A Moth At The Glass takes a nostalgic look at Ireland in the late nineteen twenties. Will Byrne, the narrator, looks back at his youth nearly forty years later; rather predictably he is haunted by his past. The flash back sections of the novel are its strongpoint, because the older Will seems to spend all his time wandering around the countryside, staring at childhood friends from outside their windows. With the young Will however we get to witness the rivalry between him and his best friend, as they compete over girls, while also trying to guess which girl becomes the wife described in the more modern sections. In an interweaving narrative, Will’s son, Simon returns to Ireland from London to face his past, and you’ve guessed it a family secret. As you might expect the novel is filled with clichés and has quite a gentle pace, despite the – rather predictable – twist at the end.
The book’s vivid descriptions are it’s main strengths, but overall it is a bit bleak and humourless. Doyle’s attempts to insert Gaelic words like sleedar or pusthoge into sentences in an attempt for authenticity just made it incomprehensible. The characters were well drawn out, though sometimes they strayed into the realms of implausibility, Will’s revenge against his friend Philly in particular stood out in this category. Similarly, after living in London for less than half his life, Simon has become a born-again cockney who talks about geezers and nippers; this created some much needed humour yet somehow I don’t feel this was Doyle’s intention.
The portrayal of Ireland in the novel is idyllic, despite the fact that it is set shortly after the Irish Civil War, there is however the occasional fight or friend who carries a gun though. The book’s cover mentions ‘a period of great change wherein the traditional order was giving way to a new political awareness’ which I thought was misleading as the book spends more time discussing the novelty of one of its characters finally getting electricity. The problem for me with this book was I couldn’t help comparing it with Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, and the fact that that this fictional book wasn’t as interesting, humorous or touching as the aforementioned memoir disappointed me. The shortness of this book is an asset, it isn’t long enough to bore you, and I found it enjoyable enough, it just wasn’t particularly remarkable or profound.