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Monday 26 October 2009

Fear & Loathing '72

As a future son in law of Mary, I do sometimes get invited to stay for dinner and being the cheap sort of guy I am, I accepted the offer of a tasty roast chicken meal on a fine October bank holiday which, in a round about way, is why I’m writing this blog. Lounging on the coach in the recently refurbished kitchen/dining room and told I can’t gracefully retreat to the TV, I’ve been asked, via subtle blackmail and guilt-tripping, not to mention Mary’s bad back, put out while saving a trampoline from the gale-force winds, into contributing some nuggets of literary knowledge.

But what to write about? Kim Stanley Robinson’s mind expanding brilliant Mars trilogy? Or how about Max Brooks paranoia inducing Zombie Survival Guide, or the follow-up World War Z – An Oral History of the Zombie War? Or going back to my formative years, Katherine Kerr’s Deverry series (a series which is still ongoing, although unfortunately, as with Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, the story has grown so large that the characters have lost much of their emotional resonance). All excellent works, and in the case of Robinson’s Mars books, the first books I truly loved, but none of them could be counted as the writer who has influenced me the most. That dubious accolade can only go to one author and, as it happens, that writer is not even a writer of fiction, although no one could honestly claim that his writing was entirely factual. However to misquote his favourite writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald, fiction can express more truth than any fact. A maxim that the good doctor lived his life by, because like too few writers his work was his life, or maybe it was his life that was his work?

Most, if not all of the works of Hunter S. Thompson, were autobiographical, giving a level of insight into his personal life like no other writer before (well maybe Kerouac) and along the way giving the world classics like The Great Shark Hunt, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Hell’s Angels as well as countless columns, articles and rants, all delivered in his unique, literary and furious style. My personal favourite is Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72.

Armed with nothing (especially any knowledge about politics) but a quart of bourbon, an instinct for the jugular and a quest to find the dark heart of the American Dream, Hunter dives into the world of the American presidential campaign. From private interviews with Richard Nixon in which the only topic of conversation was American football to the legendary back-biting anarchy of the McGovern campaign and the ‘Zoo Bus’, Hunter makes no pretence of being an impartial journalist and as he had no inclination to continue as a political reporter after the campaign was over, absolutely no hesitation to burn his bridges. He delivers brilliantly funny and cutting insights not only into the way campaigns were run at the time but into the cosy relationship between the press and the political players who are rightly their game. And even quickly develops and uncanny instinct for which way the political wind is blowing, which he demonstrates by betting and winning on the outcome of various primaries, to the extant that he laughingly describes how other journalists and even politicos are spotted reading Rolling Stone just to see what he’s going to say next.


Mary adds:
Not only will Eoin Keating make an excellent son-in-law, but his skills as a blogger will definitely come in handy. Mind you, next time I decide to undertake some mammoth task that requires muscle and brawn, I will cook a tasty dinner and invite my future son-in-law around before hand!

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Friday 28 August 2009

The Twisted Lines of God

All I want to do is look at, write on, and talk about my new wood burning stove which is a delight to the eye, deliciously warm for the chilly body and the new centre piece in my kitchen. I could spend hours gazing at it, a pert new kettle warming up nicely on top, dreaming of cosy evenings by the fire. I know it’s August but then it’s August in Ireland i.e. chilly, damp and overcast. So, that leaves a book blog to be done. Mmmm…

I have the most delightful Spanish student staying with me (she can’t believe the cold and she loves my new wood burning stove as much as I do) so with the promise of something sweet after dinner, I have persuaded her to write the blog. Well, someone’s gotta do it!

Los Renglones Torcidos De Dios
by Torcuato Luca De Tena


I like this book because it is really interesting and I couldn’t stop of read when I started. In the story you can’t know if the most important person of the book, Alice, is really crazy or she says the truth and she is a detective. She is absolutely intelligent, so the doctors ,who are trying to help her , can’t know if she really crazy. Alice think that she is in the asylum (manicomio) because she has to investige a crime, but when she discovered who was the criminal and she wanted to come back home, nobody believed her and she thought that somebody, maybe her husband, wants to leave her in the asylum (manicomio) to stole her all her money.

Maria Luisa Murube Fernandez – Cotta

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Sunday 23 August 2009

Chasing The Light

It rains a lot here in the Emerald Isle: not every day and not all the time but let's just say I never leave the house without an umbrella. Having said that, I spent twenty minutes sheltering under a large hedge yesterday as I walked home from work because I did forget one! The sun, when it shines, comes in through my kitchen window, lighting up the room from early morning until the afternoon. Then it moves around the house and peeps through to the dining room and upstairs on the landing. I have strategically placed house plants in those windows, soaking up the afternoon rays, leaning out towards the brightness.

Last evening, as I popped into my North facing study, I noticed for the first time, a circle of brightness, honey red evening sunshine, gleaming on a shelf of books belonging to my son who, when he comes home from the States, enjoys seeing his collection from when he was so high all there, present and correct, rows and rows of them. Harry Harrison’s The Stainless Steel Rat sat in that glowing circle surrounded by Philip K. Dick, Isaac Asimov, Brian Aldiss, Arthur C. Clarke, Kurt Vonnegut and Iain M. Banks. As I write, the clouds have turned grey and rain threatens but the light still shines through showing leaves of every shade of green in the gardens all around. It rains a lot here in the Emerald Isle but then where would we be without it?

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Monday 6 July 2009

Treasures

“Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content.”

Paul Valery certainly knew what he was talking about, and he was born way back in 1871. The weather gave Raven Books a hard time recently; “the dog ate my homework” is an excuse that is sometimes true (cats just sit on them); humidity is a big problem in many areas of the world; and as for content, well, books are still being banned for the most ridiculous reasons; but fire is the one terrifying reality that can happen in the blink of an eye, anywhere, anytime.

When we were young and foolish with two young children, a willing babysitter was like manna from heaven. Out we went one such eventful night, along De Vesci Place, down York Road, left on Lower Georges Street and into the nearest hostelry for a pint of plain, half a lager and a packet of crisps after which we ambled home again, arm in arm. As we turned in through the old gated archway we spied the fire brigade in the distance; uniformed men (no women then) marching briskly in and out of some poor unfortunate’s home (probably the old folk next door, we muttered), a long hose stretched snakelike, gushing its contents on some idiot’s reckless fire. We giggled, tut tutting about careless behaviour, walking innocently up that path until we arrived at number 3 and gazed downward through the large picture window of the basement flat, our home, where hunky firemen flashed in and out of view.

It seems our sitter had banked the fire up high setting the chimney ablaze. When she ran up to tell our landlord, to use his phone to call for help, she accidentally locked the door behind her with both babes fast asleep inside.

All’s well that ends well but it got me thinking about many things: the benefits of having a phone, never going out again until my children were over 21! and wondering what I would save first – apart from my beloved family, of course – in the event of such a disaster ever occurring again. It would have to be four notebooks filled with lists of all the books I have read since Christmas Day, 1966, when I was fourteen years old. My mother gave the notebooks to me and after much time debating about what I’d write in these pristine pages, I settled on noting down the date at the top of each page, then the title and author of each book after I had read them. Looking back is like reading a diary, every title conjuring a memory, every year seeing how my tastes have changed and evolved over time.

I hope I never have to dash out the door with these treasured notebooks under my arm, but just in case, they sit together, in a slipcase, second drawer down in the hall cupboard, just in case…

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