It is not clear at the outset of Roddy Doyle’s latest novel, Love, what kind of love he is aiming to explore – though the opening to this dialogue-heavy novel, in which two men meet in a Dublin pub, certainly zips along promisingly. Davy has returned from England to Dublin, where Joe still lives, to visit his elderly father. Davy is aware of self-consciously trying to blend in during this visit: “‘Shite’, ‘grand’, ‘Jaysis’ – I packed the words with my toothbrush when I was coming to Dublin for a few days.” Doyle, as ever, has much to offer about masculinity, love and family. That said, 327 pages is quite long for a novel where the main action is two men going for a drink, and one’s enthusiasm flags towards the end. The sheer relentlessness of listening to two men talk becomes wearing.
It also isn’t always clear which of them is speaking – which might be a fatal flaw in a novel that revolves around a single extended conversation, but Doyle has just about enough élan to pull it off.
