What are your favourite works of Irish literature not written by Joyce, Beckett or O’Brien?

What are your favourite works of Irish literature not written by Joyce, Beckett or O’Brien?

Yeats

Reposting contemporary stuff I've read:

Colin Barrett - Young Skins (won a bunch of awards iirc)

Paul Murray - Evening of Long Goodbyes

Thomas Morris - We Don't Know What We're Doing (though I think he's welsh actually)

Donal Ryan - The Spinning Heart

Sally Rooney - Conversations With Friends

Some others but can't remember right now. I'm actually trying to break into the scene myself. Moved back to Dublin this year and hope I can get something in print soon. Used to live in the UK and I can say that Irish modern at the moment is way ahead of the stuff their churning out.

Borstal Boy
Brooklyn
The Weir
This Lime Tree Bower
Philadelphia Here I Come
Translations
The Shadow of a Gunman

WHO CARES

Another day playwright I can’t think of the name of who wrote a play about a violent family of knackers living in England that everybody except Pinter thought influenced Pinter’s The Homecoming. The same guy also wrote a very good bar play. Fucked if I can remember the titles to either or the playwrights name

fpbp

Tom Murphy A Whistle in the Dark and Conversations on a Homecoming

I also liked The Book of Evidence by John Banville

gorilla balls

Tristram motherfucking Shandy

Ireland's autistic Don DeLillo

Why are the Irish so awesome at literature?

By the way, FUCK you for giving us U2.

U2 is hated by ireland more than any other country in the world

BETWEEN MY FINGER AND MY THUMB

THE SQUAT PEN RESTS

I'LL DIG WITH IT

Holy fuck my sides
>the kids had webbed feet

So true Bonos a nonce. You can't bring up U2 to anyone here without them calling Bono a fag

Gril tells him ‘swim between my legs, I just had a pee’

So he does.

/ourguy/

- The Tollund Man -

I
Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.

In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,

Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.

II

I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate

The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,

Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.

III

Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,
Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.

Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.

The Barracks by John McGahern
(Stoner preface guy. I can see the affinity.)

Gulliver's Travels

W.B. Yeats poetry

Martin McDonagh has some good plays.

Brendan Behan is sick blud

You're a good man so you are

Sam Coll, Abode of Fancy

in Brendan Behan's footsteps I danced up and down the street

Trainspotting

U2 is good, stop being tryhard redditors

Is this a Daredevil season 2 reference?

Yikes. Islander inbreeding genetics strike again. Plus fetal alcohol syndrome no doubt.

Shane is a very special cocktail

Fucks sake.

Melmoth the Wanderer since I didn't see it named yet.

Sterne, Swift, Wilde, Banville, Freihl, Heaney, McCabe, Shaw, Synge, Yeats, Eavan Boland (somewhat iffy)

Jimeen