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Saturday, 4 August 2012

First paragraph of my quintessential Irish novel

A few years ago, one dull summer day, I set myself the challenge of writing the opening paragraph of my quintessential Irish novel. I tried to encompass all the key elements.

“Jude was slumped in the pew nearest the door of the church. He'd killed himself
again. "Hopefully this time it'll work", he'd whispered, as he sat down, opened
his silver flask and began to drink the stuff for burning off scutch grass, which
had been left in the far outhouse since the day De Valera died. It was to that
same outhouse uncle Padraig used to take him on September afternoons, when
the hay was in and the rest of the family watching the All-Ireland Final, to tell him
jolly green tales of old IRA heroes and make him do those terrible things.”