Maeve Brennan was born in Dublin, which she wrote about in "Springs of Affection," a book that the editors at Amazon named one of the best of 1997. She came to the US when she was 17, and in her 30s hooked up with The New Yorker, for which she wrote the 50-odd sketches about daily life in Manhattan that are collected in "The Long-Winded Lady."
Where the Dublin stories are savage studies of failed marriages, these New York sketches are gentler in tone, more wistful and blue. Brennan, the "I" of all these pieces, eavesdrops on conversations in the bars, streets, and hotel lobbies of the seedier parts of Times Square and the Village. Her vivid, precise reports are then fleshed out with sepeculations, opinions, and little autobiographical details that reveal her own humorous, melancholy sensibility. The book ends up being not just an incomparable time capsule of the city of the 1950s and '60s, but also a self-portrait of one of its many silent "travellers in residence," a somewhat timid, ultra keen-eyed, super-sensitive exile trying to keep her bearings in an often inhuman metropolis. Brennan is never precious, never self-pitying. And there's not a dull or cloying or lame sentence in the book. "The Long-Winded Lady" is a small masterpiece, and both it and "Springs of Affection" are not to be missed.