I suspect that serious literature, like everything else, should be taken in moderation. Whereas Wednesday’s European Literature Night, with its readings from 12 books at 12 different venues in Dublin, sounded like a binge. So I approached it cautiously, as I do certain people’s parties, and in the interests of temperance, turned up an hour late.
With an organised itinerary, I reasoned, that still left enough time to get a flavour of the event. The readings were short, after all, and the venues on or around St Stephen’s Green. Barring unforeseen obstacles, I could still hit half a dozen before the 9pm closing.
The plan started well, anyway. My first stop was the Stephen's Green Hibernian Club, where the spectacle of actor Bryan Murray reading the Netherlands' nominated book, Herman Koch's The Dinner , was complemented by the frisson of seeing inside this private-members institution for the first time.
As the early attenders arrived from other venues, some already clearly worse for wear from metaphors, I congratulated myself on starting late. And with the first reading ticked off, I paused on the way out only to admire the club’s 18th-century plasterwork, and to note that the nearest bookshelf to the reading room was filled entirely with volumes on horse-racing. European literature how are ye!
After that it was on to venue two, scene of Italy’s contribution to the night. But this is where, like a novice jumper that has somehow reached the second fence of the Aintree Grand National, my plan came crashing down.
The problem wasn't the reading, by broadcaster Ray Foley; or Italy's chosen book – The Wilted Flower ; or even the author Francesco Fabbrocino, who was there in person. Nor can I blame the wine that, typically, the Italians laid on, making a mockery of my literature-as-a-substitute-for-drink joke. The problem was the venue, The Little Museum of Dublin, another place I somehow hadn't visited before.
Intending to linger only a moment among the memorabilia, I nearly made a clean escape. Then I got sucked in, thanks to the museum’s uniquely interactive feature, a state-of-the-art, fully human curator who wanders around the rooms striking up conversations with visitors and then (“you’d be interested in this”) matching them with exhibits.
His name is Trevor White and, having created the museum back in 2011, he is now its director. But he laughed apologetically when describing this as a “job”, because he enjoys it too much. It was through chatting with him that I also got talking to Joan Taaffe, another person doing the literature trail and now similarly waylaid, in her case by a particular piece of lost Dublin.
It was an exhibit featuring the Theatre Royal, where Joan was old enough to have been a regular attender in the 1950s, although you would never have guessed this to look at her. She must have passively inhaled some of the glamour of an era when, as she could relate from personal experience, Judy Garland sang from her dressing room window to entertain the multitudes who couldn’t get tickets for the theatre’s 3,800 seats.
Or when Danny Kaye – who earned the gratitude of local taxi drivers by routinely extending his shows way past the time of the last bus – bummed a cigarette from the audience and carried on performing for those in no hurry home.
While Joan reminisced with shining eyes about such events, the interactive curator sent into the next room for another memento – the programme from the theatre’s final night, in June 1962. Which set off another wave of memories. And although I’ve heard many people over the years lamenting the Royal’s demise, I never truly felt their loss until hearing Joan talk about it. That such a magical place should have closed was bad enough. That it was replaced by Hawkins House would make you weep.
Anyway, the price of this poignant insight was that I missed the rest of European Literature Night, although having eventually extricated myself from venue two, I did hasten across the Green to Iveagh House, from where several bingers had recommended Seána Kerslake's reading of the Polish book: Jacek Dehnel's Lala .
They had just finished there, unfortunately. So like other stragglers, I was admitted only for a glimpse of the emptying venue: the sumptuous ballroom, which was itself worth the visit. Indeed, based on my limited experience, I’m tempted to suggest that the organisers of Literature Night should put their readings in less interesting places in future. I went for the books this year, however belatedly. Then I picked up on one of the venues and, to coin a phrase, I couldn’t put it down.
fmcnally@irishtimes.com
