The thickness of Love of the World, McGahern's collected non-fiction, seems surprising. McGahern published his books infrequently, sometimes leaving gaps of up to a decade between novels. As Clive James said of Larkin, it wasn't exactly a torrent of creativity - just the best. McGahern never wrote a line of fiction that wasn't meant to last. Few would have guessed, though, just how many of them the master left behind.
Unsurprisingly, the best pieces deal with subjects close to the author's heart, such as the letters of John Butler Yeats, his admiration for the fiction of F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Williams, Alistair Macleod. Through these, his personal essays and short, insightful reviews for Irish magazines, we see the stones of McGahern's low-key aesthetic become a building. No other writer since Edwin Muir has left his readers with such an impression of gentleness and wisdom as McGahern.
A mystery, however, is why this volume's editor, Stanley Van Der Ziel, ignored his subject's warning that 'the small quantity of true work is buried in such a mausolem of tired, indifferent prose. Literature in our time is far more endangered by a surfeit of material and commentary than by neglect.' So with the lesser pieces. Next to the true work stands mere finger-exercises such as the Beckett imitation that opens the volume, the written-to-order travel articles. Perhaps the less said about Professor Kiberd's muddled, often arrogant introduction, the better. Trying to cram in everything, even out of reverence, is neither wise nor sensible. To return to Clive James, we do better to assume that when authors subtract something they are adding to the overall work, and watching an editor undoing those painstaking sums is painful. A selection, not a collection, would have been better, and more suited to the memory of McGahern, late master of the unsaid.