Naomie Ross : Luvverly, Luvverly Letterpress

Letterpress from Naomie Ross on Vimeo.

A quite lovely wee video from graphic designer Naomie Ross. Mmmmmmm, smell that innnnnkkkkkkkkk.........

DLR Poetry Now : Robert Pinsky, "Born for Death"

The keynote address at Poetry Now was delivered impeccably by Robert Pinsky. The former US poet laureate chose as his starting point Keats' Ode To A Nightingale - or, more specifically, the line;

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!"

It was the phrase "born for death" said the poet, that struck him with a surprising sense of exhilaration at a certain stage of life.

He then recounted a conversation with a South African friend, while en route to visiting with a local Sangoma, or spirit diviner. He was told "We Zulus don't worship our ancestors - we consult them". This statement also caused a certain elation - becoming a key consideration while writing his latest collection 'Gulf Music'.

For Pinsky, the resonating and consistent factor in these two references is the placing and perception of a duality - conscious or otherwise - in how we deal with life, death, memory and ancestry in defining ourselves in our own terms; the current, the modern. This is where he sees Modernist writing, from the early 20th century onwards, getting to grips with the human condition. He has written elsewhere that;

“Deciding to remember, and what to remember, is how we decide who we are.”

This theme was a touchstone throughout his address, along with the observation that neither remembering nor forgetting can ever be a complete act. He noted that the name of the river Lethe, which flows through Hades in Greek mythology, means forgetfulness - and how, via Latin, the word 'Lethal' shares the same root.

He spoke about the particularity of Joyce choosing Ulysses as the classical matter for his dealings with the modern - a choice that allowed the writer full reign in embracing those contrary aspects of the modern condition within the framework of myth.

The address culminated in reading the first poem from Gulf Music. “Poem of Disconnected Parts” draws together, in closed couplets, many of the concerns discussed in his address. You can read it here.

Finally, Pinsky provided a Coda of sorts, reading several lines from his own translation of Dante's Paradise.

It all went a little deep for this non-academic at times - yet it was a thoroughly engaging talk. Pinsky's smooth, warm voice had a tactile quality which called to mind expertly crafted woodwork - smooth, warm and running with the grain. Speaking with the aid of notes, occasionally using repetition to stress key points, the flow and control of ideas was remarkable.

The over-arching expression seemed to be a recognition of the freeing potential in embracing the fact that we are all 'born for death'. That in 'tramping down' our ghosts, we allow our ancestors to find their place among our words - not haunt us as ghosts - to our own better, vital understanding of our (inevitably) modern condition.

Happy Birthday Abe

Isn't that a beaut! In keeping with my previous celebration of 200th birthdays of prominent Americans, I thought I'd note that today is the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Abraham Lincoln. The image above is by Irish Illustrator PJ Lynch, from "Lincoln and His Boys," written by Rosemary Wells. (in bookshops now). PJ was on the Tubridy show on RTE radio 1 earlier today talking about the book and Lincoln in general. I believe its one of the first books PJ has illustrated using oils rather than his usual watercolours - looks like its all the richer for it!

Politics, Pageantry, Poetry, Poe

What a week, eh? Pageantry and Politics can be dangerous bedfellows, but Obama’s inauguration, spin or no, has been a shot in the arm for so many. Here’s to Hope (and industry)! In all the fuss, however, the celebration of another remarkable American, and notable occasion in US history, was a little overlooked.

Firstly, some context. As a child, I read anything I could get my hands on. I guess this trait came from my father, who once said he would “...read anything from Playboy to the Bible” - although I never remember seeing either in his hands (or our home for that matter). Luckily, our family regularly frequented jumble sales, auctions, church fairs, junk shops, etc. along with more usual outlets, so we accrued a wide and random selection of reading material. A particular treat were those rolled bundles of used comics - usually sold for something like 10 for 10p.

I worked my way through Brer Rabbit and company, lots of Enid Blyton, Biggles, Just William, The Bobbsey Twins, Hardy Boys, even the occasional Nancy Drew. My imagination was fired by Robin Hood, The Swiss Family Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, The Arabian Nights (abridged versions, I’m guessing). I really loved reading stories and as I got older everything was fair game, even schoolbooks now and then. 

One of the first 'grown-up' books I remember making a distinct impression was a paperback collection of short stories – titled, I think, Tales of Mystery and Terror. I was gripped! The Cask of Amontillado, The Telltale Heart, The Black Cat, The Pit and The Pendulum – brilliant, gruesome stuff. The Masque of The Red Death was a particular favourite.

Last Monday, January 19th, marked the 200th Anniversary of the birth of Edgar Allen Poe, the author of those stories. His first publication was Tamerlane and other poems. Only fifty copies of this short collection of poems were printed, of which only 12 (not bad, considering!) are believed to still exist. He was in many ways ahead of his time, writing criticism, prose and poetry with clarity and focus. Tragically, not long after the success of his classic poem 'The Raven', he suffered an ignominious death. He was further unfortunate in having as literary executor one Rufus Griswold who harboured some personal grievances, and aimed to destroy his reputation in a thoroughly calculated way. Despite that, of course, his work is widely read and his influence remains strong today.

I first read those stories over 30 years ago, sitting on the ground by a bookshelf in Wexford. Though short, they felt utterly complete and had character and personality in a way I hadn’t previously experienced. They were freestanding. Involving. Chilling. Reading them, I understood clearly that it was possible for one person to write short, unique stories and see them appear in print. Perhaps I could do this too? This spark of realisation took a long time to catch flame. Intervening circumstances presented their own necessities, requirements and, yes, distractions. Preconceptions remained stubborn. For many years, the idea of becoming a writer was a foreign concept, accessed beyond any route I was aware of. Writers were writers - I was something else.

Nowadays I write regularly. To mixed effect, it's true - I'm no Poe. But that's the point. Hopefully I've shed many pre-conceived definitions or expectations that may have been obstacles and now I aim to write for the reward of the writing itself. So, today I'd like to thank Edgar Allen Poe and all those other writers who, in doing likewise, have inspired and enriched my life and world, even in the face of it's unremittant terrors - personal, domestic or foreign. And to Mister Poe, offer a (belated) Happy Birthday!

A Poem for Obama

(written back on Nov 5th, 2008)


November Spring


One turns, then another
And another, leaving
Swathes of country hung
With canopies of red

Until capillaries deplete
Becoming paper-brittle
Dropping palmates increment
A tinderbox of hope

Blazing clear a plate blue sky

Today, under tributed precision of limbs
Beneath hard-coppiced charnel woods
Uncoils green light of Spring

© PJ Nolan 2008

"...dedicated here to the unfinished work..."



image: scalder


Wow! What a week. As Jonathan Raban said in The Guardian, on Saturday;

“What America has succeeded in doing, against all the odds, and why we cried when it happened, is to elect the most intelligent, canny and imaginative candidate to the presidential office in modern times - someone who'll bring to the White House an extraordinary clarity of thought and temperate judgment.”

Poet Desmond Swords caught some of my own optimism about Obama the individual, in his blog comment about his exceptional communication abilities;

"... which (I think) appears to be the forthright human honesty of a seemingly normal person who has plucked the day by harnessing new medias and making them the vehicle for a message of hope and change by inclusion."

George Szirtes, initially welcomed Obama's victory as predominently symbolic - a cautionary stance we must accept, given the vast intricacies of US and geopolitical systems;

"Consider me symbolically delighted, over the proverbial moon. It is, as the moon-lander said, a pretty terrific leap for man. Therefore I rejoice. Party time. Work later.

Forgive me. I have never trusted elation, not in the long run. Wind blows one way: I tend to lean the other. Can't help it. Just instinct."

As for myself, I was quite overwhelmed - symbolism or no. In recent days I've been surprised to shed some of my cynicism - for the better - and find myself embracing possibilities of new measures of hope and change in my own life. And that's the most surprising and inspirational aspect of recent events. Would that there were some way of allowing the bitterest of hearts to allow room for one small change, or room for new hope in themselves. Perhaps then, growing hope could build new engines of change for all of us. If nothing else, Obama represents a remarkable example of the power of poetry in our lives, for without poetry, where might we find those abstract aspirations that allow change become manifest in our lives?

And yet, the same weekend newspaper that showed one family of four on the way to the White House, carried pictures of another family of four mown down, bodies touching, in their home in Kiwanja. So many steps, in so many journeys yet to be travelled. One. Step. At. A. Time.

image: Shepard Fairey

Byrne and Eno : Its-a Happening (again)

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Well whadyaknow - those erstwhile mavericks of the New Wave are now quite middle-aged. Hasn't stopped them getting back together to do the collaboration hustle. Good thing? Bad thing? Thing Thing!

I've quite a soft spot for their 1981 album 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts'. Along wih whale sounds, The Cramps and The Goon Show, it brings me back to the hazy basement rooms of my studenthood. A hugely influential album, this new one (with its Miranda July-ish title) isn't really along those lines, but these two particularly crispy heads are always going to bring some sonic sparks to the equation - so check it, Brethren (Sisters too!) There's a free download of the warmly funky track Strange Overtones waiting for you!

Tess Gallagher : Dublin Reading

Yes, I know the photo's just a bit out of date, and yes, I know it features Ray Carver as well as Tess Gallagher (some commentators take issue with Gallagher being consistently referred to in the context of her relationship with Carver). Of course Gallagher herself has no qualms about her role as executor / protector of Carver's legacy to the point where she's probably more well known for this role in Europe. The fact remains, however, that she is a fine writer on her own terms and is very highly regarded in US poetry circles. I've been mixed in my reaction to her work in the past and was genuinely curious as I headed along to the Unitarian Church last week for her Poetry Ireland reading.

Gallagher has a remarkable voice. Very youthful, a lilting mix of the Pacific Northwest and our own Atlantic Northwest (Sligo - where she spends several months each year). She spoke fondly of Ballindoon, the area she visits there and where she met her new partner, the painter Josie Grey. Her latest book is a collaboration with Grey. Barnacle Soup : And other stories from the West of Ireland, sees Gallagher trascribe stories from the oral tradition, as told to her by Grey. After an introduction by Joe Woods, she began her reading with two of these: 'A Genius of a Dog" and one other 'Tommy Flynn and his Bealding' about an unfortunate courting incident involving said 'bealding (an infected boil on a finger). Both were charming, light and read with panache.

Then we were into a selection of poetry from her back catalogue. Among those featured were One Kiss, Sah Sin (Hummingbird) , Talking with (to?) Children and she finished with Lie Down With The Lamb, to a warm response from the audience.

Gallagher is well represented online - you can listen to recordings of her reading some of these same poems at the Seamus Heaney Centre in 2007 here, and a couple of interesting older interviews with Don Swaim on the wonderful archive of his Wired for Books radio show here. Enjoy.

Byrne and Eno : Its-a Happening (again)

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Well whadyaknow - those erstwhile mavericks of the New Wave are now quite middle-aged. Hasn't stopped them getting back together to do the collaboration hustle. Good thing? Bad thing? Thing Thing!

I've quite a soft spot for their 1980 album 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts'. Along wih whale sounds, The Cramps and The Goon Show, it brings me back to the hazy basement rooms of georgian houses, back when I first to entered studenthood. A hugely influential album, this new one (with its Miranda July-ish title) can't really be anything along those lines, but these two particularly crispy heads are always going to have some sonic sparks to bring to the equation, so check it! Here! The whole album is streaming for your listening pleasure and there's one track available as a free download (once you submit yopur email address to the cybermephisto).

Tropic Thunder Preview Screening



Stiller Inc. - back with a bang!!!


I went along to an advance screening of Tropic Thunder last night - thanks again to those enlightened, generous people at the wonderful Movies.ie - and had some of the best belly laughs of recent times. Anybody who’s familiar with the Stiller package will have a good idea what to expect and judging by the enthusiastic (and somewhat blokey) audience profile, there’s a whole posse well hungry for this particular brand.

I won’t get into spoiler territory, but I think this one will have you you spitting popcorn out your nose on at least a couple of occasions, whether you’re a fan or not. It may not be quite the ‘Nam Zoolander’ that it has been touted as, but it’s damn near! While it looks like it was a lot of fun to make, its worth remembering that this is the movie Owen Wilson had to skip due to his hospitalisation - so maybe not quite so light a mood on set after all.

The plot sees a bunch of preening hollywood types bogged down, way behind schedule and over budget, in an expensive jungle shoot for a ‘nam memoir’ movie. In a desperate attempt to redeem himself and motivate his charges, the inexperienced brit director (a manic Steve Coogan) attempts to go ‘off the grid’, shooting guerilla stylee in the interior – with disasterous results. Trouble is, the actors are so self-immersed, it takes a while for the facts to catch up it with them in the form of some pretty real adversaries. Along the way, cliches are mined, dialogue is peppered and (of bloody course) truths are dispensed. With explosions, heroin and dentures.

As in the very, very funny ‘trailers’, Robert Downey Jr. is the best thing here. Much has been made of his character (think Russell Crowe meets Brad) going deep blackface, and much of the ‘plot’ hangs on (Stiller’s character) Tugg Speedman’s previous performance ‘going full retard’ – so there’s lots of pointy excrement-smeared sticks to poke any political correctness the audience might smuggle in. Jack Black is the most wonderfully-named ‘Jeff Portnoy’. Love it!

Along the way there’s great cameos, set-pieces, homage/pastiches and great, great oneliners. So all good then? Yeeeeeeeeeayyyyy-ish.

I was bugged by that increasingly common feeling that this really could have been an out-and-out classic. Given the premise and the cast, there was so much further these guys could have been taken. Downey Jr. is outstanding, Stiller does his ‘bambi with a brain of cheese’ bit again and Black goes through the motions – although he does get a couple of the great gags. Drop in Nick Nolte doing the ‘generic vet number 1’ gig, Matthew McConaughey doing Owen Wilson and a baldy Tom Cruise donning prosthetic hamhands to do the production’s ‘bigdick playa’ and you get much sending up of the hollywood machine. Problem is, Stiller Inc. now ARE the Hollywood machine. I was left with a distinct feeling that some of the best gags mightn’t have surved the ‘notes’ process, ending up on the floor. (Although some seem to have made it into the ‘making-of-making-of….’ documentary on youtube).

Unfortunately, scientologists don’t do humour – this one at least. Cruise’s wigga tyrant is initially a genuine treat, but overexposure turns him into the guy with the lampshade on his head at this particular party. A muddled third act, the ‘warm’ ending (complete with cutaway to clarify that ‘no kiddies were flung in the making of this movie) just seem to cop out from what could have been downright nasty fun.

But maybe I’m just picky. It’s still a whole bunch o’laffs – so check it, playa!

The Therapeutic Community (Cuckoo!)


Washington DC company Keegan Theatre are back in Ireland for their annual tour of the country. This year they bring their production of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest to Galway, Kilkenny, Roscommon, Longford and Thurles. I was at the Pavilion Theatre, Dun Laoghaire last night to catch the tour kick-off.

Keegan specialise in staging Irish theatre in the US and I've been lucky enough to see them reciprocate with shows like Death of A Salesman, A Streetcar Named Desire and Glengarry Glen Ross on several of their previous visits to Ireland. It's always a treat to experience these American classics voiced by an American troupe. Staging is usually restrained, but the performances make up for this by embracing the characters and flinging them around the text with gusto. There's nothing particularly avante garde going on here - just solid, professional interpretations of classic texts, treated with respect and enthusiasm - just what the doctor ordered!

With a cast of fourteen, this is one of the larger productions to date. Possibly because of this, it felt a little slow to get going. Like many of the Keegan shows, audiences here may be more familiar with this play's cinematic incarnation (and that delerious Jack Nicholson performance is hard to forget!). However, the play was written in 1963 by Dale Wasserman, adapted from Ken Kesey's bestselling 1962 novel - and it retains the novel's narration by Chief Bromden, which the movie dispensed with. A lot depends on the shimmering intensity and pathos of that character on stage. Here, Kevin Adams gives a rumbling, resonant performance as the visionary (fake) catatonic – but the required gravitas was elusive to start with.

However, once Keegan stalwarth Mark A. Rhea scraps his way onstage, things kick off with aplomb. Rhea has taken centre stage on recent tours and his McMurphy is a wiley thug with a heart of, if not gold, at least solid brass. Sheri S. Herren is Nurse Ratchet with a restrained performance that gradually blooms into glacial cruelty.

The ensemble playing might fluctuate, but the central performances anchor the core of this countercultural polemic. Kesey’s writing is sometimes swamped by the appeal of his Merry Prankster persona and it’s a welcome reminder of his ability to see these characters fleshed out here. (I’m sure Wasserman played his part too – as does the show’s director Susan M Rhea).

Nowadays, we’re dangerously close to apathy about the issues Kesey was addressing; the power of the ‘Combine’, alienation, selling nobility down the river, abuse of power, the nature of insanity - they all get an airing in this work – and can still trigger modern relevances as well as wistful retrospection. I was reminded of Hunter S Thompson’s comment about California's Summer of Love;

"We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."

Less appealing, and yet very interesting, is the somewhat misogynistic subtext of the work. Almost all the female characters - on or offstage - with the exception of “Candy & Sandy” (the light, lewd relief) and one repressed, Catholic nurse are harridans of the highest order. ‘Ratshit’ herself, Patient Harding’s coquette wife, The Chief’s white mother, and Billy Bibbit’s tragically controlling mother are all apportioned their share of blame for the emasculation of the noble urges of the (male) individual... whereas, Doctor Spivey, and even the bullying ward orderlies, are reprieved by a backslapping camaraderie and fondness for the odd toke, or whatever. This theme had previously bypassed me somewhat, and it’s a strength of the work that the often overlooked patriarchal baggage of the 'counterculture' is overt here.

These aspects, coupled with the central theme of the Chief’s physical loss of aboriginal nobility - via his father’s malleability and weakness - brought the shadow of Hemingway looming over proceedings for this punter. There’s no doubt that Hemingway was an influence on Kesey (along with Burroughs, Steinbeck and Faulkner) - but whether this patriarchal inheritance is consciously written, I can’t say.

Keegan Theatre are touring Ireland until October 4th – full schedule here - and I’d guess this production will get better and better as it tours!

Summer Reading : Mars, a text!

Patrick Chapman's latest collection of poetry displays the characteristics which have earned him praise and recognition as one of the more interesting voices of his generation of Irish poets.

The poems in this volume - ranging as they do over broad periods of time and experience – can sometimes appear to be ‘quare bedfellows’. However, this is far from negative - if anything it emphasises the diversity and range of thought and expression in Chapman's poetry. Heated relationships, cold wars, inner and outer space all combine here to provide a backdrop for stories of the heart, mind and body in a collection that exhibits distinctly cinematic qualities. There's a touch of the Noir here - not unrelenting darkness - more highlighted angles and delineations of a gamut of memorable characters. We meet a Queen of her own private Gethsemane, a vampire-priest-ringmaster, as well as certain politicians and ‘vast and cool intelligences' opening church and shopping malls in virgin territories. Musicians and other cultural icons create a sinewy linkage between the poet and his environment.

Throughout, there's a healthy dose of surreal humour. However, one of the strengths of this collection is Chapman's ability to present humour without resorting to glibness. Here it is part of the full tableaux of human experience, woven into love, fear, bewilderment and hope. There's a fair deal of sex too.

Overall the writing is underpinned with a deceptively casual sense of craft (this is Chapman's fourth collection, following on from a recent book of stories. He's also written films and audio plays). Towards the end, the collection heads into (literally) darker waters. Immersion recurs as a theme along with various extinctions, such as the young fisherman in the poem What You Leave Behind, lost at sea while providing for his his family;

“In dying he has lumbered them with boat-wreck
And some lately settled fear an tí –
Squatting in the drowned man’s chair.”

At first, this collection charms with its immediate vibrancy - then merits re-reading to tap into some of the deeper currents at work below the surface of this skillful, considered writing.

More info here.

Raccoon in the Restaurant

The good people at the Evening Herald's HQ magazine (Hi Sue!) asked me to review Meridien Theatre Company's production 'Raccoon' which is currently running at Bewleys Café Theatre, during lunchtimes, until August 23rd. You can read that review here

This really is a very good show, so if you're in the Grafton Street area for lunch before the run ends, I'd recommend it highly. The writer is an American named Tom Hall and, based on this play, I'd think his short stories (I'm guessing he's written a few) should be well worth a read. That's if anybody knows where I might find them / him? According to the bumph, he's lived in Mexico, Cork & Wexford but is now based in Dublin. 'Raccoon' also features in a double bill 'The Lost Field' from Meridien - which will be touring nationwide this November - so keep your eyes peeled.

Meridien are a lively and innovative company, with some interesting work in their archive. Their forthcoming production is 'There Are Little Kingdoms' - a play based on the short story collection of the same name by Kevin Barry. Barry was a worthy winner of the 2007 Rooney Prize for this cracking collection of tales from small-town Ireland - one of the best debut collections of recent years. The author himself is adapting the work for stage, so make a note folks, this should be a pretty hot ticket, IMHO.

Wolff Enright (not a law firm!)

I only made it to one event during this year's Dublin Writers Festival. The festival coincided with a pretty hectic pre-holiday period for me plus I was a bit word-weary for a while there. However, I did manage to make it along to this event. Couldn't have missed it really, as I admire and enjoy Wolff's writing in a big way. To have him double-heading with the bould Enright was just too good a ticket to pass on.

It was a pretty full house on the night (and very muggy inside - what's the story Project?). First up with the introductions was Niall McMonagle, who then welcomed both writers to the stand. Enright read her story Honey from her recent collection Taking Pictures. This story was originally the worthwhile winner of the inaugural Davy Byrnes Award (for which Wolff had been one of the judges). It's a typical Enright story - as much as such a thing exists? A crackling, vernacular and bleakly humourous narrative of a protaganist whorled up in guilt, grief and gumption, spitting and fidgeting towards some kind of release. Enright is adept at traversing her characters across passages of brittle, iced language compacted into suspended, breathless near-hysteria, only to skid on a word or two into pools of warmth and emotion. So it was here. As Wolff followed her to the podium, he exclaimed that he'd be pleased to hand over the award cheque again - so good was this story. It was a wonderful reading of a classic modern story, IMHO. The good news is that Honey is available to read online over on the Irish Times website. The bad news is that only available by subscription! Here's the link.

Wolff followed up with two of his own classics: Say Yes (which you'll find here) and Bullet in the Brain, (read by T. Coraghessan Boyle in a podcast here). Both are cracking stories - not neccessarily what I would consider his most representative work, so an interesting choice.

After that, we needed a pause to breathe and let the words settle. Then we were off into a somewhat fractured discussion on the short story which, in truth, contained cliche as well as insight. But there were tasty moments too. Considering the merits of the story versus the novel, Wolff opined that Randall Jarrell's (?) somewhat glib definition of the novel as "a work in prose of a certain length that has something wrong with it" could equally be applied to the short story. I also seem to recollect that he commented on the story form having more in common with poetry than with the novel, but my memory might just be channelling Wolff's close friend, Ray Carver on this recollection - I know I've heard him say this.

Discussing the start of a story, Enright said she 'doesn't do' beginnings. Also, she doesn't have much time for those writers who claim not to know whether a piece will become a story or a novel. For her it's one or the other, from the off. She also said something interesting on endings. For her, it's not so much about the endline as the silence that follows it - and how that differs from the silence before the story began. A bit precious maybe, but a compelling consideration.

Also discussing endlines, Wolff commented on Carver's skill in this area, turning the most open and inconclusive lines into a kind of revery. He referenced the endline of Carver's story 'Gazebo' for this. I don't have this to hand just now. Crack a book :-) (I'll add it here later). One area that wasn't discussed was the role of the editor. With so much referencing of Carver, I'd hoped to maybe raise the contentious issue of Gordon Lish's role in paring back Carver's original drafts. But time was limited and I didn't make the cut.

Enright mentioned some significant influences on her as a younger writer, citing Alice Munro in particular as well as a seventies anthology of experimental work, "The Naked I", which brought subjective narrative to the fore. She also spoke of those many, many stories still to be told from the point of view of women, particulary Irish women. A curious moment occured when a female audience member asked both writers for their thoughts on the differences in the short stories of male and female writers. Wolff demurred to Enright, as she had lead the timbre of the discussion in this direction, but the Booker winner was somewhat gobsmacked and flustered by the question. Strangely unsure, I thought, considering how much of her writing drags a raggedy fingernail along the frayed seams of gender politics. For his part, Wolff suggested that there seemed to be more violence in men's writing. To his chagrin, he's had it pointed out that the mortality rate of dogs in his stories is quite high.

Finally, appropriately enough, an anecdote that Wolff shared with us;

The discussion came round to those questions which writers face at events like this, one in particular being "When did you realise you wanted to be a writer?" Where many writers might refer to vague, intuitive urges, Wolff remembered an exact moment from his schooldays, when he would often write exercises on behalf of his classmates (for reward, no doubt). On one such occasion, the recipient of said 'hokey homework' told him 'you know you're good at this.... you should be a writer'. This specific incident planted the idea. On subsequent occasions, having entirely lost contact with this guy, he would refer to the incident in public readings and offer his thanks to the individual. At one such event, a lady stayed behind, quietly made her way over to him and explained that she was the individual's daughter. She explained how her father, like Wolff, had served in Vietnam. Unlike Wolff, however, he returned a scarred and deeply troubled man who moved his family to remotest Alaska, where he sought a precise kind of solitude. If any other settler moved to within four miles of their home, he would up stakes and move even further into the wilderness. Eventually (of course) his wife had had more than enough privation, took the kids and left him to it! Recounting all this to Wolff, the daughter finished with the meek observation, "I guess somebody must've told him he should be a hermit."

Knowing the young Wolff's propensity for 'creative truth', I'd be inclined to take this with a pinch of salt - but a fitting yarn nonetheless, from a master storyteller on a wonderfully interesting and entertaining night.

Dublin Writers Festival 2008

Whoooop again! I've just been perusing the excellent line-up for this year's Dublin Writers Festival and have already booked my tickets for this event: Tobias Wolff and Anne Enright - Small Wonders: The art of the short story.

Tobias Wolff is probably my favourite living writer, in a lineage running from Hemingway - (I know, I know) - via Carver, so I'm hugely excited at a chance to hear him read / speak / whatever. Coupled with the currently omnipresent Enright, it should be a very interesting evening indeed. Plenty of other cracking events in the line-up, including some kind of evening with JP Donleavy? Pardon the confusion - its just that the programme blurb doesn't give much inkling as to what format to expect other than a 'special retrospective'? I'm a longtime fan of Donleavy's short stories and of The Ginger Man novel in particular, but have to admit I've found his increasingly 'stagey' persona somewhat cloying in latter years. Here's hoping the feet-of-clay factor doesn't come into play with Wolff.

I've pipedreamed before about attending the Creative Writing Program at Stanford, where not only Wolff, but Eavan Boland are on the Faculty (Colm Toibin has been a visiting lecturer there too, apparently playing a part in getting poet Brian Turner to Ireland after seeing him alongside Wolff, at an anti-war reading). So I noted with interest that Wolff's close contemporary Richard Ford has been signed up as adjunct professor in the School of English in Trinity College, Dublin. The Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist and short story writer will teach students of the MPhil in creative writing at the Oscar Wilde Centre for Irish Writing. There are some core similarities between the two Americans - Ford's lineage running a little more southerly, out of Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor. I've relished his short stories, but haven't been as enthusiastic as the broader audience about his Frank Bascombe trilogy. Having read the first book, The Sportswriter, I had enough of Mr. Bascombe to last me for quite a while. Not sure what that means - if anything. I'm sure I'll move on to the other books in the future and I'd be interested to hear what anybody out there thinks of these books - what am I missing here folks?

The Oul' Howl





Here's one for fans of UberBeat Allen Ginsberg - an online release for an early (1956) recording of a youthful Ginsberg reading a draft of Howl at Reed College, Portland, Oregon. He runs out of steam a bit near the end - but, be the hokey, its an amazing archive piece of this definitive poem of the modern era in all its protopsychedelic glory. Enjoy! With thanks to Barry Miles over at the Guardian Arts blog.