Never have I read a book like this, one long sentence with no periods in it whatsoever, just a conma thrown in here and there but that does not make it any less readable or powerful as Marcus Conway reviews his life as an engineer, husband, and father at the kitchen table, waiting for his wife and kids
the wife and kids whom we are told about so clearly we feel we have inhabited their home and physically suffered Mairead’s illness from the virus she caught after attending their daughter’s art exhibition in the city, an exhibition of art done in her own blood; or Darragh’s Skype sessions from Australia where he has temporarily landed; or fought the powers who want to pour cement for the school’s foundation even though Marcus knows the foundation will not hold,
for he knows of everything that will not hold and can name it all, from politics to infidelity to illness to raising one’s children to ultimately, dying.
I cannot imagine a book I will want to win the Man Booker Prize more than this one. You surely must read it.
A quote which contains the title, but by no means a summary of the novel:
“…just before the world collapses
mountains, rivers and lakes
acres, roods and perches
into oblivion, drawn down into that fissure in creation where everything is consumed in the raging tides and swells of non-being, the physical world
gone down in flames
mountains, rivers and lakes and pulling with it also all those human rhythms that bind us together and draw the world into a community, those daily
rites, rhthyms and rituals
upholding the world like solar bones, that rarefied amalgam of time and light whose extension through every minute of the day is visible from the moment I get up in the morning and stand at the kitchen window with a mug of tea in my hand, watching the first cars of the day passing on the road, every one of them known to me….
(Solar Bones was sent to me by SoHo Press, a most timely and precious gift.)