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{PDF EPUB} Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle Writing Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha Read Ebook {PDF EPUB} Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle Writing Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. I started writing Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha in February 1991, a few weeks after the birth of my first child. I'd finished The Van, my third novel, the previous November and I remember being told, more than once, that it was the last book I'd write for a long time, until after the baby, and the other babies, had been fattened and educated. They were joking - I think - the friends who announced my retirement. But it worried me. I was a teacher, and now I was a father. But the other definition I'd only been getting the hang of, novelist, was being nudged aside, becoming a hobby or a memory. So, I started Paddy Clarke to prove to myself that I could - that it was permitted. That there was still room in my life for writing. I don't really remember why I decided to write about a 10-year-old boy, or about that boy in 1968 - I don't remember the decisions. I was 10 in 1968, as is Paddy, and I do remember that I was thinking a lot about my childhood, possibly anticipating my son's future. My parents still lived in the house I'd grown up in. The school I taught in and the surrounding houses had been the fields and building sites that Paddy Clarke plays in. I was aware that my past was very near. But I don't recall a decision. But I do know why the boy became the narrator of the book. I wanted to get away from the first three books, The Commitments, The Snapper and The Van. I wanted to see if there was another type of novel in me. So, I started writing in the first person. I remember, and have regularly remembered, walking down a road with my friend, Peter. We had sticks and we were knocking them against the gates and walls, and singing "She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah". I don't think I knew about the Beatles back then; the song was just in the air. Anyway, that's what I was thinking of when I wrote the first two sentences, "We were walking down our road. Kevin stopped at a gate and bashed it with his stick." (Kevin, by the way, is not Peter. Peter was, and is, much nicer.) The story was assembled from bits of memory - the smell of the desk at school, the private world under the sitting room table - and it arrived in small chunks. An hour one night, or 20 minutes at lunchtime in school - I'd grab the time and write something, often just a sentence or two. I had no plot, just Paddy. I began to see things through his eyes. Adult hands were big, wrinkles were fascinating, ladders were great, disgusting was brilliant, grown-ups were often stupid. I brought the baby to my parents' house and got down on my hunkers in the kitchen, so I could see it as I had when I was 10. (I did this alone; it wasn't a Lion King moment, me holding the infant aloft.) I went up to the attic and took down William the Pirate, Father Damien and the Bells, and A Pictorial History of Soccer. These books became important parts of my book. There was no plot yet, but that didn't worry me. I thought of Fellini's Amacord, and how it meanders through a year, spring to the following spring. The year is the plot; anything stricter would destroy that film - and it's my favourite film. So I just kept writing. Paddy's stick came from memory. But it also came from Lord of the Flies. I love that book, and I loved teaching it. In the good years it was Lord of the Flies, in the bad years Persuasion. (If there is a heaven, Jane Austen is sitting in a small room with Mother Teresa and Princess Diana, listening to Duran Duran, forever. If there's a hell, she's standing.) I loved Lord of the Flies because I felt I was in it; it was the schoolyard of my childhood, but without the adults and the windows. It was a wild place, but I could always run home. And that became my plot. That certainty - home - disintegrates, slowly, in front of Paddy. In Lord of the Flies, it's the absence of adults; in Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, it's their presence. The break-up of Paddy's parents' marriage isn't based on memory. My parents seemed happy, and still do. I'm not sure why I made Paddy watch his parents fight - I don't remember. Maybe I was one of the boys in Lord of the Flies, throwing stones at a smaller boy, waiting to be stopped. But no one stopped me, and I hit him. Or maybe I just knew a good story when I tripped over one. Fiction can be a cruel business. People sometimes ask me what happened to Paddy. I tell them he's an MEP. Their faces always tell me the same thing: they wish he was 10 again, and miserable. Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. Roddy Doyle's Booker Prize-winning novel describes the world of ten-year-old Paddy Clarke, growing up in Barrytown, north Dublin. From fun and adventure on the streets, boredom in the classroom to increasing isolation at home, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha is the story of a boy who sees everything but understands less and less. "synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title. In Roddy Doyle's Booker Prize-winning novel Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha , an Irish lad named Paddy rampages through the streets of Barrytown with a pack of like-minded hooligans, playing cowboys and Indians, etching their names in wet concrete and setting fires. Roddy Doyle has captured the sensations and speech patterns of preadolescents with consummate skill, and managed to do so without resorting to sentimentality. Paddy Clarke and his friends are not bad boys; they're just a little bit restless. They're always taking sides, bullying each other and secretly wishing they didn't have to. All they want is for something--anything--to happen. Throughout the novel, Paddy teeters on the nervous verge of adolescence. In one scene, Paddy tries to make his little brother's hot water bottle explode, but gives up after stomping on it just one time: "I jumped on Sinbad's bottle. Nothing happened. I didn't do it again. Sometimes when nothing happened it was really getting ready to happen." Paddy Clarke senses that his world is about to change forever--and not necessarily for the better. When he realizes that his parents' marriage is falling apart, Paddy stays up all night listening, half-believing that his vigil will ward off further fighting. It doesn't work, but it is sweet and sad that he believes it might. Paddy's logic may be fuzzy, but his heart is in the right place. -- Jill Marquis. "Funny, warm and enriching." (Alan Davies Daily Express ) "Gloriously triumphant. confirms Doyle as the best novelist of his generation" (Nick Hornby Literary Review ) "Truthful, hilarious, painfully sad" (Tom Shone Spectator ) "A superb recreation of childhood" (Dermot Bolger) "This is one of the most compelling novels I've read in ages, a triumph of style and perception" (Joseph O' Connor Irish Times ) Guardian book club: Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle. A few years ago, Roddy Doyle found himself swirling around in a teacup storm. A few days before the annual Bloomsday celebration in 2004, he had the temerity to suggest that the Dublin Joyce industry is rather tacky, that Ulysses "could have done with a good editor" and that it's annoying for Irish writers like him to be forever compared to Joyce: "If you're a writer in Dublin and you write a snatch of dialogue, everyone thinks you lifted it from Joyce. The whole idea that he owns language as it is spoken in Dublin is a nonsense. He didn't invent the Dublin accent. It's as if you're encroaching on his area or it's a given that he's on your shoulder. It gets on my nerves," the Sunday Tribune in Dublin reported him saying. Naturally, decent citizens everywhere were outraged. They pilloried Doyle as "foolish", spewed invective about how he wasn't half such a talent as the great JJ, reminded us once again of the latter's deathless genius – and blithely ignored the fact that Doyle was on most counts quite right. Ulysses is a slog, the Joyce tourism industry is over the top and Joyce doesn't have a monopoly on Dublin. Besides, it's only natural that a Dublin writer should want to escape Joyce's shadow and feel annoyed at being constantly compared to him. So Doyle has my sympathy – for what it's worth. Or at least, he did until I started on the opening of this month's Guardian Review book club title, Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha – which couldn't be more like the opening A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man if … I was going to write "if it tried". But that's the wrong expression. Because it does try. Here's the start of Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha: "We were coming down our road. Kevin stopped at the gate and bashed it with a stick.
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