Review
Further Praise for Malarky
An Edmonton Journal Favourite for 2012A Three-Time Best-Of-The-Year Georgia Straight Selection
"Anakana Schofield is part of a new wave of wonderful Irish fiction—international in scope and electrically alive."—Colum McCann
"Malarky is a terrific read, a brilliant collision of heartbreak and hilarity written in a voice that somehow seems both feral and perfectly controlled. Anakana Schofield's Our Woman takes a cool nod at Joyce, then goes her own way in one of the most moving and lyrical debut novels I've read."—Jess Walter, author of Beautiful Ruins
"We become comfortable saying that there's nothing new, and then something like Malarky comes along, which is new and old and different and familiar, but ultimately itself, comfortable in its own skin, wise and smart and crazy-sexy or maybe sexy-crazy—well, you just have to read it to understand. It's a novel that sets its own course, sure and steady, even when it seems like it might be about to go over the edge
of the world."—Laura Lippman
"This is the story of Anakana Schofield's teapot-wielding 'Our Woman': fretful mother, disgruntled farmwife, and—surprisingly late in life—sexual outlaw/anthropologist. Everything about this primly raunchy, uproarious novel is unexpected—each draught poured from the teapot marks another moment of pure literary audacity."—Lynn Coady, author of The Antagonist
"Anyone bold enough to name her book after a word so loaded deserves our attention. In Malarky Schofield pulls her long line tight—and lets go when we least expect it."—Michael Turner, author of Hard Core Logo
"Malarky spins and glitters like a coin flipped in the air—now searingly tragic, now blackly funny. The language is joyful and exuberant, the characters thoughtful and deeply felt. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant."—Annabel Lyon
"Good writing and dark wit always excite me and they come together thrillingly in this book. It has a quiet grip on the strangeness of the interior and exterior worlds of love and politics. I delighted in the writing and the scope."—Jenny Diski
About the Author
Anakana Schofield is an Irish Canadian writer of fiction, drama, essays, and criticism. She contributes to the London Review of Books and The Globe and Mail (among others). She has lived in London, Dublin, and Vancouver; Malarky is her first novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Episode 1.
—There’s no way round it, I’m finding it very hard to be a widow, I told Grief, the counsellor
woman, that Tuesday morning.
—Are you missing your husband a great deal?
—Not especially. I miss the routine of his demands it’s true, but am plagued day and night with
thoughts I’d rather be without.
—Are you afraid to be in the house alone?
—Indeed I am.
—Are you afraid someone’s going to come in and attack you?
—Indeed I am not.
—And these thoughts, do they come when you are having problems falling asleep?
—No, I said, they are with me from the first sup of tea I take to this very minute, since three days
after my husband was taken.
—Tell me about these thoughts?
—You’re sure you want to know?
—I’ve heard it all, she insisted, there is nothing you can say that will surprise me.
I disbelieving, asked again. You’re sure now?
—Absolutely.
—Men, I said. Naked men. At each other all the time, all day long. I can’t get it out of my
head.
—Well now, she said and fell silent.
She had to have been asking the Almighty for help, until finally she admitted she could think of
no explanation and her recommendation was to scrub the kitchen floor very vigorously and see
would a bit of distraction help.
—Pay attention to the floor and mebbe they’ll stop.
I recognized the potential a widow has to frighten people. I had frightened the poor woman
something rotten.
The next week I returned.
—I have scrubbed the floor every day and I am still plagued by them.
Grief was silent another good while.
She had to be honest, she’d never come across a woman who’d experienced this. Usually a
woman simply missed her husband without this interference.
—Are you turning to your faith?
—Oh God I am.
The two of us would now pray for some guidance because she was at a loss.
—Were they still the same images?
—Worse, I said. Even more of them and at filthy stuff together and now they all seem to be bald
regardless of their ages. Did she think the devil might target widows?
—He might, Grief said. He very well might.
—Would it be worth looking into them Nigerian preachers, the black fellas I seen on the telly who
can exorcise them from the place?
—It might, she said, it very well might.
*
The girls in my gang asked why wasn’t I going to the grief counselling anymore.
—There’s something awful morbid about her. She’s the sort who’d nearly put you off being alive.
And we all laughed about it, until Joanie said be careful now I think that’s so and so, whose
married to so and so’s husband, who’s Patsy’s cousin and we’d never hear the end of it if it was
to get back to her.
—It’s awful complicated being a widow, you’ve to be careful what you say, I told them, as I’ll tell
you all now. If you are a widow, be careful what you say. I think it’s why they started talking
about Jimmy in the bank.
Mebbe I said too much.
—There’s no way round it, I’m finding it very hard to be a widow, I told Grief, the counsellor
woman, that Tuesday morning.
—Are you missing your husband a great deal?
—Not especially. I miss the routine of his demands it’s true, but am plagued day and night with
thoughts I’d rather be without.
—Are you afraid to be in the house alone?
—Indeed I am.
—Are you afraid someone’s going to come in and attack you?
—Indeed I am not.
—And these thoughts, do they come when you are having problems falling asleep?
—No, I said, they are with me from the first sup of tea I take to this very minute, since three days
after my husband was taken.
—Tell me about these thoughts?
—You’re sure you want to know?
—I’ve heard it all, she insisted, there is nothing you can say that will surprise me.
I disbelieving, asked again. You’re sure now?
—Absolutely.
—Men, I said. Naked men. At each other all the time, all day long. I can’t get it out of my
head.
—Well now, she said and fell silent.
She had to have been asking the Almighty for help, until finally she admitted she could think of
no explanation and her recommendation was to scrub the kitchen floor very vigorously and see
would a bit of distraction help.
—Pay attention to the floor and mebbe they’ll stop.
I recognized the potential a widow has to frighten people. I had frightened the poor woman
something rotten.
The next week I returned.
—I have scrubbed the floor every day and I am still plagued by them.
Grief was silent another good while.
She had to be honest, she’d never come across a woman who’d experienced this. Usually a
woman simply missed her husband without this interference.
—Are you turning to your faith?
—Oh God I am.
The two of us would now pray for some guidance because she was at a loss.
—Were they still the same images?
—Worse, I said. Even more of them and at filthy stuff together and now they all seem to be bald
regardless of their ages. Did she think the devil might target widows?
—He might, Grief said. He very well might.
—Would it be worth looking into them Nigerian preachers, the black fellas I seen on the telly who
can exorcise them from the place?
—It might, she said, it very well might.
*
The girls in my gang asked why wasn’t I going to the grief counselling anymore.
—There’s something awful morbid about her. She’s the sort who’d nearly put you off being alive.
And we all laughed about it, until Joanie said be careful now I think that’s so and so, whose
married to so and so’s husband, who’s Patsy’s cousin and we’d never hear the end of it if it was
to get back to her.
—It’s awful complicated being a widow, you’ve to be careful what you say, I told them, as I’ll tell
you all now. If you are a widow, be careful what you say. I think it’s why they started talking
about Jimmy in the bank.
Mebbe I said too much.
