I am so at home in Dublin, more than any other city, that I feel it has always been familiar to me. It took me years to see through its soft charm to its bitter prickly kernel - which I quite like too.
In a new biography, David Foster Wallace mostly emerges as a sympathetic figure, a troubled man whose fearsome intelligence seemed only to exponentially increase his unhappiness.
A new generation of Slovak poets has rejected the central themes of the communist and Christian past, now seen as lies or illusions. But the truths of post-communism are hard on the spirit.
After the Gold Rush, after the slump, perhaps Ireland could just learn to relax, and regain its creativity and its cool.
The truth is never pure and rarely simple, and in Macbeth fair is foul and foul is fair.
© 2021 Dublin Review of Books