The Splendor Of Suffering In 'The Lonely Passion Of Judith Hearne'
Review by Ann
Leary
I tend to read funny books
when I'm happy and tragic books when I'm sad, but when I'm truly depressed, when
I want to be fully immersed in the horrible splendor of the most desperate
human suffering, I always return to Brian Moore's The Lonely Passion of
Judith Hearne.
Judith Hearne, a
middle-aged Irish spinster and the protagonist, is an alcoholic. But this novel
isn't really about drinking. No, this book is about the underlying conditions
of alcoholism — fear, shame and a desperate need to love and be loved. It's a
short book about a lifetime of longing.
Moore uses brilliant
economy in his writing; it's as if words are as scarce and precious as sunshine
in this gloomy section of postwar Belfast, and by the end of the second
paragraph, we know almost everything we need to know about poor Miss Hearne.
She has moved to a small room in the latest of a series of cheap lodging houses
and is unpacking and arranging her most cherished possessions — a
silver-framed photograph of her deceased aunt and a cheap oleograph image of
the Sacred Heart.
She carefully places the
renderings of these, her harshest critics, where she can see them, and she is
always aware of their presence. Aunt D'Arcy's photo is placed on the mantle.
"The photograph eyes were stern and questioning, sharing Miss Hearne's own
misgivings about the condition of the bedsprings, the shabbiness of the furniture
and the rundown part of Belfast in which the room is situated." The image
of Jesus is placed at the head of her bed. "His fingers raised in
benediction, His eyes kindly yet accusing." Is it any wonder that, alone
in her room, she awkwardly squirms into her clothes beneath the modest cover of
her nightgown, never, in all her adult life, exposing her naked flesh before
those dead, reproachful eyes?
As Miss Hearne, who was
raised by her well-to-do aunt but is now poor, politely attempts to settle in
among her rather crude and in some cases monstrous fellow lodgers, her
awkwardness is almost too painful to witness. When she finds herself at a loss
for words, she seeks comfort by peering down at her long, pointed shoes, which
have little buttons on them, and the buttons amuse her by "winking up at
her like wise little friendly eyes. Little shoe eyes, always there."
Her painful awareness that
others are entirely uninterested in her is heartbreaking, but it is impossible
not to love Miss Hearne for her quiet determination to press on, her meek
refusal to abandon her dream that despite her advancing age and plain looks, an
opportunity for love might still come her way.
After a brief breakfast
conversation with a fellow lodger, Mr. Madden, just back from America, Miss
Hearne is launched into this reverie about his returning home to her, to their
home — sometime in the future, when she would be his wife: "He put his
dressing-gown on and sat down in his armchair and she went to him prettily, sat
on his knee while he told her how things had gone that day. And he kissed her.
Or, enraged about some silly thing she had done, he struck out with his great
fist and sent her reeling, the brute. But, contrite afterwards, he sank to his
knees and begged forgiveness."
Yes, I cringe each time I read this and other passages — but I still want to read it again. I know what's going to happen to poor Miss Hearne, but it's like picking up a drink after swearing it off. It just tastes so good when it's going down.
Yes, I cringe each time I read this and other passages — but I still want to read it again. I know what's going to happen to poor Miss Hearne, but it's like picking up a drink after swearing it off. It just tastes so good when it's going down.
Ann Leary's latest book is The Good
House. And she is also the author of Outtakes from a Marriage.
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