Isabel soon leaves the island for a convent school on the mainland. Until that moment, she has been experiencing pure joy: ''When Isabel danced on the rock's edge she felt the wind dance with her she felt it touch her legs and run the danger through her.'' Sean is a musical genius, ''an ordinary-looking, freckled, round-nosed boy with ears like cup handles.'' He falls into a fit while singing a jig as she dances on the cliffs. She is haunted by her younger brother Sean's disability, a spontaneous, seemingly autistic condition that develops when she is 11 and he is 10. Isabel Gore, the novel's other main character, grows up on an island off the Galway coast. The more my father washed, the more his tears flowed, and mine with them, both of us standing there, father and son, unable to speak and washing dishes like the loudest declarations of love.'' Together we rubbed the sun-warm windows over the sink where so often my mother had stood, peeling, paring or polishing while she stared the dream of her married life away down the little tangle of garden and across the wall to the back of another house's dream. I swept it from the kitchen as my father dried. ''As we passed the houseware to and from each other, unpiling pots, pans, cups and saucers and stacking them along the counter for slow washing in the warm soap of my mother's memory, it was not dirt, grime or oil we were washing off, but grief. ''She did not know that she was losing her mind, that the firmness of her grip on the little interior world of the household had become maniacally tight.'' When Bette sickens and dies, ''thick gray drapes of silence'' are drawn until, after months of squalid living, Nicholas and William are inspired to clean up by one of the numerous dreamlike visitations from the dead that occur throughout the novel: ![]() ![]() When my father was gone, He stayed.'' As her husband's absences increase, Bette slowly goes mad, finding solace only in cleaning. Though ''not often spoken of'' and ''never addressed,'' God has apparently become a presence in the decaying Coughlan home: ''Like central heating, my mother said. William proceeds to become a sort of stay-at-home Gauguin, effectively abandoning ordinary life for painting trips to the west of Ireland. ''I have to do it,'' he explains to his incredulous wife, Bette. The novel's narrator is Nicholas Coughlan, first encountered at the age of 12, in the year when his childhood ends - the year in which ''God spoke to my father for the first time.'' William Coughlan, a Dublin civil servant who looks ''touched by something, an impression furthered by the dazzling blueness of his eyes and the fewness of his words,'' suddenly stops working so he can devote himself to painting. The four letters in the novel's title are the letters of the word ''love'' in both English and Latin but they are also the life-changing love letters written over the years by various people in the story and, finally, they are four particular love letters that are never received. But it is also very much a contemporary novel in its narrative organization, in which the complex weft of a first-person accounting of one life is woven through a warp of third-person chapters, still reflecting this same voice, that illuminate another character's history. ''Four Letters of Love'' is an old-fashioned kind of novel - in the best, Jane Austen sense - in its tone and trajectory. So here's the news from Ireland: Niall Williams has made a leap from the pleasant but ordinary language of these earlier books to a luminously written, magical work of fiction. But although Williams and Breen's stories about leaving New York's fast lane for the bucolic joys and hardships of Kiltumper Cottage in County Clare are refreshingly free of condescension (unlike, say, Peter Mayle's ''Year in Provence''), they are hardly literary masterpieces. After all, these collaborations - particularly ''O Come Ye Back to Ireland'' and ''The Luck of the Irish'' - are filled with keenly observed characters and nicely told yarns. It is no surprise that Williams, the Dublin-born co-author (with his American wife, Christine Breen) of four charming memoirs of life in rural Ireland, should turn his hand to fiction. This truth lies at the heart of Niall Williams's first novel, a delicate and graceful love story that is also an exaltation of love itself. Love letters change lives, whether they are received, intercepted or lost.
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