From the Publisher
“Absorbing, unsparing, and beautifully written . . . [a] masterly novel.”
–The New York Times Book Review
“Stunningly lyric . . . a work of richly empathetic imagination that reminds us once again of how powerful historical fiction can be in skilled hands.”
–Los Angeles Times
“Superb . . . an emotional epic bearing echoes of Melville and Ondaatje, conveying scents and shimmers of a vanished world under the skin of our own.”
–Jonathan Lethem, author of You Don’t Love Me Yet
“Extraordinary . . . a novel that animates the past this vibrantly should make volumes of mere history blush.”
–The Washington Post Book World
“Sprawling, cinematic, exquisitely detailed, exactingly researched, and keenly felt . . . a powerful work of excavation that achieves what historical fiction often can’t–credibility, along with a sense of the transportive.”
“Riveting . . . Behrens turns the archetypal immigrant’s journey into Homeric epic.”
–The Providence Journal
“A beautifully written, poetically inspired tale of heroism, love, yes and sex, and the triumph of the human spirit.”
–Malachy McCourt, author of A Monk Swimming
Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
"The law of dreams is, keep moving."
Few events in history have had the tragic and far-reaching consequences of Ireland's Great Potato Famine. Hundreds of stories have drawn their inspiration from those dark days, but rarely has a work of fiction achieved the beauty of Behrens's novel.
After witnessing the deaths of his family during the blight, it seems inevitable that Fergus, too, will follow them into that place of darkness. Yet for the first time, he ventures beyond the family farm and leaves Ireland for Liverpool, eventyally embarking on a dangerous Atlantic voyage to America. No ocean crossing, however, could be more dramatic than the journey Fergus makes from innocence to experience. His search for a new life will introduce him to a world unimaginable to the son of an Irish tenant farmer. Prostitutes and hustlers, gentlemen and thieves -- these are the members of Fergus' new family. But it is out of this new world that Fergus finds the three young women he comes to love, and who will ultimately bring Fergus his greatest joy and most profound sorrow.
Vividly re-creating a place and time more than a century old, The Law of Dreams is breathtaking in its attempt to carve art out of history - that it succeeds so brilliantly is testament to Behrens's unique and prodigious skill as a writer. (Holiday 2006 Selection)
The New Yorker
Behrens’s impressive, swiftly paced saga tracks the life of an Irish boy after his family dies during the Great Potato Famine. Fifteen-year-old Fergus O’Brien takes up with a group of child bandits in Limerick, then makes his way to North Wales, where he works as a “tip boy” (a dangerous job that involves emptying carts of earth being cleared for the railroads). By the time he sets sail for Canada, hoping to make a living as a horse dealer, it is hard to believe that only a year has passed, such is the variety of his experience. In scope and subject, Behrens’s work recalls Liam O’Flaherty’s epic novel “Famine”; both writers have a stark style admirably suited to conveying the horrors of starvation and despair. But Behrens’s language also has a visceral rhythm, and his similes meld the humble with the lyrical: whales rise “hissing” in a river, light “stutters” off an iron roof.
In the life of this determined young man, Behrens illuminates one of the 19th century's greatest tragedies and the massive migration it launched. A novel that animates the past this vibrantly should make volumes of mere history blush. "Life burns hot," Fergus thinks, and so do these pages.
The Washington Post
In his first novel, Peter Behrens writes about the famine and its consequences as if he were an eyewitness. The Law of Dreams is an absorbing, unsparing and beautifully written account of one young man's escape from the charnel house that Ireland became…if his story is harsh his writing is seamless, and often gorgeous. He is adroit at creating, then dispatching, indelible characters in a few deft strokes…
The New York Times
Screenwriter Behrens follows his 1987 story collection, Night Driving, with an ambitious epic that follows a hapless wee lad from the rotten potato fields of 1847 Ireland to a New England horse ranch. Fergus O'Brien, the teenage son of a tenant farmer, is sent to a workhouse after his parents are murdered. He quickly escapes, joins a band of brigands and, after raiding his former landlord's farm, drifts to Dublin and then to Liverpool, where he is primed to work as a "pearl boy" (read: male prostitute). He hits the road again, this time settling in Wales, where he works on a rail line and meets Red Molly, a married woman who becomes his lover and traveling companion to America, where he plans to become a horse trader. The book veers dangerously close to melodrama on more than a few occasions, and Fergus, for all the contretemps encountered and indignities suffered, remains thin and unconvincing as a narrator. But readers may be able to overlook Behrens's authorial missteps and enjoy the sprawling, cinematically rendered immigrant story. (Sept.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
In this novel, which is based on his own family history, screenplay and short story writer Behrens (Night Driving) has captured the harshness of the Irish experience in the late 1840s, when blight ruined the potato crops and thousands of people were ejected from the land on which they lived and worked-land owned by distant British aristocracy and managed by local lease-holding farmers. The novel follows the struggles of Fergus O'Brien, who suffered under this ruthless, feudal-like system and was ravaged by the starvation and disease that descended upon the Irish people. A survivor, Fergus joins up with a band of young outlaws, seeks refuge in a Liverpool brothel, and seesaws through myriad emotions. In time, armed with growing self-awareness, he and a female companion decide to start anew in America. The narrative offers terse, emphatic statements that strike at the essence of a character's feelings. Sometimes this approach lends universality to a character or situation; Behrens's depiction of Fergus's perspective, for example, reflects the mysteries and difficulties flowing between men and women as they try to form relationships. Recommended for larger public and all academic library collections.-Maureen Neville, Trenton P.L., NJ Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Irish paupers flee famine and pestilence in screenwriter Behrens's grim first novel. Fergus O'Brien is the teenaged son of sharecroppers on the Carmichael farm. When the potato blight destroys their food source in 1846, the O'Briens resist eviction but fall ill with typhus. Sole survivor of the fever and of the family cabin's destruction by fire, Fergus is sent to a workhouse, soon closed by plague. He encounters the Bog Boys, a gang of juvenile outlaws captained by a girl named Luke. They attack Carmichael's food hoard, resulting in the massacre of the landlord's family (including Fergus's first love, Phoebe) and of the Bog Boys (including his second love, Luke). Fergus joins a cattle drive to Dublin, from which he takes ship for Liverpool. On the journey, he meets Arthur, who tells him of work to be had as a railroad-building "navvy" in Wales. The duo rest at a bordello, where Fergus is nearly lulled into a cushy life as a male prostitute. Instead, he heads for Wales, signs on as a navvy and lodges at Muldoon's, where he meets his third love, Molly. Fergus and Molly head back to Liverpool and, with the help of a kind innkeeper, ship out as steerage passengers bound for Montreal. Molly suffers a miscarriage and mood swings, but she augments the couple's finances by running a card game onboard. When Fergus breaks a promise to Molly by climbing the mast to spot land, she makes a wager with fur-trader Ormsby, who wants to enlist Fergus as an apprentice, that will later cause Fergus to abandon her. He disembarks with Ormsby, who falls ill with fever in Montreal. Fergus uses his ailing patron's ample cash to launch a horse-dealing business and is last seen making for Vermont, resisting thetemptation to search for Molly. The author vividly imagines his period, but not his characters, who are little more than fate-buffeted puppets.
Read an Excerpt
The Irish Farmer, Perplexed
Along the scariff road, heading northeast toward home, Farmer
Carmichael rides his old red mare Sally through the wreck of Ireland. The cabins are roofless, abandoned. He encounters an ejected family at a crossroads and
hands the woman a penny, for which she blesses him, while her children stare
and her man, a hulk, squats on the grassy verge, head sunk between his knees.
Saddle creaking, still four miles from his farm, Carmichael rides along a
straight, well-made highway, the pressure of changing weather popping in his
ears and the old mare between his legs, solid and alive.
Owen Carmichael is a lean but well-proportioned man. All his parts fit
together admirably. He wears a straw hat tied under his chin with a ribbon, a
black coat weathered purple, and boots that once belonged to his father. His
town clothes are in a snug bundle behind his saddle. Looking up, he sees
clouds skirl the sky, but along the road the air is mild, with a slight breeze out
of the west, and he has not been rained upon since he started this morning. He
often watches the sky. It provides a vision of cleanliness, of possibility, of eternal peace.
Sensing a flicker in the mare’s pace, he lowers his gaze. Studying ahead, he
sees a pile of rags humped in the middle of the road.
The mare gets the stink first, begins to flare and whinny, then Carmichael
sniffs death, sour and flagrant on the light wind.
He gives her rein and nips her with his heels, pushing the mare into a steady,
purposeful canter. He steers her wide around the pile of flapping rags. There is
a white forearm stiff upright and a fist and a crow perched boldly on the fist.
More birds are hopping furtively in the grassy ditch . . . if he had a whip he
would take a crack at them . . .
Upwind, the stench evaporates. Carmichael halts the mare, swings down.
Clutching reins in one hand, he bends to pick up a stone. He takes aim and fires
at the crow but the missile flies past its target, clatters on the metaled road. The
bird hesitates then beats up into the air, cawing lazily, circling the corpse, and
Depressed, anxious, he remounts and continues homeward.
He has been to Ennis to see the agent who manages the affairs of his landlord, the sixth earl. Remembering the interview causes Carmichael’s back to
stiffen. He hates it all -- the pettifogged transaction of legal business, the rites
of tenantry, the paying of rent, the dead smell of ink.
He himself is a man for the country, for the scent of a field and the promising sky. He has the hands for the red mare, a strong-willed creature. He paid
too much for her, twenty-five pounds, but it was long ago, and he has forgiven
himself the debt.
He had been glad to get clear of Ennis, those awful streets pimpled with beggars. Wild men and listless women sheltered beneath every stable overhang, the
women clutching infants that looked raw, fresh-peeled.
The fifth earl’s sudden death, in Italy, of cholera, had revealed encumbrance
and disarray, legacy of a profligate life. Now the affairs of the infant heir are
being reorganized on extreme businesslike principles.
"Meat not corn. Beef and mutton is what does pay," the agent had explained.
"That mountainy portion of yours -- sheep will do nicely up there."
Flocks of sheep and herds of Scotch cattle were being imported.
"I have sixteen tenant families living up there," Carmichael protested.
"Too many. Can’t be work for all of them."
"There isn’t," Carmichael admitted.
"Get rid of ’em," the agent said briskly. "Ejection. That portion ought to be
grazed. You’ll have to graze, indeed, if you expect to meet your rent. Whatever
sort of arrangement you have with them, it gives no right, no tenancy. You don’t
require the hands but two or three weeks in the year. You can get hands at wages
and not have them settle. You’ll have to move them off."
Carmichael has spent his life watching, coaxing mountainy people, and he
knows them. The peasants are peaceful, in fact sluggish, if only they have their
patch, their snug cabin, their turf fire. They breed like rabbits and content
themselves with very little, but if you touch their land, attempt to turn them
out, they get frantic and wild.
"If I throw them off they’ll starve."
"And if there’s blight they will starve anyway, sir! The only difference being, you
shall starve with ’em, for you’ll be paying the poor rates on every blessed head!
No, no, rid yourself of the encumbrance. There’s a military in this country, thank
the Lord. If you’ve whiteboy troubles we’ll set a pack of soldiers on them. Sheep,
not people, is what you want to fatten. Mutton is worth hard money. Mutton is
wanted, mutton is short. Of Irishmen there’s an exceeding surplus."
A brass clock ticked on the mantelpiece. The ashes of yesterday’s fire had not
been swept from the grate. The agent had previously begged Carmichael’s pardon to eat his dinner of bread and cheese. Crumbs of wheat bread on his desk.
Waxy yellow cube of cheese.
Soldiers were no good. No protection on a lonely farm.
"Whoever ejects them -- people like them, mountain people, cabin people
-- stands to get himself killed," Carmichael heard himself saying.
Was he afraid? Fear had always been his goad, a spur. He’d always thrown
himself passionately at what he feared most.
"Oh dear," the agent drawled. "I was assuming you would be eager to incorporate the mountain to your --"
"It’s shoulder bog," Carmichael said sharply. "Good for nothing but mountain men and their potatoes."
It wasn’t fear, no. He wasn’t afraid of whiteboys and outrages. It was a sense
of hopelessness he felt. There were too many of them. He had always been too
generous, granting too many conacre arrangements as his father had before
him. Now there were dozens of wild people living up there toward
Cappaghabaun, dug into the mountainy portions of the farm that they’d overrun. They’d woven themselves into his land like thistle.
"Sheep," the agent said. "Scotch cattle and sheep."
"I can’t get ’em off." Carmichael heard the weakness in his own voice and it
disgusted him. It reminded him of his own tenants, their various cadging pleas.
"Is there blight in your country?" the agent asked. "I heard there was. Is my
"On the mountain they haven’t lifted a crop yet. So it’s too early to tell."
"But there is blight around Scariff, yes? Lands along the river, yes? Leaves
"Yes." He’d seen it that morning.
"Then they will suffer it on the mountain," the agent declared with satisfaction. "There ain’t no dodging. Without the praties, if they linger, they will
starve. I tell you, one way or another you will be clear of those people. Overpopulation, sir, is the curse of this country."
And it is the truth.
Another mile closer to home, and Carmichael finds himself riding alongside a turnip field. There is not a man in sight, but females in cloaks and little
naked children are scattered across the flat field like a flock of seabirds blown
off-course by the wind.
Owen Carmichael tries to fix his vision upon the straight, well-made highway. He tightens his knees and nudges the mare a little quicker. He will certainly be home in time for his dinner. Afterward he will inspect his early cornfields to determine if the crop is ripe for cutting.
Women close by the road straighten up from their scavenging to stare.
He has no cash and cannot meet the poor rates on paupers breeding like rabbits and overrunning his farm. No, he cannot possibly.
The agent’s voice, flat as paper. "Any investment, Mr. Carmichael, must show
a decent rate of return."
A woman calls out in a language Owen Carmichael has heard all his life but
does not understand. Instead of ignoring her, he makes the mistake of turning
his head, and instantly there are a dozen or more paupers closing in on the road,
a tide of females with gray mud on their legs, holding up naked children
screaming with hunger.
Copyright © 2006 by Peter Behrens. All rights reserved.