Human virtue questioned in the not-so-small things

"Some nights, Furlong lay there with Eileen, going over small things like these." 

Mull over the small things in your life. Think about the things that have happened around you or are still a work in progress. Your overhead ceiling fan making a whirring noise with each loop, the pages of your coffee-stained book fluttering under the soft electric air, your sister talking to a friend of hers who just had a nasty fight with her adoptive mother—these are your small things, the mundane occurrences you simply glance over, which essentially, are a part of your life. But, they seem rather insignificant in the vast expanse of your otherwise happening life. 

But I digress and my initial train of thought does not entirely encapsulate the primary subject matter of Claire Keegan's critically acclaimed novel Small Things Like These. Shortlisted for the Booker Prize in the year 2022, this little book of a mere 116 pages also consolidates topics like melancholia, belonging, human relationships, and most importantly, humanity. It draws a picture of how the smaller things in our lives ultimately create the pathway for bigger iterations. 

It is advancing Christmas 1985 and the Irish, tight-knit town of New Ross is bustling at its busiest time of the year. Coal and timber merchant Bill Furlong is also wrapping up his business for the season, making endless deliveries and planning festivities with his family. At a time when everyone is grappling with financial instability while combating the icy spree, Bill is grateful enough to have survived another year with his wife Eileen and five daughters. 

From the outset, we understand the extent of Bill's devotion to his family of six. Coming from a background of a young, outcast mother who conceived him out of wedlock, and later taken in by her employee Mrs Wilson, Bill knows what it feels to be an exile, to not belong or deserve, to be different from the herd. He is extremely proud of his daughters and there is nothing more he wants than to provide for and protect his beautiful family. 

Our knowledge of Bill's past life and his inherent sense of family, the one he built with not kin of blood but of providence, grounds the foundation for the latter portion of the book. It is interesting how subtly the author lays the framework of the novel. Starting with the taut impression of a busy Bill, toiling to meet business demands in the seething cold of Late November and then languidly proceeding to a man looking back on his childhood days when he wrote innumerable letters to Santa asking for his father, we once again find him struggling with work, no sooner the reminiscence ends. 

There is a permeating notion of desolation in his characterisation, a sensation of numbness. Time and again, we see Bill questioning the futility of his existence or the purpose of human life. He wonders whether the family he has worked so hard to create is the only thing his life is limited to; if, while trying to give his all to his family, he has confined himself to the ageing walls of his family home? These meandering thoughts along with Bill's frequency of finding himself alone in the middle of crowds lead to the principle line of concern in the book. 

Claire Keegan, fairly randomly, broaches the premise of Magdalene Laundries in her novel. A notorious addition to the history of Ireland, Magdalene Laundries, or worse, Magdalene Asylums, were inhabitation homes for the 'fallen women.' From 1922 to 1996, state-sponsored Roman Catholic-run institutions operated as shelter homes for young women and girls believed to have "gone astray" or been pregnant out of wedlock. Despite the stated goal of rehabilitating prostitutes, investigations found that victims included girls from all backgrounds. Girls, who had been abandoned by their families for fear of embarrassment. These women were cruelly exploited, forced to work in deplorable conditions doing laundry for both the church and the affluent. A formal apology and compensation were issued to the victims in 2013, but only a fraction received them. 

In Small Things Like These, the introduction of the Magdalene Laundry occurred in a slow crescendo of events. On a day almost like any other, Bill, while making a delivery of coal at the convent, encounters a group of young girls in dire condition, tirelessly scrubbing and polishing the floors of the church. He had previously heard profuse rumors about the girls residing up the hill but never once did he pay heed to people's mindless gossip. Before long, Bill discovers himself in a tug-of-war between his past and present. On one front lies his family, the townsfolk, who despite being aware of the situation were complicit partners of the church authority, and on another front, he wrestled with his humanity. He contemplated, if his mother, not embraced by Mrs Wilson, would have eventually turned up in one of these shelters as well. All that he had diligently crafted could unravel with a single misguided choice yet was it worth the looming moral quandary, haunting him throughout his lifetime? 

"[…] he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?" 

It is difficult to scrutinise flaws in a book as short as the one in our question. More so, when the author so beautifully succeeds in materialising every word she has used for the sake of her creation. Picking away a part of history that might not be as publicised and presenting it in front of the world audience with such nuance and delicacy is certainly commendable. It makes us readers comprehend the brutal reality of humankind. As perpetrators, participants, and as victims. 

Nur-E-Jannat Alif is a Gender Studies major and part-time writer, who dreams of authoring a book someday. Find her at @literatureinsolitude on Instagram or send her your book/movie/television recommendations at nurejannatalif@gmail.com.