By Desmond Hogan
Following a crippling melancholy and institutionalization, the author Desmond wanders from his local Dublin round an more and more unrecognizable Europe, and so far as the southern usa, assembling a patchwork of small tales, conversations, amorous affairs, thoughts, regrets, and confrontations: “the labyrinth of news of individuals whose lives you contact . . . in order that your brain turns into like a polychromatic Irish pub.” no matter if a sequence of tragic postcards, a cubist novel, or a memoir shorn of its connective tissue, A Farewell to Prague stands as Desmond Hogan’s maximum success: a catalog of the moments that justify a life—or shine a mild on its vacancy.
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Additional resources for A Farewell to Prague (Irish Literature Series)
Rance Hollingsworth was an old man who seldom ever left his ancient mansion. There were even stories that the place was visited by haunts and ghosts. But that was a lot of conjecture brought on by people who always liked to make up stories about older people… especially recluses who lived in antiquated mansions. Besides, if the old man wanted to have house spooks, that was his business… and it certainly wasn’t any reason to think he had murdered the beautiful girl… a frail old fellow like that… impossible.
The doctor nodded his head. ” Then he took the colonel’s arm and they walked to the outside of the tent. ” n o at h eists i n t h e g ra v e 39 “Those are things best kept quiet. I’m sure the Chaplain doesn’t know what hit him. ” The doctor indicated the inside. ” “The old boy’s had it. The battles have gotten to him. He’s all washed up. It’s up to you as how to word the report. ” The air raid siren sounded at midnight, and the first set of mortars fell ten minutes later. They checkerboarded the entire area.
The high heels of his shoes made a slight sound on the uncarpeted kitchen floor, but he was sure he hadn’t been heard. However he walked on tip toes until he reached the carpeted hallway, then cat-like he made his way to the den. There was only the one yellowed light; a small watt bulb on the old man’s desk. He was busy over some papers. He didn’t even notice or hear the door open. Then Ronnie was standing framed in the doorway, looking the complete part of Sheila… and in the half light he hadn’t needed to be so perfect in his disguise.