Few writers surpassed James Plunkett for courage, honesty and graphicrealism, writes Eileen Battersby, Literary Correspondent.
If the story of early 20th-century Dublin life belongs to Sean O'Casey and James Joyce, they share it with another Dublin writer, James Plunkett, who died yesterday aged 83. Although by instinct a short-story writer, his literary fame rests on the first and finest of his three novels, Strumpet City, which was published in 1969.
Many writers are praised for their courage, but few could claim a courage as honest, as practical and as unpretentious as Plunkett's. The enduring power of the best of his work lies in his feel for character as in classic stories such as Janey Mary, Dublin Fusilier, The Half-Crown and The Web. Most importantly, he possessed a grasp of a graphic realism which never degenerated into mere theatrical effect.
A lifelong socialist, he neither idealised nor intellectualised the plight of the working class.
Instead he described it as it was. It is no surprise that among the many foreign language editions of Strumpet City was an early Russian translation.
The television adaptation of Strumpet City by Hugh Leonard marked a fundamental step in the development of Irish television drama.
There is no doubt that his experiences as a trade union official helped shape his vision of Irish life. It also dictated his reading of modern Irish history.
Central to Plunkett's work and life was the career of the messianic labour leader and demagogue, James Larkin, with whom he had briefly worked when Plunkett was a Workers Union of Ireland secretary.
An early radio play, Big Jim, based on Larkin and the 1913 labour strike, was to later inspire Plunkett's stage play, The Risen People, first performed at the Abbey in 1958 and later revived.
Before that, however, came his debut collection of short stories, The Eagles and the Trumpets (Dublin, 1954) followed within a year by its US publication in an expanded edition as The Trusting and the Maimed, taking its title from his best story which opens with characteristic Plunkett understatement: "At about eleven o'clock the pigeon came slowly and uncertainly from the west, leaving behind it the rim of encircling mountains."
Frank O'Connor championed Plunkett the emerging writer and O'Connor and Plunkett share a subtle literary understatement of intent. In 1977, Plunkett by then well established as a major Irish writer, saw the publication of his Collected Short Stories - a volume reissued by Poolbeg in 2000 and required reading for those interested in the development of the Irish short story.
Born in 1920, the eldest of a large family, James Plunkett Kelly was the definitive Dubliner, natural and unaffected - the real thing, nothing stagy. He was also a charming character, thoughtful and kind, if refreshingly direct. He wore his literary status with an unassuming air and was always quick to praise good writing.
Although he moved to Kilmacanogue in Co Wicklow and loved walking, he remained a Dub, never becoming a born-again countryman.
Some years ago I was one of the judges for the Francis MacManus Short Story Competition, as was Plunkett who demonstrated the keenness of a boy and the justice of an inspired referee, as we debated each entry.
In 1955, the year of The Trusting and the Maimed collection, Plunkett visited the then Soviet Union, through his association with The Bell. He also joined RTÉ as an assistant programme head, transferring to television in 1961 and eventually became head of drama.
There is no doubt that Strumpet City is a landmark Irish historical melodrama, an urban epic of immense humanity. It looks at life as lived and suffered by convincingly drawn ordinary people who saw hope manifested in the personality of Larkin. In the doomed Rashers Tierney, Plunkett quite brilliantly straddles the tightrope between pathos and sentimentality.
Strumpet City successfully juxtaposes story and polemic and deservedly overshadows its successors Farewell Companions (Hutchinson, 1977) and The Circus Animals (Hutchinson, 1990). Yet neither Plunkett's courage nor sense of fair play ever abated.