What do you think?
Rate this book
The Bend for Home
In a family memoir like no other, Dermot Healy explores the obduracy of memory and the vagaries of recollection. At the center of the book is a diary the author kept as a boy and which his mother kept, returning it only in her last years. 320 pp.
307 pages, Paperback
First published December 31, 1996
12 people are currently reading
164 people want to read
About the author
Dermot Healy
34 books41 followersDermot Healy (born 1947 in Finnea, County Westmeath, Ireland) was an Irish novelist, playwright and poet. He won the Hennessy Award (1974 and 1976), the Tom Gallon Award (1983), and the Encore Award (1995). In 2011, he was shortlisted for the Poetry Now Award for his poetry collection, A Fool's Errand.
Healy was a member of Aosdána and of its governing body, the Toscaireacht, and lived in County Sligo, Ireland.
Healy was a member of Aosdána and of its governing body, the Toscaireacht, and lived in County Sligo, Ireland.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews
December 17, 2022
The Bend For Home by Dermot Healy is an autobiography, but one whose form is highly original. Not for this author the mere listing of events, not for him the exploitation of hindsight to reflect, to analyse, not for him the negotiated disconnect from responsibility. Dermot Healy here is presented with warts and all, some of which are his own. In fact, one of the earliest memories the autobiography describes is itself rediscovered to be false.
Dermot Healy was from County Westmeath in Ireland. His family moved to the town of Cavan, where he spent most of his formative years. His father was a policeman and bubbling away throughout the background of this book is the fate of Northern Ireland and the apparently non-ideological conflict between Protestant and Catholic communities.
But this is not a book about politics, current affairs or religion, though many of the almost diary-like entries that form a significant part of the book are headed with the church’s devotional requirements of the day. How often does the author note the existence of a day of abstinence on his way to the pub?
These recollections stay firmly in the west of Ireland. Even when Dermot Healy visits London or works in Dublin, his thoughts are very much still at home, where inevitably the family is paramount. There is a coming-of-age story here, lived out in the late fifties and early sixties, and a growing maturity through to the end of that transformational decade. It was not as transformational in rural Ireland, as the continued influence of the local judgment of priests testifies.
What Dermot Healy does not do in the autobiography is advertise himself. There are references to writing and poetry, but out the overall impression of the author is that he was and perhaps remains very self-critical and and ever conscious of the feedback and responses from his close companions. He has an individual furrow to plough, but he always seems conscious of the presence of others alongside to facilitate the process.
Late in the book the focus shifts to how the family deals with the growing confusion and bodily weakness of the mother. There are intensely moving passages that describe how both of the mother and the family cope with the physical and psychological changes associated with this steady drift towards death. This, the emotional core of the book, has some deeply sensitive and moving passages, despite its apparent preoccupation with bodily function.
But it is the directness of style, the reliance on collections of minuscule verbal interactions, often merely listed, that brings the bigger picture into focus via their minutiae. Stylistically, this is almost a stream of consciousness, but one laid out like a play, unsurprisingly for a playwright, and not, as in the mind of Leon Bloom or his wife, as a continuum of association. But these apparent lists of daily small talk do more than create an environment for the reader. Often, they carry the substance of life by virtue of their very mundanity. We find it hard to deal with big issues, let alone talk about them. But it is in the asides, the choice of the word here or there that gives away what we really think, despite our internal reluctance to consider it.
Like all young men, Dermot Healy spends a lot of his time thinking about young women and imagining what they might be thinking about him. In small-town Ireland, the logistics of the encounter are as difficult as the experience itself, but the substance is known to all. The difficulty, of course, is the grasping of that substance and for Dermot Haley the pursuit is as complex in its associations as for all of us. And it is again via these little lines of apparently innocuous social interaction that the emotional turbulence is implied and experienced.
The Bend For Home is very much a stream of consciousness. But this stream does not flow past the reader into a distance. Instead the trickle of this rather gentle brook carries us along with it at its own pace and, like the author, we live the life described.
Dermot Healy was from County Westmeath in Ireland. His family moved to the town of Cavan, where he spent most of his formative years. His father was a policeman and bubbling away throughout the background of this book is the fate of Northern Ireland and the apparently non-ideological conflict between Protestant and Catholic communities.
But this is not a book about politics, current affairs or religion, though many of the almost diary-like entries that form a significant part of the book are headed with the church’s devotional requirements of the day. How often does the author note the existence of a day of abstinence on his way to the pub?
These recollections stay firmly in the west of Ireland. Even when Dermot Healy visits London or works in Dublin, his thoughts are very much still at home, where inevitably the family is paramount. There is a coming-of-age story here, lived out in the late fifties and early sixties, and a growing maturity through to the end of that transformational decade. It was not as transformational in rural Ireland, as the continued influence of the local judgment of priests testifies.
What Dermot Healy does not do in the autobiography is advertise himself. There are references to writing and poetry, but out the overall impression of the author is that he was and perhaps remains very self-critical and and ever conscious of the feedback and responses from his close companions. He has an individual furrow to plough, but he always seems conscious of the presence of others alongside to facilitate the process.
Late in the book the focus shifts to how the family deals with the growing confusion and bodily weakness of the mother. There are intensely moving passages that describe how both of the mother and the family cope with the physical and psychological changes associated with this steady drift towards death. This, the emotional core of the book, has some deeply sensitive and moving passages, despite its apparent preoccupation with bodily function.
But it is the directness of style, the reliance on collections of minuscule verbal interactions, often merely listed, that brings the bigger picture into focus via their minutiae. Stylistically, this is almost a stream of consciousness, but one laid out like a play, unsurprisingly for a playwright, and not, as in the mind of Leon Bloom or his wife, as a continuum of association. But these apparent lists of daily small talk do more than create an environment for the reader. Often, they carry the substance of life by virtue of their very mundanity. We find it hard to deal with big issues, let alone talk about them. But it is in the asides, the choice of the word here or there that gives away what we really think, despite our internal reluctance to consider it.
Like all young men, Dermot Healy spends a lot of his time thinking about young women and imagining what they might be thinking about him. In small-town Ireland, the logistics of the encounter are as difficult as the experience itself, but the substance is known to all. The difficulty, of course, is the grasping of that substance and for Dermot Haley the pursuit is as complex in its associations as for all of us. And it is again via these little lines of apparently innocuous social interaction that the emotional turbulence is implied and experienced.
The Bend For Home is very much a stream of consciousness. But this stream does not flow past the reader into a distance. Instead the trickle of this rather gentle brook carries us along with it at its own pace and, like the author, we live the life described.
December 21, 2010
I felt lilke this book was a combination of poor writing with bouts of pure genius, the diary part in the middle did not really do it for me. Then ending, when he was caring for his mother redeemed the book somewhat.
July 15, 2025
read it in one day at home with my parents in the west of ireland. truly felt like being a distraught teen stuck in a tiny town again. so so so perfect if you get it - but if you don’t then i get why it could be boring. middle parts were a bit skimmy but apart from that i loved loved loved
September 21, 2014
I am not a fan of the writing style of this memoir - too disjointed for me. And the middle part, with his long lost diary was a tad stereotypical. I was moved by the final part, though - it saved the whole book for me.
April 5, 2015
A memoir of life in rural Ireland based on a diary which he had written in his younger years. An interesting memoir perhaps more so for someone brought up in the Ireland of the 50s or 60s but let down to a degree by a somewhat disjointed writing style. Shades of Angela's Ashes but just shades.
December 8, 2018
This is a strange sort of autobiography, prefaced as it is by a rather sustained meditation by the author on the fictionalizing, falsifying nature of memory. In one sense it is a refreshing admission that even the art of recounting and recalling is still an art (if nothing else, in the selection of what is worthy of being recounted), but in another it is a bit unsettling as it throws the veracity of the account into question. Fortunately, with a writer of Healy's skill, one stops being terribly concerned with the "did this really happen?" question and begins to think, "well, it should have happened that way even if it didn't because it makes for a better read." Part of the book deals with the author's rather prodigal passage through adolescence, but the most lengthy and moving part of the book pertains to his period as an adult of being chief caregiver to his octogenarian mother and aunt as both (especially the former) descend into decrepitude and dementia. Anyone who has dealt with such a situation can appreciate the alteration of sorrow, humor, and exhaustion as the days and the chores pile upon each other and the loved one morphs and vanishes under even the most scrupulous and well-intentioned care.
April 12, 2022
I read Dermot Healy's A Goat Song and his memoir, The Bend for Home in quick succession. I believe these books need to be read together, as each enriches the other. I chose to read A Goat’s Song first. In retrospect I am glad I did, as I feel what I discovered in the memoir might have influenced how I read his fictional work. The Bend for Home, is full of details that appear in A Goat's Song. It is in the details of his memoir that I realized how it was possible for Dermot Healy to reflect in A Goat’s Song such a nuanced perspective of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. His mother’s side of the family was English. His grandfather was a guard in the Royal Irish Constabulary, was well-liked in the district he served and was Catholic. His grandfather retired after the Irish War for Independence, remained in Ireland, and collected a pension from England. His father was a guard in the Irish Free State and a former IRA member during the fight for Irish independence. His father’s name, like the protagonist in A Goat Song, was Jack (however,there are traces of the real Jack in the fictional Johnathan Adams). An unforgettable description of a razor on a bathroom sink (his father's in The Bend for Home and Johnathan Adam's in A Goat's Song). His memoir also happens to be a book within a book, part recollection and part diary entry. His ability to capture the day-to-day of growing up in the 60’s in Ireland, the landscape and characters that surrounded him is remarkable. The memoir, like his novel, begins with a disorienting elusiveness that leaves the reader searching for a foothold of comprehension. As we read on, we see how beautifully this replicates the fickleness of childhood memory. As Dermot ages, the recollections become more succinct and clearer, capturing the restlessness of his youth and the intimacy of his family life. It is delightful to find familiar passages, details, and names as you recall them from his novel. It is the best memoir I have ever read.
December 9, 2017
In his memoir, Dermot Healy doesn't sugarcoat anything: the mysteries and nightmares of childhood; the sexual chaos and emotional false starts of adolescence; the attentiveness and energy required to care for an elderly parent. The phases of a complete life don't cohere in a novelistic sense; stories break off suddenly and never return, characters are dropped and forgotten, emotions that are prominent in a particular stage of life seem absurd when viewed from the vantage point of other stages, and yet a complete life story it is, and Healy tells his own masterfully.
June 3, 2021
Still pondering it, which tends to be a good sign
Though not a difficult read, there were times in this book when I struggled with the style, tedium even, but having finished the book I am still reflecting on it which is what, in part, I look for from a book. I enjoyed The Goat Song better.
Though not a difficult read, there were times in this book when I struggled with the style, tedium even, but having finished the book I am still reflecting on it which is what, in part, I look for from a book. I enjoyed The Goat Song better.
September 3, 2022
There's nothing I can say to add to this book. It is a wonder. Healy wrote like no one else on this earth, and to read his recounting and revising and retelling of his family's life is like sitting around a fire with the best people you know, with love and sorrow and laughter at its utmost.
February 18, 2022
Memorable!
June 27, 2024
Soulful memoir of a family in mid-20th century small town Ireland
This was recommended by an Irish scholar as one of the better memoirs of growing up in small-town Ireland in the 1950s and 60s. The author, now gone, was an accomplished novelist and playwright, new to me but I plan to read more by him. It isn’t a straightforward narrative, jumps around a lot but that’s part of its charm. Laugh out loud funny at times, other times it’ll bring tears even though its forays into sentiment all have a hard edge.
This was recommended by an Irish scholar as one of the better memoirs of growing up in small-town Ireland in the 1950s and 60s. The author, now gone, was an accomplished novelist and playwright, new to me but I plan to read more by him. It isn’t a straightforward narrative, jumps around a lot but that’s part of its charm. Laugh out loud funny at times, other times it’ll bring tears even though its forays into sentiment all have a hard edge.
January 19, 2017
The blurb
One day, years after he's moved away from his childhood home in rural Ireland, Dermot Healy returns to care for his ailing mother. Out of the blue she hands him the forgotten diary he had kept as a fifteen-year-old. He is amazed to find the makings of the writer he has become, as well as taken aback at the changes his memory has wrought upon the events of the past. Here is the seed of his story-the vision of the boy meets the memory of the man-which creates a stunning, illusory effect.
The strange silhouettes who have haunted his past come back to inhabit these pages: his father, a kind policeman who guides him back to bed when he stumbles down the stairs sleepwalking; his mother, whose stories young Dermot has heard so often that he believes they are his own; or Aunt Masie, whose early disappointment in love has left her both dreamy and cynical. In this billowing and expansive series of recollections, Healy has traced the very shape of human memory.
My thoughts
‘What happened is a wonder, though memory is always incomplete, like a map with places missing. But it’s all right, it’s entered the imagination and nothing is ever the same.’
This was a fascinating read, and I have no idea what I want to say about it, or how to say it. The Bend for Home is as much a book filled with memories as it is a reflection on what memories are and what shapes them. It reminds us that memories can’t be trusted.
‘Language, to be memorable, dispenses with accuracy.’
But it also shows us that sometimes memories are better off staying hidden because not all our moments were such that we can be proud of them retrospectively.
‘Are you reading about the good old times? asked my mother.
I am, I said, wincing.
Aren’t you glad I kept it? she said.
Oh yes, I agreed.’
But, maybe more than anything this story is proof that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Families have always been and will continue to be a wonderful blessing interspersed with moments of pure frustration. Teenagers have always and will continue to push boundaries, try to spread their wings before they’re really ready to do so, and experiment with attraction, lust and love.
This is a book about beginnings and endings. Most of the book deals with Dermot Healy’s childhood and teenage years; the time when others looked after him, or tried to do so. The last section of the book tells of the time when Healy took care of his now elderly mother and aunt and life has gone full circle. He whose antics had been frowned upon but lovingly dealt with, now finds himself having to find the same patience while he looks after two strong minded but no longer able bodied women. This last part of the book was heartbreakingly honest.
‘Looking after mother is like watching language losing its meaning.’
If I had to label this book I’d call it a combination between memoir and philosophical essay. I enjoyed the historical look at Cavan, the county I live in, and the towns where I do my shopping, but I loved the all the statements and observations that made me stop reading and think. I could have filled this post with endless amounts of quotes and had a hard time limiting myself to those I did use. If you like a thought provoking and somewhat poetical memoir I recommend you pick up The Bend for Home.
‘What has happened repeatedly turns into a ritual. What has not happened turns into the mystery.’
One day, years after he's moved away from his childhood home in rural Ireland, Dermot Healy returns to care for his ailing mother. Out of the blue she hands him the forgotten diary he had kept as a fifteen-year-old. He is amazed to find the makings of the writer he has become, as well as taken aback at the changes his memory has wrought upon the events of the past. Here is the seed of his story-the vision of the boy meets the memory of the man-which creates a stunning, illusory effect.
The strange silhouettes who have haunted his past come back to inhabit these pages: his father, a kind policeman who guides him back to bed when he stumbles down the stairs sleepwalking; his mother, whose stories young Dermot has heard so often that he believes they are his own; or Aunt Masie, whose early disappointment in love has left her both dreamy and cynical. In this billowing and expansive series of recollections, Healy has traced the very shape of human memory.
My thoughts
‘What happened is a wonder, though memory is always incomplete, like a map with places missing. But it’s all right, it’s entered the imagination and nothing is ever the same.’
This was a fascinating read, and I have no idea what I want to say about it, or how to say it. The Bend for Home is as much a book filled with memories as it is a reflection on what memories are and what shapes them. It reminds us that memories can’t be trusted.
‘Language, to be memorable, dispenses with accuracy.’
But it also shows us that sometimes memories are better off staying hidden because not all our moments were such that we can be proud of them retrospectively.
‘Are you reading about the good old times? asked my mother.
I am, I said, wincing.
Aren’t you glad I kept it? she said.
Oh yes, I agreed.’
But, maybe more than anything this story is proof that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Families have always been and will continue to be a wonderful blessing interspersed with moments of pure frustration. Teenagers have always and will continue to push boundaries, try to spread their wings before they’re really ready to do so, and experiment with attraction, lust and love.
This is a book about beginnings and endings. Most of the book deals with Dermot Healy’s childhood and teenage years; the time when others looked after him, or tried to do so. The last section of the book tells of the time when Healy took care of his now elderly mother and aunt and life has gone full circle. He whose antics had been frowned upon but lovingly dealt with, now finds himself having to find the same patience while he looks after two strong minded but no longer able bodied women. This last part of the book was heartbreakingly honest.
‘Looking after mother is like watching language losing its meaning.’
If I had to label this book I’d call it a combination between memoir and philosophical essay. I enjoyed the historical look at Cavan, the county I live in, and the towns where I do my shopping, but I loved the all the statements and observations that made me stop reading and think. I could have filled this post with endless amounts of quotes and had a hard time limiting myself to those I did use. If you like a thought provoking and somewhat poetical memoir I recommend you pick up The Bend for Home.
‘What has happened repeatedly turns into a ritual. What has not happened turns into the mystery.’
February 4, 2012
Healy's memoir spans his life but focuses on a few specific periods, and it's a really lovely read. The last stages of his mother's and father's lives are so tenderly rendered, and his wild year at the age of fifteen is a time that his mother later describes as when he "went asunder." The creation of the characters of his life is especially strong in his Aunt Maisie, but also in the creation of himself, as character and as writer. Healy acknowledges that he's used aspects from the life in his work. Near the end of the book, he writes that "the authentic is a trick, and the story is not really known till it's told." Maisie and Winnie make me laugh aloud, more than once, in their great old age, but my favourite moment in the book is when Healy observes that "the music would not mean what it does if we had not been in the bad places." I think of Oisin's answer to Patrick's question about his favourite music. Oisin replied, "The music of what happened."
May 3, 2016
I have great interest in this local author and have enjoyed his readings and Q and A sessions. His love of language is genuine but I have a hard time with his rambling style sometimes. Certainly he does a fine job of showing the slow life in rural Ireland.
September 23, 2014
The first 3/4 of this book were great. The dying mother section left me cold.
Displaying 1 - 16 of 16 reviews