Word: dublin
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...only thing that all Irishmen agree about is that you're wrong. In fact, even that statement would probably fetch you a fight in any decent Dublin pub. So before a word is said about the Irish character, let it be stated that very few Irishmen have it. The Irish character, if the truth be told, is a silly joke played on the English, and is only kept around for the sake of the tourists...
...kitten, and may the High King of Glory permit her to get the mange" is a comparatively mild one. The old Gaelic word for satire (der) also meant a spell that caused facial disfigurement and even death. To this day, the Irish play their satire for keeps. Dublin is the backbiting capital of the world. ("If you want an entertaining evening, tell your hosts who you had dinner with the night before...
...island without history was to keep the 17th century's religious acrimony and long-faced industry alive and to form a kind of museum for the Protestant ethic. The Scots seldom assimilate anywhere without a struggle, and Belfast is a lot closer to Glasgow than it is to Dublin, especially on a Sunday. It may help to fix the type if you realize that Woodrow Wilson and Field Marshal Montgomery were both descendants of Ulster. Picture these men locked in a small country with a bunch of unreconstructed Gaels and marvel that the place is as quiet...
Died. Robert Briscoe, 74, the irrepressible Orthodox Jew who was Lord Mayor of Dublin from 1956-57 and 1961-62; in Dublin. No one was ever more fiercely Irish than "Bobby" Briscoe. He was an I.R.A. gunrunner in Ireland's struggle for independence, then an activist in the civil war that followed. In 1927 he was elected to the Irish Dail (Parliament) and his terms as Lord Mayor were marked by many trips abroad promoting trade and tourism. His election, said Briscoe, would show the world that "at least in Ireland there is absolute tolerance...
...else fails with such devastating charm, with such splendid success. Of all the failed Irishmen, none carries down the broken standard of his race more convincingly than the failed Irish priest. Dublin Novelist and Playwright Richard Power has written a funny, rueful little classic about the last days of 63-year-old Father Conroy, whose sudden dying is less a natural act than a winsome acknowledgment of his own obsolescence-and perhaps that of his country as well...