Kevin Barry is speaking from his Airbnb lodging in Valencia, Spain, bathed in the glow of the sun, a stark contrast to the endless winter he has left behind in Connacht. The acclaimed author is gearing up for the launch of his latest novel, notable for its distinct Cork dialect. Barry has a knack for creating sentences that grip the reader’s attention.
He mentions, the increasing trend of country dwellers eager to leave, citing examples like Knock airport’s constant influx of departing passengers. The situation is grim, marked by chilling winds and a stony weather. Barry and his significant other, Olivia, spent the initial two months of the year in California, a journey prompted by his upcoming book. Yet the subsequent two months after their return have been harsh, apart from two fine days. Barry describes their surroundings as a bleak, mud-brown landscape, devoid of vibrancy.
Considering Ireland’s harsh weather, alongside a history scarred by colonialism and Catholicism, it’s no surprise that emigration is a common occurrence. This global migration has provided Irish authors a broad canvas to base their tales, akin to Barry’s latest and potentially future novels. While one is set in the US, Barry contemplates setting his next one either there, or perhaps in London during the early ’90s. One can never be too sure, as Barry admits to often having multiple concepts competing for his attention, picking whichever resonates most or where he finds his narrative flow.
Barry, now aged 54, is a seasoned veteran in the world of literature and boasts a grand reputation as a prominent Irish writer. His career highlights include his debut story collection, “There Are Little Kingdoms”, which won the Rooney Prize in 2007, and two later compilations, “Dark Lies the Island” and “That Old Country Music”, both recipients of the Edge Hill University Short Story Prize. The author’s first novel, “City of Bohane”, clinched the €100,000 International Dublin Literary Award in 2013, while “Beatlebone” secured the £10,000 Goldsmiths Prize in 2015. His work “Night Boat to Tangier” made the longlist for the prestigious Booker Prize in 2019.
When he was just 29, a rookie in the business, the concept for the Irish western novel “The Heart in Winter” intriguingly came into his mind. After 25 years, the idea came to fruition, crafting a dark, poetic universe filled with ill-fated lovers, Irish emigrants, peculiar antagonists, and debauchery, a realm that Shane MacGowan may have dearly wished to fabricate.
“It’s an extensive and harsh tale,” he shares, with the optimism that a content closing brings. Barry made ends meet, accruing pride by writing diversely as a freelancer from the tender age of 19. He had departed from his studies in Limerick to work for a local newspaper, but unfortunately, the enterprise collapsed within a year. “The ’90s found me freelancing in Cork, contributing to the Examiner and the Echo. Despite people’s doubts, I made £250 week after week for my 450-word column in the Examiner,” Barry said. Portraying the newspaper’s then owners, the Crosbies, as his helping hand, he then confessed, “I somewhat arrogantly concluded that I was superior than all of this and should pen a novel. I’d been trying my hand at fiction in a lax manner, penning portions of narratives at ungodly hours of the morning, post-nightclub.”
The requisites for maintaining pace and plot in a western novel are acceptable, according to Barry. Characters mount horses, ignite fires, and bump into new faces, bringing a fluidity to the narration. Cycling back to when he needed a few months to truly assimilate into the novel-writing process, he crafted a ton of feature write-ups and invested £400 in a caravan. Arriving at the scenic Allihies beach in West Cork, he set up his writing arena, but hit a roadblock. “I was devoid of ideas. My previous work largely revolved around explicit themes and nightclubs. Being 29, I was short of relatable experiences to delve into fiction,” he reflects.
Beginning an expedition into the Caha Mountains and their long-since deserted copper mines, he became knowledgeable about the miners’ migration to Butte, Montana. He gradually came to an understanding. “This could be the making of a western story, and it’s the one I can pen down. I’m familiar with the Co. Cork accents. I’m aware of the sound of these individuals’ voices,” he noted. He dedicated time to research in the Boole Library of University College Cork. During the 1890s, Butte was a bustling centre due to the requirement for copper from its mines for electrification. The population swelled to 30,000, with one third hailing from Cork. As expressed in The Heart in Winter, “There were ten thousand Irish making a mess of the town.”
“They carried an undertone of mortality from birth. They generally always considered themselves to be on borrowed time, expecting to die sooner rather than later, and as such felt inclined to disregard the decorum of the living. Born of a terrible nation, they were terrible people.”
Barry suggests that they followed the typical modus operandi for fresh Irish settlers. They inaugurated 38 pubs as the first order of business. Subsequently, they took control of law enforcement and the political machinery. “I thought to myself, this is an intriguing realm I must explore,” and hence he set off for Butte, flew to Seattle and endured 18 hours on a Greyhound bus. “As one grows old, one tends to become reserved. But I was not restrained at that age. I was literally approaching strangers in public, saying, ‘I am penning a novel. Can you share something related?’ The populace was incredibly benevolent and proud of their Irish roots.
Librarians provided him with a wealth of letters sent to Beara from Butte in the 1890s. He spent many nights drinking with the locals. He became acquainted with Yank Harrington, born in 1903 to parents from Castletown Bere, who played a mean fiddle. But that is all he scribed.
The writer revealed his struggle in crafting a novel, despite having gathered a mass of intriguing information and filling his notebooks with it. His attempts resulted in the emergence of his first novel only at the age of 37. A self-reflection of his earlier days, documented in his work diary, displays a testimony of commitment as he penned down 120,000 words of fiction within a year. This, though presently ignored and tucked away under his bed, was a considerable underpinning effort. His literary journey flew into turbulence as he struggled to manage the expansive canvas of his story – mines, politics, police, bars, epic set pieces akin to Cecil B DeMille. He ultimately surrendered to the magnitude and complexity of this endeavour after around eight to nine months.
Fast forward to 2006, when the television series ‘Deadwood’ aired, he perceived a methodology to approach his ‘Butte novel’, embracing the explicit language used by miners in west Cork in 1891. His abandoned book played a vital role in influencing ‘City of Bohane’, a story based in a futuristic city that amalgamates characteristics of Cork, Limerick, and Deadwood. Identifying it as an impression of ‘Sin City’, he considered it being profoundly a western narrative, featuring characters in distinctive black and white suits.
Upon reviewing it for an academic class, he realised it mirrored the rawness of a debut novel in terms of structure, albeit drenched in a lively language and radiant novelty. The excitement he felt while crafting it was palpable. Moreover, the novel marked the debut of working-class voices from Cork and Limerick into Irish literature.
During the embittered reality of October 2021, at the height of the global pandemic, he attempted to start a novel based on a stoner detective in early-90s Amsterdam. This venture was short-lived owing to his limited knowledge of the premise. Encouraged by the pandemic-imposed social restrictions, he took solace in walking in the Bricklieve Mountains. The scenery reminded him of the western landscapes.
[Kevin Barry expresses his thoughts on John Lennon being quite the grumpy old man if he were alive at 80.]
Reflecting back, the idea of setting the story in Butte, Montana struck. The characters were envisioned as runaway lovers named Tom and Polly who needed an escape from Butte. He started with Tom’s tale, a 29-year-old with nebulous literary dreams, not unlike his younger self when he first arrived in Butte. Extensively writing for a week, he crafted the narrative of Tom’s epic pub tour, which he refers to as the ‘stations of the cross.’ On the subsequent Monday, Polly’s character was fleshed out. Mere moments into the writing, it clicked into place, and he realized he had a book on his hands.
Writing is a curious, obscure craft, he has mused, and the knack was to pinpoint the perfect tale suited to that particular period in life. The subsequent ten months, he recalls, were the most exhilarating in his writing journey. The narrative seemed to unfurl itself naturally. The dynamism and flexibility of a western plot offered many opportunities. The idea of people constantly embarking on journeys, mingling and interacting with others, was delightful to write. On a personal level, penning the book felt like he was making amends to his younger self, validating past ambitions and aspirations. A singular sentence was retained from his original manuscript, a homage to his younger, naive self, “She got f*ck knots in her hair.”
Known for his auditory approach to writing as opposed to a visual one, Barry highlights the importance of speech in his work. He ritualistically reads his narratives out loud to ensure the tone resonates correctly. His knack for story-telling and turning a phrase distinguishes him. He mirthfully reminisces about an episode at the M&M diner in Butte, dating back to 1890 where a conversation with a waitress, responding to his query about the joint never closing, said, “It’s been a long shift.”
Barry’s freshly conceived words have an inherent grit that surpasses the cheesy inventions of lesser authors, wouldn’t you agree? However, isn’t he playing a risky game? To which he responds, “Definitely. I often read my work aloud, correcting as I proceed. It’s about harmonising the words; can you perceive the sound? They didn’t communicate in Dakota as they do in Deadwood. David Milch employs a Shakespearean vernacular, pervasively vulgarity, it may not be precise, but it gives the right impression.”
I found it intriguing that Barry chose not to include the classic shoot-out scenario in his book. Did he think it was too typical? He said: “At first it was an unintentional omission, but eventually I decided to keep the brutality behind the scenes. The focal point of the book is the love story after all. Incorporating bloodshed and aggression into the narrative could shatter the amorous enchantment of the book.”
Likewise, there are hints that the characters, Tom and Polly, are trying to leave behind challenging histories, but this component remains unexplored. Barry explained: “Tangier was constantly shifting between present and past. With this book, I wanted to maintain the narrative’s forward drive, continuously heading towards whatever lies ahead, doing it justice as a genre.”
So how did he delve into the profound early stages of youthful love? Barry says:
“Concerning the character of Tom, I pondered, what would a 29-year-old from Castletown Bere be like? Naturally, I referred to my own experiences. His fervor for literature is both glorifying and disastrous. The narrative started to resonate with me when Polly became a part of it, signifying how lovers shape each other’s identities. She’s highly confident about her self-identity while he’s still figuring his own out, experimenting with various accents and manners.”
Barry concludes: “I adapt myself into a location scout, I familiarise myself with the surroundings in my writing.”
In an interview with the New Yorker, Barry openly acknowledged that his writing caters to hopeless romantics, bringing to life such scenes as intimate exchanges infused with an air of fatalism that deeply excite his characters.
He finds the year 1891 fascinating, with countless photographic studios making their debut on every main road. He says, “This was the first time everyday individuals started contemplating their appearances.” In the narrative, characters Polly and Tom grow increasingly concerned with their self-presentation and self-imagining. The author likens this to parallels with Bonnie and Clyde.
Books, according to Cormac McCarthy as recounted by Barry, are born from other books and lack any profound secret. They’re also spun from the influences of cinema and music. Recounting the central inspirations for this particular work, Barry cites 1970s films by Terrence Malick such as Days of Heaven and Badlands, McCabe & Mrs Miller, and the series Deadwood.
He also credits the literary masterpieces of others, like Charles Portis’s True Grit, asserting, “It’s impossible to create a western now without offering at least a faint nod to Cormac McCarthy, whose genius breathed life into the genre. The depth of his understanding regarding horses, as displayed in All the Pretty Horses, is remarkable.”
As for the genre of historical fiction, he reveres Hilary Mantel for her ability to give it a contemporary flavour without any overly obvious research, a skill he tries to emulate.
He also shares his Spotify playlist, remarking that “State of Independence” by Donna Summer is his go-to track to close out the night.
The centrality of locale is a consistent theme in all his writings. He indeed takes a methodical approach, playing the part of a location scout by visiting the actual settings. An apt example is Night Boat to Tangier, where he found himself in Algeciras’ ferry port. There, he wrote dialogue for Cork gangsters while savouring café con leche. His commitment extended to the extreme with Beatlebone, a story about John Lennon’s therapeutic screaming journey to an island. The writer even dared to scream on a rock in Clew Bay, an experience that he found refreshing.
Contrarily to his usually reticent self, he revealed part of his personality in the book, something he seldom allows. His intention is for his books to offer a deeply personal experience for the reader, while leaving them clueless about him personally.
In an unconventional move, Barry disrupted the storytelling in Beatlebone to delve into why he felt compelled to write it and his affinity to Lennon, something he doesn’t regret. He felt this approach gave the book an emotional core, saving it from becoming a mere adventure tale of John and his driver venturing into the outermost parts of Connacht. Despite its challenges, he cherishes this book above all because of its difficulty.
In the introduction he wrote for Anthony Cronin’s Flann O’Brien biography, he proposed that a writer’s style mirrors their personality or perhaps their soul if it’s believed to exist. Since style emanates from one’s subconscious, he believes, it reveals primal truths and gets reflected on the page, making it impossible for writers to obscure their true selves in their prose fiction.
His previous four novels and those he is gradually working on all dabble in various genres to some extent.
Elaborating on his perspective, he observes, “There is room for deception in an essay, yet fiction doesn’t afford you the same luxury. You inevitably betray a part of yourself, regardless of your effort to conceal it. Part of the intrigue in fiction lies in the question: how much can I suppress? As a fiction writer, I identified two aspects: firstly, developing control over your writing requires a heap of previous flawed attempts, before eventually attaining the role of puppeteer; and then the real fascination begins – am I capable of relinquishing my control? Allow the narrative to take its natural course? I am unsure if I’ve achieved that yet, even though I tried with works like ‘Beatlebone’ and ‘Bohane’, releasing them into chaos to witness the outcome. ‘Tangier’ and ‘The Heart in Winter’ was where I played a more austere ringmaster and they turned out to be superior works, technically. In an unusual realization at the age of 54, I feel I am just beginning to truly engage with novel writing. I’ve naturally always been more of a late bloomer, taking up cycling at 14 and learning to swim at 29, both activities now forming a significant part of my routine. They say only fools rush in.”
He continued to share his insights, “I now understand how to delve beneath the surface of a novel, balancing between lawlessness and control. Dermot Healy springs to mind for me. ‘A Goat’s Song’ is an eccentric book, however, it possesses such remarkable craftsmanship; he is someone we ought to talk about more. Residing in Sligo lends an extra layer to his work.”
Upon being asked about any recurring elements in his work, he responded, “The four novels I’ve published, along with the ones I’m sketching ideas for, have elements of different genres. ‘Night Boat to Tangier’ possesses noir attributes. ‘Beatlebone’ belongs to a genre often mocked: fan fiction. ‘City of Bohane’ is a zany cocktail of dystopian and wild west warfare novel. To quote imperfectly, all I’m seeking is a means to march my troops over.”
Barry has been making a name for himself as a novelist, although his previously successful period of short story writing seems to be on a decline. “The frequency of short stories have slowed down, with perhaps just one or two per year.” He explains. “In my younger days, I could complete one in a week. I had an amazing streak with them.
“For me, short stories are quite different from novels. They’re quicker to write naturally, but they skulk about like shadows and need to be written in the moment.” He expresses his current disinterest in only short stories – he has explored writing for films and stage. The adaptations of his novels play a pivotal role in his earnings. The filming of ‘Dark Lies the Island’ has been done and two more, ‘Tangier’ and ‘Bohane’, are nearing completion. “The communal aspect of it is enjoyable, the video meetings help me break away from solitary writing. This is why I dedicate three to four weeks of July to ‘Winter Papers’ editing, it’s like a vacation from myself, where I don’t have to worry about my own writing for a while.”
‘Winter Papers’, a yearly art anthology he conjointly edits with his partner, Olivia Smith, is about to release its 10th edition this year. The couple’s admiration for the artisanal bookmaking at a comic store named ‘Drawn & Quarterly’ in Montreal reminded him of designer John Foley from his time in Cork, which sparked the project. “It’s become a cherished time of the year, keeping us within a natural rhythm and maintaining a social life while living in rural Sligo.” He stated. “Whilst not wanting to sound self-congratulatory about Irish literature, there is a definite sense of a dedicated, passionate community of individual creators. We enjoy facilitating discussions between different craft specialists, exploring their techniques. Additionally, in an attempt to keep our previous works relevant, we are launching an online archive this year.”
Richard Harris once remarked that all men from Limerick are inherently theatrical at heart, a trait fully exemplified by Barry with his fame for live recitations. “I have an affinity for sharing stories live. I recently did the audiobook. I reminded myself not to overly exaggerate the Cornish accent. But what happened? I absolutely overdid it. I nailed the Yorkshire accent; my attempt at Cornish is regarded as atrocious. I sold a huge amount of the Tangier audiobook. The majority of audiobooks are terrible – they use trained voice actors. I refuse to leave them to such professionals, despite my over-the-top performance.”
Kevin Barry’s new book, ‘The Heart in Winter’, will be available from Canongate from Thursday, June 6th.