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Two things had happened to me in that month: firstly, at Listowel Writers’ Week, I had steered the precarious course between the appearance of dizzy success that some people manage to construct around themselves, and the more honest, and sometimes cantankerous, desire of the toiling man and woman in the workshops. The other was that in the B&B on a one in a thousand sunny Clare day—nothing in the world to beat it—I came across Anthony Cronin’s Personal Anthology, an ecletic mix of favourite poems of his,
