Drinking in Ireland, back in the day, was something one did when they were not doing anything else. Drinking, was also something one did when they were doing something. The public house has deep tendrils running through Irish cultural history, and Peter O'Toole was one of the finest executants of this trade. Pubs are places of transformation. Men would go to tell yarns, discuss the worlds problems, and talk about whomever happened that day not to turn up. O'Toole was as they were, in some ways, and in others ways, not.
A raconteur, a bon viveur, a perfect bastard, an embellisher, a shameless womaniser, a graceful chatterbox, a part-time monster and a part-time saint, he was also a master of his craft and he earned the status of artistic genius. Inside him he had slices of Joyce, quarts of Wilde, bits of Behan, slaps of Shaw, and remnants of Yeats. Proof of any sort need only be found in his joyous, vexsome, bubbly, and bitchy autobiography "Loitering with Intent".
The darkness of his nature enabled the gregariousness and greediness of his life as he lived it so fully and in many ways, detached. Words, the sounds of them, their form, substance, and relationship with each other were like water to him. An ever-flowing torrent of insight. Sentences made such as "true courage will do without witnesses what others may do in front of all the world", "faint heart never fucked a pig", and "if you intend to kick a man to death there's no point sending him a postcard". Describing and articulating himself not in standard English, but, in what Edna O'Brien calls "Irish-English".
An Irishman indeed, to himself O'Toole declared, as he did the world. Wearing green socks everywhere he went for most of his life. A man whom had an irresistible adoration and lecherous hunger for many women, as had many women quite the yap, as we say, for him too. A man whom had many a knee-trembler in his time, which is, the act itself done up against a wall. Lawrence of Arabia had many adventures and conquests, so too did auld Peter. A person, at any time, is their experience, ideas, thoughts, and least importantly for posterity, their feelings. What remains of an artist once gone is their work.
Although a blisteringly brilliant writer, O'Toole's vocation was acting, and he was amongst the best ever to set foot on stage or in front of a camera. What matters is to know what you want and pursue it, and he did. Building not a reputation for being an entertaining hell-raiser, crafty wordsmith, Hollywood socialite, but an artistic genius. Primarily as he was concerned with doing good work, making the right choices, and protecting his great and honourable work. His work is imperishable. I loved him, as all those whom knew of him did.
As the curtains close, I shall leave you with the wise words of Irish writer Brendan Kennelly:
"Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin."
Slan abhaile.