Anthony Cronin
Cronin relates his encounters with the Dublin literary characters of the period. He too was part of that milieu, but with a kind of modesty – the bad kind – he says little about himself.
This is not my story. If it were I would describe the effect a first introduction to that great and gracious land (Italy) has on the traveller.
It became clear to me that he is relating the adventures with Brendan Behan not because these were so interesting in themselves, nor because he, Cronin, belatedly recognizes Behan as a writer of genius. They are related because some 12 or more years later it was Behan out of the motley company who became famous. Other characters get short shrift – a quick portrait of a barman called John is an exception.
Read on …
Cronin conveys the impression that the character he sees in the pub is the writer. Admittedly he has set himself the restriction of relating only what he personally witnessed, but there’s too much wallowing in pub scandals. Celebrity gossip from the man-about-town. A different narrator would perhaps have recalled different scenes, might have recalled some events involving less well-known but interesting characters.
“People are the same wherever you go.” But are they? Maybe in some periods or places they are more snide, hypocritical, cynical. The denizen’s of Cronin’s 1950’s pub scene for example. Unbounded generosity appears, but usually in the form of rounds of drink. I would have run a mile from McDaid’s den. Run a thousand in fact, to America or further. God, I’m glad the 1950’s are over. I’m glad I’m not a writer.
The damage due to an excess of alcohol and distortion of sexual relations comes across with no need of authorial comment. Many of the festering loyalities and petty begrudgery are typical of the alcoholic. Cronin however seems to acquiesce in what the man sitting at the bar will tell you; you’re not an alcoholic as long as you’re drinking Guinness.
Kavanagh drank stout in those days as a staple and was seldom drunk, or at least no drunker than the rest of us. . . . in later years whiskey had become the master and was cracking the whip.
Again in talking of Kavanagh:
At the time, personal affection, the intoxication of the daily company of genius and, I might add, the zest for combat, concealed much from me . . .
Don’t be such a crawler, Cronin. The genius of a writer is in his writing, not his bar-talk. You’d have been better off getting off that stool and going back to your desk, exchanging a few letters with budding writers.
Had to laugh when I came across this bit later (concerning two Scottish artists):
And there was one strange circumstance: in those days they did not drink. They were not teetotallers; they took a glass of wine or two; but the serious drinking was to come later.
I was glad to finish this book. It was a surprise how I could come to dislike so much an author who has gone to some effort to efface himself from the narrative.
Valancourt The Viaduct reissue
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Irish Times Q+A