A Man of No Importance
Fall 2002, Issue 33


Cover painting by MacDermott & MacGough, Portra








The Beauty of Words and Music
John Guare Interviews Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty

My Secret Hero
by Rich Cohen

My Secret Hero
by Richard Greenberg

My Secret Hero
by Ann Packer

My Secret Hero
by Mark Slouka

A Mystery
by Colm Toibin

Ireland In The 1960s
by Frank McGuinness

Who Was Salome?
by Mary Gordon

An Excerpt from The Naked Civil Servant
by Quentin Crisp

An Excerpt from Salomé
by Oscar Wilde









Ireland In The 1960s
by Frank McGuinness

     The best of times, the worst of times—Ireland in the 1960s did not fit either description. When I try to imagine it from the distance of now, I have to turn to our strange, Protestant prophet, Samuel Beckett. He had anticipated years before it happened what the decade would be like in Ireland. We were waiting, but waiting for what?
     Was it revolution? No, it was more of a surprise. In The Importance of Being Earnest, the divine Oscar Wilde allows his slightly less divine creation Lady Brack-nell to define the meaning of surprise. It is an engagement entered into by a young girl, be it pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may prove. Did the Irish have any idea what an engagement we’d make with that decade?
     The North of the island exploded in civil war. The South began to prosper. The North fiercely examined itself and was found wanting in nearly every respect. The South embraced Europe and thrived, throwing aside the shackles of empire and questioning the nature of religion and the lunacy of hatred. Hatred of our own kind.
     But one hatred persisted, a hatred that seemed to go beyond the political, religious, and cultural divides. Some years ago while I was traveling through Europe, I was casually informed by a fellow traveler whom I’d had the misfortune of meeting that the Irish were all united in one respect: “We all hate the homos.” And many did. Too many still do.
     Why? I’m not going to blame the churches. Despite the idiocy of many—and, yes, I think of the Saint Patrick’s Day parade in New York City—there have been many genuine voices raised in protest against hatred. No, I’m going to look to the race instead. There is something self-lacerating in us. Look at our sorry intellectual history. Ireland has loved its censors as much as it has admired its writers.

Frank McGuiness was born in County Donegal, Ireland, and lives in Dublin, where he teaches English at University College. His plays include Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme and the recent Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me.

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