Bernard MacLaverty

The first book I read when I got here was Ireland in Mind, a collection of essays and short stories either by writers who visited Ireland or by Irish ex-pats. Most are household names (Virginia Woolf, Oscar Wilde, Frank McCourt). Of the 32 featured, I circled four that spoke to me. One was Bernard MacLaverty, with whom I was not familiar.

Turns out he was doing a reading at a theater in Belfast at 1 p.m. Tuesday, so I hopped on the train and went for a listen. Like the other artists I've seen since I've been here, he's totally unassuming, no affectation, a guy you'd feel comfortable enjoying a coffee with. My friend Aelish (orig. Castlewellan, now Paoli) told me the Irish won't let anyone get too big for their boots. I think that's a good thing. I think swagger and bravado are in greater supply in the U.S., something I don't miss.

His writing is beautiful and it was wonderful to hear him talk of his life and of the origins of his work. His father died when he was 12 and much of his work revolves around father-son relationships. It's at once heartbreaking and beautiful. I bought his Collected Stories for 20 pounds and had him autograph it.

Poor David. That same night an actor was performing a poem cycle by Patrick Kavanagh at another Belfast pub, and himself agreed to accompany me. The Great Hunger is about an older man who looked after his aging mother until her death at 91. He never married and through the poems he reflects on being married to the rhythms of farming while a virgin to life's deeper mysteries. David's uncles followed the same path, so the poems set in motion some interesting reflection for he and I both.