short, intolerable, but I never remember my grandmother raising her voice to us.
She seemed to have endless reserves of patience and kindness, and I felt so safe
in that house. I felt as if nothing bad could ever happen there.
I don’t remember when it stopped. All the boys, as we called my uncles, moved
out and met partners, and had children of their own. My grandad died, a series of
strokes eroding his sense of self, one day at a time. I presume adolescence also
got in the way, discos and friends and boys and illicit sips from naggins of vodka.
I can’t remember when I last spent the night ‘over home’. I didn’t know then that
it would be the last time, perhaps forever.
Maybe I would have paid more attention if I had known. Maybe I would have stood
still and said to myself: “Remember this. Remember all of this.”
International bestseller Louise O’Neill is one
of modern Irish fiction’s most distinguished
voices; whose books are consumed by
adolescents and adults alike. The feminist
author’s clear-cut, provocative prose
examines societal issues with a fine-toothed
comb. Her analysis of rape culture, gender
equality, mental health and body image,
destructive behaviour and sexual politics,
has asked many important questions and
started conversations that were perhaps
waiting to be had.
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