Some novels you can read in snatches over several weeks, at the bus stop or in the kitchen while waiting for the toast to pop. Galore is not one of these. I started reading it Christmas Eve, and discovered then that this book is nearly physically impossible to put down after anything less than, say, thirty minutes. Having to stop reading mid-chapter is annoying. Putting it down before finishing the section is difficult. Mid-paragraph is out of the question—unless, say, someone else is making toast, it gets stuck, and your kitchen is about to be engulfed in flames—even then I’d probably just pause long enough to locate and wield the fire extinguisher.

I don’t always read at such an relentless pace, but I think there are two reasons why I did so with this book.  First, I was led to believe, by Melissa (and then my mom, for whom I’d bought it as a birthday present in November) that the ending is wondrous. It is. And because I’m that sort of person, their repeated assurances that I’d “never see it coming” made me want to do just that.  So I was forever running ahead in my mind, even as I lingered over certain phrases or paragraphs, trying to anticipate how it would end.  And I failed, of course, to come anywhere close.

Second, I found that even when called away from the book days at a time due to travelling, turkey, and other holiday diversions, all it took was a line or two to set me firmly back in its fascinating world—Paradise Deep, a tiny settlement on the coast of medieval Newfoundland, populated by characters no less interesting than the landscape, or the language, or the lore they live by.  I honestly felt–and it’s been a while since I felt this–like I was there. In reality, I’m glad I wasn’t—I’m amazed by what these people did to survive, and in fact this book left me feeling a little abashed at the relative luxury I live in.

In putting together this post, I came across a few reviews like this one in which Galore is compared unfavorably with One Hundred Years of Solitude; Crummey begins the book with a nod to Marquez (and the Psalms, for that matter, but I’ve yet to find a reviewer who thinks Galore isn’t as good as the Bible.) It’s been quite a while since I’ve read One Hundred Years of Solitude, but this review reminded me well of what the novels share in narrative structure and thematic concerns. I’d have to go back and re-read it to report on these similarities in great detail. I probably won’t, though—because I didn’t enjoy it the first time. There, I said it.

I know his fans are legion. But I personally find his style overly ornate, and exhausting given all else that’s typically going on.  When there’s so much richness elsewhere—in the setting, the historical/folkloric/biblical context, in the characters, the complexities of the relationships between them and the far-reaching, unforeseen implications of their various interactions—I find overly-lush writing style is just too much, like chocolate icing on chocolate cake.

I know, for some readers there is no such thing as too much chocolate. But for my taste, if the cake is chocolate, the icing should be vanilla, if there’s icing at all.  And vice versa. Otherwise I can’t, to extend this dessert metaphor a bit too far, really digest it, or even consume it all.  With One Hundred Years of Solitude, I can remember consciously trying to discard extraneous descriptive detail in order to concentrate on what was happening, to whom, why, and why it mattered. I did not have this experience with Galore—I find Crummey’s style perfectly suited to the rich subject matter at hand—it’s plain, not boring but clear, concise, frank, earthily and elegantly to the point. Take, for example, the scene set in these four sentences:

Sellers satisfied his expansion requirements by foreclosing on the properties of debtors and legally the plot remained public land, but the merchant refused to allow anyone to build on it. A view of the entire harbour from that patch of ground, the meadow a midden pile of fish bones and maggoty cod and broken pike handles, wood scraps too rotten to burn. The whitened bones of Judah Devine’s whale scattered about like the ribs of a wrecked vessel. A shit heap of garbage at the head of the bay.

I love the specificity of these details, how much is implied rather than said–ie, “wood scraps too rotten to burn”, meaning that these people are in the habit of using everything that can possibly be used, that this garbage heap is not largely indicative of wastefulness or laziness, like modern-day landfills…and using shit as an adjective, so succinctly captures the viewer’s disgust at how this prime piece of land is being used, he doesn’t have to elaborate…I just love it.

I also remember being continually frustrated by the magical element in One Hundred Years of Solitude, knowing that truly anything “could” happen somehow made me feel less invested in the characters’ plight….whereas I did not have this sort of experience with Galore, at all. Though, as Steven Galloway says in his review, “things that shouldn’t happen do…the magic that takes place in Paradise Deep isn’t really magic, it’s simply a part of the known world, like gravity or rainfall.” It works for me in a way that Marquez’s magic doesn’t.  I can’t really explain it any better than that.

Anyway—this post is far long enough—read Galore for yourself! I’m now on to February, by Crummey’s compatriot Lisa Moore…

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