John Cronin mentions something interesting in “Liam O’Flaherty and Dúil” (New Hibernia Review 7, 1 (Spring 2003), 48, might have to pay for it or something) : an article by Brian Ó Conchubhair (“Liam Ó Flaithearta agus Scríobh na Gaeilge: Ceist Airgid nó Cinneadh Chonradh na Gaeilge?” New Hibernia Review, 4, 2 (Summer, 2000), 116–140) about Liam O'Flaherty and his use of Irish and, incidentally, his relationship with the Gaelic League's magazine Fáinne an Lae.

...O'Flaherty was speedily but surreptitiously banned from publishing in that journal. This process of silent but effective exclusion stemmed, according to Ó Conchubhair, from O’Flaherty’s public flouting of the orthodox Catholic proprieties of Ireland’s new order.O’Flaherty’s affair with Margaret Barrington, wife of Professor Edmund Curtis, his eventual marriage to her, and then the birth of their daughter, Pegeen, were unacceptable to Pádraic Ó Domhnalláin, editor of Fáinne an Lae, and the Gaelic League now shunned O’Flaherty without publicly proclaiming its ban.

Of course the interesting thing is the “surreptitiously”. Not one to flinch from a controversy, O'Flaherty most likely didn't care to inflame the matter out of regard for others involved. I believe this sort of thing happens quite often, church or no church, in publishing circles as well as any other. Wherever people join in doing something, you have to expect surreptitious ejections, expuences, and gainwitterings.

Labels: Literature

“There! I've read everything, but everything, of importance about Flupke. Which is good, because I don't think I could possibly read another two words. Not another syllable. Because, while it is all essential and useful for my scholarly work, some of it is undoubtedly kind of tedious. Some of the stuff is ... interesting, certainly ... but do I really need to be aware of the brand of lubricant used on U-Bahn trains of the Nord-Süd line in 1932-36, even if it is mentioned, possibly, in the master's 'Heirloom'? And the information that his cousin's pet anteater was named 'Tom'. Aha. It all makes sense now, doesn't it. Well. I don't know why I read that. But I can't very well not read it. I am committed. But I am tired now. It is time for me to don my 'size medium pyjamas', as Flupke so drily writes in Kapok, and go to bed. Or, 'go to bed', as he cleverly put it in his verse-drama of the same name. Yes ... ” And so the scholar retired for the night, done with his files and notes. There was a list of citations to go over in the morning, mainly to ascertain that he had already considered them or was familiar with their content, but for the time being he had a handle on everything written so far about F. B. Flupke, novelist, poet, playwright, librettist, essayist, feuilletonist, copyist, plagiarist, liar, thimblerigger, tictac man, contortionist, tout, hemppicker, shithead. Huh?

In his dream the scholar saw a marvelously unspecified bird flutter out of the woods and alight on his knee, flicking its head sideways to offer the whisp of paper clamped in its beak. He took the paper and the bird hopped to a safe distance, anxious to see what would happen next. The scholar looked at the note. It read, “Please send me some chocolate-covered biscuits. And not the cheap kind -- F. B. Flupke.” And the scholar woke up suddenly and said:

“Fuck me sideways. You great, fetid bag of shit. Just another festering hole in the universe. I mean, the man was obviously a towering asshole of unprocessed opinions and thoughtless piss-taking, a feckless, tiresome jerkoff, a poseur and a cunt. His manner was abominable. His beard was not normal facial hair, but a matted growth of dried spittle and dust, caused by talking all the time and spitting every which way. His voice alone was a pain in the nuts, quite apart from the insolent twaddle it conveyed. That's the opinion I've now come to, anyway.” And he went back to sleep.

It is strange how long it can take someone to discover his true vocation.

Labels: Flupke, Literature