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Maeve Brennan: Homesick at the New Yorker, by Angela Bourke
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The tragic odyssey of Maeve Brennan, The New Yorker's Long Winded Lady, from happy Dublin childhood to Manhattan glamour, from brilliant literary accomplishment to madness, homelessness, death, and rediscovery . Maeve Brennan was an Irishwoman & a New Yorker; an intellectual & a beauty; a daughter, sister, aunt, lover, wife & friend. Witty, stylish, small & quick, she dazzled everyone who met her. She wrote some of the finest English prose of the 20th century, yet she was practically unknown in Ireland during her lifetime, and for 20 years before her death, was forgotten in her adopted America. Rediscovered & republished since 1997, her writings remain in the mind like a previously unknown species of animal or plant. Patiently, almost without mercy, her Irish stories probe the discomforts of quiet, careful, middle-class Dubliners, offering an unparalleled feminine view of a society & a place, an intimate history of modern Ireland; by contrast, her American stories throw the life of privileged New Yorkers & their Irish servants into grotesque relief. Brennan's fiction bores deep into her own memory, and her family's. It returns obsessively to the same houses, the same cruxes in a
- Sales Rank: #1563898 in Books
- Published on: 2004-09-15
- Released on: 2004-10-05
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.25" h x 6.50" w x 1.00" l, 1.44 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 360 pages
From Publishers Weekly
Bourke (The Burning of Bridget Cleary) writes a sensitive biography of writer Brennan, who came to the U.S. from Ireland as a teenager (her father was the first Irish ambassador to the U.S.) and in 1949, in her early 30s, joined the New Yorker to write about women's fashion. Tiny, fiercely intelligent and impeccably groomed, Brennan was cherished by her colleagues. William Maxwell, a close friend, edited her stories—mainly fictionalized accounts of her Irish childhood, which he greatly admired—for the magazine. She also wrote a "Talk of the Town" column under the pseudonym "The Long-Winded Lady." Yet behind the archly sophisticated persona, Bourke writes, was a fragile, alienated woman who, following a failed marriage to fellow writer St. Clair McKelway, drifted into an eccentric middle age and serious mental breakdown before leaving the New Yorker. She died in an obscure nursing home in 1993. Bourke, who teaches at University College, Dublin, draws a portrait rich in New Yorker history and modern Irish feminist history alike, one likely to do much to foster a new readership for Brennan's work. 8 pages of b&w photos.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
From Booklist
There are writers whose lives and works are so synonymous with a sense of place that to visit that location, whether in print or in person, is to feel their spirit in every building and around every corner. Brennan was one such writer, and her works evoke the two very disparate worlds to which she belonged-- Dublin and Manhattan. Born in Ireland, Brennan immigrated with her family to America when she was a teenager. Her formative years in the villages and neighborhoods in and around Dublin influenced her work for the rest of her life, work that would span nearly four decades as one of the most prolific contributors of short stories, book reviews, and social commentary for the New Yorker as the "Long-Winded Lady." Conspicuously torn between her past and present, Brennan would eventually break under the pressure, ending her days in abject obscurity, penniless and homeless. Bourke's stellar biography captures the pain and promise, the tragedy and beauty of this mercurial, mesmerizing talent. Carol Haggas
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
About the Author
Angela Bourke is the author of The Burning of Bridget Cleary, winner of the Irish Times Nonfiction Prize. A native of Dublin, she once lived on Cherryfield Avenue, the street that Maeve Brennan made famous in her stories. She is Senior Lecturer in Modern Irish at University College, Dublin, and has been a visiting professor at Harvard, Boston College, and the University of Minnesota. She lives in Dublin.
Most helpful customer reviews
2 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
so I don't love it. I thought it was written by Maeve
By Rene Haworth Cizio
Not what I thought it was, so I don't love it. I thought it was written by Maeve. I'm dumb, obviously.
16 of 18 people found the following review helpful.
What's there is great...would benefit from greater depth or more analysis
By Susan Doran
There are many reasons to read Homesick at the New Yorker. Among them, the book may be the only existing full-length biography of this talented and fascinating author. And Homesick at the New Yorker is well-written, indeed.
But there are shortcomings to this account of Maeve Brennan's life. The review prior to this one speculates that author Angela Bourke may have found her subject illusive. And that may be the case. But what certainly is the case is that Bourke's resulting portrait of Brennan is somewhat blurred. Is it because Brennan moves out of scope of the camera just as the shutter is capturing the image...or is it that Bourke's camera itself is moving? I don't know for certain. But repeatedly, just as it seems we're homing in for some tasty detail or substantive level of depth, Bourke takes off in another direction, and the initial thread is dropped. Frustrating.
The very restraint that makes Bourke's prose so neat and elegant may also serve to diminish the overall impact of the book. Often the author brings us close to gaining insight about Maeve Brennan, and then abruptly pulls down the shade, as if it would be too embarrassing for her, us, or Brennan, to see what would be revealed if she analyzed her subject a bit more closely. Brennan's relationship with her father comes to mind; it seems an extremely important and complex relationship, but beyond stating that fact, Bourke doesn't pursue it. What conflicts did it create? What are the implications for her work? relationships? etc. Perhaps the author figured she could drop the ingredients onto the pages and readers could bake up our own conclusions, but I'd like to have had a few of her *theories* served straight up. I have few if any theories on Maeve Brennan myself, but Angela Bourke must, after clearly having spent a great deal of time researching Brennan.
Another example, Brennan's relationship with her husband. Bourke may be trying to be journalistic, keeping distance from her subject(s), but the result is basically: they did this, and then they did this, and then they did this, and someone said this about them--but not what any of that might *mean* or how it would foreshadow X, or how that was reminiscent of Y, or how it seems to have affected Z. I suppose what I am saying is the author seems to keep too polite a distance from Maeve Brennan.
Finally, the review prior to this one also commented positively on Bourke's frequent mentions of Irish history, in context of Brennan's life. To me, Bourke's attempt to braid her own interests in Irish history, Irish nationalism, and Irish language movement into the narrative of Brennan's life seemed gratuitous and somewhat self-indulgent. There are entire passages that could have been edited out. Not that they weren't in some way interesting, but they had little or no bearing -- neither direct not distant -- on Brennan's life or work. Consequently, these references were distracting and ultimately irritating, rather than illuminating.
Perhaps Angela Bourke is more comfortable in the realm of "facts," rather than speculation or analysis. One biography cannot ever be the only biography. And perhaps this one will spur on others to research and write about Maeve Brennan. And, even if not, Homesick at the New Yorker is, quite lovely indeed, in many ways, a very nice read, even if it isn't everything that might be hoped for.
15 of 22 people found the following review helpful.
No Icon, But A Terribly Sad, Fragile Beauty
By Kevin Killian
Angela Bourke, who has written a serviceable biography of Maeve Brennan, must have cringed when marketing suggested she include the totem words "The New Yorker" in the subtitle of her book.
It is such bad taste to try to sell this book by linking it to the supposed chic of THE NEW YORKER. Imagine a comparable biography of, say, JD Salinger with the subtitle, "He Wrote for THE NEW YORKER." How reductive, how pointless, to make her reputation depend, like the sword of Damocles, on the perceived glamour of the magazine!
Brennan, with two spiritual homes, one in New York, one in Ireland, was always homesick for whichever one she wasn't in. The subtitle, with its suggestion of "homeless" as well as "homesick," hints at her eventual destination: pauperhood, madness, wandering the streets like the lowest of the low. It's a sad story indeed, and more of an indictment of The New Yorker's corporate philosophy then anything else. If they stop glittering, chuck them out I guess! Watch out, Hilton Als! Alex Ross, you too!
I like the book but I think Bourke is a little guilty of overselling her wares. One sentence in particular floored me, "Her effect on the people who met her, her eye for human behavior, clothing and interiors, her unsparing reading of literature, her memory of home and her courageous life as a woman alone in metropolitan America make her an icon of the twentieth century." Excuse me, but no, they don't. Angela Bourke, may I introduce you to the word "icon"? It's in the dictionary. It doesn't mean Maeve Brennan.
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