Reviews for The Letters of Liam O'Flaherty

The average rating for The Letters of Liam O'Flaherty based on 2 reviews is 4 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2015-04-18 00:00:00 Michael Ranney Samuel Beckett was so full of shit. I say this with all due respect, but I'm not kidding. How else would you characterize a writer who gloomily intones, 'There is no communication because there are no vehicles of communication' - and proceeds to test drive every 'vehicle of communication' on the lot? Or who constantly bitches and moans about the 'torture' of writing a 'simple sentence', yet somehow manages to squeeze out eight novels, dozens of dramatic works and about 15 000 letters in his career? To say that Beckett's theory was at odds with his practice is putting it mildly; they could hardly stand being in the same room together. Maybe it was a mistake to try and read The Letters of Samuel Beckett at the same time as I was reading Into the Whirlwind, Evgenia Ginzburg's memoir of the gulag. The contrast is not very flattering to Beckett. Ginzburg's book, for all its horrors, ends up being oddly inspiring; Beckett's correspondence, for all its wit, has the oppressive ambience of a nightmare. Although officially I'm still a Beckett fan, I've been nursing a vague animosity towards the guy for a while now, and I think it's time the two of us stepped outside and settled this thing once and for all. Of course, in a fair fight I wouldn't stand a chance against Big Sam and his unassailable reputation, so I'm going to come in with a low blow right off the bat (that's not a mixed metaphor; it's a cocktail). On the dust jacket of the letters, following a friendly little puff from Tom Stoppard, there's a truly nauseating pronouncement from a certain Professor Jean-Michel Rabaté, beginning: 'Knowing as we do that Samuel Beckett is the only writer who can sum up the agonies and ecstasies of the twentieth century…' As Orwell might have said, only a professor could be that stupid. Overlooking the unfortunate invocation of Irving Stone, let me just say that this statement, apart from being vulgar, is simply untrue. I know it's not Beckett's fault that he's been blurbed by an idiot, but Rabaté's sloppy wet ass-kissing is symptomatic of the awful academic piety that gathers around certain names and ideas, nullifying the possibility of serious discussion at the outset. I'm not disputing Beckett's genius, and I won't deny that this volume contains a good dozen phrases that'll stagger you with their brilliance, but philosophically and temperamentally, I just can't get behind Beckett anymore. His Eeyorism is relentless, implacable, exhausting. On an intellectual level, I can admit we've all been flung irredeemably into a vast cosmic shithouse, but at the same time, something emotional and histrionic inside me is shouting, 'No, damn you! I want to live! Why won't you let me LIVE?' Considering the mature Beckett's laconism, what's surprising is how over-written and clever-clever a lot of these letters are. Granted, Beckett was still a young man and still trying to 'find his voice' (hint: it's in the library) but what kind of jerk-off writes to a girl he wants to screw in the following terms: ...I shall content myself with remarking that the various eviscerations characteristic of my distemper are at the very top of their form. Can you imagine a quarry in ebullition? I have now ceased to wish to amuse you. Forgive me. Now whereas this interesting neolithic effervescence had hitherto been so forgiving as to wish to confine itself roughly to my centre of inertia and environs, it has lately begun to embrace me without fear or favour from sinciput to planta. Um, yeah, it pretty much goes on like that for another couple of pages. And this was supposed to be a love letter? Huh? (As an aside, how come these pathetic emo boys get all the chicks? Not that I'm bitter or anything.) Being a good Canadian, I'm not cut out for iconoclasm and, believe me, I'm as horrified at my own impertinence as you are. If it'd make you feel any better, you can go ahead and accuse me of aesthetic inadequacy or spiritual embourgeoisement or whatever. You won't get much of an argument from me. The fact is, I just don't have the energy to be a nihilist anymore. At least not while 30 Rock is on. Jesus, next thing you know, I'll be standing up for family values, balanced budgets, SUVs and a well-regulated sex life. Middle age, ce n'est pas drôle du tout.

Review # 2 was written on 2020-04-14 00:00:00 Brian Payne You have to love, or at least be profoundly intrigued by, Beckett to take on the (projected) four volumes of his letters. If you are, you have two choices. Start with volume 2, which covers the period when Beckett's genius took form, or start with volume 1 and know that you're in it for the intimations of what's to come. For me, it was worth it. There are a dozen or so letters--msot of them written to Tom McGreevy (Beckett's friend and minor writer) but also a terrific letter (9 Juoy 1937) written to a German friend Axel Kaun in which Beckett provides a near-fully articulated reflection on the aesthetics of separation and solitude. There's more here about "ordinary" social interactions--especially his difficult relationship with his mother--than I'd expected; some glimpses of the literary world he was on the fringes of, including some fun commentary on James Joyce. While I'm not conversant enough with painting to follow the hundreds of references to the museums Beckett visited in London, Paris and Germany, the equivalent on literature and music were frequent enough to keep me in the loops. He's particularly insightful (and quirky, surprise surprise) thinking about Dante, Sarte, Cezanne and Beethoven. One major surprise to me was his love for Beethoven's 7th Symphony (my personal favorite), which doesn't seem at all Beckett-like to me. As always, reading Beckett's a vocabulary builder for damn near everyone. My list of words to check out includes: ebullition, isonomy, tetrakyt, conarium, caecum, canular, esquivent, trovata, astuce, ahuris and suilline. Just sayin'. At times I got irritated with Beckett for his near perfect ability to ignore the socio-political world. But being in Paris during World War II would change that, which will be one of the major stories of volume 2.