A Momentary Taste of Being

Malone Dies reviewed via Books Inq.

Ten Forthcoming Irish Novels

Today was a lovely Dublin day--overcast in the morning, but clearing in the afternoon to give a fine view of the Dublin Mountains crowned with low lying, but puffy white clouds.  Not much rain, and what there was came after I had walked back from the office to my hotel--just enough to make going out to dinner a little dicey without an umbrella--but as I had one, I was not in the least perturbed.  I walked around to The Pig's Ear, which is a restaurant on Nassau that I favor largely for the really excellent shepherd's pie and a Dublin confection that is simply unmatched called a gur cake.  (Look it up, it is too difficult to describe, and too delicious to do justice to in the few words I have before resuming work. Wonderful thing about Dublin, you can work an entire work day, go out to dinner, and then work your American job as well, catching up on the events of the day.) Dinner was somewhat disappointing because as I had had ground lamb en croute for lunch, I chose Salm...

Peter Didsbury:"A Fire Shared" Fine and oh, so sad.

Maeve Brennan is an amazing writer. I've lingered over this book of short stories for so long a time, in part because other things intruded, but mostly because I don't want to let go.  I really enjoy spending time in her world.  Her work reminds me (a little) of the few short stories I've read by Elizabeth Bowen--work I care for far more than I did The Death of the Heart. To give you a sense of why I find so much good in Maeve Brennan, just glance at the excerpt below. from "The Poor Men and Women" in The Springs of Affection Maeve Brennan There must have been a time when he knocked on all the doors of the terrace to find out who was open to him, but for years now he had come straight to her. His feet slapped the pavement inoffensively as he went along. He begged in silence. She kept thinking he might say something to her, but he never did. One time she threw a friendly remark after him, and he turned back so confused that she was ashamed. It was a long ti...

Because I know after all my coy references you are desperate to see the creepy Joyce Statue people  (the people themselves are not necessarily creepy, just what's being done).  Personally, I prefer Molly in the foreground (as does my son).  In the background the grounds of Trinity College.

In Dublin, there is at least one person who does the Statue of Liberty thing w/r/t this Joyce Statue.  I saw him once near Molly Malone and, as with all such, found it unspeakably creepy.  But not this.

Maeve Brennan knows the sadness of the broken heart and the distance that can come between people.  She knows the foolishness that can blind us to the things that will ultimately make us unhappy.  She is aware of how we ignore the signals, the clear signs of the life ahead and she chronicles it relentlessly. from "A Free Choice" in Springs of Affection Maeve Brennan Not for one minute would she want Hubert Derdon to think she, Rose, would try to find him or that she would ask him for anything or expect anything from him. Only last night he has asked her if he might see her home from this party. She had been very pleased. That was only last night. She had thought of him all day and of the way he had looked at her when he turned at her door and spoke about the party. And here she was, and except for that one minute when she had seen him in the hall just after she arrived with the other girls, he had not spoken to her. It was a shame. She had imagined herself walking aroun...

Last time in Dublin, I took pictures of the brass Joyce plaques that finally penetrated the densities of my consciousness. I got quite a few--but today, I saw two more--perhaps three--one or two on O'Connell street and one at the corner of Nassau and Grafton that I had managed to overlook last time.  On my way down to the canal tomorrow and can get the one at Nassau and Grafton, and I was thinking of some evening pictures at Tommy Moore anyway, so the other O'Connell/Westmoreland street plaques might join those.

We're meeting today in an office building near the Grand Canal in Dublin.  I've not been this far south in this part of the city.  If time allows, I may stroll along the canal so that I can find this: Lines written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin "Erected in Memory of Mrs. Dermot O'Brien" by Patrick Kavanagh O commemorate me where there is water, Canal water preferably, so stilly Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother Commemorate me thus beautifully. Where by a lock Niagariously roars The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence Of mid-July. No one will speak in prose Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands. A swan goes by head low with many apologies, Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges - And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy And other far-flung towns mythologies. O commemorate me with no hero-courageous Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by. Source.