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A single fluorescent bulb flickered above the desk, and a large grimy window looked into the dingy indoor school. Deacon frowned as he sipped from the mug of weak tea, struggling to rein in his impatience with the red-headed woman opposite him. Mairead held her voice firm, and she forced herself to look Deacon in the eyes as she spoke to him.
She was leaning against the cold stone wall of her cramped office, arms folded firmly across her chest, while Deacon was sitting in a hard plastic chair and holding a mug with bright pink daisies on it. Yet he was gazing calmly back at her and looking about as unintimidated as humanly possible.
Just until I can get the animal sold. He needs a decent pony and I need a decent rider. Forget body language.
- The Luck of the Irish (In Love)!
- Luck of the Irish by Liz Gavin.
- Post navigation.
- Catherine of Monmouth County, New Jersey: 1732-1799.
She rested her elbows on the worn desk and pressed her temples, trying to stave off the inevitable headache that came at the end of a long day. Not that there seemed to be any other kind, lately. It always does. He looked around the small office, as unfriendly as its primary occupant.
Eimear McBride: Let’s write about sex
Not for much longer. Deacon set down his mug on the scratched desk and got to his feet. And he left, shutting the door firmly behind him as Mairead put her head in her hands and closed her eyes against the stabbing pain.
Oh this book is going to be great. I adore this, the trajectory it has taken and all am am about to learn. In Top Ten, it took me three reads for it to sink in that Toy had been sold to Lily! You a master of weaving details and twists.
Read Sebastian Barry's Laureate for Irish Fiction speech
A wall hanging of horsey goodness and characters to keep forevermore. Thank you so very much. This occasion would be among the more unlikely.
That forty years later a veritable village of loved and familiar faces might be gathered to mark a moment as signal, strange and moving as this. That there might even be a medal struck in the smithy of kindness and care, in a deep plan hatched by the Arts Council, UCD and New York University, after the absurdly generous deliberations of a committee formed of the rarest of souls.
That moreover many would be here who have not only been colleagues, family, and friends, but inspirations and reasons fiercely and gratefully to acknowledge the beautiful adventure of life itself. And that the medal would be given by an extraordinary person, a great Irish one-edition-only person, our president who is our luck and our example — the Laureate of Irish Hope Himself.
In forty years of writing, and also of course just gazing about, idling as may be in the garden, in the mountains, flinging myself in the fashion of my mother into the sea, fashioning betimes a surfboard for the waves of things as they are, as they break upon the shore of the lives of everyone, I have tried to keep abreast of my contemporaries and resist the temptation to poison their soup. I have tried by the example of Colm Toibin and Jennifer Johnston, say, to celebrate and recognise the untoward and nation-shaking achievements of other similar souls, labouring in the subsistence farms of Irish writing.
I have admired the sleekness of their cattle, the pristine quality of their milk, and the desolate desires of their hens. What is clear to me at 62 is that we are in an unexpected golden age of Irish prose writing, with writers speckling a night sky with stars of peculiar luminosity. If part of my task is to tell as many people as possible, in as many places as possible, this good news, that the fabulous generations of Irish writers are at work, praise be and halleluiah, it will be no burden.