Each chapter is written by a different writer and each writer seems eager to outdo the last by killing off as many characters as possible. This can be good, bloody fun. It can also lead to some creaky exposition along the lines of this passage from Cronin's chapter: "The guard that got shot. What did he think he was up to? And what was his connection, if any, with the Tommy Reynolds murder?" More successful are the writers who altogether give up the ghost of creating a cohesive mystery and instead wallow around in literary references and ridiculously purple prose. Here novelist Joseph O'Connor tries his hand at an action scene: "Gravity and Mrs Roberts had entered into conflict and, as devotees of the late Sir Isaac will confirm, out of such a negotiation may emerge one victor." Not exactly Tom Clancy and a good thing too.

The Irish keep turning out these collaborative efforts, the most recent being Finbar's Hotel and Ladies Night at Finbar's Hotel. (By the way, 1 from the sale of this particular round-robin will go to Amnesty International.) In any case, the format can be tough on the writer who must bundle it all up in the final chapter. Here the task falls to honorary Irishman Frank McCourt and let it be said he does his salty, saucy best. --Claire Dederer, Amazon.com

The opening chapter, by Roddy Doyle, is flawless, and sets a high bar against which all the other authors are judged. Whilst there remains some fine writing within the book, it can occasionally be hit and miss. Pauline McLynne and Frank McCourt appear battle for the accolade of worst chapter: McLynne’s chapter takes a umber of totally implausible twists and turns, even within the surreal nature of the book, whilst McCourt ensures the book ends with a whimper rather than a bang.

Another problem with the book is that the authors appear to compete with other: for the first half of the book each chapter begins with a sketch of a new character: each author presumably keen to leave their mark on the book. The ginger MC is a particularly fine invention, but the competition becomes wearing towards the end.

However, Yeats Is Dead is definitely worth investigation. It is an interesting experiment, and it does rattle along at a fair old pace. There are moments of genuine humour, and there are some genuinely amusing creations. An interesting experiment, and whilst it doesn’t deliver completely, it is entertaining none-the-less.


"Yeats is dead?" O yes.   January 21, 2003
 15 out of 15 found this review helpful

Well, of course he is; in fact, has been for some 60 years now. But that's not the point. The point is, or at least seems to be, that "Yeats Is Dead!" is the unpublished last work of the doyen of Irish literature himself, James Joyce. Or is it? Or are the 600 pages of undecipherable scribble that are at the center of this book's wild ride really the chemical formula for a new anti-ageing skin cream? Or something else entirely? In short, what is the point of the chase; or put differently: Is there any point at all?

"Yeats Is Dead!" is the literary version of a midrange relay race; or of that party game in which a story is built one word or one sentence at a time, added in turns by each of the participants, often with hilarious results, particularly if the players abandon the idea of creating a story that actually makes sense and take off in whatever direction their fancy takes them. Here, the participants are fifteen Irish writers of varying calibers with a very well-developed sense of humor, who each get to add one chapter to the story, and the results are hilarious indeed. Bodies fall like flies, allusions to Joyce abound, and Irish cliches are jiggled by the dozen, from "O Danny Boy" (here: in a Rasta version) to bars serving whiskey and very strangely named drinks indeed, and accents from working class Dublin to Limerick and beyond. (And can there possibly be a more Irish-sounding name than Grainne O'Kelly?) Even one of Ireland's football heroes, ex-midfielder turned sports journalist Eamon Dunphy (yes, that one) gets his fair share of shots from the authors' collective hips.

The book follows the example of the two short story collections "Finbar's Hotel" and "Lady's Night at Finbar's Hotel," likewise collaborative efforts by some of modern Ireland's best-known authors. Unlike those two collections, however, "Yeats Is Dead!" discloses the authors of the individual chapters; and unlike them, it also pretends not to contain several loosely-connected short stories but one continuous, novel-length storyline - for whatever that's worth, though, given the book's general premise and the differing styles and approaches of its writers. Contributors include acclaimed writers Roddy Doyle, Frank McCourt, Gene Kerrigan, Anthony Cronin and Joseph O'Connor (who also served as the book's editor), playwrights Conor McPherson and Gerard Stembridge, comedian Owen O'Neill, sports writer Tom Humphries, and others. Roddy Doyle gets to deliver the opening salvo, which is of course a hard act to follow - personally, I would rather have seen him write the final chapter; and I would also have loved to see a contribution from the editor (and co-contributor) of "Finbar's Hotel," Dermot Bolger. But from the murder by heart attack which starts it all to the surviving cast members' final conclave in (where else?) a bar in County Limerick, this is one great frolicking literary tour de force. It's not great literature; nor does it pretend to be ... just fifteen Irish writers poking fun at themselves, their country and the mystery genre, and they had me laughing out loud a lot in the process. Definitely. O yes.


An Irish Sampler   December 27, 2002
 8 out of 8 found this review helpful

This ensemble tale by 15 writers is quite good for the continuity of the tale it manages to maintain, and I would suggest this is a testament to the skill with which some of these authors write. The continuity of skill is not as unerringly high and this is partly because they tried to force certain marquee names in to bits of writing they have not shared with the public in the past, and in at least one author’s case, it is good that he has not.

No one does a better job than Roddy Doyle who opens this 15 chapter book and sets a high water mark that the balance of fourteen must either match, approach or miss miserably. Having this particular writer lead off, in hindsight, may have been an error, for the best the reader could hope for was that others would keep up, or keep quite close. And when they did not the chapters are jarringly poor.

The book is worth the read not because the story is unique and clever, it is neither. The story is one you have read variations on before, and as it progresses it runs out of the cleverness it does manage, and only barely at times, and consistently and without pause begins a slow slide to the end. The irony is that the end of the tale, which can be most charitably described as not only raunchy, but just plain poor in its execution, was done by an author that probably had the least claim to be here. Frank McCourt wrote his original memoir that has a firm spot in literary history, its sequel was a shadow of the original, and this chapter numbered 15 will hopefully soon be forgotten. It is true he has sold a mountain of books, but doing it many times is a feat he has yet to prove. Playing anchor, batting clean up, was not the appropriate spot for him here.

A good tale requires more than a pair of marquee names as bookends; it requires two solid sides, not one. The best rationale for reading this book is for the gems of writers you will find in between the two men I have named. This is a case where the whole is much less than the sum of its parts, an interesting exercise, but one not tightly controlled or edited. So enjoy the quality and discard the balance, what is left is much shorter than the 15 chapters but you are sure to find several new authors you will follow with great satisfaction.


Literary parlor game makes enjoyable book.   March 10, 2002
 5 out of 7 found this review helpful

Each chapter of this detective story was written by a different author. Perhaps understandably, this leads to a plot that creaks and takes detours - but to criticise this is to miss the point. See this as as it is - a sort of literary parlor game or succession of ever taller tales in the tap room and you can really enjoy it. What I really enjoyed was the relish with which each successive author bumped off, took over or undermined the characters created by the last. A sort of "Mornington Crescent" of a book. And 1 per copy goes to Amnesty International.


A fun, ambitious project that almost pulls it off.   September 10, 2001
 4 out of 4 found this review helpful

This book is a wonderful collaboration between fifteen of Ireland's best writers and it's a joy for the literary fan and those just seeking a pacy, fun read alike......until the last chapter that is. I found I was pacing myself throughout the book lest I use up the experience too soon so good was the writing, so comic the tale.Joseph O' Connor and Marion Keyes in particular, shone. However, I was aware that a heck of a task fell the poor writer who drew the short straw in having to wind up this tale and Frank Mc Court just didn't manage to pull it off. A weak ending with little resolution and what was that Mr. Mc Court with the over sentimentalising of Limerick? It sounded like something written by an Irish exile in America missing the oul' sod. Almost as if you had written a book that was highly critical of the city in question and you thought you'd use this opportunity to claw your way back into the affections of the offended natives.