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These islands

New form variant Oedipal envy

By Aarathi Prasad   April 2004

My father was a writer with odd working habits. He liked to work at night and sleep by day. The clatter of the Remington keys as I drifted to sleep was a perennial childhood memory. In 1964 he was separated from my mother, but even when Phyllis (who became his last wife) moved into the house, his schedule remained unchanged. I was ten.

My father entered the world of letters via the Gate Theatre in Dublin in the 1930s. He wrote plays. Later he switched to novels and made a lot of money. By the 1960s, he was back at…

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