"He is an Irish Roman Catholic guy who lets you know it in all sorts of ways, like painting a huge shamrock on his work van and rendering his business’s name in fancy Gaelic script. He has a lilting wise-guy accent, part poet, part gangster. And he’s a storyteller."
Beautiful description of your friend. I can hear the voice, accent, and profanity. The old New York was filled with characters like these.
We don't have his name, but generally when they go in for that shamrock business, they're tradesmen or small businessmen with vague, ambiguous surnames (Cone, Shaw) who want you to know they're okay.
I've been telling my friends that I feel like questions (and answers?) about the nature of Consciousness are going to go mainstream this year. This story is another affirmation point. Thanks for sharing, sir.
Hearing about a friend's transfiguration beats hearing about his getting drunk and throwing up. Beautiful writing, informed by Christian theology. ( 1John 3:2. ) It reminds me of the Shakespeare line which I can never remember correctly, something like, "nothing of him that doth remain, for he hath suffered a sea change, into something rich and strange."
There are Irish people- and a much smaller number of Irish Americans- who have a facility with language which is transcendent. I was told that by a Jewish American editor who worked in Manhattan publishing for about half a century. In fact I had the experience Walter had one day when I was a young porter in a Manhattan luxury apartment building. A cable tv installer from Ireland m, his work done, sat in the back locker room, among other Irish immigrants and myself, a narrow back. And he simply held forth. Half a century has passed and the experience has never left me. No play and no speech I have heard over the passed 70 years was on that plane.
I have wondered what was lost, because you know things were, when we adapted beyond oral traditions. I think you have described some of it. Thanks. And congratulations.
I love Walter's stuff - mostly I've seen him with Matt on America This Week, which always overwhelms with information and terrific, thoughtful analysis of a selected piece of fiction in the form of a short story. However, reading to the end of this piece and seeing this final bit (posted, one assumes, by some guru or other at Substack) made me nearly lose it:
if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Walter Kirn that their writing . . . THEIR writing? This kind of woke crap drives me absolutely batshit crazy - and I believe it would do the same to Walter the wordsmith.
It was maddening to me twenty years ago, when it was used by people who couldn't bring themselves to say "his or her," but when it became charged with the unspoken imperative that we must honor the transgender possibility, it became disgusting. Now, it's passe, but Substack hasn't figured that out yet.
Twenty years ago? The Wokabillies must have arrived in Texas last, thank God. This was a beautiful piece of writing by HIM. I have been transfixed listening to old cowboys tell stories-a beautiful moment.
I enjoy listening to you on your podcast with Matt Taibbi each week but your writing is beautiful, so poetic but also spare in a way. Immense pleasure to read.
Absolutely beautiful moment. You have an extraordinary way of truly seeing the person, and this was as if you leveled up beyond anything else. Spectacular!
The last time I spoke to my dear grandmother, Gunhild, was on the phone. She was dying and probably on morphine or something similar. I said something that made her laugh. The laughter that came out was not that of a 90-year old woman. It was that of a, well, 19-year old. It was harsh, a bit bitter, a bit sweet, a bit of everything — it was a layer of all the life my grandmother had lived and expressed by her younger self. Like that moment in the Matrix when Neo gets the info downloaded. My grandmother’s laugh scared me a bit. It had fierceness and power in it. Above anything I had ever heard from her, the gentlest and kindest woman I have ever know on this Earth. I think that she saw that brink, that beyond, and she knew how little we know — we who remain here in this reality. I like to think that she saw the great adventure beyond and how immense and probably scary and wonderful it is, even to her, a devout Christian. And that it cannot be articulated other than through a laugh that is untranslatable. But I heard it from a woman who was entirely good.
"He is an Irish Roman Catholic guy who lets you know it in all sorts of ways, like painting a huge shamrock on his work van and rendering his business’s name in fancy Gaelic script. He has a lilting wise-guy accent, part poet, part gangster. And he’s a storyteller."
Beautiful description of your friend. I can hear the voice, accent, and profanity. The old New York was filled with characters like these.
We don't have his name, but generally when they go in for that shamrock business, they're tradesmen or small businessmen with vague, ambiguous surnames (Cone, Shaw) who want you to know they're okay.
I've been telling my friends that I feel like questions (and answers?) about the nature of Consciousness are going to go mainstream this year. This story is another affirmation point. Thanks for sharing, sir.
agree and am grateful
Hearing about a friend's transfiguration beats hearing about his getting drunk and throwing up. Beautiful writing, informed by Christian theology. ( 1John 3:2. ) It reminds me of the Shakespeare line which I can never remember correctly, something like, "nothing of him that doth remain, for he hath suffered a sea change, into something rich and strange."
There are Irish people- and a much smaller number of Irish Americans- who have a facility with language which is transcendent. I was told that by a Jewish American editor who worked in Manhattan publishing for about half a century. In fact I had the experience Walter had one day when I was a young porter in a Manhattan luxury apartment building. A cable tv installer from Ireland m, his work done, sat in the back locker room, among other Irish immigrants and myself, a narrow back. And he simply held forth. Half a century has passed and the experience has never left me. No play and no speech I have heard over the passed 70 years was on that plane.
Beautifully conveyed Walter, thank you for reminding me of the awe and mystery of life.
I love this story!
Walter, it is good for us to hear this. If Thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles: one for Thee and one for Mark and one for Joyce.
I have wondered what was lost, because you know things were, when we adapted beyond oral traditions. I think you have described some of it. Thanks. And congratulations.
I love Walter's stuff - mostly I've seen him with Matt on America This Week, which always overwhelms with information and terrific, thoughtful analysis of a selected piece of fiction in the form of a short story. However, reading to the end of this piece and seeing this final bit (posted, one assumes, by some guru or other at Substack) made me nearly lose it:
if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Walter Kirn that their writing . . . THEIR writing? This kind of woke crap drives me absolutely batshit crazy - and I believe it would do the same to Walter the wordsmith.
It was maddening to me twenty years ago, when it was used by people who couldn't bring themselves to say "his or her," but when it became charged with the unspoken imperative that we must honor the transgender possibility, it became disgusting. Now, it's passe, but Substack hasn't figured that out yet.
Twenty years ago? The Wokabillies must have arrived in Texas last, thank God. This was a beautiful piece of writing by HIM. I have been transfixed listening to old cowboys tell stories-a beautiful moment.
Like the rings within a tree. All the stages of life separate yet welded together.
To be fully present, even if briefly, is always a gift to be savored.
I enjoy listening to you on your podcast with Matt Taibbi each week but your writing is beautiful, so poetic but also spare in a way. Immense pleasure to read.
Wow! Those old LSD trip flashbacks can be surreal!
Walter no longer needs the drugs
Just beautiful. Thank you!
Absolutely beautiful moment. You have an extraordinary way of truly seeing the person, and this was as if you leveled up beyond anything else. Spectacular!
The last time I spoke to my dear grandmother, Gunhild, was on the phone. She was dying and probably on morphine or something similar. I said something that made her laugh. The laughter that came out was not that of a 90-year old woman. It was that of a, well, 19-year old. It was harsh, a bit bitter, a bit sweet, a bit of everything — it was a layer of all the life my grandmother had lived and expressed by her younger self. Like that moment in the Matrix when Neo gets the info downloaded. My grandmother’s laugh scared me a bit. It had fierceness and power in it. Above anything I had ever heard from her, the gentlest and kindest woman I have ever know on this Earth. I think that she saw that brink, that beyond, and she knew how little we know — we who remain here in this reality. I like to think that she saw the great adventure beyond and how immense and probably scary and wonderful it is, even to her, a devout Christian. And that it cannot be articulated other than through a laugh that is untranslatable. But I heard it from a woman who was entirely good.
I love this story. Thank you, Walter.