Glorious Exploits by Ferdia Lennon: one of the most original debuts of the year

Glorious Exploits

Author: Ferdia Lennon

ISBN-13: 978-0241617649

Publisher: Fig Tree

Guideline Price: £16.99

It’s only January and already the award for most original debut of the year has a worthy contender in Ferdia Lennon’s Glorious Exploits. With a captivating title that recalls Lisa McInerney’s acclaimed debut The Glorious Heresies, Lennon’s novel has buckets of madcap energy and a hugely inventive premise. Set in Syracuse 412 BC, it follows the fortunes of Lampo and his best mate, Gelon, jobless potters who attempt to stage Euripides’ Medea in a quarry where hundreds of Athenian soldiers are imprisoned during the Peloponnesian War. Add to this a narrative voice in modern Dublinese and you’ll have some idea of the whacky creativity of Lennon’s storytelling.

Lampo, the book’s narrator, relates events in a witty, colloquial present tense, his breezy tone contrasting with the serious subject matter of war and displacement, inviting the reader to consider them anew. Strolling into the quarry on a sunny morning, the two amateur directors promise food and shelter to any men willing to act in the play. Auditions are held, funds secured, the absurd rehearsals get under way, and in the midst of all the madness, Lampo manages to court a slave girl in his local dive bar with the hopes of buying her freedom and her love.

Lennon was born in Dublin to an Irish mother and Libyan father. He followed a degree in history and classics from UCD with a masters in prose fiction at the University of East Anglia, both of which clearly inform his debut. His short stories have appeared in this paper and publications such as the Stinging Fly. According to the acknowledgements, his debut novel took seven years to write. It comes with a host of superlative endorsements from writers like Roddy Doyle, Emma Donoghue and Claire Fuller.

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This kind of hype can be difficult to live up to and the novel is not without issue. Though the accent lends itself to profanity, Lennon overdoes the cursing, to the point where it loses its edge. In keeping with the tone, the writing style is prosaic, with occasional flashes of lyricism. The final quarter feels slightly rushed and anticlimactic, particularly in contrast to the expansive, energetic narrative that precedes it.

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This enthusiasm is one of the defining characteristics of Lennon’s writing, which will win over many readers and get them to root for Lampo, Gelon and their theatrical pursuits. Both characters are brightly imagined, “two unemployed potters with barely a few obols to scratch together”. Lennon writes with empathy and compassion on the power of friendship to sustain in difficult times. There is plenty of humour too, a fine mix of tragicomedy, even in the naff puns along the way: “We stand at a fork in the road, and a decision must be made.”

While Lampo’s fecklessness brings buoyancy to the story, it also works in counterpoint to Gelon’s more reflective nature. There is a low-key nobility to the latter’s musings and philosophising that is keeping with his character: “‘You don’t rob a man of his suffering,’ says Gelon quietly. ‘That’s his.’”

Lennon packs in the classical learnings and references along the way: goatskins of wine; a bouncer called Chabrias; the Athenian armour, “silver owls floating on bronze clouds”; the meaning of an agon in Greek drama. The world of ancient Syracuse is keenly rendered, from the class divides to the gorgeous landscape: “The sea-skin’s a gentle swishing blue, and it’s hard to imagine that whole forests of sunken ships lie underneath it, a second city.”

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Beneath all the breeziness Glorious Exploits has a strong political message, looking back through time to the many ages of war: “Keeping [the Athenians] here in the pits is too much, it goes beyond war. They say we should just kill them, make them slaves or send them home.” It’s a very timely reminder that war and displacement are as old as civilisation itself: “When we arrived at the city, we were half-dead, dizzy with fever and thirst, and we’d forgotten who we were. We were all so young.”

Staging the plays – they decide to do Euripides’ final play The Trojan Women along with Medea – and getting to know the Athenians allows Lampo to see across the divide, to men who are just like him, but on the other side. In this way, the transformative power of art to help us empathise, heal and survive is a central tenet of the book. It points to the importance of setting a story down, whether in ancient or modern times, and the role of the writer in reminding us to look: “Just ‘cause their lives are f**ked, it doesn’t mean they’ve nothing left. There’s always something left for the person who remembers.”