Thursday, April 19, 2007


I’ve already raved about my friend Terence Winch on this blog, but his new book, BOY DRINKERS—a selection of short, narrative poems, about growing up Irish-American in the Bronx of the 1950s and ‘60s and beyond—is such a total pleasure (disclosure: the book is dedicated to me and another good friend of Terence’s and mine who passed on a few years ago, John McCarthy), that I have to recommend it to everyone I know and don’t know as THE greatest example of the storytelling art the Irish are famous for, only condensed into small parables of doubt and confusion in the face of religious faith, and gratitude for, and delight in, life’s less fraught mysteries.

I don’t think you have to be Irish-American, or of a certain age, or place, or religion, to revel in the entertaining and enlightening brilliance of Terence’s tales and observations. Human will do.

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