Reading Frank O'Connor is a little like getting kicked in the stomach every couple of pages.

O'Connor is a master of the short story, and I admire his ability to create incredibly detailed pictures with comparatively few words. His Ireland, though, is an incredibly bleak place, where the biggest sin is planning for the future, and the only thing worse than being drunk is not being drunk.

He's particularly adept at showing the world through the eyes of children, particularly boys, and at showing the way children try to explain their worlds to themselves in the absence of information from their parents, which is both wonderful and heartbreaking. On the other hand, many of his male characters are locked in frankly - and frankly creepy - oedipal relationships with their mothers, which I found incredibly uncomfortable - and possibly uncomfortably familiar. Many of the stories are very funny, but funny in a dark, bleak, desperate kind of way. I can't say I enjoyed the work, exactly, but it was definitely worth reading. ( )

These stories by one of the giants of Irish literature never lose their currency. Guests of the Nation is particularly poignant. ( )