I am rereading The Twelve Year Wedding, a short story by Maeve Brennan. Behind her simple sentences lies a claustrophobic world. The characters almost suffocate in their fear, loneliness and repressed anger. As a reader, I feel like a goldfish in a bowl of too little water.
The writer's life is worthy of a feature film. Born in 1917, she grows up in a Dublin suburb, the daughter of Catholic parents fighting for Irish independence. Her father is from...
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