My Favorite Book (This Year)

This post is republished from my other blog, Read Play Edit. It ran in January 2014.

I read thirty-three* books for pleasure in 2012—and at the end of the year I boiled it all down to One Favorite Book, difficult though that was. I read fifty-four in 2013, and most of them were titles I’d happily recommend, for one reason or another.

I blogged about some—Life After LifeThe Best of YouthThe Round HouseAfter Visiting FriendsLong Time, No SeeFresh Off the BoatNow & ThenThe Interestings—and have planned posts on a few more, including that orgy of classic Irish literature in which I indulged.

But the one favorite book seemed like a good idea then and it still seems like a good idea, so here it is—my favorite book of 2013. I knew the minute I closed the cover this one would be my choice; that was last summer, and as much as I loved Life After Life, I never wavered.

My favorite book last year was Colum McCann’s TransAtlantic. I bought my copy in Ireland in May, because I didn’t want to wait for it to release here, so eager was I for this book.

The Irish cover. No, I don’t get it, either.

You know by now that I read all sorts of titles and genres, but I don’t mind declaring I am an unabashed lover of literary fiction. Lately it’s been hip to diss lit-fic, to sigh and say, Pretty writing’s all well and good but I want a great story!—even authors who should know better have said things like this—but don’t bring that trash talk around me, please. TransAtlantic is all about the story.

Three of them, in fact. All true.

In 1919, two young aviators from the recently ended World War hurry to pilot the first nonstop transatlantic flight from Newfoundland to the west of Ireland. Alcock and Brown carry with them a batch of specially postmarked letters—one which will not be opened for almost a hundred years. The second narrative is set in 1845, when Frederick Douglass spent two years in Ireland to promote the abolitionist cause, raise funds, and avoid recapture by his former owner. Finally we read about U.S. Senator George Mitchell’s efforts (with others) to negotiate the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, which would bring peace, at last, to Northern Ireland.

The stories are seemingly unrelated; each is lovely and complete. Together they begin to show the complex public relationship between the United States and Ireland. And it wasn’t until I was well into the 1998 story that I began to discern the connections between them. Oh, yes, there’s the obvious (the trips back and forth across the Atlantic) as well as the symbolic (a black man asking the Irish for money to gain freedom) … and then there’s the sublime.

There’s a fourth story, as it turns out—completely fictional—which creates the novel and shows the myriad private human connections between Ireland and America. And as this story stepped out of the historical narrative where it had been hiding in plain sight, it quite simply took my breath away.

Author Column McCann made his own transatlantic crossing at age twenty-one, a Dubliner who’d been a reporter for the Irish Press. His intent, the Guardian says, was “to write ‘the great Irish-American novel.’” That reviewer believes McCann’s previous book—2009’s Let the Great World Spin, which sold a million copies and won the National Book award—might well be it.

Not a bad start 🙂 but TransAtlantic deserves consideration too. Some twenty-six years after his arrival, McCann’s still on this side of the Atlantic, but with his very Irish sensibilities intact.

I recognized every bit of the present-day Dublin he describes in the last half of the book. (History is important: “So polite and poised, a southern accent laced with some London, all our troubles in one voice.”) The language, the writing, is exquisite. The details break your heart; tension builds subtly. And you really have to read to the very last lines for the payoff, which is an unexpected act of human grace in eight perfect sentences that took me utterly by surprise and left me stunned and weeping. Two days later I tried to tell a friend about it, tried to read aloud those last eight gorgeous lines, and cried again.

“We seldom know what echo our actions will find,” McCann writes, “but our stories will almost certainly outlast us.” This story was enormously satisfying. Brilliant, in fact. It filled me up. My favorite book in 2013.

* I was way off my yearly average of 40–45, but my health wasn’t good and I spent a lot of time sleeping rather than reading.


The Great Irish Lit Wallow

This post is republished from my other blog, Read Play Edit. It ran in March 2013.

What is it about the Irish? That they are a nation of storytellers seems to be borne out the minute you get in a cab in Dublin (though it probably helps that you have an American accent), but the fact is, whether it’s a pub culture that encourages the art of the story well told, a history of political strife retold and retold in oral histories, a well-established cultural mythology, or something else entirely, you know many Irish writers because you read them in school: William Butler Yeats, Oscar Wilde, Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, Samuel Beckett …*

But there are others you should know about.

I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Ireland, and I believe with all my heart that one way to understand a country or a culture** is to read its literature.*** So a couple years ago I wandered around Dublin from bookstore to bookstore with a list in my hand, bought a bunch of books, and proceeded to read many of them in 2013–14.

The Gathering / Anne Enright
Langrishe, Go Down / Aidan Higgins
Good Behaviour / Molly Keane
TransAtlantic / Colum McCann
The Land of Spices / Kate O’Brien
After the Rising / Orna Ross
The Spinning Heart / Donal Ryan
The Blackwater Lightship / Colm Tóibín

Here’s a brief look at them:

The Gathering
A grown woman, Veronica, attends the wake of her beloved brother Liam (who has committed suicide) and reflects on her family’s troubled history to make sense of the present. Enright reviews Dublin life in the 1920s through the ’40s, ’50s, ’60s as well as the current present, casting an acid eye on how Catholicism affected men, women (Veronica’s mother experienced nineteen pregnancies, and it broke her body and mind), and families in those decades.

Daddy grew up in the west—he always knew the right thing to do. He had beautiful manners. Which, if you ask me, was mostly a question of saying nothing, to anyone, ever. ‘Hello, are you well’, ‘Goodbye now, take care’, the whole human business had to be ritualized. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble’, ‘Put that money away now’, ‘That’s a lovely bit of ham’, ‘It is your noble call’. It bored me to tears, actually: all that control.

I’ve experienced enough of Dubliners to have recognized what I know in the rhythm of Enright’s dialogue. The last thirty pages are just stunning, and very satisfying. There’s a good reason this book won the 2007 Man Booker Prize. (I transcribed this bit from page 42 of a paperback published in 2008 by Vintage–Random House UK.)

Langrishe, Go Down
In the late 1930s, three reclusive middle-aged spinster sisters live on their run-down family estate in Ireland. I’ve been reading a lot of lit from this period between the two wars; the Celtic Tiger is not even a gleam in anyone’s eye, and life is just plain hard. Enter a pompous German graduate student who rents lodging from the women—and one of the sisters embarks on a passionate affair with him, until she realizes he cares nothing for her.

The first chapter was a lovely read but then it was so, so bleak, so sad, grim. In addition, the novel—which won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize 1967 and was turned into a movie with screenplay by Harold Pinter. Harold Pinter, Nobel Prize–winner!—is just difficult: experimental literature that was probably over my head (or, perhaps, simply read at the wrong time). I wanted to love it but I just couldn’t.

Good Behaviour
By the time I got to Good Behaviour, I was in the middle of deadlines and not taking a lot of time to make notes, but I’ll tell you this: it’s set in the 1920s among the Anglo-Irish Ascendancy—which is to say the formerly wealthy Protestants of English heritage who had once been overlords. The New York Review of Books said:

After the treaty, some stormed out shouting at the receding Wicklow Hills. Those who stayed on resorted to irony; for centuries they had been a caste in decline on a poor island-within-an-island in Britain’s oldest colony. They stuck to their wild passions for huntin’, shootin’, fishin’, the turf, drink, and, above all, genealogy, as the damp rose in their fine but decaying houses. Debts and mortgages gathered around them, but they had long settled for not knowing history socially except when it presented itself in the form of family trees (sometimes done in tapestry) going back to the Normans, the Elizabethans, or even to Charlemagne. The snobbery approached, as Stendhal would have said, the Sublime.

This, then, is a book of manners, particularly about the concern for good ones, in the face of horrible, unspeakable events. It is hilarious. Also sad, and made me a little squeamish at times—which, as far as I’m concerned, is the mark of a great book. Published in 1981, Good Behaviour was shortlisted for the Man-Booker Prize.

I’ve written about Colum McCann’s fabulous book already, so I’ll direct you there.

The Land of Spices
Published in 1941 but set in 1905–1914 Limerick, this novel by one of Ireland’s most famous writers is considered a classic. The action happens almost completely within the walls of a girls’ convent school, with two protagonists—the Mother Superior and a young student. This may not sound like much, but the characters draw you in quickly and then in the last quarter of the book—bam! bam!—it punches you right in the gut, twice. It’s an allegory, really, of the “new” Ireland—the Republic—rising up and leaving the old attitudes (particularly about women) behind.

In the story, a girl of sixteen, a scholar from an impoverished family, has won a scholarship to enter college. Her grandmother, who has been supporting the family, doesn’t believe in the “education of women” and announces that the girl will decline the prize. The confrontation between this woman and the Mother Superior at the convent school is worth the price of the book. It’s not my normal fare, but I seriously loved it.

After the Rising (originally published by Penguin Ireland as Lover’s Hollow)
The Irish Civil War—which followed the war of independence from England that established the Irish Free State—is also called the War of the Brothers, because families were horribly and tragically divided, some supporting the Republicans (who wanted to be completely free from England) and some supporting the Free Staters. The Irishman tells me that—less than a hundred years later—feelings about this war are still very raw. (And in fact, I asked him so many questions he soon mailed me a history book.)

The story—set in a small village in County Wexford—bounces between present and past; the cover copy tells us …

When Jo Devereux returns to Ireland after an absence of twenty years, the last person she expects to meet at her mother’s funeral is Rory O’Donovan. The bitter conflict between her family and his, full of secrets and silences, was the one constant of Jo’s childhood. … [She] … embarks on a quest, uncovering astonishing truths about her mother and grandmother and women’s role in the conflict known as “The War of The Brothers”, the Irish Civil War of 1922. And also about a killing with consequences that have ricocheted through four generations.

I was completely caught up in both stories, and went on to read the second book of this series, Before the Fall. Once projected to be a trilogy—and my copy of Before the Fall reflects that plan—it now appears the author has moved on to other projects.

The Spinning Heart
Donal Ryan is the youngest author in this company, and has written only two novels to date. The Spinning Heart … was gorgeous, just gorgeous. Longlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2013, it won the Irish Book Awards Book of the Year and the Guardian First Book Prize, and, yes, it definitely deserved to be in that company.

Set in an Irish village just after the economic crisis hit in late 2008, the book is twenty-one short narratives by different characters affected by the collapse of a local building contractor’s firm. Oh, it’s stunning, really different and special because of that. It seems as if they’re each just telling their own story but as you turn the pages you realize there is a complete story arc developing, and it packs a wallop. The setting is contemporary, so the dialogue is modern, and these were voices I recognized, voices I’ve heard.

The Blackwater Lightship
Helen, a school principal in suburban Dublin, has a husband, two sons, and a brother, Declan, with whom she is close. Now Declan is dying of AIDS, and he asks Helen to break the news to their mother and grandmother, from whom they are both estranged.

Shortlisted for the 1999 Booker Prize, this novel hits all the notes: family, friendship, forgiveness. It’s an interesting comparison to The Land of Spices in this scene of a grandmother and nuns:

“Oh, the nuns loved her,” her grandmother went on, “and when she was in her final year … they called us in, and they had never looked up or down at us before, oh they were very grand, the nuns, a French order. And Mother Emmanuelle, the grandest of them all, told me that she believed Lily had a vocation. I smiled at her and said that would be the happiest thing for us. It was all smiles until I got out to the car and I said to your grandfather that I was going to pray to God to stop Lily entering the convent.”

“And did you not want her to be a nun?” Paul asked.

“Lily? Our beautiful daughter? Have all her hair cut off? And a veil and draughty old convent and only doddery old nuns for company? I did not! And I lay awake every night thinking about how to stop her.”

Over the Christmas holidays Lily (Helen’s mother) is sent to the next town to visit with her worldly cousins who taught her about boys and the latest fashions. And that was that:

… “So she went back to [school], and … we were called in before we took her home for Easter, and we were told that she was becoming a bad example to the other girls, and she had changed completely. Oh, I said to Mother Emmanuelle, I said, we haven’t noticed any change. It must be something in the convent, I said. Oh, she gave me a look, and I looked back at her. And she knew she’d met her match. And that’s how we stopped Lily becoming a nun.”

This scene (transcribed by me from pages 150–51 of a 1999 Picador paperback) made me laugh out loud. Tóibín is very, very good with dialogue: I can hear the Irish cadence here without even trying. And though reviewers have tended to like others of Tóibín’s books better, I thoroughly enjoyed this one.

During the period of my Irish Lit Wallow, I also read Tóibín’s The Testament of Mary (shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize) and Nora Webster, both of which were fabulous.


Am I finished? Nah—I still have a few more to read: James Plunkett’s Strumpet City; Tóibín’s The Master; McCann’s Let the Great World Spin; Roddy Doyle’s Paula Spencer (a followup to The Woman Who Walked Into Doors); and Edna O’Brien’s The Country Girls (and also her memoir, Country Girl). And I’ll be trolling Dublin bookstores again this June, so no doubt I’ll add to the list.

If you haven’t read outside  your usual haunts, give Irish lit a try. And if you have, please tell me about your favorite title!

* Four Irish writers have won Nobel Prizes for Literature: Yeats, Shaw, Beckett, and Seamus Heaney.
** Does this mean I will never commit a cultural faux pas on my visits to Ireland? No. You can take the girl out of the States but you can’t take the States out of the girl. Though one does try.
*** For a more complete list of the Irish lit I’ve read in the last few years, go here.

Contemporary, Literary Ireland: Donal Ryan

I love the books of Donal Ryan. I don’t mention them much here—to my American friends—because he is an Irish writer and they are very Irish and I think sometimes they are too Irish for many American readers. (He is published on a small press here—Steerforth—and I will forthwith begin buying more of their fiction because, well, Donal Ryan.) That is, the milieu, the mind-set, the contemporary history—all are set in an Ireland I know well.

But, dagnabbit, Ryan is a brilliant writer. Everything he’s written, brilliant. None of this “well, I liked his second one best” business. ALL. BRILLIANT. So, American friends, read them.

They were published (and I read them) in this order:

The Spinning Heart (novel)
The Thing About December (novel)
A Slanting of the Sun (short stories)
All We Shall Know (novel)

I have just finished All We Shall Know. It hasn’t even been reviewed in the States. But it was special.


Couldn't find my copy of The Thing About December. It's Around here somewhere.

Couldn’t find my copy of The Thing About December. It’s around here somewhere.

Wanderlust Bites!

In my real life (as opposed to my travel daydream life) I edit books for a living, and I recently edited a wonderful book about a family who spent the better part of a year traveling around the world. (With young children! And it’s not science fiction!)

It inflamed my wanderlust. My wanderlust is off the scale right now.

The stories in the pages of the manuscript made me want to go places I have never, ever had any real desire to see. (China? No. Whiny music. Too much fish in the food. And, you know, evil empire. Someplace in Africa? No. Too hot. Special medical requirements. And I like my creature comforts. But the author made these locales sound appealing, interesting, desirable.)

Just look at this! There are a lot of places/things I’d like to see someday … (Photo from Wikipedia. Baobab trees.)

Just look at this! There are a lot of places/things I’d like to see someday … (Photo from Wikipedia. Baobab trees.)

The travelogue about the young family really moved me.

And this one too: An American couple who lived (separately) in Amsterdam, met, married, and had their child there, return after a stretch of years for a visit to a place they’ve loved well. They spend their vacation living along one of the canals in a home owned by friends. Which is the best way, really, to experience what a place is really like. A hotel can be very sterile, but a private home or apartment drops you right into the life of the place. This New York Times article is a lovely commentary on Amsterdam, and it makes me want to go.

Now, dagnabbit. I’m ready.

Then just this morning a good friend sent me a tweet. “What was the name of that book (from, like, two years ago) set during the war? You loved it.”

Now, I’m good, but I read a lot of books. “Ummm,” I tweet back. “What war?”

“Balkans, orphan girl, hospital, doctor woman—”

“Oh, of course!” The tweets are flying fast now. “A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marra.” I loved that book. Loved it.

Turns out my friend had just spent two “magical” days “in DC in an Airbnb Georgetown flat hosted by the warmest, most interesting woman who lived through the Balkan war. If you and G ever get to DC, stay here! She is now an interpreter and expert in war-conflict resolution.” I read the comments in the link—the owner of the flat gets rave reviews.

Why the Marra? My friend wanted to “imagine her world.” Clearly this Airbnb host made quite an impression. And clearly this is a bedroom I need to sleep in, yes? I’m already wondering how soon we can start planning a visit to our nation’s capital. (We have a couple trips, short ones, already planned. Watch this space.)

In the meantime, I am trying to discern what it all means, the convocation of the manuscript, the article, the message from my friend, all in the space of a couple days. Since, you know, I can’t just quit work and take off every time I get bitten by the wanderlust bug!

What I’m Reading Now

“To have any hope of surviving modern Ireland, with its myriad dangers, pitfalls and trapdoors, not to mention sporadic outbreaks of the winter vomiting bug, it’ll help to equip yourself with a very basic toolkit. …


Previously the preserve of tillage farmers and eccentric poets from Monaghan, wellies are now bang on trend for the entire population and can be enjoyed by young hipsters and old farmers alike. Indeed, a whole new generation of ‘farmsters’ has emerged in recent years. … Thankfully, no multicoloured, polka-dot welly is too silly, no ironic, stenciled pattern is too naff and no price tag is too exhorbitant.

A Coat

As we have already learnt, Irish weather can vary from the mildly wet to the extremely wet and there are also sudden episodes of apocalyptic wetness, which are almost impossible to predict.

Do not be downhearted.

A wide range of outerwear exists to suit a variety of personalities: Penneys coats, duffel coats, overcoats, undercoats, ironic tweed West Brit landlord coats, coats with their own immersions, Údarás na Gaeltachta-subsidized Connemara coats with matching beards, Lycra coats for middle-aged fad joggers (with supporting beer-belly scaffolds) and vinyl hipster smoking jackets that play a wide back catalogue of rare Northern Soul on contact with a record needle.”

—From Surviving Ireland: The weight of history. The self doubt. The constant analysis. The wind. Published 2015 by Colm Tobin. Transcribed by me from pages 30–32.

Renewing My Dublin Girl Card

Monday, 22 June 2015
We settled into a routine: had our breakfast early, then went back to the room to finish reading the paper, check websites for opening times, and so on. This morning I read an article by a well-known Irish journalist/columnist who has moved out of the country—for a time, perhaps—that really touched me, on several levels. For example, even as my husband prepares to emigrate, I still try to get more and more at home in his country, to make parts of it “mine.” The last paragraph, oh—

It’s not really a break-up, Ireland, it’s more of a break. I’ll be home for a holiday soon. Clearly, I still call it “home”. In the meantime, I’ll be stalking Twitter, trying to figure out what the hashtags mean. But if I am to give myself fully to the present, to my new life, to my new job, I can’t do it with one eye constantly trained on a spot 5,078 miles away, on the small, damp, big-hearted, mixed-up, joyful, beloved country that keeps trying to pull me back. So bye now. Bye. Bye. Bye. See ya. All the best. I’ll let you go so. Grand. Bye now. I’ll talk to you soon.

I feel as if I know her, just from the last paragraph. That and the fact that she’s currently living in the state (and region of that state) where I grew up. Ah.

And then we cabbed up to the Garden of Remembrance, a place I’ve wanted to get to for years. Gerry said he hadn’t been there since he was a young man, so it was new or almost-new for both of is. Opened in 1966—on the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising—the Garden of Remembrance is dedicated to the memory of “all those who gave their lives in the cause of Irish Freedom.” Which is to say, Irish independence.

Entrance (east) to the Garden of Remembrance, June 2015.

Entrance (east) to the Garden of Remembrance, June 2015.

The memorial is all that’s left of a much larger garden (opened in 1749) attached to the Rotunda Hospital located in Parnell Square. The hospital has since grown to occupy most of the square. There is a much more detailed history and review here at BuiltDublin; you should definitely read it.

Parnell Square is a very busy location, but when you step inside the garden, it’s very quiet, peaceful.

The Garden of Remembrance, June 2015, viewed from near the east entrance. Some lawn, a flag, a statue …

The Garden of Remembrance, June 2015, viewed from near the east entrance. Some lawn, a flag, a statue …

But step closer, there’s more.

But step closer, there’s more.

Once inside, you can view the reflecting pool from above, or step down and have a seat on one of the benches that line the cruciform walls.

Standing at the west end.

Standing at the west end.

Benches and planters line the wall. Above, traffic rages around Parnell Square.

Benches and planters line the wall. Above, traffic rages around Parnell Square.

BuiltDublin says,

Visiting it as a park or garden, it’s hard to get beyond how often it’s near-empty – perhaps it’s because of the huge number of benches, but it always feels very still relative to the busy streets outside. But it feels like a matter of design, too, with the pristine lawns held behind Marian blue fences (set with representations of artefacts from the National Museum), and the rigid formality of the park’s plan directing movement in sharp turns. Appropriately enough, it’s got a sombre military tone … At the same time, it’s a fascinating space. It’s a very specific representation of Ireland and its history, going heavy on Celtic mythology and religious symbolism, and using the rigidity of military plans. Inevitably, something so specific is going to have an immense power …

The mosaic interior of the pool is interesting, filled with images of shields, swords, spears, and knives. This reflects the Celtic custom, on concluding a battle, of breaking the weapons and throwing them in the river, to signify, if not peace, the end of hostilities at least.

Lay down your dagger and your shield …

Lay down your dagger and your shield …

In 1971, the statue at the end was added. Titled the Children of Lir, it represents an Irish legend: an evil and jealous stepmother turns the children of her predecessor into swans. We know part of the story: the swan-children are exiled to Irish lakes for 900 years until the spell is broken and they die as very old humans. The editor in me wants to know what Lir, their father, did. Did he try to capture the swans to keep them close, or go live among them, or …? Sadly, the wicked stepmother is a fairy tale trope that surely has its origins in the truth of the human condition. My mother was raised by an unloving stepmother; Gerry’s father had one too.

The Children of Lir by sculptor Oísin Kelly.

The Children of Lir by sculptor Oísin Kelly.

There are four children and four swans; look closely at both photos to see them all.

There are four children and four swans; look closely at both photos to see them all.

After the garden, we stepped across the street to the Dublin Writers Museum.

What a charming entrance!

What a charming entrance!

Wikipedia says:

The Dublin Writers Museum was opened in November 1991 at No 18, Parnell Square, Dublin, Ireland. The museum occupies an original 18th-century house, which accommodates the museum rooms, library, gallery and administration area. The annexe behind it has a coffee shop and bookshop on the ground floor and exhibition and lecture rooms on the floors above. The Irish Writers’ Centre, next door in No 19, contains the meeting rooms and offices of the Irish Writers’ Union, the Society of Irish Playwrights, the Irish Children’s Book Trust and the Irish Translators’ & Interpreters’ Association. The basement beneath both houses is occupied by the Chapter One restaurant.

The Museum was established to promote interest, through its collection, displays and activities, in Irish literature as a whole and in the lives and works of individual Irish writers. Through its association with the Irish Writers’ Centre it provides a link with living writers and the international literary scene. On a national level it acts as a centre, simultaneously pulling together the strands of Irish literature and complementing the smaller, more detailed museums devoted to individuals like James Joyce, George Bernard Shaw, William Butler Yeats and Patrick Pearse. It functions as a place where people can come from Dublin, Ireland, and abroad to experience the phenomenon of Irish writing both as history and as actuality.

It’s a lot like the Little Museum of Dublin. But the interior of the building is just gorgeous.

Lots of artifacts, many provided by locals.

Lots of artifacts, many provided by locals.

The interior is just gorgeous.

The interior is just gorgeous.

Love this yellow.

Loved this yellow.

Gorgeous old banister.

Gorgeous old banister.

While we were in that yellow stairwell, we decided to take a selfie. So we did, and it gave us a laugh. “Good enough!” we thought.

A friend of mine says this is what you call a #badselfie. I think it’s hilarious and fun.

A friend of mine says this is what you call a #badselfie. I think it’s hilarious and fun.

When we were done, I ran across the street to take a photo. That’s the Abbey Presbyterian Church next to the museum.

Dublin Writers Museum, June 2015.

Dublin Writers Museum, June 2015.

On the other side of the DWM is the Hugh Lane Gallery of the Dublin City Gallery. It’s closed on Mondays so we weren’t able to go in, although the doors were wide open. They were having a photo shoot, apparently—the models (it was a fashion shoot, I think) spilled out onto the street so we got a good look. Stood there gawking for a while, and then we walked on. We were headed, ultimately, back to the hotel—we had planned to have lunch with Gerry’s colleagues later—but needed to stretch our legs a little.

We walked past the hospital (it’s huge) and took a slight detour to Chapters Bookstore on Parnell Street. We browsed a little—I picked up some nonfiction, including A Year of Festivals in Ireland (Mark Graham), Staring at Lakes (Michael Harding), and Great Irish Reportage (edited by John Horan)—and then asked the clerk for a fiction recommendation. I’d already bought the new Anne Enright (The Green Road), I said. I wanted a new young Irish author that I would not have been exposed to in America, someone whose career I could, perhaps, “follow.” I told him I’d loved Donal Ryan’s The Spinning Heart and had bought his latest but not read it yet. He immediately recommended Tender, by Belinda McKeon, and I purchased it. Interestingly, this review of Tender in the Irish Times mentions both Donal Ryan and Anne Tyler, whose A Spool of Blue Thread was the last book I finished before I left for Ireland. Interesting coincidences, and I take that as a good sign.

From the bookshop we retraced our steps across Parnell Square to O’Connell Street. This is one of Dublin’s main retail thoroughfares. Wikipedia says:

O’Connell Street has often been centre-stage in Irish history, attracting the city’s most prominent monuments and public art through the centuries, and formed the backdrop to one of the 1913 Dublin Lockout gatherings, the 1916 Easter Rising, the Irish Civil War of 1922, the destruction of the Nelson Pillar in 1966, and many public celebrations, protests, and demonstrations through the years—a role it continues to play to this day. State funeral corteges have often passed the GPO on their way to Glasnevin Cemetery, while today the street is used as the main route of the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade, and as the setting for the 1916 Commemoration every Easter Sunday. It also serves as a major bus route artery through the city centre.

It seems … vast.

O’Connell Street, with the spire in the distance.

O’Connell Street, with the spire in the distance.

As noted, there’s a lot of public art along O’Connell Street. The Spire was added in 2003, filling the empty place once occupied by Nelson’s Pillar (I’ve written about some of this here and here).

Charles Stewart Parnell: No man has a right to fix the boundary to the march of a nation. No man has a right to say to his country: “Thus far shalt thou go and no further”; and we have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Ireland’s nationhood and we never shall. (Cork address, 1885)

Charles Stewart Parnell: No man has a right to fix the boundary to the march of a nation. No man has a right to say to his country: “Thus far shalt thou go and no further”; and we have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Ireland’s nationhood and we never shall. (Cork address, 1885)

Along the way we saw two Italian gentlemen trying to take a photo with James Joyce. I offered to take one of them together with Joyce, so naturally they wanted to return the favor. 🙂

Here we are with James.

Here we are with James. That’s Gerry’s I-can’t-believe-I-a-Dubliner-am-doing-this-touristy-thing grimace. 🙂

The other large monument (there are others, but I didn’t stop for every statue) on O’Connell Street, of course, is for Daniel O’Connell himself—the Liberator, they called him.

Daniel O’Connell monument, Dublin.

Daniel O’Connell monument, Dublin.

Closeup of the Daniel O’Connell monument. I thought the angel with a dog was interesting.

Closeup of the Daniel O’Connell monument. I thought the angel with a dog was interesting.

And then we crossed the river.

Looking east from the O’Connell Street Bridge.

Looking east from the O’Connell Street Bridge.

The dome is atop the Custom House; the building beyond it is the IFSC House. Read about it here in Wikipedia; it is controversial, to say the least. It also has a very interesting logo, almost Middle Eastern in flavor.

Screen capture of Google Maps street view. Interesting/strange logo. I find it a little creepy.

Screen capture of Google Maps street view. Interesting/strange logo. I find it a little creepy.

After we crossed the river we walked the short block to Trinity College and grabbed a cab back to the hotel, where we were meeting Gerry’s colleagues, Pat Yeates and Brendan Delany. We’ve had lunch—I call it Lunch with the Gentlemen—every time I’ve come to Ireland (here are two of them). It’s always a hoot. This time we talked a lot about work—Pat’s retired, Gerry’s about to retire, and Brendan’s close to it too—about museums—good ones, not-so-good ones—and about the book I’d brought for Pat (see photo). We also spoke about my friend Margaret; they’d met her in 2012.

Me and the gentlemen—Pat and Brendan. I worked on this book; Pat’s father worked for Guinness his whole life.

Me and the gentlemen—Pat and Brendan. I worked on this book; Pat’s father worked for Guinness his whole life.

This ended up being a very late lunch. We went for a walk later but my feet were hurting and we didn’t stay out long. I used the evening to work on the current manuscript, and to write up …

Today’s Geography Lesson
22 June 2015, Dublin, Ireland:
SUNRISE: 4:57am (in Nashville: 5:30am)
SUNSET: 9:57pm (in Nashville: 8:08pm)

This photo was taken around 10pm from the elevator lobby on the third floor of our hotel. Ten o’clock! There’s very little dark here in the summer months.

This photo was taken around 10pm from the elevator lobby on the third floor of our hotel. Ten o’clock! There’s very little dark here in the summer months.