This is an exuberantly narrated novel, the rambling vibrant words of 10-year-old Patrick (Paddy) Clarke, with long stretches of dialogue and conversation perfectly set down. Roddy Doyle uses the voice of young Paddy Clarke, and his sensibility, to tell a story that is full of life and innocence and wonder and discovery. But at the same time he has Paddy Clarke see and divulge more and more about things that come to trouble him and that he can’t understand or control. This technique of using a naïve narrator to speak of things beyond his grasp is perfectly handled, and we see Paddy’s world expand outward from simple silliness towards unhappy complexities.Beginning with a carefree account of his activities with his best friend Kevin and their mates, Paddy is able to convey their thoughtless cruelties and mischief as ignorant and blissful innocence. There’s some glimmer of a right and wrong way to be, but these kids are really too distant from those adult moral concerns. The way of young boys is to fight and tease and bluff and challenge, and if someone gets a bloody nose, it’s not anything to get riled about. Paddy tells of a dozen such physical indignities that he and his friends (and younger brother Francis aka Sinbad) suffer at each other’s hands, and it is all just the guff of young pups.Paddy’s family lives in the community of Barrytown, in Dublin. The community is fairly new (as the Paddy alludes to them being pioneers) and the neighborhood abuts open land on which Paddy and the other kids play. But a new corporation development is coming in, and the topography and the area is changing for the kids. Wild rambles on foot in barns and fields evolve into mischievous forays on construction sites and then into bicycle escapades down new labyrinthine corporation streets; or the gang heads off to other, older neighborhoods to practice petty larcenies at different shops. These latter activities are not to hurt or for gain, but often just for the thrill of an imagined chase and flight, the adrenalized joy of running in terror.Mingled with the roughhouse play of Paddy’s friends are accounts of activities at school, where Paddy and his mates toe the line, but just barely, often getting into scrapes with their teachers. Paddy is bright, but he is careful not to be ostentatious about it, and he does well enough to keep his Ma and Da happy. It is around the family that the story finally settles and where Paddy first sees and learns of the confusing business of affections souring and mingling with hurtful violence. As he begins to see the discord in his parents, he realizes they’ve been at it for a while, that it’s a long fight, where the intervals of quiet are growing shorter and shorter.Paddy cannot understand what’s alienated his parents from one another. Who’s at fault? In his vex and vacillating appraisals, he is most likely to see his father (his namesake) as the problem—with his dour moods and his troubling newspaper—for his mother is always the one to speak and soothe and make him and his brother laugh. Laughter often keeps at bay the pain, and both Paddy and Sinbad sometimes use the same gambit to intervene with their parents, deflecting tension with a daft comment or story. Nonetheless, laughter does not seem enough, and Paddy is confused and in pain. His relations with his friends are confused as well, and he is drawn to the character of a new corporation boy who’s joined his class mid year. Paddy admires the silent, self-contained Charles Leavey, who seems capable of real violence, and, more important, he seems to Paddy incapable of being hurt, physically or emotionally, because he simply doesn’t care. It’s the remote and unemotional exterior that Paddy wants to be able to adopt as he becomes more hurt and confused by his parents’ escalating discord.His fight with his best friend mirrors the fight and the blow his da deals his ma. He observes his father depart, become a man on the fringes, and he himself becomes character on the fringes, at his school and with his mates. He was unable to hold his family together, and he was unable to make his little brother understand him and his deep-down affection. In both cases, unthinking violence has cleaved bonds of unconscious, innocent affection. Paddy is boycotted by his friends when his fight with his friend Kevin becomes real and hurtful. Paddy’s life has changed, become more complicated and far less innocent, and he identifies himself as the new man of the house, a formal role that he must play straight.The novel ends with Paddy and his father seeing each other again, several months later, when his da comes to drop off some Christmas gifts. It is an ambiguous and nuanced exchange, Da apparently eager to show good will and Paddy only returning a formal, adult response. Whence from here? Paddy is definitely at a crossroads, but despite all the humour and joie d’ vivre that marked Paddy’s young life heretofore, there seems embedded in this moment the initiation of an ongoing cycle, the young child too early turned into the responsible man, shouldering burdens too great to bear, a sparkling vibrant humor eroding, replaced by a dark dour sense of duty, regret, and pent-up frustrations.
I hate to think that I’m susceptible to some merchandiser’s power of suggestion, but as soon as hearts and Cupids give way to shamrocks and leprechauns (typically Feb. 15), my thoughts often turn towards the Emerald Isle. Of course, when the lovely lass I married accompanied me there last year to celebrate a round-number anniversary, I can be forgiven for thinking about it even more, right? Beyond the history, scenery, culture, silver-tongued locals and tasty libations, there’s the draw of their proud literary tradition. Roddy Doyle has done his part to continue this. Many here know him from his book The Commitments, the first in the Barrytown Trilogy and the basis for a fookin’ brilliant film. Well, PCHHH is no slouch either. It won a Booker in 1993. Both Doyle and his protagonist are exactly my age. It was interesting to me to see the similarities and differences that a ten year old Dublin lad would experience in 1968. I could relate to the joys of transistor radios and The Man from U.N.C.L.E., for instance, and more generally to that emerging awareness of a complicated world. The horseplay among boys that age was another commonality. (When or where has that not been the case?). Even so, the extremes to which Paddy and his mates took it would have been ruled out of bounds most places. For instance, I’m pretty sure I never tried to set my brother’s lips on fire with lighter fluid, or hobble anyone from the wrong side of the tracks. The overall feel of it was like Ralphie from A Christmas Story had he been speaking about his miserable Irish childhood (a la Angela’s Ashes, though perhaps slightly drier) with the Marquis de Sade as technical advisor.One aspect of the book that was both similar and different was the emphasis on sports. While stateside the obsessions involved baseball, football (the oblong, American kind) and basketball, over there it was just football (the round, rest-of-the-world kind). George Best was the flashy Irish superstar at Manchester United who was Joe Namath, Mickey Mantle and Dr. J all wrapped into one. In their play-acting matches there was fierce competition for who got to be him. Paddy’s little brother Francis (a.k.a. Sinbad) opted out of that role, preferring to be one of the less celebrated players. I figured it said a lot about the brother relationship that Paddy always worked every advantage to appear the dominant star whereas Sinbad was happy to play an ancillary role, creatively feeding the ball to the scorers, ending up more responsible for the results even if less recognized. The fact that Paddy acknowledged Sinbad’s sacrifice and cleverness was meaningful since we saw only the antagonism prior to that point. George Best also featured in another story when Paddy’s da bought him a cherished copy of Best’s book, autographed by the man himself. Or was it?Paddy’s vignettes did not constitute a plot, per se. They were closer to stream-of-consciousness, though a post-Joycean variety where obfuscation was less of a goal. Plus, they built towards something of a climax -- an affecting realization. The convergence of Paddy’s growing maturity and empathy levels with his mum’s tears and his da’s sullen demeanor made him view Sinbad and his parents in a new way, but, begorra, I shan’t say more. Sláinte, Paddy! Sláinte, Sinbad! Your creator made me care. That’s something worthy of a toast in a St. Patrick’s Day tribute, isn’t it?
What do You think about Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (1998)?
I read Justin Torres' We the Animals and was struck by the magic of his depiction of boyhood. In fact, speaking of Boyhood, I'm reminded of the recent Richard Linklater movie that pulls off a similar feat: bringing to life the manifold joys and frustrations of being young, dumb, and curious. In reading Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, I realized there is a precedent for these stories. While We the Animals takes place in a half-Puerto Rican household in upstate New York, and Boyhood takes place in Texas, Roddy Doyle's novel follows Paddy Clarke as he comes of age in 1960s Ireland. But all three evoke childhood by using vignettes; letting the story be told through moments that are poignant and often brilliant. None of these stories pause to explain their characters or explicate their motives. Perhaps taking their cues from the boys they depict, they just flow on, repercussions be damned. My only gripe with Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, and it's a minor one, is the same gripe I had with We the Animals. Both books had an ending that felt unnecessary and overwrought. The stories unfold organically through vignettes, but the endings seemed to come from a story with a traditional narrative. As if the publisher said, "Great writing, but doesn't something have to happen?"In my opinion, no. The richness of childhood is story enough, and in that sense I think Boyhood got it right. Sometimes, not much happens. And, as these stories show time and time again, for a kid not much is plenty.
—Alex
I'm very glad I found Roddy Doyle. (Thanx Nick Hornby and Speaking to the Angels.) Cause Paddy Clarke HaHaHa is just like I like a book. It reminds me a lot of Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes, one of my favorite books. One of the books I truly love. They've got more in common than the comic style. They're both about Irish childhoods. Frankie McCourt's in the late 30s and early 40s. Paddy Clarke's in the late 60s. "It is 1968. Paddy Clarke is 10 years old, breathless with discovery." Writes Irish Times. I love Paddy Clarke. He is so sympathetic. For me that says everything. He just makes me love him. Want to hug him almost. (Expect he wouldn't want me to do it (even if we would exist in the same world). Cause life is so hard. Even for a 10-year-old boy. The boys that play together in the Irish suburbs of the 60s are so hard on each other. But kids are, whether they're boys or girls, whenever and wherever they live. Good I haven't had to endure that. The kids cruelty. Not much at least. You can't get to me, not really. "Paddy Clarke, Paddy Clarke, has no da, ha ha ha!" Paddy Clarke discovering the world. That's what it's about. Everything in the book. Honestly. Roddy Doyle is brilliant. The book is brilliant. So sympathetic and funny. It really gets to me. Really. To my heart. Paddy. And especially his relationship with his younger brother Sinbad. I love them. This was the kind of book, after which it's hard to start on an other one, cause u know it's not gonna be half as good, won't give u the same feeling. And I did forget to mention the word cute. That should certainly be mentioned. It's all so cute, and it's about children. Wonderful. [And I know this might sound flat.:]And I just have to add that this is the kind of book that I think ought to be true, a true story, even thou this isn't. The way the book is told makes it seam so true, like someone’s memories.
—Faith
«Ma il tango è un ballo che si balla in due.»Alla fine con quest'affermazione Patrick Clarke, anni dieci, Paddy per gli amici, Roddy Doyle per i lettori, mi è venuto in aiuto e mi ha fatto sentire meno in colpa.Sarà che io non sono mai stata un bambino, piuttosto una "piccola donna".Sarà che i giochi di strada non li ho mai fatti.Sarà che di Irlanda, alla fine, in questo romanzo ce n'è pochissima.Sarà che io sono una seguace entusiasta di Agnes Browne e della dolce melanconironia di Brendan O'Carroll. http://www.anobii.com/books/Agnes_Bro...Sarà perché alla fine tutte queste "fotografie dall'infanzia" non sono riuscita a riunirle in nessun album?Sarà quel che sarà ma io mi sono annoiata parecchio nel leggerlo.Sarà però che alla fine riesco a trovare sempre, o quasi, qualcosa di buono in quello che leggo, ma alle parti in cui il piccolo Patrick racconta i litigi di mamma e papà avrei assegnato cinque stelle periodiche.Sarà perché quelle sono sempre le stesse per i bambini e le bambine di ogni latitudine?Che dici Roddy, ci riproviamo ancora a ballare insieme con The Commitments?http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9Gjd_...[edit]Dimenticavo!Che qualcuno mi spieghi nel dettaglio cos'è lo stivaletto malese!ma quante volte ho scritto "alla fine"? Mah, alla fine che importa? :-)
—Piperitapitta
