The finest piece of Irish fiction I have read in a decade.
Sixty pages. I read it in an afternoon and thought about it for a week. This is what a novella should be — nothing wasted, nothing missing, every sentence carrying weight. The restraint of Keegan's prose is extraordinary: she never tells you what to feel, but by the end you feel everything. What Furlong sees and chooses to do with what he sees is both very specific to a particular Ireland at a particular time and completely universal.