Breaking the ice
John Banville doesn’t do small talk. His greeting when we meet in the bar of the Merrion Hotel is perfunctory, his exit an hour and a half later disconcertingly abrupt.
John Banville doesn’t do small talk. His greeting when we meet in the bar of the Merrion Hotel is perfunctory, his exit an hour and a half later disconcertingly abrupt. If he hadn’t been such a genial, erudite and consistently amusing companion in between, I might almost have been offended.
The 60-year-old novelist is, in his own words, ‘‘a cold bastard’’ who despises popular culture, is perpetually pained by the stupidity...
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