The Ginger Man (1955)

by J.P. Donleavy

Under the train trestle went the horse cab. Past the monument makers. And a shop where I used to keep my rations. A milky, cold smell. I often bought two eggs and one slice of bacon. From a bowl-breasted girl. She eyed me. And once I bought oatmeal and went out and got dreadfully drunk across the street. Invited the pensioners in for a pint. They all came in adjusting scarves, coughing graciously. They all told me stories. About men and their daughters. I heard them before but once is never enough—got to have them more often. Later I spilled my bag of oatmeal all over. (pg. 168-169)

Honest and riotous and painful at times. Impeccable unselfconscious style. Reckless elation and insufferable ignominy delivered by the internal monologue of the antihero of his time. Still shocks sixty-five years on. You probably knew a Sebastian Dangerfield or two back in college. The Ginger Man hasn’t gone anywhere.