I just finished reading this tragedy by an Irish writer (with a Catholic background, of course, for those who know my obsessions). It was recommended to me, but I can’t remember by whom. It was brilliant and relentlessly bleak. Here is a section where the protaganist begins to lose her faith:

Was there nothing to pray to? Was the confession she had just made a form, something you went through to ease your conscience? If it was, then how easy it was to explain all the miseries, the follies, all the useless novenas, the prayers that never got an answer. And if it was true, then all the priests, all the bishops, all the cardinals, are wrong. Deluded men, believing they are being helped by a God who is not there. An unhelpful God. Why does he make men suffer?…

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