Yeats Is Dead!

What a playful, funny romp this is! Intended as a fundraiser for Amnesty International, the novel is composed of 15 chapters, each written by a different illustrious Irish author - each of whom seems intent on dialing up the comedic mayhem as the novel progresses.

The meandering plot involves, among other elements, a pair of old maids who run a crime syndicate, a faux Jamaican Rastafarian, an entrepreneurial hit man, a randy Minister of Defense, a traveling toilet cake salesman, corrupt police officers, a mysterious chemical formula, an alleged unknown novel by James Joyce, numerous pubs, and (of course, because this is, after all, an Irish novel) a nun.

This is is a bit too cohesive to believe that the authors set out entirely without a show more plan, but it's clear they were given a lot of creative license. One can only imagine how much fun each of these esteemed writers had taking what they were given and then figuring out how they were going to ramp up the silly. Uniting all the chapters: a dedication to injecting as much preposterous, bawdy, dark humor as possible, overlaid on a plot that pokes fun at every Irish stereotype in sight. I smiled through most of this, and often laughed out loud.

If Carl Hiaasen was Irish, this is exactly what he'd be writing! show less

Fifteen Irish writers play a game of top this, adding on to a story and making it more outrageous, ribald, and profane as they go along. It is interesting how they all have their own distinct voice, yet seem to carry on the main story as if there were but one author. Of course, there are many side alleys the writers venture down, and they seem to have a penchant for killing off the characters the previous writer had developed most, but mostly it makes for a funny and even suspenseful story. Very naughty, though, I couldn’t recommend this to my Mother.

“Nothing is wrong. That was his attitude. If it’s not broken don’t give it a belt of a hammer. Pondering your shortcomings was the type of reflection that could unsettle you. show more Something might really turn out to be wrong. And you’d have to do a right load of worrying then.” - Conor McPherson (p. 21 – 22)

“There were great writers, Joyce among them, who dealt at length with the seedy as an aspect, an inescapable aspect, of human affairs, but this was to throw something else into perspective. They did not rejoice in it for its own sake. And they were men with wide experience in life. They did not have this weak fascination with the sordid. Most of those who dealt in it now though, he thought, were actually sheltered middle-class males and females playing a game, trying to be toughies, to show their ladishness.” - Anthony Cronin (p. 94)

“I think books are wonderful … If they had never been invented and somebody thought of them now, they would be the greatest things ever. I can’t think of anything that had given so much happiness to humanity … No batteries, no wires, no earphones. Absolutely silent, don’t interfere with anybody else, you can take them anywhere with you, in bed, into the bath. And they can’t be broken. You can lie on them, sit on them, prop the door or window sash open and you still can’t damage them.” - Anthony Cronin (p. 100)

“By this stage his bulk and convulsions had killed at least nine rats, left several others disabled, still more with minor injuries and most of the remainder with low self-esteem. And as every dog on the street will know, a rat with low self-esteem is a dangerous rat.” – Charlie O’Neill (p. 185)

“Gary Reynolds had decided to linger on in his bed. It seemed the safest course at this stage. Lying on in the morning was a great thing, everyone knew that. And doing nothing was definitely better than doing something which, as far as Gary was concerned, clearly only led to trouble.

Stretched on his back he recalled the smell of toilet blocks with a certain sense of peaceful happiness.” Gerard Stembridge (p. 217) show less

I missed this book upon release and so, somewhat late, I came upon it in my local second hand bookshop. It seemed like a good idea to set fifteen writers the task of completing a story at the rate of one chapter each and so, I started to read: well, I was wrong.

The only chapter that works, is the first and, before Roddy Doyle fans pronounce him the winner, we have hit upon the difficulty: this became a competition with everyone trying to turn the story in their own direction and wrong foot the following author.

The book does not flow and, even worse, meanders for fourteen chapters before a perfunctory ending is applied. I can hear the excuse, "but it is for charity." To me, this does not excuse a poor book, sorry.

The twists and turns are entertaining, and it's truly unpredictable in a way which single-author books rarely are. But there is a painful moment which made me cringe, when a character who is introduced as a self-styled gangsta rapper in one chapter inexplicably becomes a Rastafarian in the next. What? The? Hell? Was the author on drugs himself? Is he incapable of distinguishing between violent, crack-smoking African-Americans, and laid-back, ganja-smoking Jamaicans? The cringe never quite went away, sadly.

Yeats Is Dead! must be one of the strangest mysteries. Wherever outcomes would seem predictable, the next writer reverses the tide of the story. Chapter 2 mentions none of the characters that Chapter 1 does and whenever a character is being built up they are killed off by the next writer.

A rockin' read that introduced me to a couple of new writers while at the same time letting me on on this really intriguing way for writers to interact. The twists and turns of the book are really entertaining.

I was disappointed with this one purely because the story failed to flow succinctly between authors/chapters. If this was an exercise in showcasing Irish talent they could have at least got a decent editor in.