There are readers of Roddy Doyle’s fiction, and then there are readers, and I confess to falling into the latter group.
I didn’t fly to Dublin specifically to pick up an early copy of The Guts, his latest book, but it would have been a terrible personal failure had I returned home empty-handed. Here it was at last, not just a new novel, but a Barrytown novel, his first in two decades. (The last was The Van, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, an award the Irish author would later receive for the unrelated Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha.)
Doyle’s collected works are a superlative study of family, aging, and the dignity of the working class—and his latest novel is a worthy addition to an oeuvre that Doyle began building more than two decades ago with The Commitments.
His debut novel in 1987 opens with wily teenage musician Jimmy Rabbitte explaining how the black community in America, amidst institutionalized racism and segregation, created rock and roll. The monologue culminates with Jimmy rallying his friends to the (theretofore inexistent) cause of Dublin soul music:
—Where are yis from? (He answered the question himself.) —Dublin. (He asked another one.) —Wha’ part o’ Dublin? Barrytown. Wha’ class are yis? Workin’ class. Are yis proud of it? Yeah, yis are. (Then a practical question.) —Who buys the most records? The workin’ class. Are yis with me? (Not really.) —Your music should be abou’ where you’re from an’ the sort o’ people yeh come from. —Say it once, say it loud, I’m black an’ I’m proud.
The guitarist for his sudden new band asks what their name will be, to which Jimmy replies, “The Commitments,” adding for emphasis, “Good, old-fashioned THE.”
The Guts opens years later with a conversation between Jimmy and his now 74-year-old father. Here they discuss the dignity of aging.
—I still wake up with a hard one, said his father.
—Do yeh? Said Jimmy.
Don’t blush, he told himself. Don’t blush.
—Every mornin’, said Jimmy Sr. —Includin’ Sundays.
—That’s great. Well done.
Such conversations in fiction are often unbelievable precisely because of the simultaneous sadness, tenderness, awkwardness, and pride necessary to achieve authenticity. And yet not only does Doyle nail such exchanges, but he does so seemingly on every other page. Faced with these literary landmines, Doyle confidently tap-dances across the minefield, always arriving unscathed.
—I know, he said.—You’re my son an’ all. So it’s a strange thing to be tellin’ yeh an’ it isn’t even dark outside. I wouldn’t have told yeh twenty years ago. I wouldn’t’ve dreamt of it. But what’re yeh now? You’re wha’? Forty-seven?
—Well then, I thought I’d let yeh know, said Jimmy Sr.—I noticed yeh grunted there when you were sittin’ down. An’ there’s a lot more of your forehead on view than there used to be. Happens to us all. It’s desperate. Men are hit particularly bad. So, but. It isn’t all bad, is what I’m tryin’ to say. Father to son, like.
The charm of his characters is that such moments never descend into maudlin indulgence.
—But tell us, said Jimmy. Wha’ do yeh do with your hard one?
—You’re missin’ the point, son. That’s a different conversation. An’ I don’t think it’s one we’ll ever be havin’.
As the reader soon learns, Jimmy has bowel cancer, and the novel revisits an area Doyle explored previously in The Van: what it means to be a man at middle age, with life chiseling away at previous points of masculine pride. In that novel, Jimmy Sr. endures a painful midlife crisis triggered by the loss of his job. (The ebbs and flows of Ireland’s economy are forces no less powerful than gravity in Doyle’s work.) Jimmy Sr. tries to sustain some measure of self-respect, and the respect of his family, even as his identity as breadwinner and “man of the house” slips away. The Van tracks how he fills empty, emotionally paralyzing days, and how he copes with the small setbacks: Christmas gifts that cannot be purchased, home improvements that cannot be made, and pints with “the guys” that cannot be bought. It explores how he rediscovers his identity through the start of a small business (a chipper van), and how he overcorrects in the worst ways and crashes back down to Earth.
And so Jimmy Sr.’s revelation of erectile function in The Guts is a gentle way of turning the page, so to speak, on the previous novel, while keeping the subject alive for the next generation. His son, here the central character, faces the same issues, but from a different angle. In a moment of financial panic, Jimmy sold his shares of the Internet music company that he founded. Reduced in rank to that of “employee,” it’s only through self-talk that he can make it through the workday; he is now vulnerable to the company’s difficulties, but powerless to lead it to fiscal security. The resulting feeling of impotence isn’t helped by his new identity as “cancer patient,” which comes with it the role as an object of pity.