The first story in the book, ‘The Use of Reason’, shows, however, the dark and chilling side of impersonality. The unnamed central character is an empty-souled criminal who is a near-psychopathic loner. Solitude and silence come to him ‘like power’; at moments of crisis ‘his mind fixed on some point in the distance, something both remote and precise’. His mother is a raddled drunk who exacts respect from the neighbourhood with the ‘empty’ myth that her son is ‘fiercely loyal’, but is herself ‘a squealer’. Even in this bleak and brutal milieu, however, the uses of friendless reason are limited: he finds himself out of his depth when he is saddled with stolen paintings that he cannot shift, since he has no contacts he can trust.
The short story turns out to be well suited to Tóibín’s talents. In his longer fiction, the finest moments (often hanging poised between the drag of nostalgia and the thrust of impersonality) sometimes seem frustratingly static. In Mothers and Sons, this becomes a strength. Tóibín has the sureness of touch not to ruin the balance with spurious twists. We suspect from the outset of ‘A Priest in the Family’ what the son’s betrayal of his proud mother will be; and Tóibín does not attempt to jazz up the dreary usualness of his story, which is instead about the old woman’s withdrawal behind the barriers of her pride.
The last story in this excellent collection is set in the Pyrenees, and perhaps gains an extra edge of intensity from geographical distance. Spying — through plate-glass windows and binoculars — plays a crucial part in a superbly powerful tale of betrayal and desertion. Quint- essential Tóibín.
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