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ST. PATRICK’S DAY The Notre Dame Review Book Prize 2013 Love beneath the Napalm, James D. Redwood 2015 Times Beach, John Shoptaw 2016 St. Patrick’s Day: another day in Dublin, Thomas McGonigle ST. PATRICK’S DAY another day in Dublin THOMAS McGONIGLE University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana Copyright © 2016 by Thomas McGonigle Published by the University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana 46556 All Rights Reserved Published in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: McGonigle, Thomas, author. Title: St. Patrick's Day : another day in Dublin / Thomas McGonigle. Description: Notre Dame : University of Notre Dame Press, [2016] | Series: Notre Dame Review Prize Identifiers: LCCN 2016025045 (print) | LCCN 2016025130 (ebook) | ISBN 9780268035389 (softcover) | ISBN 0268035385 (softcover) | ISBN 9780268101053 (pdf) | ISBN 9780268087036 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Irish Americans—Fiction. | Americans—Ireland— Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Saint Patrick's Day— Fiction. | Dublin (Ireland)—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / General. | FICTION / Literary. Classification: LCC PS3563.C3644 S7 2016 (print) | LCC PS3563.C3644 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23 LC record available at ∞ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). Armastusega Anna’le It is not easy to think of myself as a man who is thought of as dead. I might as easily think of myself as dead. And perhaps some writers do before they begin to write. They think of themselves as dead. Or they think of themselves as thought of as dead. —Gerald Murnane 4 November 1977 9.30 am. The capsules have been taken with some whiskey . . . It’s a bright sunny morning. Full of life. Such a morning as many people have died on . . . I cannot believe I have committed suicide since nothing has happened . No big bang or cut wrists. 65 was long enough for me. It wasn’t a complete failure I did some [At this point the words lapse into illegibility and stop]. —Keith Vaughan, Journals, 1939–1977 L’artiste qui joue son être est de nulle part. —Samuel Beckett, on Jack B. Yeats To lavish love on objects unworthy of it is infinitely better than living a cold, ordered life in a study, in an office, or even a garden tending flowers . . . it has not been the sinners, the degraded, the drunkards, the gamblers, the crooks, the harlots who have made me shudder, but the dead, the respectable dead; cut off like a branch from the tree. —Francis Stuart, Things to Live For ST. PATRICK’S DAY ...


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