin. They are friends. They share common experiences, anxieties, and cynicism -- a feeling of emptiness, exiles in their own country -- yet despite their commonalities, they make individual choices that set them apart from each other. They also evolve during a pivotal summer in their young lives, setting paths for themselves that inevitably strain the bond that has held them together.

Joseph Kearney, a nihilist who is obsessed by sex and violence, spends much of his time wanking, fantasizing about mass murder, and thinking up bloody video games (including "Orgasm of Hate") that, if they existed, would -- sadly enough -- likely sell by the millions. Kearney's fantasies become progressively more revolting as the novel progresses, as do his actions.

Richard Tooley ("Rez") is engulfed in numbness. He want to eradicate from his life those feelings that are "expected" or "programmed," leaving only those that are genuine. Rez is a philosopher of despair, the one emotion he regards as honest. He believes his mind is a virus that is killing him with unstoppable thoughts, producing a darkness of the soul.

In many respects, Kearney and Rez are mirror images. Kearney sees all the darkness in the world and embraces it. Rez sees all the darkness and is horrified by his inability to turn away from it.

The third significant character, and probably the most well-adjusted (although that is meager praise given his choice of friends), is Matthew Connelly. Matthew holds out hope of college acceptance as an alternative to work, which he detests, but having devoted his young life to alcohol and drugs, he worries about his performance on his Leaving Certificate examination. He spends the summer drifting, getting high and drunk as he frets about his friends, his lover, and his future while awaiting the test results.

All three men are friends of Jen, the only character with a definite plan to attend college. Jen also feels deadened by the dullness of Dublin and plans to travel first, but she believes "there's more to life than only hate and rage." Unfortunately, her attempt to connect with Matthew is filled with obstacles.

All of the characters regard Dublin as drab and joyless. Despite being drunk or high most of the time -- the only way they seem capable of responding to the challenges of life -- they voice some fascinating thoughts. The thoughts reflect confusion and existential angst as the characters try to find the point of a universe built on entropy, but they also reflect a time and place in which nothing seems original or meaningful. Rez, for instance, loves The Clash, but he believes their music originated in a time when it was possible for music to express something new. Rez equates current music to the life he is living: derivative, stale, repeating what others have already done.

Here Are the Young Men is neither an easy nor a fun read. A couple of dark events near the summer's end add drama to a story that is otherwise focused on drugs, alcohol, sex, and disintegration. The ending comes as a shock but it is oddly gratifying and true to the story that precedes it.

Few readers would want to know the protagonists. No rational person would want to live their lives. For that reason, many readers will find Here Are the Young Men unappealing. The novel is nevertheless compelling in its brutally honest view of alienated young men who are struggling to make sense of life in an environment they regard as irrelevant and hopeless.

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