"The whole world is lying and cheating,and everybody else goes along with it--except when I do it."

Peter Murphy, author of "Lagan Love", his first novel, has now given us "All Roads”, the third novel, after "Born and Bred” and "Wandering in Exile”, in the Life and Times trilogy. These four books have placed Murphy in the league with other popular and loved Irish writers such as Roddy Doyle, Frank McCourt, Brendan Behan, Brendan O’Carroll, Sean O’Casey, Patrick Taylor and others. If you love to read about Irish life, culture, history ,family and other influences such as politics and religion; you will find this new voice and storyteller a must read writer.

This latest novel finds the central character, Danny Boyle, now in Canada with his family in 1997.The first line in the novel, "Hi, I'm Danny B. and I'm AN ALCOHOLIC”, kicks off the next 16 years in the life of Danny, his wife, family, friends, as well as his troubled life, to both himself and those who surround him and are affected by him. The novel takes place mainly in Toronto, but there are many times over the years, that the reader is transported to Dublin and Rome I won't go into details about the storyline of this novel, or the two proceeding novels of the trilogy, other than that each of the novels can stand alone in reading, but I strongly suggest you read "Born and Bred", "Wandering in Exile" and "All Roads" in that order. As I have mentioned in my other Reviews, this novel covers 16 years and a lot of characters; so I suggest you keep a list of the characters and their relationships as they keep re-appearing over the years. Murphy helps the reader in keeping track of time by dating the time period of each chapter.

You might also wish to read my Reviews, as well as others, that have been posted here on Amazon.

While the stories, characters, family, friends, associates, and experiences make for an engrossing read; there are a plethora of lessons, good and otherwise, that you'll obtain from this trilogy; that will remain with you for a long time.

If you forget all about the lives and experiences of the people in this trilogy, just remember; Danny's words;

"When I was drinking I used to try and tell myself that I wasn't harming anybody else, but that wasn't true. Everything we do spills over into other people's lives--the good and the bad."

Jerry Guild

http://www.amazon.com/review/R22HM3KOACB0WB/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1611882125&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&store=books

Whirly gigs and a small princess

Getting back into the whirly gig

For most of the last four years I spent my days in one chair or another, writing Life & Times, the story of one man and the abutting parts of the world that tormented and shaped him, deformities and all. It spans almost 60 years and required a lot of remembering and looking back at the way things were, and as old memories came back and mingled with my disconsolation with the present, and my distrust of the future, I needed to shut myself off. I had to carry the entire story around inside of me and shun all outside distractions and interruptions.

Moving to Lisbon was the reward, a necessity and a formal farewell to a great many things that had been churning around inside of me for years. Here I would get out more, get some sun, meet new people, and see new things. I knew it would be a transition as I had grown very used to my solitude shared mostly with imaginary characters. I knew it would be busy and, at times, hectic, but what I hadn’t considered was that it could be far more absurd than any fiction I might cobble together.

Back into the beast’s lair

Before books are released into the wild, publishers send copies to be distributed to friends & lovers, reviewers and other shady people an author might owe gambling debts, etc. It is a simple enough practice. The books are declared to have no value – fitting, eh? And they get delivered without too much fuss and bother.

Not here, though. It began with a very formal letter from the post office which I replied to in my best Googled Portuguese to the effect that I was not intending to resell the books and avoid paying tax on my lucre.

Perhaps Google wasn’t the best go-between because they sent me a template to declare what I had already declared. Fair enough, says I to the dog, and re-Googled.

   

It still wasn’t enough and after a few weeks, there was nothing for it but to make my way over to the alfandega. Now it wasn’t quite Gates of Mordor stuff but it wasn’t the most pleasant part of Lisbon.

Anyway, I took my number and waited to see the person who could verify that I had legitimate business with them and was sent back to take a number for the person who could actually deal with my problem.

Waiting

While I waited, a young girl walked in with a flower in her hand and asked almost everyone there for a glass of water to put her flower in. Finally someone looked after her but I wasn’t so lucky. The woman behind the counter could not help me and could not explain what the problem was.

There was nothing for it but to resort to English and she agreed to send for the man who spoke English—only he was having coffee and I had to wait for a while.

 

When he did emerge, he was polite, dignified, and helpful. The declared dollar value on my box of books was, he was sad to inform me, “impossible in Portugal.”

Fair enough, says I and we both scratched out heads, eyed each other like we were playing poker, and eventually came up with a value that was possible. 150 Euros seemed fair—after all it is literary fiction and here in Portugal that still has some value. They still respect writers here and have ruas and largos named after poets and the like.

The value of literary fiction

150 Euros, says I to myself, I’m going to get dinged for tax here.

Portugal, like a few other countries has been singled out to pay the penalty of the recklessness of International banking and all their Credit Default nonsense that broke the way money works.

 

Fair enough, says I to the man who spoke English and he wished me a good morning and assured me that, now that the form had an acceptable value written on it, his colleague would now be able to look after me.

Except she was busy arguing with a couple who were trying to smuggle something past customs so I waited. And I waited. And while I waited some more, the young girl with the flower stepped in front of me, held up a ticket, bowed and smiled. Being well-breed, myself, I took the ticket and bowed back.

The little girl seemed content with her efforts and began to drink from the glass with the flower.

In time, the lady behind the counter was able to look at my form—with the true value of literary fiction in the appropriate box—and stamp the damn thing. She then explained that I should take the now acceptable form to another wicket.

I looked up at the screen that informs which ticket is next and I looked down at the ticket the little girl had given me. I was next and with little more ado, I got my box of books, didn’t have to pay tax, and was on my way.

I used to have a real job once.

For marketing purposes, I’m supposed to be working on my blog – Following the Muse (http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.pt/) – but the damn thing has gotten so far ahead of me that I am wandering around in a bit of a daze.

Having recently moved to Lisbon, I have become a bit absorbed in the new life all around me. I’m in “input mood,” I keep reminding myself as each gloriously sunny day fades into another cool, pearly evening.

But I did manage to get back to working on the next novel and it is a struggle. Novels are like lovers in that you are rarely in the mood at the same time and when you are ready, your novel crosses its legs and sulks. At least mine do!

I’m less concerned about that these days and while it might be the effect of the aforementioned glorious sun, or the cool, pearly evenings, or the fact that life in Lisbon has not yet been totally trampled underfoot by what often gets confused with progress, I prefer to think of my work as fruit. It will ripen when the time is right.

Some of my readers will agree and think of lemons—and to them I say: life is grand.

Thinking like this is an adjustment because I once held jobs in the regular sense of the word and I was even good at some of them. I was very focused on things like timelines and deliverables. I understood that in the great clock-likeness of the modern enterprise, each little cog had to play its part; on time and on budget. It became a bit of an obsession with me and I suffered interruption with the grace of a disturbed hippo—particularly when the time wasting came from above.

I masked my disdain with a kind of strained stoicism as some director waffled on about synergies and scalabilities and all the other words they had recently stumbled upon while reading an in-flight magazine. You know the type. They wear their company IDs to the washroom and I can only assume that it is a precaution. If the better parts of their brains fall out, they can still remember their primary purpose which is to assert their importance by interrupting the progress of those they bore for hours with pep-talks about improving productivity and importance of individual accountability in the grand scheme.

Over time my strained stoicism wore thin and I began to garner a reputation for “being a bit abrasive.”

Given what was really going through my mind, I think I should have been awarded medals for tact and diplomacy.

I once worked with a guy who regularly fell asleep at his desk and could be relied upon for nothing—except his uncanny skill at ass kissing. He could do it in his sleep. Naturally he was promoted beyond all usefulness while the rest of us struggled on in relative anonymity. For the most part I kept my comments to a bare minimum—acerbic as they were—and instead just hung signs on his desk!

I was thinking about this the last few afternoons which have been a bit on the hot side -- 35+ which is beyond my operating range. As I sat staring at the end of chapter 3, wondering which of the next story lines to go with, my head would start to nod. No amount of coffee could forestall the inevitable and I gave in and took naps.

There was a time when I would have scolded myself for that and imposed new and stricter deadlines to compensate. Now, not so much. You see all those jobs; carrying bricks up rickety scaffolds, digging holes like redemption was underground, dusting ballot boxes in a government basement, writing yards of computer code, taught me a great many things that have become so much clearer in the rear-view mirror. I now know myself and I know that I know how to get things done.

I should also admit that as I get older, I have become a little more indulgent with myself. I have come to the realisation that “I’m not the worst of them” and that some of the stuff I write—albeit overlooked by the shallow masses—has merit.

Writing books I have become to realise is less about one critical path and more about meandering through myriad possibilities. It is a bit like how we used to learn things before we got packed off to school; we played until we knew.

Fortunately, I work for myself these days as such thinking would be heresy to the bottom-line crowd and their synergies and scalabilities and all the other words they use to mask the sad fact that so very few of us really have any idea what we are doing. I certainly don’t, but that might yet turn out to be my greatest asset.

Anyway, enough chit-chat, time to get back to staring at the computer screen.