Flann O'Brien would have been a hundred years old yesterday if he hadn't died in 1966 on (as every biographical note I've ever read about him mentions, as if it were relevent) April fools day. Flann O'Brien was one of those writers who totally astounded me the first time I read him. What the fuck was going on here? Who the...? It just didn't make any sense how someone could write like that. The sentences were all so weirdly balanced, yet perfect. "Having placed in my mouth sufficient bread for three minutes' chewing..." What? Who starts a novel like that. This was 15 years ago for me.
And, as you know, he wrote a funny novel about black hell, with men in it who are slowly turning into bicycles. Or something like that. Why not, right? Everyone was doing it at the time. It's been a while since I read The Third Policeman all the way through. I pick it up and read a few pages at random now and again. Maybe I'll read it again this weekend. Or maybe not. What if I hate it? That would be strange. I'll get back to you. Happy birthday?
Here's an article by a guy who's even more enthusiastic than I am.
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