When Silence Speaks: The Haunting Beauty of Small Things Like These
Some books whisper. They do not demand attention but settle into the corners of your mind, leaving behind a quiet ache. Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These is one such novel—a slender, unassuming book that carries the weight of a lifetime within its pages. It is the kind of story that does not shout for your love but earns it through the honesty of its prose, the stillness of its setting, and the depth of its moral questions.
Set in a small Irish town during the weeks leading up to Christmas in 1985, the novel follows Bill Furlong, a coal and timber merchant who has built a modest life for himself, shaped by the kindness of strangers and the silent burdens of his past. As he makes his deliveries, he stumbles upon something unsettling at the local convent—a discovery that stirs something deep within him, forcing him to confront the quiet complicity of the town and, more painfully, his own conscience.
Keegan’s prose is like winter light—spare yet illuminating, gentle yet unflinching. She does not waste words, and yet every sentence carries the weight of a life lived. There is an exquisite tenderness in the way she captures the mundane details of Bill’s days: the cold mornings, the familiar rhythm of labor, the small gestures of love exchanged between him and his wife and daughters. These moments are rendered with such care that they feel sacred, reminding us that the measure of a man’s life is often found in the smallest things.
But beneath this quiet beauty lies a deeper reckoning. The novel subtly confronts the dark stain of the Magdalene Laundries—institutions that imprisoned and exploited women under the guise of morality. Bill’s discovery forces him to navigate the dangerous space between knowledge and action, between what is easy and what is right. And as a reader, you feel his struggle intimately. How often do we turn away from injustice, convincing ourselves that we are powerless? How often do we choose comfort over courage?
What makes Small Things Like These extraordinary is its restraint. Keegan does not moralize; she does not need to. The weight of silence, of things left unsaid, speaks louder than any grand speech could. And yet, in the end, there is something profoundly hopeful about the novel—an insistence that even in the smallest of acts, there is grace, there is resistance, there is redemption.
Finished in one flight between Bengaluru and Delhi yesterday, I closed this slim book with a lump in my throat, aware that it had left an imprint on me. Not in the way of an earthquake, but like the slow, persistent pressure of a hand on your wrist, urging you to look closer, to care more, to be better.
Some books whisper, but their echoes last forever. Small Things Like These is one of them.
Finding forgotten change
The night before yesterday found myself searching for an old phone’s charger in the vortex that is my ‘electronics’ storage. Earlier during the day, little Mr Toddler had decided to give his grand mom’s phone a dip in the bathwater. That led us to search for a backup phone and its charger. Couldn’t find the charger but came across a gift card that I had totally forgotten about. The search for the charger was promptly abandoned with the next hour or two spent on Amazon.
Initially, I thought of ordering a few books for the perpetrator of the phone in bath crime. Books that his mom had recently saved on our wish list. Unfortunately, due to some hiccup, I could not purchase any of those. Nor any other ‘physical’ book or product. So, I moved on to my e-books wish list to see if the card still worked or not. And now I’ve seven new books in my Kindle library.
Life’s little joys.
Kind of finding some forgotten change in the front pocket of a denim you are wearing after a long time and buying ice cream with it.