I’ve been rereading the Loyola Classics lately and doing some writing about them. I thought I’d post some of what I’ve written here. First up is Edwin O’Connor’s The Edge of Sadness.
You can order the book here.
The Edge of Sadness became a bestseller in the sixties in part because of its scandalous elements. Edwin O’Connor took direct aim at the popular stereotype of the Catholic priest in America. This was the picture of the priest as a super-competent, authoritarian, but loveable leader; a wise counselor, a gregarious extrovert, and a heroic celibate (who could nevertheless flirt with the ladies).
Father Hugh Kennedy, the central character of The Edge of Sadness, is a listless, heart-sick, recovering alcoholic. He is trying to renew his priesthood in a decaying inner-city parish, but he can’t connect with his immigrant flock. He’s tormented by his past. He looks on the future with apprehension. This is no Bing Crosby, playing the enchanting Father Chuck O’Malley in “Going My Way.”
O’Connor presents his dyspeptic vision of American Catholicism with considerable literary skill. The Edge of Sadness won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1962, and the novel is cherished for its psychological perception, memorable characters, and spiritual insight. O’Connor was challenging more than stereotypes about priests. He didn’t buy the cheerful story that the self-assured Irish-dominated American Catholic Church told about itself. Beneath the façade of poise and confidence is a world of loneliness, lost ideals, selfishness, and bleakness of soul. Father Kennedy’s parish is a metaphor for the Church as a whole:
This is not the kind of parish in which a great rapport obtains between the shepherd and his flock. We are all more or less strangers to one another. And most of all, I’m afraid, I’m a stranger in this smallest and dreariest part of my parish where – all moving pictures to the contrary – I can assure you that the priest is not this legendary, revered, and welcome figure, capable of healing with a glance.
The Edge of Sadness reminds readers of a later time why Pope John XXIII was wise to call for a Vatican Council II to update and renew the Church. Renewal has far to go, and some changes might have been ill-advised, but no one should wax nostalgic for the Catholicism of the 1950s.
The novel is suffused with nostalgia of another kind – nostalgia for the vanishing Irish culture that deeply influenced American life in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. O’Connor etches this in his vivid portrait of the large Carmody family, whose involvement with Father Kennedy constitutes much of the plot of the novel. Charlie Carmody, the wealthy 81-year-old patriarch, epitomizes the old garrulous authoritarian style, but his children have become estranged from him. They aren’t Irish anymore. They have become Americans: busy, impatient, modern.
At a Carmody party, Father Kennedy watches Charlie and his cronies talk:
It was the same talk with which I had grown up, the talk which belonged, really, to another era, and which now must have been close to disappearing, the talk of old men and old women for whom the simple business of talking had always been the one great recreation. And so the result was the long, winding, old-fashioned parade of extraordinary reminiscence and anecdote and parochial prejudice and crotchety improbable behavior…the newer, smoother, tolerances had not yet arrived.
At the end of the novel, Father Kennedy is visited by grace. The bishop offers him a new assignment, but he chooses to stay in his dreary, down-at-the-heels parish. He understands he will be there for the rest of his life, something “I felt with a touch of regret, an edge of sadness.” But sadness was only at the edge. Inside was renewed hope that his vocation will be renewed, that he will serve his people well as their priest.
Perhaps Hugh Kennedy’s renewal is a metaphor for a larger renewal that Edwin O’Connor perceived: that a troubled Church contains within itself the seeds of conversion.