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Taken Apart As a Hungarian once remarked, all novels since Ulysses take place on June 16th. So into Toner’s. Justin not in the passageway to the side or I could have gone into the Republican pub but didn’t want to: hunched into a corner, shoulders to my shoulders while humming along with the “Helicopter Song” and then a quick run of “The Men Behind the Wire.” If they worked on their aim with the same skill as the songs, there wouldn’t be a Brit left on the soil. Toner’s hasn’t been worked over with the formica and vinyl, still divided up into compartments to give a person a bit of the privacy for a quick commune with the pint in front of him. The old gents have been cleared off by this hour and you got all these wild-haired students who know what they are about. I was hoping Susan would be sitting on a stool in the back: dirty blonde hair dyed black with her fingers yellow from the cigarettes she had to smoke against the doubt closing in and choking the very life out of her body. I was living in a room on the top floor of a commercial building in Eustace Street just up from the Liffey on the south side of Dublin. To the west of me Swift went mad and his man servant, Patrick, charged a penny each so the mob could come in and watch The Dean in the midst of his convulsions. To the east, of me, Trinity College sits as a stopper to the bottle made of Dame Street. Sad-eyed English girls sit in The Buttery eating yogurt, sliced apples, and cheese. They speak softly, and it is said, on a whim, will come to your room for no other reason than the whim and that is the worst of all for if it were more than a whim it would be bearable and the line is: would you have breakfast with me? St. Patrick’s Day ———— Which seems, if you don’t mind me saying it, to counterpoint the screams I imagine in the night coming from Dublin Castle where books with the lists of informers going back three hundred years are still under seal as a fear remains on the land; not far away they tore Robert Emmet apart and fed his heart to the dogs. When I walked home from the pubs I would see a couple leaning in the doorways. They rubbed against each other like large damp logs. I knew a lot about history that year for there was no person to be with and with whom I wished to live the future. I walked and read and drank and was able to say hello to a number of people in the pubs: Nigerians with the promise of a Mercedes when they went home to Lagos, an East German who did something with diamonds and physics, Marina to whom I taught English, a Norwegian business student who was in love with a Greek girl who sat at home mostly and watched in a mirror the acne on her face, an English girl who came to my room on the whim and lay awake all night as she had not been able to sleep well since as a child and living in Malta with her parents, where her father was an officer in the British navy, she had seen her twin sister killed by lightning during a storm in the middle of summer. Susan. Susan with her black hair dyed away from its original dirty blonde color and I remember that she carried a copy of de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins and put herself into St. Patrick’s for a month with the nerves and when she came out her hair had begun to thin but not enough to prevent her from working as an extra with the rest of us from the pubs during the making of the film Darling Lili. We sat in the Gaiety Theatre and watched Julie Andrews sing to the heart of Rock Hudson (and between takes she passed a bottle and it seemed that as the day wore on we clapped louder and were not asked back a second day). Susan. I saw her only one night alone and that had been because she needed a place to be while the landlady had her room painted in the house out in Rathgar. We have...


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MARC Record
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