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Rating: I have nothing against Joseph O'Connor.
However, after reading this book, which I didn't like, I have to admit that I haven't developed a positive impression of O'Connor as a writer.
Born in Dublin in 1963, he currently lives with his wife and a son in Dalkey, Ireland.
Older brother of Sinéad O'Connor, he is the author of six novels and other diverse works like biographies and travel diaries.
Certainly prolific, he has been writing since 1989 and has collaborated with the Irish Tribune and Esquire, and can boast more than decent public success, supported by good commercial success.
This little book (seventy-nine pages) is a story published in 2003 by Einaudi for the Stile Libero series.
Translated by Angela Tanfo and published in its original language as "The Comedian".
Publication with a somewhat dishonest air, since it is divided into very short chapters separated by large blank pages, which suggest a purely commercial operation.
The absolute protagonist is the father, penniless and a dreamer, of the narrating voice who finds himself poor and with children to support after his wife leaves him forever.
An amusing bittersweet memoir of a man who finds his only strength in humor.
"That incredible winter of '75" is a book that from the title wants to talk about a childhood, certain characters, and a precise era.
But ends up not doing so, it gives only some indications, few explanations and briefly awakens from oblivion figures that it then does not adequately deepen.
This is the case for the protagonist's father, a drunkard who wants to be a comedian but is a baker, as well as the slightly crazy old lady who every Sunday, after mass, brings home a small bottle of holy water. These two protagonists, who should be the ones who make the otherwise normal winter of '75 "Incredible," are mythologized without ever being truly resolved.
All the others, the brother, the sisters, and the runaway mother, are just shadows, blurred roles, that neither add nor detract from the story and are left aside even before entering the scene. The passing policeman and the narrator's mother have the same depth.
It does show a precise and smooth writing style, but it stages a story that leaves many points unresolved, with characters that ultimately do not really conclude anything.
It's okay to tell a common human story, but being inconclusive is another matter.
The psychology of all the characters, their motivations, are never shown because they do not exist.
Everyone adheres to well-defined and already known roles, so the reader, from the start, will be very clear about the directions of the story.
The emphatic tone with which the protagonist sketches his story adds little value, as do the passages on the cornerstones of those years, music, soccer, and terrorism, all still barely outlined, because the author seems to have treated this work with carelessness or superficiality.
Too much because this book, which can be read in half a day, by the way, leaves something behind and goes beyond just a simple pastime.
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