The Dublin writer on his new short story collection, his literary pilgrimage to Meath, and the latest betrayal of Ireland’s youthDermot Bolger: 'I’d never bestow the term “wise” on anyone with my taste in clothes.' Photograph: Bryan Meade Sat Jun 27 2026 - 04:58 • 4 MIN READTell us about your new short story collection, Imperfect BeingsIn my mind, I’m still the punk teenager who used my wages as a factory hand to establish Raven Arts Press. Therefore, it was a shock when the Irish State recently bestowed on me that ultimate accolade for a writer – the free OAP travel pass. As Søren Kierkegaard – the sort of Danish centre-half you’d hate to have marking you – noted, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards”. The stories in Imperfect Beings are my attempt to look back, from today’s perspective, at the Ireland that shaped my generation. ‘If Dermot Bolger’s fiction canon kicked off with a cutting-edge novel about youth, The Journey Home, readers will appreciate this collection as the fine-tuned work of a mature, master writer.’ Helena Mulkerns’s Irish Times review highlights this as a wise, late work. Are you conscious as a writer of capturing time’s passing?I’d never bestow the term “wise” on anyone with my taste in clothes, but I think all the narrators in my stories – a public figure hiding his illness during one final interview, a son finding his mother’s first love on a Portuguese island – are trying to make sense of their past. You’re probably best known as a novelist but you’ve also published 11 poetry collections and 20 plays. Tell us about the challenges and rewards of each formIn the 1980s I said in some interview that the difference between a novel and a poem was roughly £5,000. You train yourself to write novels and plays on wet Tuesdays, but you don’t so much write poems as let them emerge from your subconscious and mug you. Theatre is hugely exciting, but once the show ends, it’s gone, perhaps never to be revived, whereas novels can be rediscovered by chance by readers decades later. Which book are you most proud of?An Ark of Light for its portrait of a unique woman refusing to surrender her right to embrace happiness despite many tragedies. It was based in tapes I made with Sheila Fitzgerald in old age in her caravan. I loved The Journey Home (1990), which captured the mood of a young generation betrayed by an older one. Plus ça change?The Journey Home was an angry, deeply controversial book about a disaffected 1980s generation of young Irish people. It made conservative critics choke on their cornflakes. Physically, Ireland looks very different but that same sense of a generation betrayed is stronger than ever. I hope some unknown young writer finds my novel, decides I have it all wrong and is spurred to write an angrier, better book about their generation. You founded two significant Irish publishing houses, Raven Arts Press and New Island. Which works are you proudest to have published?With Raven, Paddy Doyle’s The God Squad and Patrick Galvin’s Song for a Raggy Boy – two books that broke the silence around institutional childhood abuse. Also, the early poems of Sara Berkeley, Michael O’Loughlin and many others. With New Island – which I co-founded with Edwin Higel – too many to mention, but Nuala O’Faolain’s Are you Somebody was truly special and, 30 years on, remains essential reading. You’ve worked with Ciaran Carty for many years on New Irish Writing. What strikes you most about how the Irish writing scene has evolvedCiaran has been a truly great champion of new generations of Irish writers. It has been my great honour to advise him as a cross between his Sancho Panza and his consigliere. Every generation keeps remaking Irish literature.You wrote a powerful play, The Lament for Arthur Cleary. Were you fascinated by Doireann Ní Ghriofa’s reworking of the same source material?I loved Doireann’s vivid reimagining of the poem. Also Vona Groarke’s fine translation. Have you ever made a literary pilgrimage?At 19 I hitchhiked to Slane to try to find Francis Ledwidge’s cottage – which was unoccupied back then. Literary pilgrims to Slane were so rare that I found myself pinned to a squad car until I convinced the local sergeant of my bona fides by reciting two Ledwidge poems while in a headlock. The sergeant – a wonderful man – was on the local committee being formed to transform that empty cottage into the great museum it is today. Who do you admire the most?All those who eke out a living with just the thin sliver of their imagination. You are supreme ruler for a day. Which law do you pass or abolish?A law that all children be taught – and many adults forced to do a refresher course – the value of empathy, which some tech billionaires believe is a dirty word. Your most treasured possession?Michael Hartnett’s tiny Selected Poems from 1970. It blew me away in my teens.The most beautiful book you own?A three-volume facsimile of the original MS of Ulysses, presented by the Rosenbach Museum in Philadelphia. Which writers, living or dead, would you invite to your dream dinner party?Jennifer Johnston, Deirdre Purcell and Maeve Binchy, just to hear their wonderful laughter again. The best and worst things about where you live?I live in Drumcondra opposite a park with a river and beside a public library. I couldn’t think of anywhere better. What is your favourite quotation?“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” How did Beckett know so much about my writing day?Imperfect Beings is published by New IslandIN THIS SECTION