(cc photo by infomatique)
Just one more post about Ireland and then it’s back to close reading of lurid crime thrillers (currently on the Wolfe nightstand: The Fifth Witness – the new Michael Connelly rushed to the stores to capitalize on the Lincoln Lawyer movie starring Matthew McAbdominal) to ready ourself for this summer’s discussion series we foolishly agreed to lead. Before Ireland got rich, decades ago, when they were casting around for ways to be not poor, the Dáil thought it would be keen to get writers to come live in the Republic. (We know. It’s like that awful joke about the dumb starlet) so they excused writers from paying income tax. We seriously thought about declaring ourself a writer, but didn’t do it, and we’ve always wondered what it would have been like. We don’t know if that’s still the deal there, but what we do know is that writers still get respect in Ireland. We visited the Dublin Writers Museum on Parnell Square, which is in a splendid row long inhabited by one of the distilling Jamesons. What a concept! There were little scaps and notebooks and dusty typewriters and helpful explanations and fading photos. It was grand. And on the next day we wandered into the National Library where there was an elaborate and very fond W.B.Yeats exhibition, possibly funded with Public Funds.