Unique Books: This is Happiness

This time for the Unique Books, I want to talk about This is Happiness by Niall Williams. A book I knew nothing about by an author I’ve never heard of before. Neither the book nor its author is “new” per se, This is Happiness was originally published in 2019 and Niall Williams has been writing since the mid-80s. But as it stands, I’ve managed to live my life as a reader without ever hearing about them until last year.

I had two goals for 2024: I was dedicated to reading my own shelves, and I began to slowly collect previously read and already loved books. (I’ve reached that point in my reader’s life where I want a personal library of books that have stood the test of time, rather than having a library of endless unread books.) Yet Niall Williams managed to divert me from the path I had before me. I say all that fully aware that it sounds like a complaint, but it’s not. I’m just giving you the facts and setting the scene.

The truth of the matter is, I would’ve probably gone the rest of my life not knowing about this book, and let me tell you how grateful I am that it didn’t happen. Not having read this book would’ve been a cruel injustice. Imagine Romeo without Juliet, or Achilles without Patroclus, or Majnun without Layla*¹. As I said, it would’ve been cruel. So I thank my lucky stars I escaped that bleak fate. But why would I compare my journey with that of the famous lovers? Because this story is not unlike that of two lovers meeting and falling in love. 

On the cover—which isn’t anything special or alluring—The Sunday Times calls the book “Lyrical, tender and sumptuously perceptive.” A description that feels insufficient—too ordinary for the gem that is the story in your hands (not that you know it at the time). And I can assure you that there’s nothing remotely “ordinary” about this spell of magic by Niall Williams. The title, This is Happiness, is easy to forget. On the back, you can read praises for the book from the New Yorker, The Observer, and The Washington Post, as well as a summary, which is “meh” at best and elicits a “what do I care?” at worst.

As for the story, honestly, I don’t think I can even tell you exactly what it was about. I know there was rain, and then it stopped. Although, for something that is no longer happening, we certainly hear a lot about this rain throughout the story. I know electricity was on its way to this place called Faha. I vividly remember how Williams says at one point in his narrative that Faha is “a drowned place on the far margin of the world.” For a nowhere-place in somewhere-Ireland, Faha is described most captivatingly. So much so that I wished I lived there just so I could be associated with a place described like this. I know there was an accident, a little bit of love and romance (which I cringed at and winced through because it was the stumbling and bumbling love of the very young: awkward and embarrassing), and a whole lot of talk about asking for forgiveness.

A mundane cover, an unimpressive title, a mediocre summary, and what seems like a forgettable plot—you might wonder: why are we here, then?

Bear with me as I tell you this story.

I heard about it from a friend in the book community. A few quotes here and there caught my attention. A chance meeting at a bookshop—where I wasn’t looking for this book, yet kept seeing it everywhere—made me give in and buy it. Though I have to admit, the book almost became a victim of my being a mood reader. Of course, I bought it. Of course, I didn’t start it right away. And of course, I felt guilty about it. So I picked it up after a month or two of waiting. Three or four chapters in, I knew I was under its spell, but the timing wasn’t right. It was obvious from the start that this wasn’t a story to be read in one sitting; it refused to be easy, as if it knew it deserved more than that. 

I put it aside and waited. The book and I stared at each other every morning and every night for months in an intense standoff, but my hands always remained unmoving by my sides. The book taunted; it teased. I held out. The time wasn’t right, and if you’ve been reading for a while, you know it’s criminal—a huge mistake, a tragedy, in fact—to read a story before its time has come. 

But the time will come for every story eventually.

One day, sure enough, as I was battling a stubborn cold, with the pain of a sore throat and eyes that burned like the fires of hell, it finally happened. The book eventually called out my name. It’s a song that when you hear it, you can do nothing but obey, answer, and sing back. So I obeyed, my health notwithstanding. If I say this story brought me back to life and helped me forget about my health, I would not be lying.

And now we come to why I picked this book to talk about. Why and how is Niall Williams’ book unique for me despite everything I told you so far?

There are times when the plot—the idea of a story—can put a spell on you for life. Even though you might not enjoy the characters, the story stays with you because you connected with the thought, with what happened, with the journey. This is Happiness didn’t fall into this category for me.

Sometimes, for whatever reason, the story cannot reel you in, yet you find you cannot stop thinking about it. The charm then is in the characters. You come to love the fictional people you meet between the pages. They stay with you. The characters of Niall Williams’ book, though interesting and beautiful, tend to leave you when you close the book.

Other times, it’s the memory of the story and the feelings it arouses that have power over you. That little smile that invades your face when you think back on a story you’ve read years and years ago—that’s another kind of sorcery. And even though I still think back on this book and smile or sigh as I remember parts of it, it enchanted me in an entirely different way. The magic of This is Happiness is in the writing: lyrical, perceptive, and tender. Let’s see:

“While in Faha the dictionary of rain ran to many volumes, it was quickly apparent that for sunshine there was only a single phrase: it was roasting.” (p. 103)

Did you get it? No? Worry not, I’ve got more:

“The history of it passed across his eyes but not out of his mouth.” (p. 152)

Are you still not sure? How about this:

“As a shield against despair she had decided early on to live with the expectation of doom, an inspired tactic, because by expecting it, it never fully arrived.” (p. 19)

Do you see where I’m going with these?
Simplicity and beauty come together to soothe your soul. To me, that is the perfect kind of witchcraft—the most powerful kind. 

This isn’t to say the story was bad or the characters unlikeable. It’s merely to point out that something else was better, more vivid. This is Happiness’ enchanting powers come from its words. They flow like a river—elegantly, continuously, and brimming with meaning and humanity. Each sentence is written with such care, such beautiful and artistic touch that I had no other option but to fall in love. It cast its spell on me, and I couldn’t help but crave to leave my mark—so I underlined words and sentences and entire paragraphs. I tabbed every page without guilt. There’s no guilt in love after all.  

“There was a gravelled avenue, worn in twin ruts, a ribbon of grass in the centre. It went like a tossed hat gaily up and off to the right towards where the house itself could not be seen.” (p. 266)

It’s just a road leading to a house. But the way Williams describes it, there’s no “just” about it anymore. The road becomes unique, the grass becomes a ribbon, moving like a tossed-up hat. You can’t look away from this sentence. The image it conjures up in your head makes you smile. You’re mesmerized by the mind that put this image into words. I was awed by every sentence.

Now imagine an entire book written in that way. You feel and see everything on the page as if it were in your imagination. What else could it be if not magic?

Earlier, I made sure to point out the dullness of the title. It was only after I finished the book that I looked at it again and smiled appreciatively. At one point in the story, Christy says these exact words as he and our narrator stand on a hill one day: “Noe, this is happiness.” Simple yet profound. Though Noe doesn’t fully understand the weight of that simple declaration at the time, he comes to realize it when he was older. 

If you want to know what he meant—and I’m leaving this here to pique your curiosity— I urge you to read the book. I’ve learned that words have a different meaning to each of us at any given time in life. But if you were to look up the word in the dictionary, it would tell you that happiness means:

Happiness (noun) hap·​pi·​ness
a: a state of well-being and contentment
b: a pleasurable or satisfying experience
Felicity, Aptness
(obsolete) good fortune

Perhaps it’s Niall Williams’ influence, but all of the dictionary definitions seem awfully dull, dry, and devoid of any emotions to me. Nonetheless, we each have our own way of defining things. Reading this book might help you broaden your horizons and define your happiness. To me, reading this book day after day, slowly, and underlining every word that jumped out at me was happiness. Everything that made me smile, every heartbeat spent inside Faha with Noe, Christy, Annie, Ganga, and everyone else—was happiness. I was glad that a simple chance brought this piece of happiness to my life. A book full of beautiful words; a world of words, if you will.

Williams’ book offered a peaceful moment of pause in an otherwise rushed modern life. It didn’t tell me to stop; it helped me slow down and realize happiness is sitting down and watching life move around you sometimes. Not rushing by, not leaving you behind, but orbiting you like the Earth orbits the sun—steadily and lovingly. A gentle reminder that life will be there, whether you run or walk the path ahead. And I learned that I personally would rather live “the haphazard made-up life of those following their heart.” (p. 371)

It’s sad that we don’t see more of this kind of writing these days. Some accuse this style of being “boring,” like “watching grass grow.” I don’t know if they’ve got something against grass and nature in general or are easily bored by elegant language. Either way, I disagree wholeheartedly. Literature, though manmade, is a product of imagination, and isn’t it true that we, as the readers and consumers of literature, enjoy beauty? What is wrong with an author taking a bit of time to tell the story? What is so wrong with stopping to appreciate the golden sun in the ocean-blue skies? Or listening to a bee sing ballads about a blushing flower over there in the mountains?  

In this hurried life, even our literature demands action. The characters are forced to always be fighting against time, wanting to win a race with life. Yet the beauty of living is in the quiet moments, in the slow days, in the calm and the cherishing of everything beautiful that surrounds us. That leaf falling from a tree in a swirling dance. That snowflake falling and falling and falling, and dying a quiet death on the tip of your waiting tongue. That river flowing. This flower blooming.

Isn’t that a gift? A blessing?

The black words usurping the white paper in a loving takeover, put delicately, lovingly, and perceptively in Williams’ artistic formation brought me joy. They made me laugh, and cry. These words moved me deeply, leaving me so refreshed and inspired, that anything lower than the highest rating would’ve been unfair. I gladly gave those five stars to my new favorite book. 

This is Happiness has to be savored in small, bite-sized morsels. It’s not an action-packed novel that leaves you breathless by the end, it’s not a big or complicated story with lots of subplots and twists. It’s thoughtful. It asks for your time and in return gives you everything it has—and by gods, it gives you a world of wonder, beauty, tenderness and love.

The book starts simply with rain, or rather, the abrupt lack of it:

“It had stopped raining.”

Four simple words reel you in, emphasizing that rain, even in its absence, is a significant part of this story. Then, after forty-four chapters, you get to the last page and the last line that reads:

“It had started raining.”

Is it not magic that the beginning of a novel circles round to come together with its end in such a tender embrace? Is it not magic when a story calms your life down while giving you thoughts to think about? I ask you, is it not magic when the words make a wreath of flowers and chain you to themselves so tenderly that you don’t ever want to be apart from them?

I want to read and re-read those words, frame them, hang them on the walls of my home, and memorize them.
I will forever cherish what this book gave me. I hope I managed to convince you to give this wonderfully unique book a chance. I hope you read it and come to love it as I did. And keep in mind, reading this book is like falling in love; slow, tender, poetic.

I hope you fall hard.

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1. A Persian poem by the 12th century Persian poet Nizami Ganjavi. ↩︎