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 a torrent of creativity - just the best. McGahern never published a line between hard covers 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 his personal essays and short, insightful reviews, we see the tiles of McGahern's low-key aesthetic becoming an inspiring mosaic. No other writer since Edwin Muir has left his readers with an impression of gentleness and wisdom as deeply as McGahern.
A mystery however is why the editor ignores McGahern's own warning. It merits quoting in full:
'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.'
Next to the true work here are mere finger-exercises - the Beckett imitation, the count-the-money-and-run travel articles. The less said about Professor Kiberd's muddled, rather 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 arrangement. Watching an editor undo this careful work is not pleasant.
A selection, surely, would have been better, and a greater tribute to the memory of John McGahern, our late master of the unsaid.