Be Near Me

Be Near Me

4.2 4
by Andrew O'Hagan, Jerome Pride
     
 

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The Canadian debut of the Booker Prize-shortlisted author of Our Fathers.

In a small Scottish parish in a post-industrial town by the sea, an English priest with secrets in his own past becomes stalked by the fear of scandal, class hatred, and lost ideals.

When Father David Anderton takes over a Scottish parish, not everyone is ready to

Overview

The Canadian debut of the Booker Prize-shortlisted author of Our Fathers.

In a small Scottish parish in a post-industrial town by the sea, an English priest with secrets in his own past becomes stalked by the fear of scandal, class hatred, and lost ideals.

When Father David Anderton takes over a Scottish parish, not everyone is ready to accept him. Over the spring and summer of 2003, Father David befriends two young, troubled students, Mark and Lisa. Their natural energy and response to the world bring out his own feelings of protectiveness, as well as longings for parts of himself — and his past — that he has come to lose. This relationship and the way it develops leads to the book’s climax, as Father David finds himself facing accusations of abuse.

Told from the point of view of Father David, we feel, beneath his need for order and emotional distance, the passionate undercurrents that have brought him to where he is. In this riveting novel, where every word counts, Andrew O’Hagan’s brilliant writing leads us into a story of art and politics, love and faith. Be Near Me possesses a depth of feeling and a literary artistry that render it O’Hagan’s masterpiece.

Editorial Reviews

Carolyn See
Be Near Me is about a man distanced from everyone, most especially himself. He's utterly bewildered by life and how he should live it. But he's just as human as we are. Exactly as human as we are. Andrew O'Hagan asks us implicitly to look at our own lives, ask ourselves how clueless we may be, as we try, with courage or cowardice or both, to get from this particular day on to the next.
— The Washington Post
Stephen Metcalf
Two people alone in a room, conversing; it is the basis for everything good about life. If your inner daemon requires more by way of appeasement or flattery, you have something in common with David Anderton, the antihero of Andrew O'Hagan's superb new novel, Be Near Me. Two people alone in a room, conversing—inadequate to you or to David Anderton, maybe, but not to O'Hagan, a youngish Glasgow-born novelist of astonishingly assured gifts. Quiet talk, a Bernini print on the mantle, the Clos Vougeot uncorked and breathing, is to O'Hagan what daffodils were to Wordsworth, that apparently arbitrary thing that calls forth the writer's voice, revealing the bias along which he may write as a true original.
—The New York Times
Publishers Weekly

This burnished gem of a novel has drama, emotional resonance and intellectual power enough to recall one's favorite 19th century writers. At its center is David Anderton, a Scottish-born, Oxford-educated Catholic priest who, after years in England, assumes a parish in working-class Scotland to be closer to his mother, a writer and free spirit. Now in his 50s, David recalls his own passions vividly, but he has traded his 1960s university ideals to favor the Iraq war, and his realizations of romantic love for a life of the cloth. From early on, there's a glaring gap between David's first-person recollections and the elitist, alienating affectations he assumes with others. His Dalgarnock parishioners are suspicious of his education; his only companions are his sardonic but morally stringent housekeeper, Mrs. Poole, and a pair of thuggish teenagers, Mark and Lisa, who remind him of his own youthful rebellions. As Mark and Lisa draw David into their chaotic lives, the novel builds to an inevitable clash between the spiritual and the secular, the adult and adolescent, the utopian 1960s and the neoconservative 2000s. Throughout, O'Hagan (The Missing) enchants with his effortless prose, vivid characters and David's uncanny asides, making O'Hagan's fourth novel a heartrending tour de force. (June)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Kirkus Reviews
"An impeccably crafted, philosophically framed account of the decline and disgrace of an impressionable Catholic priest. UK author O'Hagan turns to questions of insight in a beautiful but ruined 21st-century landscape." (starred)

Los Angeles Times Book Review

"O''Hagan may have snatched the subject from today''s headlines, but with remarkable skill he turns potential tabloid fare on its head...There is a graceful quality to [this novel''s] circuitousness, which, despite the gravity of the subject, shows off O''Hagan''s dark wit and deftness in characterization."

— Art Winslow

Washington Post

"Be Near Me is about a man distanced from everyone, most especially himself...Andrew O''Hagan asks us implicitly to look at our own lives, ask ourselves how clueless we may be, as we try, with courage or cowardice or both, to get from this particular day on to the next."

— Carolyn See

Library Journal
"O'Hagan keeps both accused and accusers human and even noble. The most minor characters are drawn with truth and complexity, and O'Hagan's prose is stylistically dazzling, as crafted and lovely as the best poetry."

New York Sun

"For all the death and, mostly repressed, sex that loom over this novel, Be Near Me is generously strewn with gentle ironies and not without moments of outright comedy...O'Hagan is mostly concerned with human frailty, a problem at once moral, aesthetic, and metaphysical."
Time Out New York

"One of the remarkable things about Be Near Me...is the texture and even beauty is lends to Anderton's downfall. At a glance, the priest might seem repellent, but O'Hagan infuses him with so much complexity that his undoing...becomes undeniably tragic."
Bookpage

"Beautifully written...[O'Hagan has] an ear for dialogue, and nuance in single sentences lit by unexpected insights."
Booklist

"In gorgeous, melancholy prose, O'Hagan portrays a man who misapprehends both the community and himself, leading us on a thoughtful exploration of faith and of religion's role in an increasingly un-Catholic world--and, eventually, of the simple need to love and be loved....A rich and fascinating novel that promises rewards with rereading."
Entertainment Weekly

"[A] beautiful, astute novel. A-"
Los Angeles Times Book Review - Art Winslow

"O'Hagan may have snatched the subject from today's headlines, but with remarkable skill he turns potential tabloid fare on its head...There is a graceful quality to [this novel's] circuitousness, which, despite the gravity of the subject, shows off O'Hagan's dark wit and deftness in characterization."
Washington Post - Carolyn See

"Be Near Me is about a man distanced from everyone, most especially himself...Andrew O'Hagan asks us implicitly to look at our own lives, ask ourselves how clueless we may be, as we try, with courage or cowardice or both, to get from this particular day on to the next."
BookLoons - Hilary Daninhirsch

"Tragic, powerful, and moving, with insight into the world of English-Scottish politics, this is a book that is somewhat challenging to absorb because of its intensity, but that very factor makes it worthwhile."
From the Publisher

PRAISE FOR BE NEAR ME

"What a powerful writer Andrew O’Hagan has become . . . Be Near Me is an elegy, a love story, a document of an era, beautifully imagined and composed."—JOYCE CAROL OATES

"As if it is not enough that Andrew O’Hagan can write like an angel, one has to add that he does it in the rare style of an intelligent angel. What a fine novel is Be Near Me."—NORMAN MAILER

BookLoons

"Tragic, powerful, and moving, with insight into the world of English-Scottish politics, this is a book that is somewhat challenging to absorb because of its intensity, but that very factor makes it worthwhile."

— Hilary Daninhirsch

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781743191446
Publisher:
Bolinda Publishing Pty, Limited
Publication date:
04/23/2012
Edition description:
Unabridged
Product dimensions:
7.12(w) x 6.50(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

Be Near Me


By O'Hagan, Andrew

Harcourt

Copyright © 2007 O'Hagan, Andrew
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780151013036

Chapter One
Sundial
One is never prepared for the manner in which home changes over time. That tea room was twenty-nine years ago. Scotland was my mother’s world, and my years in Blackpool were spent in pastoral oblivion, a kind of homelessness which has followed me everywhere. Lancashire was the place where I grew up, my father’s world, but serving there as a parish priest provided me with nothing much greater than the small comforts afforded in my line by the habits of duty.
           I wanted to add something new to my mother’s life. She had always been so original, so full of words, so ready with money, the distances between us being no bar to her encouragement of me, her enjoyment of our hard-hearted jokes. But she was growing old. I thought we might do more laughing together and visit the places she liked. The year before last, I came back and took charge of a small Ayrshire parish, to see her, to be close to her, though I can hardly say that the move was made in heaven.
           Troubles like mine begin, as they end, in a thousand places, but my year in that Scottish parish would serve to unlock everything. There is no other way of putting the matter. Dalgarnock seems now like the central place in a story Ihad known all along, as if each year and each quiet hour of my professional life had only been preparation for the darkness of that town, where hope is like a harebell ringing at night.
           It all began to happen on Good Friday. The rectory was pleasant and well-groomed, and my housekeeper, Mrs Poole, brought two large bowls of lettuce soup to the sitting-room table. I had just come back from the second service of the day, feeling tired, with a heaviness in my legs that made me wonder if I wasn’t ageing rather badly. It is not always easy to know the difference between religious passion and exalted grief. I felt Mrs Poole was watching me and ready to say a number of things, but the light of the chapel still glowered in my head, willing me to regret the need for human contact and the niceties of lunch. Mrs Poole was in her most efficient mode and soon had me smiling.
           After several months in Dalgarnock I noticed she was more at home in the rectory than one would have expected. She loved it there, loved what she called ‘the feel of the house’, and her admiration was particularly drawn to the presence of numerous clocks and books and second-rate pictures, the stuff of my own past.
           ‘You’ve a bit of education up yer sleeve, Father. That’s the thing. When people have been places you can just tell. What a house for pictures. You are somebody just like me: you like yer wee things round about you. Now, half the people you meet go on like their home is a prison. But when you walk in here, you see right away it’s a place for thinking.’
           ‘I don’t know about that, Mrs Poole.’
           ‘Oh, away ye go. A man like you knows how to think.’
           She made a fetish of the house plants, speaking to them, paying tribute as she bent with the watering can to the good company they provided. She was a great enthusiast for the environment, by which she meant the outside world, but
the inside world was the domain of her greatest exactitude. Hours would come and go as she moved about the place, the dust a sign of some freedom she had barely known, the cluttered rooms full of corkscrews, prayer books, exhibition catalogues and seed packets seeming to her to indicate a peaceable universe very unlike the one she maintained in her house by the railway bridge.
           ‘Mrs Poole,’ I said, ‘don’t get me started on big topics. I’m looking for laughter today.’
           ‘You’ve picked a fine day for it,’ she said. ‘There’s a dirty great sponge of vinegar being presented to the Lord’s face as we speak.’
           ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘But I need a glass of wine.’
           ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mrs Poole. ‘When I was a girl, Good Friday was a day for closing the curtains and hanging yer head. Now you’re all calling for the wine bottle. You’ll be casting lots for the bloody cloak next.’
           I spun my keys and looked up at the ceiling. A frosting of cobwebs sat lightly over the old chandelier.
           ‘Did I ever tell you, Mrs Poole?’ I plucked at my bottom lip and pointed up.
           ‘What’s that?’ she said.
           ‘This very chandelier was hung in my first set of rooms at Balliol. Can you imagine? A present from one of the Anderton aunts.’
           ‘Heaven save us.’
           ‘It’s true. My aunt thought it was criminal for a young man to have to study under an oil lamp. I used to stare up at it during the night instead of writing essays on the English Civil War. It was even dirtier then. Can you imagine that, now? This very chandelier?’
           ‘A right ticket you must have been, Father,’ she said, ‘with your chandeliers and all the rest of it. Very nice. As you lay there inspecting your fancy light, my sister and I, we were five years younger than you and working nightshifts.’
           ‘Hard work. How dreadful. Was she cured of it?’
            ‘Oh, aye,’ said Mrs Poole. ‘We were all cured of that soon enough.’
           ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, ‘given the amount of muck on that chandelier up there.’
           ‘Don’t start me,’ she said. ‘There’s work enough to be done. Too much work to be bothering wi’ yer daft lights.’
           ‘Get you,’ I said. ‘It’s Mutiny on the Bounty.
           ‘Slave driver.’
           ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t want it any other way.’
           Mrs Poole was forty-two, but her attitudes made her seem older. Only when she smiled did one notice she was quite young. She had no college education, nor did she come from a background that supported her enthusiasms, but she had schooled herself with the kind of personal passion that verges on panic, and her mind absorbed and retained. This process had started years before I met her—with night classes in French, with cookbooks—but she always said that side of her had become important in her time with me.
           ‘You just sit there quiet half the time,’ she said. ‘But I know you’re boiling with arguments, Father.’
            ‘Is that right?’
           ‘Oh, piping! And don’t be shy. There’s a thousand things to discuss and hardly anybody to talk to.’
           ‘Very good, Mrs Poole.’
           My mother made the point that my housekeeper was like a heroine in Jane Austen: she would have distinguished herself in any class, yet her circumstances acted upon her like a series of privations she was determined to overcome. The fact made her unsteady sometimes but pretty much always likeable. She had little time for The Tongues, as she called them, the people of the town, and saw our friendship as an overdue reward and a lucky extension of her long dedication to self-improvement.
           ‘I have finally found my job,’ she said. ‘And a person who knows how to put a sentence together.’
           ‘Good stuff,’ I said. ‘Just don’t forget I’ve a gangplank through there for people who yell about their rights.’
           ‘Fascist,’ she said.
           ‘Uh-huh.’
           ‘Roman soldier!’
           ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘That’s my job.’
           She smiled and hooked a dish towel over her shoulder. ‘That’s enough of your cheek, Father. Come and have your lunch.’ She swept a theatrical hand over the dining table in the manner of a far-travelled merchant presenting his latest silks. ‘Quickly now. It’s soup. Potage de Père Tranquille.
           ‘Du Père,’ I said.
           ‘Right. The best abstinence money can buy.’
           ‘Goodness, Mrs Poole. Lettuce soup. There are monks and starving people who would thank you for this. Can we go wild and add a few bits of bread to the feast?’
           ‘Suit yourself. Be my guest. If you want to remember Christ’s agony by gorging on crusts, I can’t stop you.’
           ‘Just a few delicious dods of the old pain de campagne.
           ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I bought the organic stuff.’
           Mrs Poole worked only two and a half days a week. She liked to smile at unpredictable things and gave the impression she showed sides of herself in the rectory that she couldn’t show at home. Her husband Jack was a part-time gardener for the council. ‘He just cuts the grass,’ she said, as if to separate his efforts from the sorts of things we might do ourselves.
           Mr and Mrs Poole appeared to live together in a state of settled resentment. She said they seldom went out and that he had given up on trying to make her happy. He wasn’t the man she had married, apparently, and a thousand things had happened, she said, that made it clear he couldn’t deal with responsibility. Even after the events of that year, I don’t think I ever came to understand what Mr Poole really thought of his wife and the world she craved. But she may have been wrong to assume that his drinking was the biggest part of him, that he was, in some barely conscious way, a standard-bearer for the town’s worst prejudices. Some might have called him a broken person, yet there was more to him, and more to her, than either of them would find time to recognise.

© Andrew O’Hagan, 2006
 
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Continues...

Excerpted from Be Near Me by O'Hagan, Andrew Copyright © 2007 by O'Hagan, Andrew. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

ANDREW O'HAGAN was born in Glasgow, Scotland. His previous novels have been awarded the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, and the E. M. Forster Award.

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Be Near Me 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Not only is this book written with a lyrical style filled with the imagery of Scotland and its culture today, but this is a thought provoking look at one man's loss of self, and how pain and loss sometimes drive us to decisions and paths we would otherwise never consider. A really fine novel.
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