Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy. —W.B. Yeats
I owe Tracy a trip to Ireland. She was saddled with two broke girls for friends in London. Well, obviously not broke, or we wouldn't have been studying abroad. Let's just say we were funds-challenged. Ireland was a priority for her—we were so close, how could we not go? When would we have this opportunity again? Turns out never. At least not in the past almost thirty years. I should have scrimped, borrowed, and begged my way (or just cut back on the Hobnobs and Callard & Bowser licorice toffees). While I spend my St. Patrick's Day in Shoulda Coulda Woulda Land, enjoy some picks from some of our favorite Irish writers, including Yeats above.
Frank McCourt. If you have yet to read his Pulitzer prize winning Angel's Ashes, you should remedy that pronto!
Oscar Wilde. My favorite: The Importance of Being Ernest.
George Bernard Shaw. On my list to read: Pygmalion. Or as we know it, thanks to the lovely Audrey Hepburn, My Fair Lady.