As many of you are aware, Cathy is currently hosting a twelve-month read-along of the works of Brian Moore, Belfast native, resident of both Canada and the U.S. and prolific author of over twenty-five novels in several genres. I really welcomed Cathy’s event, since Moore is one of those interesting writers who’s vaguely hovered in my literary consciousness for many years without ever quite taking shape. Wasn’t he Irish? No, he must be a Canadian historical writer because he wrote that Black Robe thing set in 17th century New France. At least he’s definitely Catholic! (Judging from my unread copy of his novella, Catholics. Dear Readers, I never miss a clue.) But wait — wasn’t Catholics actually a sci-fi novel, since it’s set in an alternate reality? Or are there really two Brian Moores, one a literary novelist and one a writer of Hollywood screenplays for Alfred Hitchcock and friends? As you can see, dear readers, Cathy’s read-along didn’t come a minute too soon for Janakay! And while I’m not excusing my ignorance about a very fine writer, my rather facetious questions demonstrate the chameleon nature of Moore’s talent as well as the impossibility of pigeonholing his work.
Each month the read-along features a single novel chosen as a good introduction to Moore’s fiction. Since I’ve never read anything by Moore, I wanted to read at least a couple of the featured books in order to form my own opinion about his output. Although I missed the first few months for various reasons, I was determined that at the very least I’d get to The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, sitting unread on my shelves for almost a decade and widely considered one of Moore’s best works. My review, however, is running (very) late and comes at the very tail end of this month’s discussion; because it will be posted at the end of the month, numerous other fine reviews (including one by Cathy herself) precede it. Although the timing of my post made me hesitant to weigh in on a novel that’s been so thoroughly discussed, I finally decided to do so on a idiosyncratic “this is what interested me” basis and not to attempt a comprehensive overview or repeat too many details of the novel’s plot.
Being a believer that art frequently reflects in some manner the life of the artist who created it, one of the things I always find interesting is a writer’s biography. Rather than repeat the details of Cathy’s fine overview of Moore’s life and output, however, I begin this portion of my discussion by asking whether any of you have read Stet, Diana Athill’s wonderful memoir of her career as an editor at André Deutsche Ltd.? (Bear with me, dear readers, this will link up.)
Athill gives a very frank, very funny and very insightful account of working with some of the 20th century’s best known writers (Naipaul, Roth and Mailer for example) as well as with numerous other fine albeit less well known artists, including Moore himself. Athill’s account of her editorial and personal relationship with Moore (the friendship included Moore’s first wife, the Canadian journalist Jackie Sirois) was the first time I begin to be aware of Moore as something other than a name attached to several novels I had never bothered to read. Because I read Stet many years ago and had largely forgotten any of the specifics relating to Moore, I couldn’t resist revisiting Athill’s account after I (finally) finished Judith Hearne, the first Moore novel I’ve actually read.
I usually dislike (and normally avoid) long quotes, but Athill’s such a marvelous writer I’m making an exception in her case. As she recalls (pages 138-139 of my print copy, issued by NYRB Classics):
It was Mordecai [the Canadian writer Mordecai Richler] who first introduced me to Brian Moore in that he told me that this friend of his had written an exceptionally good book which we ought to go after; but I must not deprive André [André Deutsche] of his discovery of Judith Hearne. As André remembers it, he was given the book by Brian’s agent in New York on the last day of one of his — André’s — visits there; he read it on the plane on the way home and decided at once that he must publish it. I think it likely that he asked to see it, being alerted, as I had been, by Mordecai. But whether or not he asked for it, he certainly recognized its quality at once; and when he handed it over to me, it came to me as something I was already hoping to read, and its excellence was doubly pleasing to me because Brian was a friend of Mordecai’s. The two got to know each other in Paris and in Canada, where Mordecai was a native and Brian, an Ulsterman, had chosen to live in common — although the Moores moved to New York soon after we met.
Before Brian wrote Judith Hearne * * * when he was scrabbling about to keep a roof over his head, he had written several thrillers for publication as pocketbooks, under a pseudonym, which he said had been a useful apprenticeship in story-telling because it was a law of the genre that something must happen on every page. But however useful, it came nowhere near explaining Judith. With his first serious book Brian was already in full possession of his technical accomplishment, his astounding ability to put himself into other people’s shoes, and his particular view of life: a tragic view, but one that does not make a fuss about tragedy, accepting it as part of the fabric with which we all have to make do. He was to prove incapable of writing a bad book, and his considerable output was to include several more that were outstandingly good; but to my mind he never wrote anything more moving and more true than Judith Hearne.
When [Moore] came to London in 1955 * * * [h]e was a slightly surprising figure, but instantly likable: a small, fat, round-headed, sharp-nosed man resembling a robin, whose flat Ulster accent was the first of its kind I had heard. He was fat because he had an ulcer and the recommended treatment in those days was large quantities of milk, and also because Jackie was a wonderful cook. (Her ham, liberally injected with brandy before she baked it — she kept a medical syringe for the purpose — was to become one of my most poignant food memories.) When I asked him home to supper on that first visit he was careful to explain to me that he was devoted to his wife — a precaution which pleased me because it was sensible as well as slightly comic.
Once he [Moore] was sure I was harboring no romantic or predatory fancies, the way was open for a relaxed friendship, and for as long as I knew him and Jackie as a couple there seemed to be nothing we couldn’t talk about. They were both great gossips — and when I say great I mean great, because I am talking about gossip in its highest and purest form: a passionate interest lit by humour but above malice, in human behavior. We used often, of course, to talk about writing — his and other people’s, and, eventually mine — but much more often we would talk with glee, with awe, with amazement, with horror, with delight, about what people had done and why they had done it. And we munched up our own lives as greedily as we did everyone else’s.
Although Athill’s house published five of Moore’s books (beginning with Judith Hearne in 1955 and ending with The Emperor of Ice Cream in 1966), neither the professional nor personal relationship between Athill and Moore was destined to last. For the details of their breakup, you can’t do better than to read Athill’s honest and generous account (pages 142-150).
Biography is all very well, I can hear you say, but this is a book blog and — what about the book itself? Hearne is what I’d consider a small canvas, interior novel; i.e., it has few characters, is strongly focused on the eponymous heroine and has a very, very simple plot. Moore sets his novel in his native Belfast in the 1950s and superbly portrays that city’s strongly traditional culture and its deep Roman Catholicism. It opens when Judith, an aging spinster who has come down in the world, is moving into the latest of a successive of shabby boardinghouses, each less genteel than the one before. Judith’s world values women almost entirely for their beauty, their material possessions and their activities as traditional wives and mothers; it barely tolerates unmarried women like Judith who have neither money nor good looks. During the course of the novel Judith primarily interacts with her landlady, Mrs. Henry Rice; Mrs. Rice’s monstrous son Bernard; James Madden, a fellow boarder and Mrs. Rice’s brother; a couple of priests and/or nuns; and the O’Neill family, whom Judith mistakenly regards as long-time friends from her youth. Madden, a sexual predator and conman newly returned from America, convinces himself that Judith has money, and cultivates her as an “investor” in his harebrained business scheme; Judith, desperate to grasp a last chance at marriage and a place in her world, in turn convinces herself that Madden wants her as a wife. Both are wrong, with tragic consequences for Judith, whose discovery of the truth causes her to give in to her alcoholism and to lose ultimately the little she had. Although Moore adopts the very interesting stylistic device of using a few short segments of the novel to narrate the viewpoints of a few secondary characters, his unrelenting focus remains on Judith Hearne and her inexorable downward spiral.
The astonishing technical ability noted by Athill is on display from the opening sentences of the novel, in which the “very first thing Miss Judith Hearne unpacked in her new lodgings was the silver-framed photograph of her aunt” and “the colored oleograph of the Sacred Heart.” Her aunt’s photograph, which goes on the mantel, and the Sacred Heart, placed on the wall at the head of her bed, tell us instantly everything important we need to know about Judith: she has come down in the world since her aunt’s days and she is guided by the dictates of her religion. Her notions of class and religion are the lodestars of her life, their symbols the talismans that establish her home. Moore ends his novel with a tragic repetition of the same scene, where Judith, now an inmate in a charity hospital that was also the scene of an earlier humiliation, unpacks the same two objects, which, she thinks to herself, make this “new place” her home. I differ a bit from Cathy’s fine review, which sees “a little seed of hope” in the ending in that Judith continues to make the best of an impossible and tragic situation. I’m afraid I do not. If you’re in doubt, however, I’d go with Cathy’s reading. Not only has she read the book twice to my once, but I also prefer her interpretation over mine, as otherwise Judith’s story in almost unbearable.
Since I’ve deliberately avoided reading most reviews until after I post this (I plan to start clicking away immediately thereafter), I don’t know if other readers felt that Moore threw them a curve ball with this novel (for those disinclined to sports and/or from countries other than the U.S. , this is a tricky pitch in which the baseball fools the batter by not taking a straight path). For the first half or so the novel reads like a straightforward, realistic rendition of a tragic life that is lived in an historically accurate time and place. As Judith begins her downward spiral, however, the novel becomes an existential quest in which Judith learns that romantic love, friendship and religion fail to provide any meaning to human existence or any comfort for some of those forced to endure it. Ultimately, the Judith Hearnes are alone in a world bereft of human comfort or religious succor.
There’s so very much to say about this novel — the unexpected humor; the beautiful economy of the style; the very great scene in which Judith concludes that that she’s been praying to “bread” rather than the consecrated body of Christ; any scene involving the monstrous Bernard — well, I could go on and on but that’s what a multiplicity of reviews is for, isn’t it? The only way to appreciate the richness of this brief novel is to read it and experience it for yourself.
Did I like this novel? No, I did not. Judith’s story and the universe in which she lived are both far too bleak for me; it was so tough emotionally to watch this lost soul disintegrate that I had to stop every chapter or two to give myself a break. Do I think it’s a masterpiece and am I glad I read it? Yes to both questions.
Not terribly relevant to Moore’s novel, but in writing this post it finally occurred to me that certain aspects of Judith’s character reminded me at least superficially of Tennessee Williams’ Blanche DuBois (“Streetcar Named Desire,” 1947 or thereabouts), the story of another formerly affluent woman who, unable to cope with the reality of her reduced circumstances and romantic disappointment, also ends up institutionalized. Of course, there’s the difference in nationality (Irish vs U.S.), lack of a religious element (very important to Moore) and genre (novel vs. play). As I said, superficial. Probably because I’ve just finished reading Elizabeth Taylor’s 1954 short story “Hester Lily,” I was also reminded of her very observant portrayal of Miss Despenser, an aging spinster driven half-mad by loneliness, living in drastically reduced circumstances and who, like Judith, turns to alcohol to ward off despair. Lastly, at least according to Colm Toíbín as quoted by the great Wiki, Moore’s novel takes from Joyce’s short story “Clay” (Dubliners) the idea of a lonely spinster of a certain age visiting a family, an event which both comforts and confounds her. If you have any thoughts on my rather superficial comparisons, or have some different ones to offer, please do share.
16 thoughts on “Reading Brian Moore’s The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne”
Great review! I thought about rereading this but I was a little in terror of what it might do to my emotional state. i saw where Cathy thought it offered a smidgin of hope, but I don’t really remember it that way from when I read it twenty years ago.
I’ve been curious about Stet and your long quote (no apologies needed!) has definitely further inclined me to read it.
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Hi Reese — so glad you dropped by and thanks so much for the kind words. I know exactly what you mean about Judith Hearne affecting your emotional state, as it had exactly the same effect on me: it took me over a week to read a scant 220 pages or so, as I literally had to stop at times just to escape the bleakness. I’m a huge fan of re-reading, but I doubt that I’ll ever make it through JH again.
Stet is wonderful!!! (sorry about all the exclamation points, but my enthusiasm does get a bit out of hands). And keep in mind that this statement is coming from someone who is not a huge fan of memoirs. Athill is simply a wonderful writer — witty, honest, humane & observant and, since she had a long career working with some of the most important & interesting literary figures of the 20th century she certainly had a lot to observe. In Part I, she recalls her early life as a member of a large, not particularly wealthy family of the landed gentry; in Part 2 she discusses her time with André Deutsche, where she was editor of so many talented writers. Are you a fan of Jean Rhys? If so, Stet is absolutely required, as Athill gives a very honest account of what Rhys was like to work with (“No one who has read Jean Rhys’ first four novels can suppose she was good at life, but no one who never met her could know how very bad she was at it.”) Stet has the added bonus of being relatively brief and is a quick, very fun read. And there IS that marvellous cover photo (I think I bought Stet originally for the photo!) Athill went on to write several more volumes of memoir; I read a few (they were fun) but Stet is the best.
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What a wonderful post, thank you for this. The Athill background is fantastic. It’s a tough read isn’t it? I remember the phrase ‘the kindness of strangers’ popping into my head as I read it, so I get the parallels with Blanche. Thanks so much for taking part – I’ll add your brilliant review to my post.
Cathy: thanks so much for your lovely words, and for sponsporing the Moore read-along; without it I strongly suspect Ms. Hearne would still be sitting unread on my shelf, which would be a great shame. It is a very tough read, indeed, but so worthwhile — I’m actually still thinking about it, particularly the portions dealing with Bernard. There’s a great line, which I’m sure I’m mangling, where he asks Judith something along the lines of “do you think god cares anything about people like us?” I think one could argue Judith comes to something of the same conclusion, but she and Bernard diverge greatly on what they do with this. Judith becomes passive/withdrawn while Bernard — well, he really IS the ultimate man without god in an immoral universe. It’s almost like Moore is using them to personify the two sides of his argument.
I’m very sorry I’ve missed the first few months, but I hope to pick up again in June or July. Again, a fantastic subject for a read-along and a wonderful way to learn more about this oh-so-interesting writer.
Oh I do hope you can join in again – I found your response so interesting. I actually finished the book quite liking Bernard. He’s the only one who knows exactly what he is I think.
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Really interesting post – I have seen a lot of talk about this book during the Brian Moore at 100 event, and I am pretty convinced I won’t read it. The bleakness would just be too much for me, regardless of how good the writing is. I read a very interesting review of it which examined it from the point of view of a woman written by a man with an agenda, and that intrigued me a lot as well as helping me make my decision!
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Hi Kaggsy–thanks for dropping by; I’m glad you found the post at least a little interesting, particularly as I’d almost decided not to write it! JH and her lonely passions are bleak indeed, which is probably the main reason the book sat on the shelf, unread, for almost a decade. I must say that the time I spent reading JH was well spent (it really is a masterpiece) and I’m glad I finally read something by Moore but I very much doubt I’ll ever re-read it (and I’m a very big fan of re-reading). I totally understand your decision to avoid it, as I’ve made similar decisions regarding other books.
Going back to Athill’s Stet, on the other hand, was sheer joy! (and I’m not a big reader of memoirs). I can’t remember how many volumes of Athills I read, 3 maybe, but just my brief return to Stet made me remember that I had once planned to read them all.
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I actually found Bernard to be the novel’s most interesting character in many ways. Part of Judith’s problem is her self-delusion and the false ideas she’s internalized about class and religion. Bernard’s at the other end of the spectrum; he’s examined these notions (especially religion) and discarded them, As you note, he has that absolute self-knowledge, without delusions, about what he is and what he wants. Regarding, the latter, however, I do think Bernard puts few, if any, limits on what he’d do to get what he wants, regardless of the harm this would inflict on anyone else. There’s a sort of mild satanic quality to him, to my mind, which does lend him a certain intellectual attractiveness (don’t we, for some reason, just love evil characters? think Paradise Lost!). I wonder if Moore, by making Bernard so physically repulsive, is hinting that, perhaps, desire unfetterred by morality isn’t the way to go?
I’m having trouble logging in via my WP account – hope this works. I also admired BM’s ability to inhabit the consciousness of this sad woman.
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Hi Simon — hope you’re doing well and that your WP account has decided to behave! I’ve had somewhat similar problems in the past, which were very, very irritating. In my case switching browsers sometimes helped.
I agree with you that Moore’s ability to put himself in Judith’s shoes was really amazing. In fact, I think Athill, his editor, commented on this aspect of Moore’s talent. It’s amazing to think that JH was effectively his “debut” novel.
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I read this book and said, ‘where have you been all my life?’ It’s one of the best books I have ever read, but then I have a thing for books set in boarding houses. I loved the scenes around the table and the stultifying reality of Belfast in the 1950s.
I read The Slaves of Solitude, by Patrick Hamilton just before I read Judith Hearn. It’s another brilliant read about a spinster in a boarding house, but set in England during the Second World War.
Thanks for the Diana Athill reference. I’ve read Stet but didn’t know Moore then, so do not remember the passage you quote.
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Hi Michelle — thanks for dropping by. Judith Hearne is an incredibly powerful novel, isn’t it? I’m still thinking about certain aspects of it. There’s so very much you can say about it, so very much content, that it’s hard to believe the novel is scarcely 200 pages.
As soon as I read in your comment that you liked boarding house novels, I thought: I wonder if she’s read anything by Patrick Hamilton! Then bingo! Your next sentence. I haven’t (yet — but it’s pretty high on the TBR list) read Slaves of Solitude but I’m aware of the plot and had actually thought about throwing in a reference in my post. Have you read anything by Sarah Waters? She did a sort of boarding house novel called The Paying Guests. I believe there was also a kind of spiritualist boarding house in Affinity but could be wrong here. Boarding house are such wonderful venues for a novelist — all those strangers coming together, raising issues of class, race and gender. I’d be suprised if someone hasn’t done a dissertation on boarding houses in English literature, or something like that.
I’m glad you enjoyed the Athill reference. When I read Stet, like you I didn’t know Brian Moore being only vaguely aware he had written several books that I had never read. I had a lot of fun teasing out Athill’s discussion of Moore and, in general, just revisiting Stet. It really is a marvelous memoir, high praise from me since I’m not a big fan of the genre.
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Hello again. Yes, I have read Sarah Waters. Paying Guests is the only novel I have ever had to put down to let my heart rate drop. It was so good. I think the reason I love boarding houses is that you have individuals closely packed but yet solitary and isolated. I am editing my first novel which is set … in a boarding house!
Other good books in the genre are: The Boarding House by William Trevor and A Far Cry from Kensington by the excellent Muriel Spark.
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Thanks so much for the additional recommendations! Sarah Waters is such an interesting writer, isn’t she? I still have one or two novels of hers to catch up on and am saving them for when I need a treat. I have read Far Cry — it’s one of my very favorite Muriel Sparks but was totally unaware of the Trevor novel. Since I adore Wm Trevor (although I do think he’s better at short stories) this one definitely goes on my list (not that I need another addition). Speaking of Sparks, I literally just finished her Girls of Slender Means. Have you read it? The setting isn’t exactly a boarding house, but it does somewhat resemble one, being intended as a residence for young ladies of genteel backgrounds & “slender means” who have to live apart from their families for reasons of employment. You don’t get the mixture of class/gender that a traditional boarding house offers but . . .
Your first novel! How exciting! If you have a website please share the URL, as I’d love to follow its progress.
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Yes I’ve read Girls of Slender Means and you’re right it does have the flavour of a boarding house.
London Belongs to Me by Norman Collins is another in the genre. I’ve read so many this past year I can’t remember them.
No I don’t have a website but thank you for asking. I do have a blog on Medium, although that’s related more to my field, which is special needs teaching.
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