Julius Winsome by Gerard Donovan

Guest review by Tom Vowler.

Those who live the longest and those who die the soonest lose the same thing. The present is all that they can give up, since that is all you have.
- MARCUS AURELIUS

Gerard Donovan’s third novel, Julius Winsome, is one of those rare books – a tale so masterful, so compelling, that I found myself reading more slowly towards the end in order to stretch the experience to its fullest, savouring the beautiful prose a little longer.

Set in the wintry wilds of Maine, Winsome lives in a log cabin, alone apart from his dog, Hobbes, and surrounded by books (his late father lined the walls with some 3,000 classics) that insulate him literally and metaphorically. The narrative is stark yet poetic as we glimpse Winsome’s almost monastic existence, a sense of foreboding and loss quietly stirring. Connecting with other humans isn’t really his thing (‘Many men live in these woods who cannot live anywhere else,’ he tells us), until the arrival of Claire provides a rare frisson, offering the possibility of a life less lonely. Her abrupt departure back to domestic sanctuary and a safe husband, leaves Winsome alone again, save for the dog she convinced him to get.
When a hunter flippantly kills Hobbes, it acts as a tipping point for Winsome who starts to unhinge: ‘I didn’t have feeling where I should and too much where I shouldn’t. You keep away from men like me and you’ll be alright in life.’ His revenge – never fuelled by rage – is calm, meditative and murderous. The reader is horrified yet intrigued by Winsome’s actions, which evoke an empathy despite their increasing insanity.
It’s no surprise to learn Donovan is a poet, his precise language perfectly evoking the beautiful and austere landscape, to which the story is inextricably bound. This is a novel of wonderful contrasts: bleak but gentle; slow-burning yet tense; and the sympathy elicited for a killer we both understand yet don’t.
The ghostly presence of Winsome’s father and grandfather echo through the Lee-Enfield rifle brought back from the killing fields of Europe, a meditation on violence skilfully woven in.
Winsome’s losses and grief never become sentimental despite the often allegorical subtext: even his name suggests contradiction (the imperious ‘Julius’ Caesar, ‘Winsome’ suggesting something more benign). As a quiet madness takes hold, Winsome begins quoting Shakespearean archaisms, the fire crackling and spitting as the world closes in around him.
In turns tender and brutal, I was haunted by this lyrical tale for days. It probably won’t win the awards it deserves but I suspect time will reveal it to be a modern classic.

The Overlook Press. 2006. ISBN-10 1-58567-849-X / ISBN-13 978-1-58567-849-5. 223pp

Tom Vowler has just received an Arts Council grant to write his second novel. You can follow the progress on his blog here: http://oldenoughnovel.blogspot.com/

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