The Irish Novel 1960 - 2010

1993: Roddy Doyle, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

and self-awareness. In such an order of things, Francie’s thought that ‘All the beautiful things of this world are lies’ (212) is understandable. That statement, as well as his recurring references to the snowdrop, his frequent displays of childish simplicity, and his sensory spontaneity are reminders that in his accelerated downfall, something human has been forfeited. But in what is perhaps the novel’s most pointed critical shaft, it is only Francie himself who has any awareness of his condition. ‘How can your solitary finish?’ (230) he asks, when eventually released from solitary confinement in the asylum where he finally ends up. The answer does not take the form of a social convention or an approved method of rehabilitation. On the contrary, it is expressed through memory, play and imaginative energy, inner resources that maintain the distinctiveness that the careless and overbearing world of Irish social convention attempts to deny Francie Brady. Supplementary Reading Tom Herron, ‘ContamiNation: Patrick McCabe and Colm Tóibín’s Pathographies of the Republic’, in Liam Harte and Michael Parker (eds), Contemporary Irish Fiction: Themes, Tropes, Theories (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2000), pp. 168–91, esp. pp. 172–8 James M. Smith, ‘Remembering Ireland’s Architecture of Containment: Telling Stories in The Butcher Boy and States of Fear’, Éire-Ireland, vol. 36, nos 3–4 (Fall/Winter 2001), pp. 11–30 Tim Gauthier, ‘Identity, Self-Loathing and the Neocolonial Condition in Patrick McCabe’s The Butcher Boy’, Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, vol. 44, no. 2 (Winter 2003), pp. 196–211 Linden Peach, The Contemporary Irish Novel: Critical Readings (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), pp. 177–83 Also Published in 1992 Ronan Bennett, Overthrown by Strangers; Clare Boylan, Home Rule (published in the US as 11 Edward Street); Deirdre Madden, Remembering Light and Stone; Eugene McCabe, Death and Nightingales; Edna O’Brien, Time and Tide; Glenn Patterson, Fat Lad 1993 Roddy Doyle, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha Born in 1958, Doyle is a native of the north Dublin suburb of Kilbarrack, the prototype of Barrytown. He is author of nine novels, including the Barrytown Trilogy – The Commitments (1987), The Snapper (1990) 1993: RODDY DOYLE, PADDY CLARKE HA HA HA 117 and The Van (1991) – and a second trilogy with the umbrella title of The Last Roundup, containing A Star Called Henry (2000), Oh, Play That Thing (2004) and The Dead Republic (2010). Other novels are The Woman Who Walked into Doors (1996) and Paula Spencer (2004). Doyle has also written a number of plays and two collections of short stories. His family history is recorded in his parents’ voices in Rory & Ita (2002). Barrytown: the early days. The year is 1968 and Dublin’s outer fringes are beginning to be developed. Where the Clarke family lives is neither urban nor rural but something of a borderland where the old Donnelly farm meets the new Corporation houses before succumbing to them. And, taking a cue from the nature of a setting that seems to be always changing, growing, acquiring additional dimensions, the story highlights the separate spaces in which events occur and lets the more conventional narrative device of linking events over time take a back seat. This change in narrative approach, with the emphasis on immediacy that its perspective brings, places the reader slap bang in the middle of Paddy Clarke’s brave new world. This is the only world he knows, and he finds it ‘brilliant’, to use one of his favourite, oft-repeated words. It is impossible to begrudge him the delight he takes in having the run of his territory. The energy, spontaneity and wholeheartedness with which he reacts to his surroundings are winning characteristics in their own right, and as such is a noteworthy departure from more familiar pictures of oppressive Irish childhoods. But attractively artless as Paddy’s account of himself seems to be, it has more going for it than just its face value, though that value is by no means trivial. Hearing him out in his own terms ratifies the Huck Finn-like independence of his life on the streets and in the fields. He speaks freely, and the reader has no alternative but to accept that freedom – any thought of an alternative being obviously illogical. In a word, Paddy comes across as being no more than himself, like other kids in some ways, different from them in others – the term self-sufficient comes to mind – just as Barrytown itself is in Dublin yet different from, and free of, the...