Brian friel translations essay

As we emerge from Madden’s, the porridge has been sucked from the sky. I follow Anna as she drives Dunbar and their dogs in a Jeep up the coast to Tullan Strand, one of the grandly curving beaches where the al fresco Odyssey will be performed. At the strand, we savour how the mists are drawing back to expose Ben Bulben’s peak. Across the water, the mighty cliffs of Slieve League and other mountains rise up. Donegal seems so gorgeous as to put mere Ithaca to shame. As I drive away, leaving the couple to walk the dogs, I think Yeats may have been right. Maybe this is the land of heart’s desire.

Brian friel translations essay

brian friel translations essay

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