Walking With Ghosts, immediately setting alarm bells ringing in my head. For the following few pages, it did indeed seem that I had entered all-too-familiar territory, what the historian Roy Foster called “the Vaseline on the lens” genre of Irish memoir.The initial signs were not good: “gold and green fields...
a dark-haired girl... an old farmer woman sat on a one-legged stool”. As someone who read an extract from Frank McCourt’s acclaimed Angela’s Ashes thinking it was a parody of an Irish misery memoir in the vein of Flann O’Brien’s satire The Poor Mouth, I found myself wondering if this might be a celebrity version of the same.
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