Connolly’s The Unquiet Grave resists easy classification. Written under melancholia, it shifts between aphorism, gripe, fragment, reflection. It invites return not for narrative but for Connolly’s tonal variations; bitter clarity one moment, exhausted wit the next.
A brief story lingers: A young man, advised by an old courtier to acquire polish for marriage eligibility, does so with fastidious excess. Years later, he returns to report that everything is perfect: his book bindings, alcove lighting, even the placement of biscuits and stones in his lavatories. He asks what to do next. The old Beau replies, “Just carry on. I think we’ve got you out of the wood.”
Connolly inhabits a world of surfaces, affectations; quiet despair barely concealed beneath. Not a place to live, perhaps, but a fascinating space to visit.
>I love that book. You're right to call it unique, and to guess that you'll be dipping into it sporadically — it's perfect for that.Found your blog a few weeks ago and have been enjoying it.
>JMW – Thank you for your comments. Connolly's been a great discovery: one of those names I've known for ever but never read until the last few months.