I haven't read Joyce or O'Brien, except in desultory snippets. This is a major lack in my exposure, I acknowledge. My best guess is that this novel owes a debt to them, probably a huge one. But of course it's also very interesting to come at a modern replay without the background, to see how it hits without it. And, boy, does it. The fact that this is now, seemingly, largely forgotten, makes me sad, but perhaps Mac Intyre wouldn't let it be republished for some reason? I can't believe that nobody asked to. One of the obvious claims re J and O is that their language was incredible: a focusing on folk-inflection, myth, religion and cultural sediments quarried in, out, through and under, in a cornucopia of interweave. All of that jetted out in floods. To the level of my understanding, this is the same. Astounding bravura of play of concept matched with language which kiddingly soars. The plot covers the rescue of a huge Charollais bull from a shipwreck by three chancers. They attempt to realise on their opportunity by offering it as a stud to their parochial town. The plan meets a variety of obstacles, keeps falling down, all seeming lost, only to resurrect in another guise. Then suddenly they are witness to extraordinary acts - growing misty horns, whisking up signs and symbols above his head out of thin air - by the bull, which gives them the hint that he's a bit more than just a piece of useful meat. They get a local vet to examine, and he declares that the bull has the Lia Fail, the coronation stone of the Irish kings, as a testicle. From here, of course, the hitherto disapproving clergy get involved, both on-side and off, in rival factions. The Charollais becomes an emblem of revolution, causing disruption wherever it goes, and it goes some places. They are being pursued by the military, and the conservative forces of order, so there is a non-triumphal progress as the three (wise men?), a newly-converted woman to their cause (newly-sexy as well, so a Magdalen of some kind?), and a coterie of hangers on attempt an outrunning. Ultimately the Charollais is brought down by a mad nun with a poison dart. The army and, indeed, the president of the republic, known as Mr Dee La Veera, catch up with them, and all seems to have fallen in its last heap. But then the delightful inevitable occurs - the dead and buried bull rises again, mostly visible as a giant pink misty phallus in the sky (with the occasional testicle). The revolution has its completion, even though, once the bull's image in the clouds finally disappears, arguments start about it, and some believe, some don't. That's the plot, which is wild and joking and cantankerous. But of course the language in which it's couched is something else again - endless referential interplay, scabrous humour, a toying with image and symbol which would be called Herculean if it wasn't so dedicated to bursting that kind of bubble. A crazy, unmitigated joy is what results from that mixed-up matrix.
