In 1977, Dermot Bolger was a young poet in need of friendship and recognition. His mother had died of a cerebral haemorrhage when he was ten. His father, a merchant seaman, was often away on long voyages. Alone in his family’s house in Finglas, Bolger stayed awake until the small hours, banging out poems on a manual typewriter, using carbon paper when he couldn’t afford a fresh ribbon. He was 18 and unemployed. A literary...
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