This book is one of those great books that is basically an extended joke. By a joke, I mean a set-up and a punch line. Mann's THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN is another example.

O'Doherty's book begins with an utterly bleak situation, as a tiny, ancient town in the Irish mountains (are there really mountains in Ireland? I don't know) is buried in a massive, neverending snowstorm. Then, a freak disease kills off all the women in the town. Father McGreevy tells most of the tale-- it's framed as his deposition, but of course no policeman would take down a tale of this length. Father McGreevy's servant woman is the only woman who survives, and he can't stand her-- she's a witch, a relic of the pagan past, and what's more, she's more often right than he is.

Anyhow, the hinge of the joke, which I won't spoil for you, is an ancient stereotype about the proclivities of those involved in animal husbandry. But this joke opens out onto an examination of the conflict between ancient, Christian, and modern sensibilities about life, sex, and death.

It's beautifully written. O'Doherty is best known as an artist and an art critic, and why he's decided to become a novelist-- a singularly unprofitable and unrewarding occupation-- at this late date in his career is beyond me. Still, it's a great book, I dare say, although one that will never become a staple in Texas high school cirricula.