SUNDAY

Mayday in 1980? heat sealing my fingers together. Why is it the most ordinary images that fall out, when I shuffle the memories? Two girls in a secondhand bookshop, hands sticky with sampled perfumes from an afternoon's Dublin.

Up these four storeys of shelves, time moves more slowly than outside on the quays of the dirty river. One window cuts a slab of sunlight; dust motes twitch through it. I shut my eyes and breathe in. 'Which did I put on my thumb, Cara, do you remember?'

No answer. I stretch my hand towards her over the Irish poetry shelf, as if hitching a lift. 'All I can smell is old books; you have a go. Was it sandalwood?"

Cam emerges from a cartoon, and dips to my hand She wrinkles her nose, which has always reminded me of an 'is less than' sign in algebra.

'Not nice?' I ask.

'Dunno, Pen. Something liquorishy.' Her eyes drift back to the page.

'1 hate liquorice.' All I can make out now is vile strawberry on the wrist. I offer my thumb for Cara to smell again, but she has edged down a shelf to Theology. My arm moves in her wake and topples a pyramid of Surprising Summer Salads.

I'm sure to have torn one. I have only ninety-two pence in my drawstring purse, and my belly is cramping. It occurs to me to simply shift my weight on to the ball of my foot and take off like a crazed rhinoceros through the door, Then, being a responsible citizen, even at seventeen, I put my mother's spare handbag down beside the sprawl of books, and kneel. The princess who sorted seeds from sand at least had eloquent ants to help her. All I get are Cara's eyes rolling from the safe distance of the Marxism shelf, and a snigger from some art student over by the window. Luckily the black-lipsticked Goth at the till is engrossed in finding a paper bag for an old atlas; in any other bookshop a saleswoman would be pursing her lips and planting her stiletto heels six inches from my fingers. The tomb of Surprising Summer Salads I build is better ventilated than the original, almost Japanese. I have been neat, no one can make me buy a copy. If it were Astonishing Autumn Appetizers, now, I might consider it

I'm blithering, amn't I?

Cara is over by Aviation pretending not to know me, so I set off downstairs; tr

Penelope and Cara, the protagonists of this novel, share many attributes. They are both lesbians, feminists, dubliners, schoolmates, friends, and lovers. There are two very enormous differences between them though and it's these differences, sprinkled between the similarities, that make this novel ring so true and devastating and joyous: one (pen)is loyal and cara is not. And pen is alive, while cara has just died in one of those "who would've thought " car accidents that seem to strike with terrifying random and frequency.
While lesbianism and it's resulting feminism in 80's Ireland are certainly vibrant issues in this book, Donoghue imparts each character with such stunning humanity that anyone with a heart and a lover will recognize their struggles and their tragedies, not to mention their triumphs. And though the sex scenes are honest and intense, they don't read like a guidebook-they are filled with passion. And that passion is both heightened and irrevocably intensified, because the reader meets these two after one of them has left the living.
Donoghue also paints the five different stages of grief with a deft, empathetic hand, weaving between past and present and never staying on either too long, she introduces the reader to Cara by inches, while taking her away from Pen by degrees. Pen's struggle to get through her daily life while wrestling with the more esoteric demands of bereavement will be recognized by anyone who has experienced a sudden loss. And though Donoghue never lets the reader or Pen judge Cara too harshly, she let's cara be a three dimentional being, even in death, i.e. she never let's her be a saint or a ghost.
By the end of the book, which takes up one week in real life, the reader is in love with them both and probably feels a strong urge to go find their lover and squeeze them tightly, even though they've neglected to be perfect. Like many masterpieces, and I don't use that word lightly, this book covers all emotions without making the reader feel she is being manipulated or left behind. I've read this book several times and never tire of it, though every time through I do sniffle a bit. Okay, I sob. But even while crying, I feel the immediacy and wonder of life and it's not every book (or writer) that can do all those things at once and still make you laugh outright in the bargain.

I have read this book many times, and at times it makes me sob with bitter sadness, and at other times it makes me laugh out loud. The writing is exquisite; the bathtub scene (Pen's memory of a peaceful time with her and her recently deceased lover) captures perfectly what the essence of love is. It's beautiful. The frustration that Pen feels at having to keep silent about her partner's death (because she works at a Catholic school and because she lives in Ireland) transmits frustration to the readers as well -- but not in that hokey, "oh being a lesbian is so hard" preachy way. It is Pen's evolution as she learns to cope with Cara's death and to face certain truths she didn't want to deal with previously. I also believe that it is a beautiful love story but in a realistic way - the main characters are not perfect, yet their love is so intense. It's not a "romance" -- it's a real-life, complex love story. I haven't been as big a fan of Donoghue's other novels so far, but this one stands out as exceptional for its writing, story line and character development. Read Hood -- with a box of tissues nearby.

Whenever I encounter a novel with homosexual themes, I usually roll my eyes. You can predict what's going to happen most of the time: the two fall in love, they disagree about coming out/ one gets beat up/ they have to hide/ etc., they are pulled apart, then they come back together against all odds and love overcomes all.

All except death. This novel is great because, for the most part, this is not the plot. Cara's death has nothing to do with her sexuality, and besides having to explain her relation to Cara, Pen's grieving is the grieving of anyone who has lost someone close. This is not about lesbians (although they are the main characters); it's about love and grief and living through that grief, no matter what sexual orientation you are.

I definitely reccomend it.

Absorbing and intense, this novel goes far beyond typical "coming-out" literature. Set in Dublin in the 80's, Hood follows the main character Pen (thirties, a teacher) through the week following her lover's death. Jealousy, intimacy, passion, shame and even humor: it's all here as we experience the grieving process with an invisible widow. Grief is not a quick phase and so the book may at times feel weighty and a little slow-moving. But stick with it -- and you won't have to make yourself do that for long -- for Emma Donoghue's delicate and deft prose will pull you back in. You may even find yourself as I did: coming back to read Hood again and again. In the end, this is a book about indentity and finding hope -- not in spite of, but through, one's pain.

I am an avid reader of all types of fiction. This book is one of the worst that I have ever read. The story is basically about a woman who is dealing with the recent death of someone she loved. However, it is written without any emotion. I never felt the sadness, beauty, or passion, that should of been translated through a story such as this one. I felt like I was watching grass grow. It was difficult to finish.