A Review of Patrick McCabe’s Breakfast on Pluto
Originally published in the Rain Taxi Review of Books, Spring 1999
“Go anywhere without leaving your chair,” Partridge croons, and McCabe’s narrator, Patrick “Pussy” Braden, wants just that—to find a place that’s both an escape and a homecoming. But being born gay in the 1950s in an Irish border town doesn’t leave many options for the latter-day Dorothy. Especially when, with the typical McCabian (macabre?) twistedness, (s)he’s the orphaned progeny of a young girl who was raped by the town priest.
A wise child, Pussy knows who his father is, and he vents his frustration by writing hilariously vicious stories about the respected “Father Stalk.” The novel’s larger frame (Pussy writes the whole thing out, years later, for his therapist) keeps getting interrupted by samples of these stories, and this puts Pussy in the position of a coy Scheherazade as he both arrests and furthers the novel’s progression with his tales. At times Pussy’s literary digressions seem like previous approaches to writing Breakfast on Pluto that McCabe couldn’t bring himself to throw away, but Pussy’s voice is so singularly transfixing that it’s easy to forgive McCabe’s inability to rein him in.
Like Francis Brady, the narrator of McCabe’s 1992 novel, The Butcher Boy, Pussy is an irreverent, sad, sweet, and deeply disturbed character, and he pulls the reader into his world so easily that it quickly seems as if the other characters are the weird ones. His fantasies about Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. and Lorne Green and his forays into his foster sister’s wardrobe sound much more reasonable than anything that the rest of the town has to offer. Especially a town so fraught with moral conservatism and political division.
In large part, this novel is about borders. And about quiddity and semantics. What is Pussy Braden, and what do we call him? He definitely exists, but where does he fit? If he’s not a man or woman as his countrypeople define them, then what is he? The confusion with border crossing and the violence to which Pussy is subjected throughout the course of the novel work as a powerful metaphor for Northern Ireland’s identity crisis. It’s as if McCabe is saying, “look at what happens when we’re forced to give something a name, a definition, and a border.”
The only unfortunate thing about McCabe’s roundabout approach to character study is that it comprises little more than accounts of Pussy’s misadventures with various johns and sugar daddies, all presented before a backdrop of political violence that Pussy accidentally (and incidentally) gets caught up in. Unlike the highly orchestrated Butcher Boy, then, this book has no dramatic unity or conclusion—which may be just as well. McCabe overdid things a bit with The Butcher Boy’s wildly overwrought climax, and here it’s as if he wants to keep things loose and let it all sink in rather than get hammered in. And it sinks in deeply. Even if this novel is more about Pussy than about anything that actually happens to him during the course of the novel, the effects of Breakfast on Pluto last much longer and reach much farther than do the actual pages of the book.