I am now (ack! agack!) a week+ behind. And miles and miles and miles from home. But still reading along. Still loving it. Just got up to the legend of Jem Casey, Poet of the Pick. Gold, and nothing but the shiny stuff. Now don’t wait for me. Onward! Onward! Next week: I can only hope I’ll see you all at the bottom of page 209 (Dalkey), where the Pooka himself sez it best and sez it all: “We are honoured that you accept our poor offerings…You are very kind”….
Frist!
I’m of two minds about how polite and upbeat the Pooka is portrayed. The Devil is, after all, a gentleman and a creature of light, so that could be justified; but throughout Irish tradition the pooka was much more frightening, or at the very least much more of a trickster (playing honestly at cards!? whatever is the world coming to?).
O’Brien’s Dublin is a very civilized world; and perhaps he needed a strong contrast with the outland-ish cowboys. So I’m not protesting, just registering the disquiet which this implementation of the role brings upon me.
“O’Brien’s Dublin is a very civilized world”
This puts me in mind of that descriptor we keep getting of the narrator’s uncle: “Clerkship. Guiness brewery. Third class.” These aren’t your roustabout Nighttown dandies; more censorious than boisterous, a little more lace curtain maybe, more Catholic?
Which in turn puts me in mind of one of the funniest scenes in this stretch for me: uncle and Mr. ? (no book in front of me) cranking up the phonograph, with the uncle’s red roll of neckfat shifting position as he sings along with the disc.
Up there with the “Irishmen are great jumpers” bit in making this deathmarch well worth the boot leather.
Don’t know much about the pooka-lore.
Or why fairies don’t live here anymore,
(now I’ve done it)
But I like the role reversal-bit, especially as it applies to the good fairy, whose belligerence, as when he threatens to knock someone’s (one of the cowboy’s I think) jaw off, is really hilarious. As someone who has tried and consistently failed to write more than 2 contiguous kilobytes of right-sounding dialog, I have to admire O’Brian’s skill with it. More than anything, I think that’s what keeps his preposterous fiction alive and kicking. Maybe casting some characters against type also helps?
Only about four months behind here, but I’m back at it and just got to page 209. Either I gave up just before one of the best parts of the book, or I was burnt out and am now a bit brain-freshened. Either way, this sequence struck as the most out-and-out fun so far. The poker game was flawless entertainment, and in particular (as Cort said way back in September) the Fairy’s righteous fury. Onward!
Frist!
I’m of two minds about how polite and upbeat the Pooka is portrayed. The Devil is, after all, a gentleman and a creature of light, so that could be justified; but throughout Irish tradition the pooka was much more frightening, or at the very least much more of a trickster (playing honestly at cards!? whatever is the world coming to?).
O’Brien’s Dublin is a very civilized world; and perhaps he needed a strong contrast with the outland-ish cowboys. So I’m not protesting, just registering the disquiet which this implementation of the role brings upon me.
I, too, am behind, after a brutal work week, but I strive, strive I tell you, to catch up.
“O’Brien’s Dublin is a very civilized world”
This puts me in mind of that descriptor we keep getting of the narrator’s uncle: “Clerkship. Guiness brewery. Third class.” These aren’t your roustabout Nighttown dandies; more censorious than boisterous, a little more lace curtain maybe, more Catholic?
Which in turn puts me in mind of one of the funniest scenes in this stretch for me: uncle and Mr. ? (no book in front of me) cranking up the phonograph, with the uncle’s red roll of neckfat shifting position as he sings along with the disc.
Up there with the “Irishmen are great jumpers” bit in making this deathmarch well worth the boot leather.
Don’t know much about the pooka-lore.
Or why fairies don’t live here anymore,
(now I’ve done it)
But I like the role reversal-bit, especially as it applies to the good fairy, whose belligerence, as when he threatens to knock someone’s (one of the cowboy’s I think) jaw off, is really hilarious. As someone who has tried and consistently failed to write more than 2 contiguous kilobytes of right-sounding dialog, I have to admire O’Brian’s skill with it. More than anything, I think that’s what keeps his preposterous fiction alive and kicking. Maybe casting some characters against type also helps?
Only about four months behind here, but I’m back at it and just got to page 209. Either I gave up just before one of the best parts of the book, or I was burnt out and am now a bit brain-freshened. Either way, this sequence struck as the most out-and-out fun so far. The poker game was flawless entertainment, and in particular (as Cort said way back in September) the Fairy’s righteous fury. Onward!