MICHAEL COADY,
Sir, - Your generous coverage of the death of John B. Keane was widely appreciated. As one of the writers present in Listowel for the duration of Writers' Week, I would like to express my deep admiration for the manner in which the Keane family, the local community and the organisers of Writers' Week coped with the loss, and, in particular, the unbiddable time of its coming.
John B.'s death might have been expected to cast a shadow over the unique event that is Writers' Week. In a strangely transfiguring way the opposite was true: it became an illumination, like a sudden change of lighting on stage, lending everything a particular intensity. Vincent Browne's on-location broadcast was a deeply moving remembrance by neighbours and friends, without cant or cliché. The Requiem Mass found the same authentically local note, without intrusive pomp or pretension. John B.'s son Billy spoke spontaneously, with courage and natural dignity, wit and grace. Thousands joined in the procession through the streets of Listowel, to the graveside and the final address by Danny Hannon.
I've known many memorable Writers' Weeks. The strange way in which life and art intersected this year, and the manner in which all this was dealt with, was unforgettable. Well done, Listowel.
John B. was loved in every parish of this island. He added to the gaiety of the nation, and to its humanity, while never evading the dark side of us. I offer these final lines (from The Old Catechism) by another now gone from us - John B.'s friend, the poet Michael Hartnett: "However. There is a place I've heard of/ where the herbs are always fresh/ and where, at last, pain and panic are dismissed, /and you can walk in, take off your aches, /sit down, discard your fear, /and say: 'Hello God. I'm here.'" - Yours, etc.,
MICHAEL COADY,
Clairin,
Carrick-on-Suir,
Co Tipperary.