Hunting for Snarks

Joseph Mischyshyn / Dublin - Grand Canal - Poet Patrick Kavanagh    On the North bank of the Grand Canal in Dublin, there is a beautiful statue of one of Ireland's finest poets. The piece consists of a bench where a man sits with his arms and legs crossed, as he watches the canal in front of him. His hat rests on the bench to his left. The statue portrays Patrick Kavanagh, a poet who loved the walks along the canal and wrote several poems about it.   Kavanagh was born in Inniskeen, Co. Monaghan, in 1904 and died in Dublin in 1967. His life was a constant struggle to make a living out of his writing and to champion his vision of poetry and his country. He has been described as 'Ireland's best poet since Yeats' and some of his poems, such as The Great Hunger , are considered major works. However, he was a difficult man and his terrible character caused him a lot of troubles.   Kavanagh had to leave school at the age of twelve to work as an apprentice fo...

  Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin in 1854, and his family house can still be seen in Merrion Square, just in front of a beautiful statue erected in his memory. Rodhullandemu [CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)]   Oscar Wilde is considered by many as a tragic hero. You probably are familiar with his fairy tales (e.g. “ The Happy Prince ”, and “ The Selfish Giant ”). Maybe you know that he wrote a novel whose main character has become as important as count Dracula or the Frankenstein creature —Dorian Gray. In his life, he was a successful playwright and his comedies ( The Importance of Being Earnest , Lady Windemere’s Fan ) made him outrageously popular and stablished the fame of his wit . What you may not know about him is that he spent two years in prison, lost everything he owned, and died in Paris at the age of 46. His family –he had two sons– changed their surname to avoid being linked to his name.    How was that possible? ...

by Edgar A. Poe FOR THE MOST wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not— and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror—to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place—some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects. From ...