Ireland, alas, possesses more than its share of cynics. Because of this failing, it takes immense courage to air one's feelings in public, particularly as that particular public appears to so unhealthily enjoy feeding off the pain of others. Writer Hugh Leonard is more honest than most and thus a target, as this blunt, even peculiarly beautiful book confirms. He is certainly as brave as he is direct. His wife's sudden death before his eyes at home last April following an asthmatic attack opened his heart as well as upended his life, introducing him to the hell of what he calls "aloneness". Even in grief he responded as a professional writer, setting out to control his hurt by writing about it in a series of letters addressed to Paule and published in the Sunday Independent. Having not read the letters then, I read them
here, in sequence at one sitting. Mawkishness is obviously alien to Leonard. He approaches his loss with candour, anger and a likeable, often hilarious humour as well as some good stories. It is shocking to learn he received vicious anonymous letters which sneered at his pain and even at his having been adopted. But then some people are clearly far less than human. Leonard, however, emerges from this remarkable portrait of a tried and tested relationship between equals as human, real and very funny.
- Eileen Battersby