TAKING their cue from President Robinson, the people who presented this country to the world at the recent Frankfurt Book Fair thought up the grandiose title Ireland and Its Diaspora, but I'm afraid the phrase rang rather hollow for Frank McCourt.
Author of Angela's Ashes, the critically acclaimed memoir of a Limerick childhood, the 66 year old New York based former schoolteacher arrived in Frankfurt at the invitation of his enthusiastic German publishers, but at the Book Fair he found himself ignored by Irish officialdom. He said that his exclusion from Irish functions didn't worry him overmuch (he's far too level headed for that), but nonetheless it was difficult for him not to think: diaspora, how are ye.
I met him in, of all places, the Dail restaurant. Along with brothers Malachy and Alfie, he was there as lunch guest of Labour's Jim Kemmy, a man not given to ignoring anyone, especially if there's a Limerick connection. Given the latter fact, was surprised that he hadn't met the McCourts before, but it was only a matter of minutes before talk turned to the exploits of Garryowen and Young Munster, the escapades of Richard Harris, the distinguishing characteristics of Old Crescent alumni and, of course, that inescapable Limerick institution, the Confraternity.
Alfie, the self confessed quiet brother, mostly kept his own amused counsel during this vastly entertaining lunch, while Malachy, the exuberantly extrovert one, told stories of Limerick and New York that were alternatively hair raising and hilarious. When I finally got a few uninterrupted minutes with Frank, I glimpsed the fastidious resolve that went into his extraordinary book. When you read it (and I trust you will see George O'Brien's review on this page) you'll discover why it received such acclaim on its original US publication: the circumstances he describes may be of miserable poverty, but there's nothing miserable about either his insights or his use of language.
IT's been a week for memoirs. In the Abbey Theatre, Town I House launched The Company I Kept, by Phyllis Ryan, and most of the Irish theatrical and journalistic world seemed to be there - not just whipper snappers like me who have only known Phyllis Ryan for twenty five years, but also those whose association with her stretches back to the Forties and Fifties.
Introducing the book, Hugh Leonard made a witty and affectionate speech, with a few bracing barbs thrown in for good measure. These weren't directed at anyone present. Indeed, so warm were his references to John B. Keane that the Listowel man felt moved to get up and make a droll speech of his own, returning compliments to his fellow dramatist and thus disproving the famous Leonard dictum that a literary movement in Ireland is two writers on speaking terms with each other. Or perhaps they were simply proving it. But no, I saw them both talking to Eugene McCabe, not to mention Bernard Farrell. What's going on here?
It's not my business to review Phyllis Ryan's book, so I'll merely observe that it's far from the exercise in luvviedom one might expect from such a prominent and kindly theatrical figure. Indeed, in her own graceful way she knows how to get the boot in when she wants to - all the more devastatingly given the elegance of the kick. Exhilarating stuff.
THIS being the time of year when publishers work hardest to grab the public's attention, book launches have been occurring all over the place. I'll just mention a couple of them here.
In the Atrium of TCD, that college's English professor, Terence Brown, launched John Minihan's Shadows from the Pale (Seeker & Warburg), which is subtitled "Portrait of an Irish Town". The town in question, as anyone who knows John Minihan will guess, is Athy, and the book of photographs, superbly reproduced, has a fine introduction by Eugene McCabe.
John himself, after many years with the Evening Standard, is now happily based in Ballydehob, but if you pick up a paper or magazine anywhere at any time you're likely to see his justly famous pictures of the elderly Sam Beckett staring out at you.
A couple of nights later in the Temple Bar Hotel, half the journalists and three quarters of the women in the country seemed to be at the launch of The Best of About Women by Irish Times columnist Mary Cummins. Mary, who entered journalism at much the same time as myself, has always managed to be provocative without being in any way doctrinaire, and it was typical of her that she should choose someone as seemingly unlikely as Padraig Flynn to launch her book, which he did in splendid style.
The evening very quickly took on the momentum of a party - which, given the affection in which Mary is held, was what most of us expected to happen.
