“Yeats is Dead!” by 15 Irish writers. Edited by Joseph O’Connor. Knopf. 259 pp.
$23.
“Yeats is Dead!”
Note the exclamation point and take it seriously in this seriously funny, rowdy, raunchy romp through numerous murders and other crimes.
Fifteen Irish writers got together, had a few pints (maybe many pints) and compiled this masterpiece of mayhem and debauchery, thinly disguised as a mystery.
You could just as easily call it social commentary or political satire, especially if you know a little bit about Ireland and its politics.
Nothing is sacred, not renowned literary figures such as James Joyce, not the church, not the police (Garda in Ireland), not the cabinet ministers, not anyone or anything, including the mysterious object which proclaims “Yeats is Dead!” or Y8S=+!
It starts with a relatively simple murder, an accidental murder, nothing too weird. Two guys shaking down an old fogey who’s hiding something. Unfortunately, one of the two shoots the fogey accidentally, which upsets their employer, the dark and stormy Mrs. Bloom.
Oh, the two are also cops. And one of them is a dirty landlord. And they work for a really unpleasant detective known for unorthodox (read violent) tactics to get a confession. He gets one for the old fogey murder from a hapless teen who ... oh it would take too long.
Each writer takes the preposterous plot one step further into hilarity. After the first couple of chapters, you might think this is going to have some sort of incredible, but sensible, solution.
You would be wrong.
It has an incredible solution, an incredibly ridiculous solution that’s a combination of Agatha Christie and Shakespearean comedy — but not nearly so highbrow. Lowbrow. Decidedly lowbrow. Way ... low. Silly even.
And you can thank Frank McCourt and his wonderful sense of dark humor for the wrap-up chapter. You can almost hear his laughter as you read.
What’s so much fun about the book is following the escalating escapades. One crime leads to another (the family that plots together expires together, or worse) with bodies piling up like empty tankards at the pub. You’ll begin to wonder how many more people will die on the road to unraveling the truth.
Of course, there is no truth here, no justice. Just desserts, just turnabout.
The characters are drawn with a broad brush, all stereotypes of one sort or another, from the stupid, crooked cop, to the hapless fat man, to the wickedly wise old lady, to the beautiful, desirable heroine (of sorts). There’s also a dumb but adorable cop, a harridan of a justice minister with an insatiable sexual appetite; a fat white boy who wants to be a Rastafarian; a psychotic killer bimbo.
Doesn’t it sound delicious?
The object of everyone’s desire, the reason for the multiple murders, double-crosses, desperate dump searches and confused analysis is a manuscript by James Joyce. His last. His final writings.
They look more like scribblings, but anything new by the late Joyce would bring a fortune, not to mention worldwide notoriety. Curious numbers and symbols fill the various sets of pages that various criminals and reluctant criminals find, steal or throw away.
Eager to cash in on the bounty, each possessor consults a different expert, with a different question, piquing the interest of numerous disciplines, from literature to chemistry.
Grease plays a big role, too. Greasy characters and greasy discoveries help lubricate the action. Just when you think, “Oh, really, you can’t expect me to believe that,” a new wrinkle is added.
The book will often leave you breathless with laughter or incredulity or shock.
That was the whole point, according to a note from the editor, who dragged the book to life as a fund-raiser for Amnesty International.
The authors range from an Irish sportswriter to a poet, a comedian, and of course, McCourt.
Have a pint and enjoy.
n n n
Contact Deirdre Parker Smith at 704-797-4252 or dp1@salisburypost.com
.
Today's News
