Weird Wednesday: It’s St. Patrick’s Day – Be Sure to Don Your Blue!

Good day! We are delighted to welcome you to “Weird Wednesday,” a joint series, partnered with our friends at Layered Pages, that explores the quirky side of our universe. Presently many people across the world cannot access this fabulous place, and even in the best of times we often pass so much by in our haste to get wherever it is we may be headed. So sit down, relax a bit and allow us to bring some of our explorations to you. Here you may find things funny, outrageous, marvelous, fascinating, out of this world! Feel free to suggest topics and be sure to comment below and click to follow the blog. We’ll be having contests and lots of great content coming up, so be sure to stay tuned!

Over the years I’ve heard a lot of Irish people scorn American habits that supposedly reflect Irish ways or traditions, anywhere from corned beef cabbage to wearing o’ the green. “’Shannon,’” a Dubliner once told me, “is a name only Americans label their children with. This is not a truly Irish thing to do.” (Never mind that one of the nation’s busiest airports is called Sionainne, Irish for Shannon!) Well, did you know that even the St. Patrick’s Day celebration, which is yuuuuuuuuuge in America, is among that list of things the Irish don’t actually do? OK, they do it now, thanks to the realization that St. Patrick’s Day could be a great way to earn oodles of tourism dollars (among other reasons), but this fun and wonderful day, commemorating the life of St Patrick, is actually an invention of Ireland-loving Americans and immigrant Irish.

St. Benin’s Church, Kilbennan, County Galway, Ireland (Image courtesy Andreas F. Borchert, via Wikimedia)

Many people know these days that St. Patrick, famous for ridding Ireland of snakes and bringing Christianity to the island, wasn’t actually Irish. Additionally, the color originally associated with his day was blue, but because he utilized the shamrock, a three-leafed clover once considered a sacred plant, to teach about the Holy Trinity, the association with green caught on.

Following are some more fun facts about this special day, now beloved the world over, thanks to the Irish diaspora as well as the friendly relationship Ireland has with many nations. It’s not difficult to admire the beauty of Ireland, so it’s also not really a surprise that internationally so many people have adopted many of the traditions that grew from the American St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. On March 17, we’re all a little Irish!

• While there seem to be some differences on the record as to when or who started St. Patrick’s Day parades, this one stands out: the 1601 celebration in St. Augustine, Florida, then a Spanish colony, was organized by an Irish cleric stationed there. Later celebrations sprang up in places such as Boston (famous today for its Irish population) and New York City, where Irish soldiers, immigrants and other ordinary Americans continued the tradition.
• Research indicates there have never actually been snakes in Ireland: the water surrounding the island is partly responsible, as well as the last glacial period and weather too cold for such reptiles.
• St. Paddy’s Day, as it is affectionately known in America, is widely seen the world over as a drinking holiday, but the day was once marked as a solemn one in which pubs across Ireland were closed to show respect to the saint. In the 1970s this changed, and the thing to do was attend mass in the morning and celebrate the rest of the day. If the holiday fell on Friday, the day’s non-meat restriction was lifted. Since St. Patrick’s Day falls during Lent, the days following the celebration were a return to Lenten observations.
• The tradition of corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day is an American innovation. Back home, Irish tended toward ham and cabbage, but Irish immigrants, notably in Lower Manhattan, many of whom lived in abject poverty, purchased cheap corned beef off returning trade ships. They boiled the meat three times to remove the brine, the last go round adding the cabbage, presumably to infuse the flavor.
• Relics of St. Patrick—the shrine of his jaw and a tooth—can be found today in the Dublin Museum, and his copy of the four gospels at the Royal Irish Academy.

More weird and wonderful facts about St. Patrick and his day, as well as history of the lovely island he made home, may be found here, here and here! It’s one of the most fun rabbit holes you may ever find yourself going down, and it may take a while, so perhaps grab a refreshment—green, if possible—and top o’ the morning to you!

St. Patrick’s Day is now celebrated in many nations across the world. Above, one of the annual celebrations held in Moscow, a parade at Old Arbat. (Image courtesy Wikimedia)

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Mythical Monday: Searching for Selkies

Good morning and welcome to Second Sleep’s new series, Mythical Monday. Within this series we will explore, as our title implies, the world of myth. Particularly because learning is our objective, we will most often seek topics unfamiliar, and welcome suggestions at any time. On occasion we might dive a bit deeper into myths that seem common, yet harbor a history we aren’t necessarily aware of or perhaps link to new or recent discoveries. Apart from the topic being mythology related, there isn’t a specific formula that governs the series, with the exception perhaps of enjoying ourselves as we explore the world that seeks to explain ours.

Ulysses and the Sirens by John William Waterhouse (Courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

In the world of sea creatures, mermaids and sirens seem to get all the attention, and many recall the great lengths Odysseus goes to be able to hear the plaintive song of the sirens. Passing by their island as he attempts to sail home from the Trojan War, the would-be king of Ithaca has himself tied to his ship’s mast and extracts a vow from his men, who all must wear ear plugs, that no matter how he tries to persuade or trick them, they must not let him down until they are well past. In this manner Odysseus is able to hear the sirens’ seductive tune without falling victim to the lure of its enchantment, which would mean destruction amongst the rocky coast of their island.

However, there exists a counterpart to these dangerous beauties. It might be said that selkies get little spotlight, though it could be they prefer it this way. Inhabiting Norse and Celtic mythology, selkies are shape-shifting seal creatures who can, when shedding their skins, walk upon land as humans. Most tales center around female selkies, typically when they are lured away from their skins, leaving them trapped on land. On other occasions, human men happen upon a selkie sans sealskin, perhaps bathing in the sun, and he compels her to wed him. The selkie, though, misses her sea home and after a time simply leaves, sometimes taking her half-human children with her, other times not.

Scottish folklorist Walter Traill Dennison differentiated selkie from the merfolk, though in northern Scotland they are referred to as maighdeann-mhara, or “maiden of the sea” (selkie being the diminutive form of the Orcadian word for “gray seal”). In the traditions of other lands also including such mythical creatures, such as Iceland (marmennlar) and Ireland (murdúch), they also are conflated with the merpeople so common to a collective awareness. Still, going back, it would not be out of line to wonder if at some previous point a similar pathway separated, sending merfolk and sirens into one direction, selkies into another.

Relief map of the Orkney Islands (excluding Sule Stack and Sule Skerry), UK. (Courtesy Wikimedia Commons.)

Orkneyjar speaks of another legend that adds to this cast of characters, with a history not quite as benign as we may have believed. While the selkie “have come to be regarded as gentle creatures,” their Fin brethren (?) were “dark” and “malevolent.” Orkneyjar credits the split as related to the distinct cultural differences between the Norwegian and Saami cultures, particularly following the Norwegians’ adaptation of Christianity. Though the two influenced each other’s culture and religion, there remained an “otherworldliness” about the Saami, for their neighbors, a perspective that can be traced to Old Norse literature.

Perhaps what we are seeing here also connects to human recognition of their own behavior and attribution of a dual nature. People can be amazingly, beautifully kind and go to great lengths to aid those in distress; sometimes they simply perform small acts of generosity that benefits them not at all. It remains a reality, however, that at other times humans are responsible for unspeakable acts of horror that go far past any sort of defensive explanation, or even retaliatory. The “uncannily human eyes,” not to mention the facial expressions that seem recognizable to us, goes a long way in explaining why seals in particular may have bonded in our ancestors’ minds as a creature who carries a nature much like our own.

Faroese stamp – The Seal Woman, issued February 12, 2007 (Courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

It also is not difficult to understand why selkies, then, might prefer to be left alone, despite their apparent inquisitive nature regarding humans. We too, experience moments of preferred solitude, especially when the company of other humans plays out against our best interests, as it so often does with selkie females of the tales referenced above. These and many other legends contain a range of variability we couldn’t begin to cover here, so we encourage you to look into these fascinating folk beyond this blog.

 

Here are a few  great links to intriguing and informative selkie talk:

Orkneyjar – The Folklore of the Orkney Islands
(continuing series)

Mythology Wiki – Selkie

Wilderness Ireland – Irish Myths & Legends Part 4: The Selkie

Icy Sedgwick – Are Selkies as Dangerous as Mermaids and Sirens?

Happy Mythical Monday, everyone, and welcome to your week!

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Guest Post: “Playing God” – Taking Liberties with the Lives and Personalities of Historical Figures

 

BITTERSWEET TAPESTRY 

BY KEVIN O’CONNELL

Publication Date: November 1, 2019
Gortcullinane Press
eBook & Paperback

Series: The Derrynane Saga, Book Three
Genre: Historical Fiction

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON

A dramatic decade has passed since sixteen-year-old Eileen O’Connell first departed her family’s sanctuary at remote Derrynane on the Kerry coast to become the wife of one of the wealthiest men in Ireland and the mistress of John O’Connor’s Ballyhar – only to have her elderly husband die within months of the marriage.

Unhappily returned to Derrynane, within a year, under the auspices of their uncle, a general in the armies of Maria Theresa, Eileen and her sister, Abigail, departed for Vienna and a life neither could have ever imagined – one at the dizzying heights of the Hapsburg empire and court, where Abigail ultimately became principal lady-in-waiting to the Empress herself, whilst Eileen, for nine momentous years, served as governess to the Empress’s youngest daughter – during which time Maria Antonia, whom Eileen still calls “my wee little archduchess,” has become Marie Antoinette, dauphine of France, though she continues to refer to her beloved governess as “Mama.”

As Bittersweet Tapestry opens, it is the High Summer of 1770. Having escorted the future Queen of France from Vienna to her new life, Eileen and her husband, Captain Arthur O’Leary of the Hungarian Hussars, along with their little boy and Eileen’s treasured friend (and former servant) Anna Pfeffer are establishing themselves in Ireland.

Their ties to Catholic Europe remain close and strong; in addition to Abigail and her O’Sullivan family and General O’Connell, his wife and young daughter in Vienna, their brother Daniel is an officer in the Irish Brigade of the armies of Louis XV, whilst their youngest brother, Hugh, is studying at École Militaire in Paris, his path to a commission in the Dillons’ Regiment of the Brigade. His gentle Austrian friendship with Maria Antonia having inevitably waned, Hugh’s relationship with the strikingly-beautiful young widowed Princess Marie Thérèse Louise of Savoy is blossoming.

Though happily ensconced at Rathleigh House, the O’Leary family estate in County Cork, being prominent amongst those families which are the remnants of the old Gaelic order in the area, Eileen and Art find that the dark cloud of the Protestant Ascendancy hovers heavily, at times threateningly, over them.

Bittersweet Tapestry is a tale of stark contrasts – between Hugh’s life of increasing prominence amidst the glitter and intrigue of the French court and Art and Eileen’s in English-occupied Ireland – especially as the latter progresses into a dark, violent and bloody tale . . . ultimately involving an epic tragedy, which along with the events leading up to it and those occurring in its dramatic wake, will permanently impact the O’Learys, the O’Connells – and their far-flung circle of family and friends in Ireland and across Europe.

With his uniquely-descriptive prose, Kevin O’Connell again deftly weaves threads of historical fact and fancy to create a colourful fabric affording unique insights into the courts of eighteenth-century Catholic Europe as well as English-ruled Ireland. As the classic story unfolds amongst the O’Learys, the O’Connells, their friends and enemies, the tumultuously-dangerous worlds in which they dwell will continue to gradually – but inexorably – become even more so.

Bittersweet Tapestry joins O’Connell’s well-received Beyond Derrynane and Two Journeys Home as The Derrynane Saga continues – an enthralling epic, presenting a sweeping chronicle, set against the larger drama of Europe in the early stages of significant – and, in the case of France – violent change.

Today here at Before the Second Sleep, author Kevin O’Connell talks about the merging of imagination and history in the historical fiction genre and some of his personal experience – the ups as well as the downs – of doing. See below for more stops on Bittersweet Tapestry‘s blog tour!

“Playing God” – Taking Liberties with the Lives and Personalities of Historical Figures

Few if any other literary genres give an author the latitude that historical fiction does in allowing her or him to stray beyond the boundaries of fact well into the realm of fancy.

What is fascinating – especially in this age of instant information which permits us to seek and obtain “facts” with a few keystrokes – is that it is rather easy to believe that we “know” history: Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, Washington crossed the Delaware, Joan of Arc heard voices and, at least for a time, led the French armies, the Bastille fell on 14 July.

But what is perhaps equally fascinating is that in many, if not most, instances we actually know very little beyond major events, beyond those happenings that were recorded as they occurred – or at least shortly thereafter. The reality is that so much more happened – or, at least in the mind of the historical fiction writer – may have happened. It is in this mystical sphere, where fact and fiction might be said to somehow intersect, where a good historical fiction author has the freedom to visualise, to roam far afield from recorded history to the locale of “perhaps” or “maybe,” most definitely to the area of “but this certainly could have happened….” Therein lies the magic – and the fun!

The “rules” are few, but rather clear: When “creating history” what one writes of as occurring must be plausible – wholly-believable by even the most knowledgeable reader.

Thus, actual events must stay true to history – unless, of course, one is writing parallel or alternate versions of history.  And even there, one must be careful.  “What if” can be interesting – it can also be wearisome, if not done properly.  Philip K. Dick’s 1962 novel,  Man in the High Castle (currently a television series),  comes to mind as alternate history extraordinarily well done.

Staying “true to history” can be a challenge – especially when one is feeling, shall we say, clever or especially creative. An example from my own work: Those familiar with the earlier books of the Derrynane Saga will know that Eileen O’Connell and her young charge in Vienna had developed a close, virtually maternal, relationship such that the future Marie Antoinette would address her governess as “Mama.”

As the time of preparation for the young archduchess’s departure for Paris approaches, I had Eileen begin to discuss – in  rather significant, even graphic, detail –  the intimate particulars of married life with the barely fourteen-year-old, soon-to-be-wed Antoine, who reacted with wide eyes, much giggling and a not insignificant degree of interest. In my mind I had entitled the episode, “The Birds and the Bees – Done Well!”

Hubris – pure hubris – and awful . . . as I learnt when that part of the manuscript was quickly returned by my awesome editor, who reminded me of things I was well aware, but had dismissed in the name of “being creative”: that Antoinette and Louise Auguste’s marriage would remain unconsummated for some seven years for the very simple reason that both of them were basically ignorant of the mechanics of sex. Indeed, it was not until the young Queen’s older brother, the  Emperor Joseph, actually journeyed from Vienna to see what could possibly be wrong with the marriage that the situation finally began to normalise. Had my imaginative little scene made it into the book it would definitely not have been a positive addition. Thus, one must be very careful and mindful of the “realities” even whilst writing fiction!

Now, in terms of people, in writing of the Imperial Habsburgs thus far in Beyond Derrynane and Two Journeys Home,  I did not stray very far from reality in presenting the Emperor Francis Stephen, Maria Theresa’s beloved albeit charmingly lecherous consort, nor their haughty next-to-youngest daughter, the Archduchess Maria Carolina, who became Queen of Naples and as prodigious a baby-producer as her mother.

I have, however, taken certain freedoms with the Archduchess Maria Antonia – Eileen’s beloved “wee little archduchess,” who was becoming Marie Antoinette, dauphine of France as Two Journeys Home progressed towards its close. In Derrynane, she was the pretty, pliant little girl of the history books. As she grew into late childhood and adolescence, she developed a gentle, at times wispy, personality – with moments of spark, such as when she expressed in no uncertain terms to the Countess von Graffenreit that she was going to France only as a matter of duty.

I have spoken of writing the Empress Maria Theresa as a “kinder, gentler” version of her real self, noting that I believed it was her interaction with my characters which perhaps made her less daunting than history would have us believe she was. These private moments with Eileen – as governess to her youngest daughter, and perhaps even more so with Abigail, who as Beyond Derrynane was ending, had risen to the post of Maria Theresa’s principal lady-in-waiting, the closest servant to the then-most powerful woman in the world – were gentle and laced with humour. Abigail’s gentle humour, her subtle-comedic personality definitely softened her mistress and their interactions almost from Abby’s arrival. In their relationship, there was little evidence of the prudish monarch, who sponsored “morality squads” to ferret out those courtiers she viewed as being sensualists, libertines. And, indeed, as the years passed, Maria Theresa laughed more and judged much less harshly – I believe because of Abby, and, to a lesser extent, of Eileen.

From these experiences, I concluded that the genre of historical fiction  permits its practitioners to depict not only actual historical events in a fictional manner but also events – and people – which could have happened . . . and who could have lived. Taking dramatic advantage of this latitude, I believe and hope that I have stayed within these bounds – and will continue to do so.

It was not, however, until the Princess Marie Thérèse Louise of Savoy was introduced in the closing sections of Two Journeys Home that I took the liberty, for the first time, of straying rather deeply into historical fancy – well far-afield beyond the known or recorded facts.

So it has been in connection with the planned re-appearance and development (in Bittersweet Tapestry) of Hugh O’Connell’s “Louise” that I am experiencing the creation of a significantly different temperament, indeed, personality and, in most ways an entirely dissimilar life for a relatively well-known historical character, and feel that the same can be rather daunting.

I must admit that, as with many of the twists and turns throughout the writing of the Saga to date none of this was at all well-planned, but rather developed as the story progressed and began to take shape or, as has been said of my work, that my “characters have pulled me along”!

As it was since their meeting in the closing pages of Two Journeys Home, Marie Thérèse Louise and Hugh continued – some days rather annoyingly –  coyly circling each other in my imagination, I continued to research the princess, in effect getting to know her better. This was achieved not only by reading, as well as studying literally dozens of portraits of her, but also – as the result of a beautifully-scheduled trip – by visiting her homes in Paris, both the Hôtel de Toulouse (the headquarters of the Bank of France), as well as a “country residence” she acquired in then largely-rural Passy in the mid 1780’s (now the Embassy of Turkey). I developed a sense that she perhaps might have been a more complex, indeed certainly a more interesting person than history has shown her to be.

Several of her portraits depict (at least to me) a very pretty young woman with a gentle, perhaps even playful sense of humour, one who laughs and makes others do so as well. She is, at least at this stage of her life, to a degree both shy and guileless, most likely a result of her sheltered life in Savoy and despite her singular position in the French monarchy. As she appears in Bittersweet Tapestry her life is undergoing rapid, totally-unforeseen changes – it and she are clearly both works in progress.

Lamballe is my greatest challenge to date because – at least to those even casually knowledgeable about the Ancien Regime and the horrors of the French Revolution – she is a familiar character.

At court, history tells us, she had a prudish, pedantic reputation (though it was also rumoured that she was for a time the Duc of Orleans’ lover) – as an aside, Orleans was the regicide who cast his vote in favour of the execution of  his cousin Louis XIV. Later known by his self-bestowed sobriquet Philippe Égalité, neither his name change nor his opportunistic striving proved sufficient to prevent his own execution on the guillotine.

It appears she was viewed by most as – at best – odd, strange . . . perhaps in more modern-day parlance she was a weirdo, most definitely not in the mainstream of the French royal family and aristocracy.

As people most likely sensed from reading  Two Journeys and will definitely experience in Tapestry, Hugh O’Connell’s Louise is quirky – but not in these ways. She is an interesting mix of hauteur and wide-eyed guilelessness – a Princess of the Blood with a sense of wonder, of whimsy.

As she continues to develop, she will – at times – be gently comedic in the way of Abby O’Connell. I believe this is but one of many reasons for Hugh’s attraction to her – she is an obviously bright, perhaps in some ways brilliant, most definitely beautiful young woman who can be funny, sometimes when she doesn’t mean to be. She is loving, she is kind, but she can – as is apparent from several scenes in Tapestry – also be a wee bit of a bitch!

As it has been alluded to, Louise and Hugh O’Connell will play prominent roles in the fourth volume of the Derrynane Saga. I believe that the liberties I have taken thus far – and shall continue to take in the fourth volume – with regard to the personality and life of the Princess de Lamballe, will make for a more compelling story going forward and, as the French Revolution descends into violence and terror, a much more dramatic and significantly more emotional conclusion to the Saga itself.

About the Author

Kevin O’Connell is a native of New York City and a descendant of a young officer of what had—from 1690 to 1792—been the Irish Brigade of the French army, believed to have arrived in French Canada following the execution of Queen Marie Antoinette in October of 1793. At least one grandson subsequently returned to Ireland and Mr. O’Connell’s own grandparents came to New York in the early twentieth century. He holds both Irish and American citizenship.

He is a graduate of Providence College and Georgetown University Law Center.

For much of his four-decades-long legal career, O’Connell has practiced international business transactional law, primarily involving direct-investment matters, throughout Asia (principally China), Europe, and the Middle East.

The father of five children and grandfather of ten, he and his wife, Laurette, live with their golden retriever, Katie, near Annapolis, Maryland.

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Blog Tour Schedule

Friday, November 1
Review at Gwendalyn’s Books

Sunday, November 3
Review at Carole’s Ramblings

Monday, November 4
Review at Locks, Hooks and Books

Wednesday, November 6
Interview at The Writing Desk
Feature at Chicks, Rogues, and Scandals

Friday, November 8
Feature at Maiden of the Pages

Monday, November 11
Interview at Passages to the Past

Wednesday, November 13
Review & Guest Post at The Book Junkie Reads

Friday, November 15
Guest Post at Before the Second Sleep

Sunday, November 17
Review at A Darn Good Read

Monday, November 18
Review at Books and Zebras

Tuesday, November 19
Feature at What Is That Book About

Wednesday, November 20
Review at Al-Alhambra Book Reviews

Friday, November 22
Feature at Historical Fiction with Spirit

Monday, November 25
Review at Hooked on Books

Tuesday, November 26
Review at Red Headed Book Lady
Review & Guest Post at Nursebookie

Wednesday, November 27
Review at CelticLady’s Reviews

Friday, November 29
Review at Broken Teepee
Excerpt at Coffee and Ink

Blog Tour Book Review: Two Journeys Home

 Two Journeys Home: A Novel of Eighteenth Century Europe
(Book II in The Derrynane Saga)
by Kevin O’Connell

About the Book:

It’s 1767. As the eagerly anticipated sequel to Beyond Derrynane begins, Eileen O’Connell avails herself of a fortuitous opportunity to travel back to Ireland. In Two Journeys Home, the O’Connells encounter old faces and new—and their lives change forever.

Her vivacious personality matched only by her arresting physical presence, Eileen returns to Derrynane this time not as a teenaged widow but as one of the most recognised figures at the Habsburg court. Before returning to Vienna she experiences a whirlwind romance, leading to a tumult of betrayal and conflict with the O’Connell clan.

Abigail lives not in the shadow of her sister but instead becomes the principal lady-in-waiting to Empress Maria Theresa.

Hugh O’Connell leaves behind waning adolescence and a fleeting attraction to the youngest archduchess when he begins a military career in the Irish Brigade under Louis XV. But more royal entanglement awaits him in France…

Author Kevin O’Connell again deftly weaves threads of historical fact and fancy to create a colourful tapestry affording unique insights into the courts of eighteenth-century Catholic Europe and Protestant Ascendancy–ruled Ireland. Watch as the saga continues to unfold amongst the O’Connells, their friends and enemies, at home and abroad.

Editorial Reviews:

O’Connell is a fantastic storyteller. His prose is so rich and beautiful it is a joy to read. The story is compelling and the characters memorable – all the more so because they are based on real people. . . I am Irish but I did not know about this piece of Irish history. It is fascinating but historical fiction at the same time . . . Highly recommended for historical fiction lovers!

(c) Beth Nolan, Beth’s Book Nook

I enjoyed the first part of the Saga awhile back . . . (and) couldn’t wait to continue the story of Eileen and her family . . . this author really does have a way with words. The world and the characters are so vivid . . . Overall, I was hooked from page one. I honestly think that (Two Journeys Home) was better than (Beyond Derrynane) – which is rare. The characters and world-building was done in such a beautiful manner . . . I can’t wait for the next one . . .

(c) Carole Rae, Carole’s Sunday Review, Book Girl of Mur-y-Castell

Two Journeys Home: A Novel of Eighteenth Century Europe . . . is a gripping story that will transport the reader back in time, a story with a strong setting and compelling characters . . . a sensational romance, betrayal, family drama and intrigue . . . The plot is so complex that I find it hard to offer a summary in a few lines, but it is intriguing and it holds many surprises . . .  great writing. Kevin O’Connell’s prose is crisp and highly descriptive. I was delighted (by) . . . how he builds the setting, offering . . . powerful images of places, exploring cultural traits and unveiling the political climate of the time . . . The conflict is (as well-developed as the characters) and it is a powerful ingredient that moves the plot forward . . . an absorbing and intelligently-crafted historical novel . . . .

(c) Divine Zapa for Readers’ Favourite

My Review:

Starting a series with a sequel can be tricky business, though many authors routinely employ the technique of briefly filling in, whether via a quickie paragraph to bring readers up to speed, or a few details scattered here and there. In most instances this works out and all is well. Kevin O’Connell in Two Journeys Home takes it all a bit further by embedding details within the lead character’s reflections, as well as third-person narrative, and it does more than merely work. Because the information is so well paced, the author is able to choose carefully where he places it, and the natural feel within the acquisition of details of Eileen O’Connell’s life in The Derrynane Saga’s first installment, Beyond Derrynane, makes her story so much more readable and enticing.

Two Journeys Home tells Eileen’s story in between the two titular voyages, once upon arriving home to Ireland following several years spent at the Austrian court of Empress Maria Theresa, the second after her return there following a marriage attempt forbidden by her family in the interest of protecting the illegal import business that created their wealth. Readers follow her relationship with her young charge Antoine, the empress’s last daughter, future fill in for a role in perpetuating alliances via marriage. The author explores Eileen’s memories and rapport with the girl, so close that she privately addresses her Irish caretaker as Mama.

O’Connell’s prose really is quite vivid and sensory, with lavish and lovely descriptions painting images not only of breathtaking scenery, but also, if it could be said, of interaction between characters and how they experience various moments within their journeys through life. Their inner landscape is given due attention and it is not rare to feel almost a sense of delight in response to some passages, owing to a sensation of being able to both practically hear the individual’s lines as well as relate to the perspective from which they utter them. Too, we are introduced to other connections, including some of Eileen’s relations in the Irish regiments of the Austrian and French armies, who contribute to the story as a richly related family drama in addition to fantastic and revealing historical fiction. One difficulty I did have with O’Connell’s prose is his overuse of rather long and somewhat arduous insertions requiring frequent re-reads that take away from the passages’ fluidity. Fortunately, after about the novel’s first third, these ease up and we can once more immerse ourselves in a fascinating journey through rarely-glimpsed perspective, that of an Irish experience in Catholic Europe as well as a senior servant within the Hapsburg dominion.

Though the greatest part of outright conflict appears in the book’s first half, and the second doesn’t necessarily address the “mélange of political, relational and religious upheaval” Eileen faces, as referenced in the book’s own blurb, there is real allure with the cast of characters, how they relate to one another and the contexts within which they are placed. Moreover, a tension does indeed build as Antoine’s marriage looms and a growing sense of unease develops as readers begin to detect a familiarity with this tale and how Eileen, despite her final assessment of her own, “smaller” life back in Ireland as preferable to Antoine’s luxurious future role, has no way to know how it all will play out. It is as if we are impotent in the face of future danger and maligning forces; we witness it through the veil of time and the players we see cannot hear our warnings as each goes off to their futures and final destinations and we can only watch.

Two Journeys Home concludes before going into the greater part of that future, with Eileen’s connections to her past still very intact, and a sequel approached without previous knowledge of the story becomes one we are drawn to follow to the saga’s very end.

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A copy of Two Journeys Home was provided to the reviewer in order to facilitate an honest review

See below for links to more great reviews, guest blogs and spotlights on Two Journeys Home

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About the Author:

Kevin O’Connell is a native of New York City and the descendant of a young officer of what had—from 1690 to 1792—been the Irish Brigade of the French Army, believed to have arrived in French Canada following the execution of Queen Marie Antoinette in October of 1793. He holds both Irish and American citizenship.

An international business attorney, Mr. O’Connell is an alumnus of Providence College and Georgetown University Law Center.

A lifelong personal and scholarly interest in the history of eighteenth-century Ireland, as well as that of his extended family, led O’Connell to create his first book, Beyond Derrynane, which will, together with Two Journeys Home and the two books to follow, comprise The Derrynane Saga.

The father of five children and grandfather of ten, he and his wife, Laurette, live with their golden retriever, Katie, near Annapolis, Maryland.

Find the author at his website, Facebook or Amazon profile pages, and buy the book here!

Tour Schedule: Blog Stops (February 19th – 23^rd)

February 19^th

Spotlight  Layered Pages

February 20^th

Guest Post –The Writing Desk

Guest Post – Blood Mother Blog

February 21^th

Book Review – A Bookaholic Swede

Book Excerpt – Kate Braithwaite

Guest Post – A Literary Vacation

February 22^nd

Interview & Review – Flashlight Commentary

Book Excerpt – Just One More Chapter

Book Review –Impressions In Ink

February 23^rd

Book Review – Lock, Hooks and Books

Book Review – before the second sleep

March 5^th –Tour Recap

Novel Expressions Blog Tours Website

And the Daffodils Look Lovely Today

I am so very, very sad to read that Dolores O’Riordan, lead singer for the Cranberries, has passed away. She had such a beautiful voice, whether speaking or singing, and I could listen to her for hours.

Her lyrics weren’t always about happy things, but that voice made you want to listen and be part of the joy of being alive, of experiencing something special in life. And for those who, like her, suffered from bi-polar disorder or depression, it lifted one up to want to be part of creating a beauty for others to experience.

Dolores O’Riordan with the Cranberries, live in Barcelona 2010-3-13, by Alterna2, via Wikimedia Commons

Some years ago I received a letter from a penpal in Russia. I was always so excited to hear from Natasha, who sprinkled her missives with “my darling” and “sweetheart” from day one. At one point she sent me a gorgeous samovar that I treasured deeply. I was absolutely smitten with its pretty lines and aura of loving that accompanied its gifting.

I was always so greedy about letters I received, and never could be one to put an unopened one in my purse to read later, at home. No, I tore them open and read at stop lights, my laughter or gigantic smile happily devouring contents. On this day I was so uplifted as I slowed to the red light at 4^th Avenue, coming up from behind the post office, a Cranberries CD helping me pump out my emotion and anticipation as my voice used all its strength to release what I held inside.

Like a light switched off, my smile disappeared. Natasha wrote that she had discovered a lump in her breast while she was pregnant with her first child, one she had wanted so much that she refused medical advice to abort in order to receive treatment. She went on to briefly explain the situation but the words I recall most are, “ … and I believe I have a future.” They are imprinted in my mind, which is grand because later someone stole the box of letters that was my treasure chest from abroad, and even now I have to remember her words from the recesses of my mind, where she is still alive for me.

Also sealed into my mind are those songs I listened to as I drove, particularly “Dreaming My Dreams” on through the rest of the No Need to Argue CD. Somehow those vocal intonations reflected my heart’s song: the dread I felt, along with the future Natasha was so sure of. I knew someone in my own life who had recently beaten breast cancer, and so as my goosebumps radiated a chill through me, I poured my tension out, willing it to leave with the flow of song as it escaped my lips.

Continuing to drive, I thought of the narrator’s story in “Daffodil Lament” as she transitions from a period of stagnation, seeming hopelessness—“Holding on, that’s what I do, since I met you”—to a mindset of something brighter ahead. The music is symphonic and shifts with a movement replicating that period of time, and O’Riordan’s voice reflects this as she moves forward:

I have decided to leave you forever
I have decided to start things from here
Thunder and lightning won’t change what I’m feeling
And the daffodils looked lovely today
And the daffodils look lovely today
Look lovely today

 Has anyone seen lightning
Has anyone looked lovely

I thought this could very well be my friend’s song, addressed to a disease she stood up to, telling its combined forces that she would not be put down. The last two lines in the excerpt above reflect the storyteller’s determined strength against even thunder and lightning, as she admires the sustained loveliness of a genus representative of both death and good fortune. She chooses the latter and a new life, renewal, she determines to achieve.

Natasha did survive long enough to give birth and be with her daughter, Anna, for a bit, but eventually succumbed to her illness. The day I learned of her passing I also listened to O’Riordan’s amazing voice as she belted out her passions and I absorbed what I could to once more uplift myself, grateful and glad to be alive, even though my voice cracked a few times and, like the poetic music it is, O’Riordan’s voice lured me back to the song as I silently moved in candlelight.

Perhaps for the rest of my life I will always have that connection between my friend Natasha and the voice of Dolores O’Riordan, both of which are everlasting gifts whose memories and legacies enable me to pass a special part of who I am to my own child. A Russian friend told me, the day I sang my heart’s mournful melody in a way not quite like any I have ever before or since, that people in his country believe no one ever really dies as long as there is someone to remember them. I’ve gone back to that so many times in subsequent years, not only because it is such a comforting sentiment, but because I’m naturally inclined to believe the dead deserve our attention, not just for everlasting life, but because they once were. They shared this world with us, and in so many instances what they had with us.

My voice is nowhere near as beautiful as Dolores O’Riordan’s—not by a long shot. In fact, there are very few people I will sing in front of because, well, my singing leaves a lot to be desired. Simultaneously I have been either blessed or cursed with a physical recognition that flows within my veins, of the power it holds over me, of the lifeblood that is song for humans, and that most often simply bursts from my heart when it is caged. 

Today I will be lighting candles for Dolores O’Riordan, not because I knew her—I didn’t—but for the memories she contributes to and the gifts she shared with us, her own heart’s songs that memorialize so much of the struggles of life. We often wish to forget them, but she gave them attention because of their link to the humans we care about.

Thank you, Dolores O’Riordan, and rest in peace.

The fragrant Poet’s Daffodil (click)

Book Review: Claire

Claire (Book II in The Merencourt Saga) by Carol Edgerley

A B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree

The 19^th and early 20^th centuries contain not a few accounts of resolute women, females who pushed back or laid claim to their slice of the world, many meeting success and motivating others to aspire to greater goals. Marguerite de Merencourt was one such woman, and although the legacy she passed to her children and grandchildren contained mixed blessings—for Marguerite’s obstinate streak, so admirable in her younger years, often worked against her favor as she grew older—she remains a draw for readers precisely because some of her efforts yielded less than absolute success.

The lovely second-edition cover for Claire, winner of the B.R.A.G. Medallion (click image)

Marguerite’s eldest daughter Claire, introduced to readers in the final pages of her mother’s story, possesses Minette’s striking beauty as well as indomitable spirit, and from an early age mesmerizes those around her, though not always for the better. Her father’s bullying nature softens to smiles, but upon a long-time-coming visit to her maternal grandparents’ home in France, the teen is viciously rejected by the same woman who pushed away her own infant—Marguerite as a baby. As Claire is coming into her own, she often clashes with her mother and the failure of both to choose their battles widens the already substantial chasm between them.

Claire opens to a scene of the girl celebrating—or trying to—her first grown-up birthday at the end of the twentieth century’s debut decade. While the mores of the time have not drastically altered since her mother was 17, Claire recognizes the changes dawning in the world—cars and telephones make their appearances in the novel—as well as within herself, and like most teenaged girls, resents her mother’s strictures as much as she is mortified by her working status as a Calcutta business owner.

Unfortunately for Claire, she doesn’t seem to learn from her mother’s mistakes, nor does Minette—to the detriment of both. Eager to escape the house as well as the hanging cloud of a family secret, Claire enters into a marriage arranged by her mother, only to find that her once-charming fiancé has little feeling for her other than as sexual release in the absence of the married woman he had conducted an affair with during their engagement. Betrayed by her partner in life and humiliated in the public forum, Claire directs her energies and considerable organizational skills on lavish entertaining and a posh lifestyle.

Before readers get very far into the story, Minette and Claire have already bickered over so many and such petty grievances, one wonders if they spend copious amounts of time nursing exhaustion, for indeed it takes a great deal of energy to be angry. Edgerley’s dialogue, however, always fresh and sharp, combines with the narrative and clearly shows characters’ perspectives as well as the larger picture. Family members frequently engage in heated rows and these strong and well-spoken women are rarely short of intelligently articulated deliveries.

Having said that, there is indeed more to the characters than smartly-chosen words delivered for maximum effect. Readers are permitted to witness the ambitious Claire as she at times struggles to maintain her footing or determine the next step. Troublemaker Sonia is not always able clearly to see her sister’s secrets in order to exploit them, and Christina, with a tendency towards submission and desire just to keep the peace, develops a strength enabling her to speak out against Claire’s less desirable behaviors and actions.

Though Minette has kept most details of her unhappy childhood from her children, some eventually learn the most significant details, such as when Claire’s grandmother verbally assaults her—for being Minette’s daughter, of course, but also because she is so startlingly like her. “That unnatural mother,” as Minette considers the Marquise, nevertheless has exerted some sort of influence as we later see Claire repeat some of her grandmother’s acts and treat her own children with a contempt shocking to modern readers.

Claire’s life does, however, have its happy moments, and Edgerley’s descriptive prowess of them and other scenes is as powerfully true to reality as it is scrumptiously absorbing. Scenes of both ordinary and grand wrap around readers as if they are part of them, and as they move though seamless transitions, investment in those they read about deepens. Appreciation for Claire and others develops despite—or perhaps because of—her flaws and obstinate inability to move past some of them.

The young woman had never looked more beautiful, her dark hair drawn up into a loose knot encircled by strands of jasmine. In her hands, she held a bouquet of the same delicate white blooms encircled by green foliage. The elegant bodice of her soft taffeta gown was scattered with seed pearls that proceeded in swathes over the flowing skirts. Only her hands were seen to tremble…wedding nerves, it was said.

When still becoming acquainted with Claire and how she endures living in a pressurized society under the seal of a loveless marriage, this reviewer had at first mused she might be a character readers “love to hate.” It soon becomes clear that such stylization shortchanges Claire, her story and readers themselves. Multi-faceted, Claire’s dreams, disappointments, loves, losses, sins and attempts at atonement could be any of ours, and reflect the reality she once lived.

How Claire goes on to make a satisfying life for herself and her family is nothing short of astounding; with her perseverance in the face of unforgiving setbacks as well as unmitigated joy, she carries on amidst global as well as local changes, community and personal. Like India herself as midnight, a new day, approaches, Claire must acknowledge the past as she aims to settle into her future, one that will certainly contain agonizing choices alongside the promise beckoned by the birth of a new era. Having grown attached to her, both despite and because of her lapses, readers will long with and for her, and wish for more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To see my review for
Marguerite (Book I in The Merencourt Saga),
winner of the B.R.A.G. Medallion, click here.

and

to see my review for
Susanna – Volume 1 – The Early Years (Book III in The Merencourt Saga) click here.

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Carol Edgerley tells us in her own words a bit about her amazing life…

Born in Calcutta, Carol spent most of her early childhood in France and then Jersey in the Channel Islands. Educated first at a French convent, she then attended Jersey College for Girls and later went to Heathfield, a girls’ boarding school in Ascot.

Throughout her long life (and three marriages) Carol has travelled extensively, visiting the Middle East, Australia, New Zealand and Canada, living several years in France, India and Hong Kong.

A qualified teacher, Carol ran a successful tutorial in Hong Kong for many years, teaching children French and English towards eventual O-Level examinations. She is delighted to still keep in touch with a number of ex-pupils.

Upon retirement to France, Carol was able to carry out a burning desire to write the story of her French great grandmother’s astonishing life, told to her by a great aunt when she was twelve years of age. In the delightful surroundings of her home in the Dordogne at that time, she wrote the story of Marguerite in long hand, initially for the benefit of her three children.

Years went by, and sweating blood and tears, Carol battled the mysteries of a computer, Mac, Word and email … finally Facebook and Twitter. Encouraged by friends and her three children, she re-invented herself as a writer and typed out the manuscript of Marguerite on her new Mac computer, editing furiously as she went. The exercise, however, took decidedly longer than she had imagined!

Unwilling to pursue a (generally) disappointing path to literary agents and publishers, being dismally aware her work might end up unread, and thrown on a “slush pile,” Carol ventured into the world of self publishing. It was one of her life’s greatest emotional moments to hold a print copy of Marguerite in her hands for the first time!

Delighted by readers’ response to the book, Carol went on to write Claire, the story of Marguerite’s wilful elder daughter, who led an amazing if somewhat tragic life. Now there is Susanna: The Early Years (Volume 1), this being the story of one of Claire’s granddaughters. This particular book shines a light on bullying in its worst form, an unpleasantness that unfortunately persists to this day.

Susanna: A Tale of Passion and Betrayal (Volume 2) will follow in due course.

Carol still lives in France, now in a comfortable old farmhouse set in the centre of its own twenty-eight acres of pastureland in the Vendée. Sitting at her desk in the veranda, she is invariably surrounded by six much-loved adopted dogs of all shapes and sizes.

Find and follow the wonderful Carol Edgerley at her website, Twitter and Facebook.

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A copy of Claire was provided to the blogger in order to facilitate an honest review

Author photo courtesy Carol Edgerley

 

Author Interview: Valerie Biel (B.R.A.G. Medallion Winner)

Circle of Nine: Sacred Treasures – A B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree

Hello, Valerie Biel, and welcome! Thank you so much for taking a few moments to chat with us. And congratulations, not just for your initial B.R.A.G. Medallion for Beltany, but now also Sacred Treasures. Sa-weet!!

So, Sacred Treasures is third in the young adult Circle of Nine series in which Brigit Quinn, still somewhat working through having her newfound knowledge and magical abilities, faces additional challenges. Her gifts being hereditary, they also spur Brigit to turn an eye to those who came before, and the possibilities and realities she finds are, to say the least, confounding.

Is there anything else you would like to add about Circle of Nine in terms of its description?

Thanks for that great summary, Lisl. Yes, Brigit is gradually becoming more used to the idea of being part of the Circle of Nine (the nine women who have the job of guarding the ancient ways and stone circles of Ireland.) She never wanted these “magical gifts” she’s been given and is still working through how she feels about them when she is catapulted into a mission to protect the circle. And what’s worse is that she doesn’t know who she can trust to help her fight those who wish to destroy the circle.

Did you read fantasy as a child? Or did you “discover” it later on?

I read a ton of mystery novels—series mostly as a preteen and teen. I definitely discovered fantasy as an adult reader! That may seem strange when I have such a love now for both reading and writing in this genre.

How did Brigit’s story come to you?

I was inspired by my travels to Ireland and became fascinated with the stone circles that dot the countryside. Beltany, the subtitle of the first novel in the series is an actual stone circle in County Donegal, Ireland. There’s something eerie and beautiful about these circles which rise up out of the greenest grass you’ve ever seen. Who built them? Why did they build them? If that’s not enough to start a story, nothing is. That led me to write the historical chapters of Brigit’s ancestors first. These chapters are included in the first and second book in the series. Brigit discovers these stories through a book of family history she is given on her 15^th birthday.

Who were your favorite authors? Who or what inspired you to record your stories?

I have so many favorite authors in so many genres . . . I love a good creepy story like Stephen King writes, but I also adore Jane Austen’s novels. I am a little bit all over the place. Epic long journeys through another time are some of my favorites. Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series is one I will read and re-read.

I read a ton of young adult and middle grade novels too. There’s so much smart writing out there to choose from!

I have always been a storyteller. I don’t know if this comes out of my birth order as the youngest in a family of six or what – but I’ve always liked telling a good story and being the center of attention that way. My first attempts (3^rd grade or so) were decidedly not good, but I’ve improved since then! I am so much happier when I’m creating new stories and plot lines and playing around with characters. It’s my creative outlet.

Would you want to have any of Brigit’s powers?

Yes, please, all of them! But I won’t spoil anything for the reader by listing them out here.

How did you select the names for your characters?

Oh, my gosh! You would laugh if you saw my gigantic spreadsheet of names. I spent a lot of time on the internet gathering cool Irish-sounding names. I’m very careful to keep track so I don’t re-use a name.

How long, on average, does it take for you to write a book—at least the ones you’ve penned so far?

It has totally varied – my first book took a year when I was writing part time. When I switched to writing full time, I could complete a novel in four months—about 80,000 words.  I don’t write every single day, but when I’m in writing mode I can write up to 4,000 words in one day. Not all of those sections make it to the final novel, of course.

Is Circle of Nine the (or one of) young adult book(s) you wanted to read when growing up?

I think so. Don’t we always write what we want to read? I know I do.

What is your writing Kryptonite?

Oh, I am so distractible. I write from home and when I used to perch at the breakfast bar, all the comings and goings in the house interrupted me constantly. I finally have snagged one of my kids’ bedrooms for an office. (She is 22 and assures me she is not moving home—so it’s okay!)

Now, I’d say that social media is my Kryptonite. I have to turn everything off – no pings, no pop ups – to immerse myself in my work in progress.

Do you ever read reviews for your books?

Ha, I do. Every-Single-One! Mostly, that’s okay because my reviews have mostly been good, but there’s always a stinker in there somewhere. I get a little upset, but I find there’s always something to learn from a less than stellar review.

As a fantasy author, what would you choose as your mascot or animal spirit?

A bird or a butterfly.

Have you ever been on a literary pilgrimage?

Whenever we travel, I weave in stops at important literary locations or authors’ homes/museums. For instance, on a trip to England with my family we stayed in a number of Jane Austen-ish locales like Bath and Lyme Regis.

I’ve been on personal literary pilgrimages—or maybe that is better defined as a research trip. Luckily, we don’t always have to visit far-off places to write about them with the ability to immerse ourselves in a place via the internet, but truly there’s nothing like being somewhere to convey the sights, sounds, and smells of a place in our literary descriptions.

Do any other mythologies interest you? Would you consider writing a story within that setting/location?

Yes, I am completely fascinated by other mythologies and folk lore of other countries, especially those beyond the traditional Greek and Roman studies we encountered in school. Norse and Viking themes are big right now, but lately I’ve been intrigued by Egyptian mythology.

What are your favorite literary journals? Genres? Books?

I’m a big fan of Stephen King’s book On Writing. (There are so many other books about writing and how to write that I’ve read, but this is one I will re-read.)

I love The Sun – it’s a beautiful literary journal.

Are there any question not asked here today that you would like to address?

No, this has been a lovely and interesting set of questions to answer!

And now for some fun queries…

Do you ever (or often) have conversations in your head?

Yes, doesn’t everyone. Sometimes out loud, too. I think people assume that I’m talking on a hands-free cell phone in my car when they see me at a traffic light. (I live in a small town, so everyone knows everyone.) In truth, I am likely working out some dialog between two of my characters.

What is your favorite mode of transport?

Trains – I really adore trains.

What track have you played to death lately?

The music from the Young Pope miniseries on HBO is fantastic and yes, I’ve played it to death.

What accent(s) do you find charming?

Irish & Scottish

What does your ideal day look like?

It would begin with waking up to breakfast in bed on a tropical island.

But, a  good day in my regular life includes an hour or so of social media work before writing for a solid four or five hours and then a break for a workout/run before cooking dinner and relaxing with an excellent book (or possibly some reality TV like the Great British Baking Show or The Amazing Race.)

Thanks again, Valerie Biel, for joining us and congratulations!

*********

About the author …

Valerie Biel’s debut novel Circle of Nine: Beltany has been honored as a 2015 Kindle Book Award Finalist, a finalist in the Gotham Writers’ Young Adult Novel Discovery Contest and the Readers’ Favorite Book Award Contest as well as being a B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree. The final installment in this series – Circle of Nine: Sacred Treasures – has also received a B.R.A.G. Medallion and was short listed for the Eric Hoffer Book Award grand prize, earning the First Runner-Up distinction in the YA category. In addition to the young adult stories in the Circle of Nine world, she has also authored two middle-grade novels and is represented by Kim McCollum of the Purcell Agency.

When she’s not writing, she’s working on freelance publicity projects and assisting other authors through her business Lost Lake Press or teaching about writing topics at conferences, libraries, and schools. She’s a member of a fantastically fastidious critique group through her membership in the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI).

When Valerie’s away from the computer, you might find her working on community theater projects, local history preservation, wrangling her overgrown garden, traveling the world, and reading everything she can get her hands on. Once upon a time, she graduated from the University of Wisconsin with degrees in journalism and political science. Now, she lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband and children and dreams regularly of a beautiful cottage on the Irish coast where she can write and write and write.

Follow and learn more about author Valerie Biel and her world at her website, blog, at her Amazon author page or Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, or Pinterest.

Author image courtesy Valerie Biel.

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Comedy and Tragedy: A Week in the World of Marina Julia Neary, Book Excerpt: Never Be At Peace

Chapter 2

A Cooler Shade of Orange

(Belfast)

            On the train back to Belfast, the young Quaker immersed himself into the fantasies about the girl he saw at the Abbey. Her strong neck, glowing shoulders and supple knees appeared before his eyes. In the five minutes spent inside the dressing room at the Abbey he saw more bare skin than he had in the twenty-one years of his life.  McDonald, his comrade from the Protestant National Society, collected continental postcards with half-naked corset models and circulated them furtively after the meetings, but that was not quite the same as seeing a real girl. McDonald frequently spoke of certain establishments where young lads could go not only to look at naked girls but also touch them and have their way with them. Allegedly, those places were good for gaining experience and purging inhibitions.

As for Bulmer, his mother had taught him there was no real pleasure to be found in those filthy dens. Skimming over the moral aspect of going to a brothel, Mary Ann focused on the palpable dirt.  She did not speak of sin, only of infectious diseases that could turn a robust boy into a lump of flesh covered with oozing sores. A clean, enlightened, self-respecting Quaker boy never pays for carnal favors. If he absolutely cannot wait until marriage, he finds a discrete young lady of his own intellectual caliber with whom he could negotiate an interim arrangement. Miss Molony looked like the sort of girl Bulmer could negotiate with. He imagined the two of them sitting in a dusky picture house, holding hands and licking ice-cream from the same cone, their lips and tongues meeting in a vanilla-flavored sea.

The biological response triggered by the conjured scenario made it necessary for Bulmer to shift his briefcase over his lap. He loosened his tie and leaned his burning forehead head against the cool glass of the window. The elderly priest sitting across had no trouble guessing that the young man was not reciting Hail Mary in his thoughts.

***

            The train arrived in Belfast just before dusk. The shrill hiss of the steam drove Bulmer out of his reverie. Inhaling the smell of coal, his beaming face lifted to the sky, he did not see the gap between the train and the platform. He stepped into the void, his right leg getting caught between the concrete and the steel, his left knee landing on the sharp edge of the platform. A few gasps came from the crowd.  Two men rushed to his rescue and pulled him out by the arms just before the train started moving again.

Since rudimentary masculine pride prohibited him from wailing, and Quaker upbringing prohibited him from cursing, Bulmer burst into a song.

So here’s to those great Protestant Men
Who gave their lives to free our land.
All the people sang their praises then
For those brave United Irishmen.

His bewildered rescuers released him in haste. Bulmer was left sitting on the pavement under the lantern, rocking back and forth, still humming the tune.

“You really ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Bulmer heard above his head. It was Denis McCullough, a pub owner’s son from Divis Street. “Those compassionate gentlemen pulled you from under the train, and how do you repay them? With ungodly howling! I tune instruments all day, and my skill has quite improved over the years.  Alas, I cannot tune a human voice. That, I fear, is still beyond my area of expertise.”

Denis’ own voice had a peculiar quality reminiscent of a tightly wound string. He had a habit of speaking through his teeth, which caused his nostrils to flare and veins to swell on his neck. Half of the time he sounded like he was wrestling with pain or stifling back sobs. His gaunt swarthy face was marked with that exquisitely morose beauty that would make him ideal for portraying romantic martyrs on stage. Denis harbored no theatrical ambitions and regarded his own good looks as a minor nuisance.  Seeing no other purpose in life than fighting for Ireland’s freedom, he resented everything that distracted him from his quest.  At age twenty-one he was one of the staunchiest young republicans in Belfast. The only reason why he tolerated the chatty coddled Quaker was because the latter shared his political views.  Denis could take him in small doses.  Unfortunately, Hobson did not dispense himself in small doses, diving impetuously into every cause, every relationship and every conversation. His speeches left one deaf, and his hugs left one gasping for air. Denis would love to keep their alliance strictly vocational, but Bulmer, with his maniacal generosity, longed for a full-fledged friendship.

“Can you walk, Hobson?”

“I believe so. You’re my guardian angel, McCullough, always appearing when I need you. What are you doing here? Waiting for someone?”

“For you, as matter of fact.”

His ominous tone and the steadfast stare alarmed Bulmer. “Is something wrong? Did something happen while I was gone?”

“It’s all good news, especially for you, Hobson. Start walking and I’ll tell you.”

“Splendid! I have good news too, best news in the world. Guess what, McCullough? I saw that girl again.”

That girl … Not another tale of infantile infatuation! The Quaker spoke of the opposite sex with puppyish rapture, which betrayed his utter lack of experience.  It was easy for him to idealise women, because he had never gotten sufficiently close to one.

“Remember that céilidh hosted by Inghinidhe?” Bulmer continued. “Remember that girl who danced with Parkhill.”
“So? Parkhill danced with every girl in the hall that night. He won’t win a medal for monogamy, that’s for sure.”

“Well, one of the girls was Frank Molony’s little sister. Today I spotted her again in the costume room at the Abbey. She looked just like Emer from that book Alice Milligan lent me. Miss Molony is the secretary of Inghinidhe now. And since I’m the founder of Protestant National Society, among other things, it would make us the golden couple of the patriotic movement.”

“This is monstrously romantic,” Denis interrupted him, “but did you manage to convince Madame Gonne-MacBride – or whatever her name is – to intercede for us?”

“Oh, that too! I was about to tell you. That old grouch Yeats is coming, no worries. She’s a grand lady, Madame Gonne!”

“A lady?” Denis smirked incredulously. “I thought she was a general in petticoats.”

“What matters is that she’s bringing Dublin’s theatrical elite to see my play. I hope Miss Molony comes.”

Denis was ready to stick his fingers down his throat. “Women will be the end of you, Hobson. A few minutes ago you almost lost your legs because of your moronic fantasies.”

“You’re right, McCullough. There’re more injuries in store for me. I’ll consider myself fortunate if I survive the next decade without breaking my neck. Now, back to your good news, what were you about to tell me?”

“Patience, Hobson. Just follow me.”

Bulmer sighed and limped along, feeling the blood from his knee trickling down his leg. Denis led him to a hall on Albert Street where the Tír na nÓg branch of Gaelic League met every second and fourt Saturday of the month. Bulmer noticed that the windows were dark.

“So, McCullough, you dragged me here just to show me an empty hall that I’ve seen a thousand times before?”

Denis rattled the keys in his pocket. “It’s not really empty. Some comrades of mine believe you’d make a welcome addition to the organization.”

“Silly old boy! How’s that possible? I already belong to every organization in Belfast. I started half of them, remember?”

“Why, Hobson, your modesty is breathtaking. You think yourself ubiquitous and omniscient, don’t you?”

“Not without a reason! I’m the most ardent activist around here. Who spends all of his free time floating between the branches of the Gaelic League? You mean to tell me there’s some secret body from which I’ve been excluded all this time? Who’d have the audacity to start a club without my knowledge? Everybody knows I’m the chief club-starter in Belfast.”

“That ‘club’ has been in existence since ‘58. The same ‘club’ was behind the Rising of ’67. Any bells ringing in your pretty little head, Hobson? Your candidature was approved at the last meeting, after months of ardent advocacy on my part.”

Bulmer threw himself on his friend’s neck.  “Oh, McCullough, they want me!”

“With reservations, mind you.” Denis freed himself from the Quaker’s embrace. “There’s some concern about your ability to keep secrets.”

“Of course, I can keep secrets!”

Denis came close to kicking him in the bleeding knee.  “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re addicted to limelight. You never learned to modulate your voice.”

“It’s not my fault that I’m so popular. God endowed me with superb public speaking skills. Not that I’ve ever used those gifts for any selfish gain. Everything I do is for the benefit of Ireland.”

“It’s your discretion I question, not your devotion. If you blurt something out in mixed company, if you inadvertently compromise the organization, it’ll make me look very bad.”

“I’ll never fail you,” Bulmer vowed.  “I’ll be your right hand.”

“But, you see, Hobson, I don’t need a right hand at this moment. And even if I did, you wouldn’t be my first choice. You don’t need any more notoriety. Learn to observe and listen. Think you can keep your mouth shut for more than five seconds?”

Bulmer ran his knuckles across his lips. “From now on, I’ll speak only when spoken to.”

As soon as they entered the hall, they heard rustles coming from an adjacent lecture room.

“He’s here,” Denis announced in a loud whisper. “I deliver him wounded but alive.”

A small procession emerged from the lecture room. The leader was carrying a Bible and a paraffin lamp that gave just enough light to keep him and his companions from stumbling.

“This is how such things ought to be carried out,” Denis said. “I was sworn in by an obese drunk at the door of Donnelly’s pub. Not a sober man in the room! It sickens me just to think of it. You’re in luck, Hobson. You’ll experience what I was denied.”

Once Bulmer’s eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, he surveyed the faces of the men in the party. He knew some of them from Cumann na nGaedheal that was founded in August of 1900 at the suggestion of Arthur Griffith.

“What do I do now?”

Denis nodded at the leader of the procession. “Kelly, bring out the good book.”

The torch-bearer stepped forth, and his companions formed a semicircle behind his back. Bulmer’s hand trembled slightly as he placed it on the Bible. As a Quaker, he was prohibited from taking any oaths.

“Ready to proceed, are we?” Denis detected the tremor in his friend’s fingers. “Look, if your heart isn’t in it—”

“It is!” Some inner voice told Bulmer that this was not the last time he would be breaking one of the key principles of his faith. “My heart, my pocket, all I possess …”

“That’s the spirit.” Denis smiled wryly. “Repeat after me: in the presence of God—“

In the presence of God, I, John Bulmer Hobson, do solemnly swear that I will do my utmost to establish the independence of Ireland, and that I will bear true allegiance to the Supreme Council of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the Government of the Irish Republic and implicitly obey the constitution of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and all my superior officers and that I will preserve inviolable the secrets of the organisation.

—Marina Julia Neary

Comedy and Tragedy: A Week in the World of Marina Julia Neary, Book Review: Never Be at Peace

One hundred years ago this week…

Today at the blog in this week of remembering two enormous historical events, we look back at Easter Week 1916, when Irish nationalists staged an uprising and strike, in large part roused following the death of Irish Republican Brotherhood founding member Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa and the words, at his funeral, of noted orator Patrick Pearce: “Ireland unfree shall never be at peace.”

Never Be at Peace by M.J. Neary

Set in the first half of the 20th century, Never Be at Peace tells the story of Helena Molony, an actress who dreams of liberating Ireland from British control. The novel is also the story of the 1916 Easter Rebellion and Molony weaves in and out of it along with a sizeable cast of other personages to whom the author, M.J. Neary, pays detailed attention and manages with impeccable skill. There are few undeveloped characters and one result of that is the intense insider view readers are given to the historical rebellion along with its strengths, foibles, inner squabbling and eventual splintering.

Against a backdrop of the theatre, a telling metaphor superimposed on the plans for a nationwide Irish strike and government shutdown, Molony et al., particularly Bulmer Hobson, with whom she engages in an unsatisfying and drawn-out affair, act out their own dreams. This is despite the conflicts raised in competition with each other’s egos, biases, backgrounds, perceptions, demands and goals—even children are part of the make-up of this production, one in particular representative of Ireland herself, in the aftermath of a clash of wills, disregarded in favor of satisfaction of individual wants.

The novel provides fresh insight into earlier groups and their startups, and we read of bands such as the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB), Citizen Army and Irish Volunteers. While they strike an alliance, they are not a true consortium; instead they are given to poor communication and conflicting orders, most notably regarding the scheduled uprising day and the failed rendezvous with a German ship intending to deliver arms. Moreover, the public does not support them as much as previously believed, but the rebels will themselves to continue.

“Oh but it was frightfully comical: red streamers and paper flowers floating in the air. Flags, draperies, carpets! Red through a grey mist…Most Dubliners, even the destitute, view George as a legitimate monarch. While the carriage made its way through the sea of Union Jacks, I leaped forth with a black flag. The feeble old man standing behind me was so furious he struck me on the back with the stick of his Union Jack. But you know, my back is quite stiff, and the stick broke at once!”

Never Be at Peace moves in time past the rising, until the eve of World War II, when we are witness to the aftermath of forty years of dedication to a cause that appears to be in tatters. One chapter entitled “Potato Theatre” recalls a previous statement of Hobson’s, that the potato is the “prostitute of all crops,” and links the absurdity of situations with compassion for the heartache of loss, portrayed by Neary with a balance that utilizes sardonic and dark humor as well as what has to have been an intensive amount of research to get at the private lives of historical figures.

Murty makes a move on Helena

Neary tells this story of these people through an omniscient narrator who retains its presence as we are transported one at a time into the thoughts of various characters. At any given time it is very clear through whose perceptions we are viewing the world, and it works, even as Molony and Hobson retain their positions in the lead. This technique enables readers to see players as the individuals they are, individuals that history has sort of flitted over for “lack of space,” and we are able to identify them later when they at times are initially unrecognized following the brutal passage of years.

Historically, for example, Hobson’s positions were sabotaged, information was deliberately kept from him and he had to develop strategies of his own in order to detect plans, all part of a swirl of events that counterattack themselves and lead to rumors that damage his subsequent political prospects.

While it might be a tad unfair to state that Neary’s Hobson spirals into a caricature of himself, he does nevertheless retain his insistence upon placing his position at odds with forces mightier than himself, for better or worse—and often worse. Neary portrays the stark reality, never attempting to overlay scenes or actions with glitter of any sort. Hobson is determined if at times naïve, and his humor and bitterness frequently cross paths. As he stumbles upon a Sackville Street in the midst of being looted,

[j]ewelry shop owner Edward Burns watches his premises as it is destroyed. . . The spectacle of urban apocalypse mesmerized him.

A gaunt man in his early thirties entered the scene, limping and holding his stomach. In spite of his wrinkled clothes and tangled hair, it was obvious he did not belong to the mob.

[He] exclaimed in a heightened Northern accent, “Connolly, look! This is your noble working class, unshelled, unembellished.” He clapped his hands, cheering the looters. “That’s the spirit! Steal from your fellow Dubliners while you can.”

James Connolly awaits execution

Likewise, Molony dedicates her life to a cause that she herself helps break down by allowing herself to be misdirected, by others as well as herself, despite her intelligence and strong sense of personality. Of course, in fairness it must be said that she does not see all that readers do, and naturally her responses are colored by events as she occupies them. Still, Neary does not provide excuses, though we do at times see Molony nearing the moments when she needs to reconstruct herself. Her often simple dialogue is nevertheless charged with meaning as she simultaneously sabotages a moment, a statement fraught with significance.

“This is Ireland’s hour of beauty. When all the sordidness and sadness slips from her, when she lies around us simplified in the coloured dusk. Look how the seagulls rock on the golden water. Don’t they remind you of pearls scattered over silk?”

Helena exhaled and tucked a frizzy strand behind her ear. “If I don’t have a cup of tea, I’ll surely collapse.”

This is the story of a moment in time, which involves the people who eyed it, waiting for and planning, and what happens afterwards. It rightfully brings to a wider audience the historical figures whose lives were spent in dedication to that moment, and the failures they experience. Some of the cast are recognizable to many readers; some known well to audiences appear but briefly. Many are bent to the brink, giving their lives—in more ways than one—for the chance at freedom, and none are willing to give up in the face of breakdown in whole or part. As written elsewhere by Irish novelist Liam O’Flaherty, who himself makes a cameo appearance in Never Be at Peace, “There is reason to hope that the failure is only partial in some places.”

*********

About the author

A self-centered, only child of classical musicians, Marina Julia Neary spent her early years in Eastern Europe and came to the United States at the age of thirteen. Her literary career revolves around depicting military and social disasters, from the Charge of the Light Brigade, to the Irish Famine, to the Easter Rising in Dublin, to the nuclear explosion in Chernobyl some thirty miles away from her home town. Notorious for her abrasive personality and politically incorrect views that make her a persona non grata in most polite circles, Neary explores human suffering through the prism of dark humor, believing that tragedy and comedy go hand in hand.

Her debut thriller Wynfield’s Kingdom was featured on the cover of the First Edition Magazine in the United Kingdom and earned the praise of the Neo-Victorian Studies Journal. After writing a series of novels dealing with the Anglo-Irish conflict (including Brendan Malone, Martyrs and Traitors and Never Be at Peace) she takes a break from the slums of London and the gunpowder-filled streets of Dublin to delve into the picturesque radioactive swamps of her native Belarus. Saved by the Bang: A Nuclear Comedy is a deliciously offensive autobiographical satire featuring sex scandals of Eastern Europe’s artistic elite in the face of political upheavals.

You can find more about Neary and other books at her blog as well as her Facebook and Amazon author pages. The companion novels for Never Be at Peace, Brendan Malone: The Last Fenian and Martyrs and Traitors: A Tale of 1916, as well as others, may also be purchased at Amazon and Amazon UK. A potential addition to follow up the trilogy is entitled The Lily of Ulster.

Drawings by Alissa Mendenhall, courtesy Marina Julia Neary,
and appear as a separate entity from the novel

A copy of Never Be at Peace was furnished to the blogger in exchange for an honest review

Comedy and Tragedy: A Week in the World of Marina Julia Neary: Book Excerpt, Martyrs and Traitors

Chapter 19

Dublin Suffragette Logic

(Abbey Street, Dublin)

January 14, 1910

Bulmer celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday in bed with Helena. The blizzard kept them trapped inside her flat. The gramophone was broken, so they had to make do without any musical accompaniment.

While Helena was undressing, Bulmer noticed bruises and scratch marks on her hips and shoulders. The gradation in color also suggested that they were left over the course of several days. He knew better than interrogate her about the origin of the marks.

“I hope you haven’t been bored or lonesome,” he said. “Those Dublin winters can be depressing.”

Helena picked up her clothes from the floor and folded them methodically. She proceeded to remove her comb and her earrings lest they should get damaged, blotting the gloss from her lips and examining the circles under her eyes.

Bulmer, growing impatient, tapped the blanket twice. “Hurry now. You’re starting to behave like a reluctant wife.”

Their lovemaking had already begun losing its spontaneity. At the dawn of their affair they would initiate foreplay in the presence of onlookers and then seek a secluded spot. Often the consummation would happen before they even had a chance to remove their clothes. Now they would take the time to undress themselves side by side, sort out the garments, making sure that nothing of value fell out of the pockets, slip under the covers and only then begin kissing. They had not grown bored yet, but they had certainly grown complacent. Once the initial fervor of their reconciliation had abated, once the terms of their alliance had been renegotiated, the two settled into their version of ‘ever after’. Bulmer was no longer afraid of disappointing Helena, having made his peace with the fact that she, in spite of being younger than him, possessed more experience. Silencing his insecurities, he freed himself to indulge his curiosity—and Helena, her ingenuity. Her instructions and compliments were equally blunt.

“Blessedly, you’re not a smoker, Hobson. They taste horribly. This gent I knew before you—nice as can be—went to bed with a pipe between his teeth.”

“Men like him keep Tom Clarke’s business afloat.”

“I’m all for supporting local shopkeepers, but that gent was portly and sweaty and had red dots under his skin. I only tell you this to demonstrate how vice, gluttony and poor hygiene can undermine one’s amorous prospects. Of all my friends, you have the firmest, healthiest body. Even your sweat smells like pine sap. Animals use scent to choose their mates.”

Still from cover shoot

The topic of mating and procreating kept rising with intriguing frequency. Helena never asked Bulmer to exercise caution and welcomed him into her body wholly, which left him both alarmed and flattered. If a beautiful woman wanted to bear his offspring, even out of wedlock, who was he to protest?

“I’m spoiling you, Hobson,” she said, looking up at him. “You aren’t learning to exercise self-restraint. That may become an obstacle should you decide to marry.”

“You mean, not all women are like you,” Bulmer said in all innocence.

“You’d be astonished to learn how many married men lead lives of sensual deprivation. Their wives still perform their spousal duties in complete darkness, in the only acceptable position, for the only acceptable purpose. And once those women decide they don’t want any more children, they leave their husbands in the cold altogether.” Helena enjoyed the look of horror on Bulmer’s face. “I hear frightful tales from my married gentlemen-friends, whose wives constantly complain of headaches and fatigue. Sometimes they grow fat on purpose, just to repulse their husbands. Consider yourself warned. Even if your future wife doesn’t torment you in this manner, you still may find yourself feeling deprived, after all the piquant little sins we’ve committed.”

“Then I’ll never marry!” Bulmer laughed and pulled Helena on top of himself. “I’ll remain your jester, your playmate, anything you want.”

With every round of lovemaking, as he noticed, the sensations were less acute but deeper and broader, engulfing the entire body. Both had to work a little harder to reach the peak, but it also lasted longer.

The repeated rising and dropping of the blood pressure left Helena drowsy and her lover famished. Bulmer knew that in her flat there was no food except for intellectual. Helena had an impressive collection of old books and treated them in the most irreverent fashion. A rare copy of the William Barrow’s 1846 English translation of The Three Musketeers was lying open on the damp floor amidst shoes, which could not possibly be good for the leather binding. Bulmer thought of giving Helena a lecture on the proper treatment of collectible prints, but in the end he decided not to provoke fate. Instead, he picked up the abused book, blew the dust off the cover and began reading it.

Helena took a few sips from a whiskey bottle that she kept by her bedside, yawned and laid her head on his shoulder. “Ah, this is heavenly. “Hobson, stay for another day. Belfast can wait.”

Bulmer thought it would be even more heavenly if the woman sharing his blanket was Isabel. Oh, it was unforgivable piggishness towards Helena, the mother of his unborn baby, and possibly, of his future children. To atone for his ingratitude, he cuddled Helena closer to him and planted a few apologetic kisses on her sweaty forehead. “Go to sleep, darling. You have a grueling rehearsal tonight.”

“Will you still be here when I return? I dread coming back to a cold, dark and empty flat in the middle winter.”

The book slipped out of Bulmer’s hand, as he began dozing off. “I’ll stay here until you kick me out.”

“Don’t be foolish, Hobson. I cannot kick you out in this blizzard. You’ll never reach the train station.”

“Can I come along to the theatre? I’ve never seen you rehearse.”

“But then everyone will assume we’re a couple. They’ll starting winking and grinning and asking questions. You know how people are.” “As you wish, darling.” There was no sense in arguing with Helena on that subject. The woman was willing to get pregnant by him, yet she would not allow him to come to her rehearsal. Now that was a classic example of Dublin suffragette logic.
“I knew you’d understand.” Helena sighed and rubbed the tip of her nose against his collarbone. “By the way, before I forget … I spoke to her last week.”

Bulmer shuddered and opened his eyes. “Who is ‘her’?”

“The one of whom you were thinking half a minute ago.” Helena lifted her head from his shoulder. “No need to feign innocence with me. I know what’s on your mind, and I’m not offended in the least. Dream about your divine Isabel all you want. She’s crafted a business proposal for you. She wants you to go to Carrick for a few months and train her father’s men. Did you hear that, Hobson? Your unattainable princess is dispatching you on a quest. Her mother is even willing to give you a modest stipend. You can lodge with the Malones, if you do not mind living side by side with pigs and horses. I know that the patriarch would welcome you with open arms. Hosting an IRB activist under his roof would be holy oil on his peasant heart.”

Bulmer sat up, his drowsiness suddenly lifted. “I’ll do whatever is necessary,” he said with rapid eagerness. “I told Isabel she could call on me anytime. I’ve met those men in Carrick. They are good raw material.”

He started rising from the bed, but Helena held him back by the arm. “Before you agree to this endeavor, examine your motive carefully. Are you doing this for the cause or only to impress Isabel? If it’s the latter,

then I must warn you that your efforts, in all likelihood, shan’t pay off. I’d hate to see you become devoured by another fancy and start neglecting your work.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You mustn’t make such promises. Recall how you went to pieces when you and I first quarreled? And you don’t even love me.”

“That’s not true. I do love you, as much as you allow me to.”

“I suppose, there are gradations of love.” Helena shrugged, acknowledging her defeat. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t care for me at all. But Isabel has bewitched you. If you say a woman’s name in your thoughts often enough, others will hear it too. With your every thrust I kept hearing Isabel, Isabel, as if there were three of us in bed instead of two. Again, I take no offense, though it would pain me to see you demeaned.”

Bulmer did not want Helena to think they were having an argument, so he embraced and rocked her gently. “Hypothetically speaking, even if I were to pursue Isabel, what makes you so pessimistic about my chances of succeeding?”

“I’ve seen her with other men. She’ll never belong to any one of them. She’s betrothed to the Republic. Of all our nationalist friends she’s the most fanatical one, even though it may not seem so at a first. Oh, she may press your fingers, stroke your brow and impart a few secrets that aren’t really secrets. You’ll walk away feeling privileged and empowered, while in reality you’re but clay in her hands. Isabel doesn’t do it out of malice or for her feminine vainglory. Believe it or not, she hates being a woman and would give up anything to be reborn as a man to better serve her country. Everything she does it for the cause. I saw her kissing Malone’s youngest on Frankfurt Avenue two years ago. She still hasn’t given up hope of recruiting him into the IRB, even though Hugh’s been courting that Ashley woman from Belfast. Isabel wants him for that circle in Carrick. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that our prized Irish Baritone won’t join, but if there’s anyone who can convert him, it would be her. Did you hear me, Hobson?”

“It’s done,” Bulmer declared, alert and battle-ready. “Tell Isabel that I’ll go.”

—Marina Julia Neary

Handsome Edgar Harding in character as Bulmer Hobson