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Interpolated Stories, by David Rose

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In his published works David Rose consistently pushes the boundaries of narrative. He seems dissatisfied with the linear drag of plot, its imposition on reality. His previous works include ‘Vault: an anti-novel’, and a vertiginous voyage through human lives in ‘Meridian: A Day in the Life with Incidental Voices’. The subtitles already tell the reader not to expect a straight-forward plot.

It’s good to be forewarned. Reading David Rose fiction can be a bit like seeing a piece of modern art when your whole sensibility is accustomed to viewing landscape paintings.

For this collection Rose took some unpublished stories he was dissatisfied with, finding them too conventional. So he ‘self-vandalised’ the text with authorial comments. He calls this his ‘interventionist technique’. The result is generally a ‘glimpse in the life’ style of story, with little plot, overlain with boldface comments which disrupt the text.

The first glimpse is of an art gallery guard, the second of a man in a post office frenetically observing those before him in the queue. (We quickly learn is about to rob the place.) The third features an entertainer at children’s parties. The stories are written in short sentences, it’s page-turning prose – nothing too obscure, no reaching for a dictionary. The interpolations are stumbling blocks, making the reader pause and reassess what’s happening. I’d actually be perfectly happy reading the undisrupted story (i.e. ignoring the boldface comments as far as possible). It’s fascinating to get such an intense focus on moments in mundane lives. The interpolations are like an added puzzle, stretching your brain in a different direction, not always illuminating but casting a different light. Sometimes the voice of the comments is the author in a different mood, sometimes they are pseudo-academic, and in one piece a ghostly presence.

Decrescendo is an intriguing oddity among the eight pieces. It's related in the same first person deliberative style of the stories featuring a security guard or fireman. But this one is about one man's dalliances with various philosophies – he has a period of Ayers, then a fascination with Wittgenstein.

“But in the long terrain of middle life, as the solipsism became loneliness, the cosmic silence ominous, I turned instead to Spinoza.”

The battle against solipsism – the isolation of the individual – is engrained in his life. The 'meaning of life' is not what concerns him. The account is in a calm neutral style, as though every fireman, office clerk, and building site worker on the planet each have their own story of personal progression through schools of philosophy. Maybe with periods of infatuation with lesser-known thinkers – or perhaps the path of religious faith. The interpolations in this piece are all biblical quotations – I need to go back again, I'm close to unlocking this story.

The book contains eight images by the artist Leah Leaf 'created in response to the stories. They are photos or collages – the one to accompany Smoke for example is a woman's face obscured by her unruly red hair and pressed up against a pane of glass. When you read the story you understand why. This use of images is like another layer of commentary, another form of distancing from the text.

In Under the Plan our (again unnamed) protagonist is getting a licence renewed. His skull measurements, distance between the eyes, etc are measured. Straight off we know we are in the realm of speculative fiction (that's what they started calling sci-fi without the ray guns). Pretty much every mainstream writer of gravitas – Joyce Carol Oates, John Banville – has turned their hand to speculative fiction at some point, so why not. It seems to be a totalitarian world developed from the fascist tendencies in the 1930s USA. Perhaps a speculation of the direction things might have taken had Germany not gone there first. It feels like the initial pages of world-building but it's all we get.

Here's what i mean by the 'deliberate' prose style: you're at some level aware of the narrator choosing his words.

The foreman waved the bulldozer over, got the others crushing bricks to fill in the dip, then the driver pounded them down. I managed to find a beam about the right length, laid it across, checked with the spirit level.

They dug out some of the rubble, flattened it again, added a bit more, until I felt satisfied. I let the jack down, craned the unit over, lowered it into place, checked with the plumb line, gave them the nod. There was another round of cheering.

Foreman suggested a brew, so they could test it. We drank it by the bonfire of splintered rafters.

Tags: David Rose, Interpolated Stories
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Renaud Contini’s The Infinite Castle

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The Infinite Castle, a novel by Renaud Contini, 2022

Renaud Contini is a young writer and philosopher from France who has lived in Dublin for several years. He kept (still keeps?) an online philosophical notebook (three actually), with extra sections of aphorisms and poems and translations. He has developed his own philosophy he calls ‘Open Monism’, and has posted several YouTube videos talking about it. It’s a massive body of work and I’m not qualified to judge it. But he clearly enjoys working through it and is not currently worried about academic acceptance.

He has also written a book on the INFJ personality type (Myers Briggs), The Ecstatic Soul which has sold very very well – he showed me the Amazon sales backend. In any case, if you ever meet Renaud, you will conclude fairly quickly he’s not someone inclined to craftiness and subterfuge.

If you feel like you have a great idea but fail to express it in language in a way that does justice to it, do not automatically suppose that the idea wasn’t good. Create a new language first, to give the idea a chance. Then, you will know.

The Infinite Castle is his second published novel – self-published, like all his works.

“I have been condemned for a serious crime.”

It gets off to a running start. A man (called Lynch as we later learn) is incarcerated in a glass cube apparently suspended above a city. His way of thinking has a strange logic to it. He readily accepts his fate, but rather than speculate about the obvious question of who may have abducted him, he reasons that he must have committed a major crime. He sets himself the task of reassembling his life from memory, to understand who he is and what this place is. There is conveniently a white laptop on the table.

“Will my memories be enough to patch up my soul?”

“If at times it seems like I’m not making sense, remember this: the goal is not to be intelligible by the yardstick of a rational mind, but to preserve the unity of my being.”

The story has an impetus to it that is both narrative and logical: we went to know what happens next and we also want to understand the mystery. The stage is set for an alternation of chapters between the present moment in the glass prison and his past.

Frankly I love the premise. It’s Black Mirror, it’s Kafka, it’s seventies sci-fi. It’s also Sartre and maybe a few others I know little of.

Lynch recalls his job in some kind of educational admin role. He relates the tale of how he got the habit of opening the office windows to let in fresh air. He doesn’t understand why he keeps doing this – he develops a theory that it is to open a space of freedom for himself. “The modern world doesn’t hate wrong actions but strange ones.” He soon gets invited for a chat with the staff counsellor.

It’s wonderful stuff, weaving between our narrator’s compulsive philosophising and his window-opening antics. Lynch actually likes his co-workers, he is considerate of them – he just thinks in a very very different way. The office scenes are not to be read as ‘alienated man in a meaningless job’. They are more a demonstration and celebration of the vast gulf between thought and everyday actions – the huge whirling excess of thoughts we (or some) carry around in heads.

Then back to the glass cage again, where apparently it is always 4am. He discovers – with dream-like suddenness – that he is not alone, but shares the space with an androgynous stranger who claims to be his superego. This person, or entity, waits every night to read Lynch’s diary entries. Lynch, as we mentioned, is writing his memories in a white laptop in order to understand who and where he is.

I cannot think offhand of any novel to compare, beyond muttering inanely ‘Kafka’. It’s like the cult film Brazil in being byzantine, exuberant, and zany. The mood, or rather mode, changes from realism to irreal, from philosophy to slapstick humour.

Things take an interesting twist – I was going to say surreal twist, but the novel started off surreal – when Lynch continues going in to the office building each day, skulking around on different floors, and gets the idea that he can work as a janitor, creating the position for himself as it were.

This secret mission of subverting the system is one of the highlights of the book. He discovers an under-the-stairs space he can make his office and sets about acquiring the skills he needs. And, as in all sections of the novel, there are odd philosophical forays: “I couldn’t yet ally with humans, but what stopped me from enlisting objects? The world was mostly made up of objects: give them a coordinator and nothing could stop them.”

These rococo introspections are often fascinating, but work best when they relate to the current events in the story and are not interminably free-wheeling. And yes, I’m sure it’s possible to trace the origins, Sartre, Deleuze, etc, of these thoughts, but that wouldn’t be relevant. They manifest themselves as obsessions, not as intellectual contemplation.

I really enjoyed the convoluted cogitations about sex and his musings about underwear. “all I can see is holes” etc. I’ve read my Sartre for Dummies – I can spot it’s playing around with the idea of the Nothingness that allows Being to be perceived. It’s hilarious and deadpan, taking the story on a side turn.

The novel begins to drag in the middle. It is a bit unbalanced – not in the mental sense, because of course it’s all demented – but in the sense of the balance of introspective passages, narrative drive, and drama. There are some non-sequiturs an editor would have cut. At times there are too many mood and topic changes to follow: we lose track of the original clearly-stated aim and wonder where the story is going. Sometimes it’s not not clear whether certain thoughts take place in the past or in the present incarcerated state. There are subplots – for example an encounter with a man who invites him to a mysterious elite club – which seem arbitrary. Maybe the irreal is something that best works with crystalline intensity.

I would honestly love to see this novel republished after a thorough editing from someone in tune with it. There is so much here that is fascinating and startlingly original.

Tags: Contini, Sartre
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Hangdog Souls by Marc Joan

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Deixis Press, UK

Marc Joan has had stories published in many magazines and anthologies, including The Mirror in the Mirror from Comma Press. A short novel The Speckled God came out a couple of years ago with Unsung Stories.

Marc Joan grew up in South India and this novel-length associatively-linked collection of fictions is set there. The possibility of alternative realities weaves in and out, linking stories of Faustian pacts with the particle physics sci-fi ending. (Which is one of the best sections – Marc Joan is a scientist by training.) Spiritualism, horror, colonialism, and repressive customs are all driving themes. Joan’s characters often have an awareness that they are at the mercy of greater powers, whether worldly or spiritual. Some among them are the ‘hangdog souls’ of the title who have compromised with power for their own sake or the sake of loved ones.

Horror seems to be making a return into literary fiction, in Britain at any rate, and Marc Joan is part of that wave. But in the South Indian setting, horror and spirituality merge; horror is real to the believers, and is not ‘gothic horror’ in the European sense.

The individual has limited freedom and must bow to his/her fate, and yet can still choose to do the right thing. I get a sense of the vastness of the world and history from these stories.

One of the longest pieces is the purely realistic study of social mores The Mirror. The ‘monster’ lurking at the core of this story is the custom of arranged marriage. Its evil impact on two brothers and a girl is unfolded over a decade and a half. I got a choking feeling of life and freedom gradually being sucked away under the compression of tradition and family expectations. Only as small children were they fully alive.

Another astonishing tale in the collection is The Dairymen, about two college friends who go into business harvesting scorpion (B. Tamulus) venom by milking it from the stressed insects. They have been assured of the price by a personal phone call to a scientist (PhD from Cambridge!) at a major company in In. On that basis they have invested in dry ice equipment and six months of their time.

It’s got that contingent random feel to it so you feel sure the author must have got the premise from reality.

It’s a rare treat and anyone with a background in the sub-continent or who has trekked around India will have a special appreciation of the book.

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Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant

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by Edmond Caldwell. First published in 2012, this edition 2022.

In this book Edmond Caldwell is a purist writer with a visceral aversion to the artifices of fiction, such as plot, character development, dramatic turning points.

I can understand that. Such techniques often feel cheap and meretricious, sugar to help the medicine go down.

His reluctance to pander to the reader extends even to paragraphing – he dispenses with them. Dispenses too with the typical disclaimer ” … names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons …”

He is on a mission to achieve authenticity, perhaps, or to break down the borders that limit fiction and make it 'safe'. He wants to shape a new type of writing.

One of his characters begins to explain it but stops: “As a writer I'm committed to an anti-story aesthetic, or rather anti-aesthetic, blowing up story and aesthetics from-“

Caldwell's stance seems to be one of both taste and philosophy. There is anger and resentment in these pages. He/his narrator seems to doubt the idea of human agency. Agency is part of the myth and the story-telling we console ourselves with.

And so these episodic adventures of our 'wayfarer' emerge from that attitude of doubt and anger with the world.

It begins with our narrator in the baggage claim area after a return home flight to the USA. He tells us his appearance is a touch Middle-Eastern, and in the subsequent chapters he is often sensitive about this, and imagines others perceive him variously as a terrorist or a Jew. He is about to crack a joke with a fellow passenger waiting at the carousel, but holds his tongue and decides the response would be friendlier if his blonde-haired wife were by his side and not in the rest room.

This first section is a close observation of an in-between space and a preoccupied state of mind. “They remained in one of those In-between spaces that exist only in airports … ” he muses. “There were hotels, and especially airport hotels. There were highway rest stops. There were the spaces of shopping malls, including the food courts, and the more confined spaces of supermax prisons.” That's a meta hint: the subsequent sections visit precisely these places. It's episodic, rambling, very real, and always run through with the narrator's endless thoughts circling in his mind. Often these thoughts become the main narrative and the sense of location recedes. This is so particularly in the section Time and Motion. It's an extended treatise examining the development of American capitalism by focusing on the history of the Arsenal Mall: in its early days as an arms factory it was the site of the first recorded workers' strike against the Taylor system of scientific management.

The book (marketed as a novel but it isn't) has the appearance and quality of autofiction. But there's no info on the author publicly available. For example the book's narrator is adopted, but I can find no such info on the author. I googled “Edmond Caldwell biography” and I found this: Author's Bio: information about the individual calling himself “Edmond Caldwell,” claiming to be a “writer” and publishing so-called fiction in intranets “zines” such as Word Riot, DIAGRAM, and SmokeLong Quarterly, please contact the Boston Police Department.

(Caldwell died suddenly in July 2017 and a movement grew to see this novel republished in the UK.)

Once the reader loses their expectations of plot, they can enjoy the book – it's like signing up for a holiday and after a couple of hours in the train realising that there will be no destination.

In the second chapter he is in a hotel outside a major airport, and on a leisurely stroll sees there are five or six other hotels in the vicinity – the vicinity being a nowhere-place surrounded by motorways. “As tired as he was he could not help continuing to reason, restlessly to reason.” He begins to realise this is a zone of hotels for people who have been bumped off their flights, connected solely by shuttle bus to the airport and nowhere else. It's a zone where one might feel one's sense of self dissolve. He perceives the things around him as being 'laminated' and the reader will intuit what he means. He walks further and comes across a village, but it is not a real village “it was shiny and clean and laminated and new”. (Something very like this happened to me on a hill walk around Oxford. We came across a village with an olde village school and olde village parsonage – but these old stone buildings were now private residences for commuters to Oxford city a mere 10 minute drive away.)

But it doesn't get bleak. Our narrator is always thinking, making connections, speculating, observing the rabbits, the typeface of road signs, making associations with historical events – and also worrying about how he might appear foreign to others.

And so it goes on. In the next section he is in St. Petersburg. Not exactly a holiday, he has gone with his wife who is at an academic conference. Again he is restlessly wandering, always puzzling, trying to penetrate the essence of this place.

His anger with the publishing industry emerges in the lost Beckett play section. “It's a platform, see? You can't get a lift-off these days if you don't have a platform!” Hodge (apparently an alter-ego of the narrator) screeches.”These days it's the mainstream or it's nothing.” He needs a provocation, and so unveils a plan to kidnap the critic (he's real) James Wood.

Well, you can see why this novel was never going to be accepted by one of the big 5 publishers and launched into the stratosphere.

William Storr in his book The Science of Storytelling expresses says this (in 2019, after Caldwell's book which in all probability never came to his attention):

Humans might be in unique possession of the knowledge that our existence is essentially meaningless, but we carry on as if in ignorance of it. We beetle away happily, into our minutes, hours and days, with the fact of the void hovering over us. To look directly into it, and respond with an entirely rational descent into despair, is to be diagnosed with a mental-health condition, categorised as somehow faulty.

The cure for the horror is story. Our brains distract us from this terrible truth by filling our lives with hopeful goals and encouraging us to strive for them.

Edmond Caldwell's narrator:

“Story was a trap, a false friend, an unreliable prosthetic, a delusion. He would go without story to make his fortune, without story his literary fortune would be made.”

That lost play by Beckett is a bit juvenile, too smug with its own irreverence. I had thought the book was on a journey from aimless interiority towards a greater sense of being embedded in history – a sense perhaps of having to make the decision to be involved in history. But then the Beckett play comes along and it's too showy for me – intellectual sparring while trying to shock with sexually explicit banter. I didn't understand why that section was included.

The book is defiantly original and stubborn, I keep going back to read sections again, seeing new things in it.

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The Guiltless Bystander – short story collection from the late David Wheldon

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My friend the doctor and writer David Wheldon passed away on January 7th 2021. His death was sudden: he had suffered from a degenerative nerve illness for many years but seemed to be in general good health otherwise.

I had posted about Wheldon’s novels in a blog years before I ever began to exchange emails with him. Then in 2017, after my debut collection of short stories was published, I wrote a longer article in The Stinging Fly on my first encounter with Wheldon’s strange early novels.

I had good the fortune to meet David in person in Bedford, in the summer of 2016. We went from the Bedford Swan to a couple of local pubs. He walked with the aid of a zimmer frame. At one point he pushed it aside to demonstrate that he had more than enough strength to walk, but he preferred to use the frame as something to hold onto and stop the trembling of his hands.

By then we had been exchanging emails for a year or so and continued to do so until his sudden death. Mostly our emails were chats about his medical work, my small son, the rapid pace of change. We also talked about stories we were working on. David was constantly writing new stories and revising old ones. He wrote every day, even though he had given up all thought of submitting his work for publication.

That changed in about 2017 when I alerted another writer, David Rose, to Wheldon's work. David Rose read Wheldon's stories and immediately appreciated them. He was able to pitch them to a couple of literary magazines, including Woven Tale Press and Confingo. Over the next two or three years Wheldon's stories began to appear regularly. A longer piece, The Automaton, was selected by Nightjar Press to be published in booklet form. (Nightjar run a beautiful limited-edition series of individually published stories.)

Wheldon's stories often take a premise and run with it: a man discovers medical documents relating to his birth which report that he was born without a brain, a woman gets a job in a factory making prayers, a boy suspects that the chess-playing automaton does more than just play chess, a man inherits the role of signal-tower keeper in a line of Martello-type towers of indefinite extent. The ideas kept coming to him. He wrote several stories set in the past, seemingly set in provincial England in the decade when he was a medical student. But in these stories too there are moments where we realise we are reading a surreal story and the historical details are vivid but don't pin the story down.

The Guiltless Bystander by Wheldon

A few days after hearing of his death, his wife, the artist Sarah Longlands, told me that David had been working on the final edits of a short story collection due to be published by Confingo. This came as a surprise. David had never mentioned it in his emails – perhaps he didn't quite accept it was 100% certain.

David had been so long out of contact with literary circles that his passing went unremarked by the literary world. But through the efforts of David Rose and his publisher, a short obituary notice appeared in the Bookseller magazine. The title of the new collection was mentioned: The Guiltless Bystander.

Some time later Tim Shearer at Confingo contacted me. He had read my Stinging Fly Re:fresh essay on Wheldon's work some years before. He wanted me to write a foreword to The Guiltless Bystander.

I was surprised and humbled. I would have thought the honour would be more fitting for an established writer whose reputation could draw new attention to Wheldon's new work. But on the other hand Wheldon's life as writer and doctor makes for an interesting story and not many are in a position to tell it.

And so here it is today, beautifully illustrated by a painting of unfinished violins on a shelf, made by Wheldon's widow the artist Sarah Longlands.

David Wheldon's own minimalist website is still up and running and has lots of his poetry and some unpublished stories.

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GIGANTIC by Ashley Stokes

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This is a thoroughly enjoyable read and a bit of a suprise from Ashley Stokes. His short story collection Syllabus of Errors was allusive, elusive, spiked with flashes of dark insight into the nightmare of history.

I have strong memories of that book eight or nine years later. Complex stories that are worth reading several times – in other words I should go back and read it again.

But his new novel is a rambunctious adventure following a trio of cryptozoologists on the track of the North Surrey Gigantopithecus – the Surrey equivalent of the yeti.

 “You’ve not experienced that thrill when suddenly, for a moment, you glimpse it between the trees – gigantic, proud, alive, part of us, the missing bit of us – ”

Novel by Ashley Stokes

Kevin Stubbs holds down a job in IT by day, and at night he kits up with camcorders, thermal imaging device and sample jars for a session of stake-out operations through the woods. The obsessive search for the beast has cost him dearly – his Ukranian wife has custody of their small son. The local wags chant “Monkey magic” when he goes into the boozer. But Kevin is on the brink of The Great Confirmation when the whole world will queue at his doorstep and his son will finally be proud of his old man.

The novel is full of laugh-out-loud moments – after a description of the Aleister Crowley-devotee fourth-dimension-probing third team member, Kevin relates in a deadpan tone:  “This is one of the things about getting involved in the GIT. You meet people you wouldn’t ordinarily meet …”

But the leader of this 3-person team – Maxine – is a complete and total skeptic! There’s a thoroughly plausible backstory to this. And when you think of it, what fanatical skeptic wouldn’t jump at the chance of being appointed head of a team of pseudo-scientists?

Despite this, the trio have a warm loyalty to each other. The novel is structured around the official reports written by Maxine (aka the Sci-borg) followed by Kevin’s passionate extrapolations and background stories. Kevin Stubbs is a fascinating ‘anorak’ cynical/gullible character with lots of wry looks at suburbia. His exchanges with Max are hilarious – this cryptid-busting trio could easily be the premise for a long-running comedy series.

It’s great fun to read of the traditions and lore of this tight-knit confraternity. They have their decades-old grainy footage of the beast, competing theories (is the creature paranormal or a primate), discussions about sensing equipment, and memories of the founding fathers of the movement. It can feel like a cross between an extremist political cell and a local hill-walker’s group.

There is a hilarious incongruence between the dry notes by Maxine (“There was some delay in leaving the property due to a dispute about money and the witness’s reservations about GIT Cryptozoologist Funnel”) and the expansive and passionate accounts Kevin gives.

 “You’ve not experienced that thrill when suddenly, for a moment, you glimpse it between the trees – gigantic, proud, alive, part of us, the missing bit of us – ”

Clearly the Gigantopithecus is a proxy for that one last piece of magical mystery in life, that secret magic we still believe in. Stokes throws in a few associations with the lost forests of England – we feel a distant yearning for the impenetrable forest – Andreaswald, the dreaming forest of England – and the wild beasts that roam therein. We crave a few relict stands of trees that have escaped the concrete, the planning, the cultivation – I think of Hopkin’s lines:

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;  /   And bears man’s smudge, and shares man’s smell;  

The novel was also a bit of a nostalgia trip for me, as Stokes peppers the story with references to 1970’s formative influences, including Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious World, the UFO craze, Judge Dredd, role-playing games, and also that familiar small-town scene of the local wags at the bar passing sarcastic comments.

Great tale, ingeniously put together, builds up momentum to a thrilling ending.

Will A. Stokes stay with lick-your-thumb novels of suburban intrigue or will he go back to the challenge of divining the widening gyres of idiocy and extremism?

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Selected Posts

  • Backstory of a book
    2019-02-22
  • Stinging Fly Wheldon essay
    2017-07-24
  • The Blocks by Karl Parkinson
    2016-10-02
  • London Trip
    2016-09-05
  • Honest Ulsterman interview
    2016-02-29
  • Greetings, Hero launch Hodges Figgis
    2014-11-21

Selected pages

  • Debut Book
  • Publications
  • Writers' Workbench at Block T

Crucial

  • . .
  • Asylum books
  • Buy the book at Kennys
  • Daniel Seery
  • David Mohan
  • Djelloul Marbrook
  • Gorse magazine
  • Slava Nesterov Artist
  • The Penny Dreadful
  • The road to publication
  • The Short Review
  • The Short Review
  • Unthology

Other links

  • . .
  • Karl Parkinson's The Blocks
  • Unthology 4 review
  • Wandering minstrel Larry Beau

What I'm up to

  • Buy the book at Kennys
  • Examiner review
  • Irish Times / Ashley Stokes
  • Irish Times Q+A Irish Times Q+A
  • The road to publication

Recent posts

  • Interpolated Stories, by David Rose
  • Renaud Contini’s The Infinite Castle
  • Hangdog Souls by Marc Joan
  • Writers’ Workbench, Block T Dublin 8
  • New writing course at Crumlin College
  • Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant

Quotation

The Tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction
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