Sláinte, John!

"I think technique can be taught  
but I think the only way to learn to write is to read, 
and I see writing and reading as completely related. 
One almost couldn't exist without the other."

[John McGahern, who would today celebrate his 91. birthday.]

Sláinte, John!

A process of discovery

As a writer, I write to see.
If I knew how it would end, I wouldn't write.
It's a process of discovery.

John McGahern  (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

Beers & Books (418) – By the Lake

Oh, a book by John that I don't know yet?
So I asked my bookseller to order it for me in the USA.
A few days later I held ‘By the Lake’ in my hands,
opened it and started reading.
‘The morning was clear. There was no wind on the lake.’
A déjà vu? I know that one, don't I?
And right:
Exactly the beginning of ‘That They May Face The Rising Sun’.
Vintage International had just changed the title.

John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

 

Edna O'Brien

I wish Dame Edna could enjoy celebrating her 94th today. Perhaps she would tell us that her new book will be about an insane and megalomaniacal criminal who - you could laugh if it didn't make you want to vomit - has been elected President of the allegedly united States of America.

 

Without intending to belittle other writers, for me Edna O'Brien, together with John McGahern, is the greatest Irish author of the past decades. Both had in common their books were banned in Ireland.
Above's interview from 1976 is on her trilogy "The Country Girls".

 

 The interview above's taken in 2012.

And this one after release of ‘The Little Red Chairs’ (2015)

Enjoy!

Edna O'Brien (15 December 1930 – 27 July 2024)

Beers & Books CCXXIX – The Letters of John McGahern

I think technique can be taught but I think
the only way to learn to write is to read,
and I see writing and reading as completely related.
One almost couldn't exist without the other.

John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

On John McGahern

John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

A Conversation with John McGahern

John Mc Gahern (12 November 1834 – 30 March 2006)

Beers & Books CLXIII – John McGahern

The best of life is life lived quietly,
where nothing happens
but our calm journey through the day,
where change is imperceptible
and the precious life is everything.

 John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

Writers: John McGahern

Beckett, Joyce,
Flann O'Brien, Edna O'Brien
O'Casey, O'Cadhain,
O'Connor, O'Faolain, O'Flaherty,
etc., etc.,
there're so many great Irish writers.
And there's John McGahern.

 

John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

Life lived quietly

"The best of life is life lived quietly,
where nothing happens
but our calm journey through the day,
where change is imperceptible
and the precious life is everything."

John Mc Gahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

Precious Life

The life where nothing happens
among the dear familiar things
is for me the most precious life.
...
And all we have
is those precious moments
and the hours and the days.

John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

Worth some thoughts

If a book was well-written it can be obscene,
but it couldn't be immoral,
because if it was immoral,
it couldn't be true. 

John Mc Gahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)

John McGahern

John McGahern

Ach, John!

You need to have a good boring life
in which nothing much happens
except what's going on in your head.

John McGahern (12 November 1934 – 30 March 2006)
about writing 

Cover Story 0009

Imagine: 100 Days of the Book

Today a month ago happened what does not happen often: I was ahead the times.

Therefore, I thought tonight I'd just have to set the very link, but alas:

By doing so I had to realise: I am almost one month behind the time to answer some comments.
Sorry.
Not that this would not happen now and then. It does.
And as I am at it: Mostly it's not due to the attribute I am (often) coquetting with (my laziness), but my (felt) inability to quickly/spontaneously express my thoughts. In this very case it's due to something else.
Ah, it's such a pity: to read an interesting comment/thought, and (feeling to) not having the words, (to) not having the time to answer properly and then - to forget about it.
Well, my problem. Why did I start blogging in English, instead of sticking to the language I sucked from my mother's breast?!

End of the beforegoing.

[...] and after having cancelled lots of further rubbish [...].
For those who did not follow above given link: Certain people do (the rest of their contempories wish to) think today - April 23rd - is 'The Day of the Book'.

These people are idiots; and not just in the classical sense.

What about an Orwellian Hate Week?
Coming to think of it. One week of hate would mean: there'd be 51 weeks of no hate at all. What a relief, hm?!
Analogue, there'd be 364 Days of no Book.
[Yes, yes! And 365 days in leap years.]
Take your choice.


Postscriptum for those who'd find difficult to understand: It's not as difficult as you think; it's much more complex.

Finally, my commendation for the next Day of the Book:

Some works of John McGahern.

They're easily read within 24 hours.
And re the other few authors worth being read: In case you're able to read immediately after your birth, and assuming you're going to live 100 years, there'll be 100 Days of the Book. Now that's a big heap of time, hm?
Enjoy.
And good luck with the other 36,400 (bookless) days.

Meeting John McGahern

Almost exactly about this time 13 years ago, early in April:
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.

So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!

Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.

Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.

Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.

At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."

"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.

And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.

Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.

Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.