A Girl is a Half-formed Thing
December 2013
Eimear McBride / Text Publishing
Mammy on her knees. To God and Mary. Uncle. He is uncle. Does that. Yes that. Uncle does it bare. Deep red and raw. You. Brother not right. I. Love you playing Luke and Han with you. You. Not right in the head. Cut it out the tumor. But not right. In. The. Head.
You catch. Yourself wondering how. Anything at all. Like. Words. You have made sense of anything. At all. But story is to reader like words. You. He. She. I. Making its sense. Wrods. Wds. Story too. Like that. This the pleasure. There’s the pleasure in the surprise. To read like at being able to read this. The trick it manages. Rare trick. Manages to pull it off. The art. All raw soliloquy. To read he says. Carnal. Yes. I. Conscious. Say. Less babble than. Barnes. Bloom. Joyce. Reach back that far. That deep in the tradition. More Beckett than. Anything at all. Like words. While a girl is a half-formed thing the woman. Powerful. Without pretence. Writes a novel. Or flaw. Like this. With name. Eimear McBride.
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