A language needs nurturing, love and polishing to keep it present. This is no easy feat when we are far away from the home country
where pieces of it spill into our daily lives whether on road signs, TV or generally in the way we speak English in Ireland and how we express ourselves. Continue reading
There is James Joyce, the lionised author; there is young Jim Joyce, full of confidence and with nothing to justify it and no good reason to believe he ever will; and there is Stephen Dedalus, the fictional altar of his ego. Continue reading
A Galway man, with Norman and Spanish blood, coursing and cursing through his veins, he could cant and gammer with horse traders Continue reading
‘Murder wasn’t enough. These guardians of one version of independence would ration even human sympathy.’ Continue reading
None of my three sons are here to share it Continue reading
Tinteán 