When Galway-born poet Graham Gillespie released his debut collection in March 2010, there was no doubt how he wanted his poems to be received. Love, Sorrow and Joy is charged with the remarkably pre-emptive subheading: ‘A New Voice in Irish Avant-Garde Poetry’.1 An introduction from Dr Mícheál Ó hAodha of the University of Limerick, and an accompanying interview with the author, seek to bear out the bold claims of the volume’s title and situate the author within the ‘exciting and radical tradition that is the Irish avant-garde’, according to the Cambridge Scholars Press blurb. Picked up loyally by the Galway Advertiser and the American Catholic journal Saint Austin Review, Gillespie’s Love, Sorrow and Joy failed to muster the reception its title demanded.
It’s difficult to conceive of an avant-garde—Irish or otherwise—in which Gillespie could rightly be accommodated. Ó hAodha is admirably insistent; his introduction opens with a determinedly linguistic definition, in which we are once again reminded that ‘[t]he avant-garde originally signified the vanguard of an army, the first people to feel the heat of the battle and smell the blood, the suffering.’ Nowhere does his potted narrative of the literary avant-garde alight upon Irish history, or the Irish present. Kristeva and Barthes are brought into the discussion, as commentators on the ‘radical and counter-hegemonic’ knowledge conveyed by avant-garde writing, and the avant-garde in the postmodern era is defined as ‘a testing ground for new discourses and subversions.’ Ó hAodha suggests that Gillespie’s poetry rails against ‘stuffy’, ‘overly-academic’ and ‘overly-linguistic’ writing. If the closeness of the contemporary avant-garde to the academy is disputable, the interdependence of poetry and linguistics in recent avant-garde poetry is surely less so. The political and moral conscience Ó hAodha argues for is less apparent in the poems than an engagement with Christian ethics. The collection ecstatically upholds the rite of marriage and the sanctity of family, and in the interview Gillespie betrays some conservatism when he criticizes the ‘radical feminist perspectives’ of Adrienne Rich and others, which he sees as antipathetic to those institutions. The only persuasive characterisation of a historical avant-garde in which we might place Gillespie comes in a convenient generalisation: ‘[t]hat which was different from the “rest of the pack”’.
Retailing at a princely £39.99, this volume hasn’t been pitched to popular consumption. It’s tempting to imagine that Love, Sorrow and Joy was published as a provocative hoax by a frustrated Irish underground, resurrecting questions (who are the old voices of the Irish poetic avant-garde? Who speaks for it now?) so often asked that they seem to bore the most eminent critics of Irish poetry. Responses range from Edna Longley’s unwillingness to recognise an Irish mainstream for an avant-garde to rail against, to a persistent complaint from those who write and publish experimental Irish poetry (often the same people) that in Ireland, all that lies outside of a monolithic poetic tradition is neglected and unsupported. Both stances are potentially harmful. Left of centre we might put poet-critic David Wheatley, whose robust engagement with alternative poetries in Ireland is tempered by disdain for the more inconvenient questions which have a bearing upon that writing. Without rehashing old debates, Wheatley’s work goes some way towards dissolving the boundaries of reception; in February 2003, he briefly brought the poet Randolph Healy to a mainstream audience by reviewing his Selected Poems Green 532, published by Salt, in the Times Literary Supplement. And whilst Wheatley’s resistance to the bigger critical and sociological picture is motivated by an admirable concern that this poetry should be judged on its own terms and not as part of an embattled minority, and a concern that the battle-cry from the peripheries doesn’t give currency to the distorted picture of a unified post-Yeatsian tradition in Irish poetry, the economic and cultural obstacles hampering the recognition of poetry in Ireland that engages with international modernist and avant-garde movements should not be ignored.
One obstacle is the idea that there is no division between mainstream and avant-garde in Irish culture. Fintan O’Toole made this sociological argument in a 1997 essay on Paul Durcan’s poetry. For O’Toole, the blurring of conventional boundaries between mainstream and avant-garde in Ireland hinges upon the elusiveness of Irish reality: in the ‘crisis and change’ of Irish twentieth-century history, reality has been ‘so angular and odd, so full of unlikely junctions and broken narratives, that a good realist has had to be also a surrealist.’2 His thesis dovetails with John Wilson Foster’s admonition to the critic who enthusiastically propagates Irish modernism, that he reflect on the absence of any significant work of realist fiction until after the Literary Revival had faded.3 But O’Toole’s comments serve the notion that the undeniably surreal strain of imagery and scenario in Durcan’s poetry make his great success—as one of the Republic’s best-selling poets whose charismatic readings are particularly celebrated, and as former Irish Professor of Poetry—an instance of the Irish avant-garde breaking into the mainstream. Durcan’s poetic voice tips easily into an ironic deadpan which has something in common with the Liverpool Poets of the 1960s. He would surely own to sharing their popularising mission; as Randall Stevenson recently reminded us, The Mersey Sound was far the best-selling issue of the Penguin Poets series. It is perhaps not incidental that Gillespie, in his Love, Sorrow and Joy interview, cites Durcan as one of his major influences.
The vague and negative terms with which O’Toole characterises Durcan (avant-gardist because there’s no such thing as an Irish mainstream, post-modern because he writes from a society that never became modern) are symptomatic of a critical and social unease over the place and time-frame of modernism in Ireland. Foster has remarked upon the weird coincidence of the Irish Revival, itself a backward-looking Romanticism, with modernism’s heyday, the strange fruit of which is reflected in the careers of Yeats and Joyce. It has been suggested also that Ireland’s exclusion, with the exception of Belfast, from the processes of the Industrial Revolution necessarily altered the country’s participation in modernism. In That Neutral Island, Clair Wills’ description of Ireland’s contribution to the 1939 World’s Fair under de Valera is animated by the tensions between modernity and old vernacular stereotypes, exemplified in the angles and curves of glass, concrete and steel which formed the imposing Irish Pavilion building—the shape of which, when viewed from above, was revealed as shamrock.4 In the Irish 1990s, the rapidity of technological and economic advances demanded new temporal negotiations of the fin-de-siècle writer.
Alex Davis has written of Randolph Healy, along with Trevor Joyce, Maurice Scully and Catherine Walsh, as forming a ‘neo-avant-garde’ in Irish poetry.5 The problem of temporality in Irish literary and social history, and the problems of temporality and narrativity that endure in avant-garde theory, place a necessary caution on the Irish ‘neo’ and the ‘post-’ of postmodernism. After Hal Foster, Davis prefers the Freudian nachträglich, and its connotations of delayed or “deferred action”. He sees the Irish neo-avant-garde positioning itself with regard to international avant-garde writing as well as earlier Irish poetry. In 1992 Robert Crawford diagnosed a belatedness in the Scottish literary avant-garde, and a native failure to fully address the legacy of earlier Scottish experimental poets such as Edwin Morgan; Davis’s essay on the Irish neo-avant-garde offers a theoretical extension to Crawford’s comments, and with an emphasis on action he shows ample grounds for optimism.
Yet the strange belated-regressive tendency in Irish experimental poetry is demonstrated in the objectives of Trevor Joyce and Michael Smith’s New Writers’ Press, founded in 1967, and its filial journal The Lace Curtain. New Writers’ Press married a commitment to providing an “in” for young writers unable to launch in the fallow publishing culture of the Irish sixties, with the aim of redressing Ireland’s neglect of modernist poets such as Beckett, Coffey, MacGreevy and Devlin. In 1971, their publications included Thomas MacGreevy’s Collected Poems, Brian Coffey’s Selected and a special issue of The Lace Curtain devoted to Irish writing of the thirties including, in a fitting temporal play, Beckett’s essay on ‘Recent Irish Poetry’ (1934). In providing this exposure, the editors were establishing a tradition separate from the more visible Irish poetic tradition. But importantly, they were establishing a tradition: a sign of the failure of the neo-avant-garde as critiqued by Peter Bürger, and one which actively opposes the aims of the historical avant-garde. More recently, the delay effect in Irish modernism is evident in one of the best anthologies representing alternative poetries from the British archipelago, Other: British and Irish Poetry Since 1970 (Hanover, New Hampshire: Wesleyan University Press, 1999). Here, Brian Coffey is posthumously represented with an extract from his unfinished, fragmentary work “The Prayers”, whilst Michael Smith and Trevor Joyce, poets of the next generation who resurrected Coffey’s publishing career, and who indeed make up the old guard of the neo-avant-garde as identified by Davis, are absent. Whilst Coffey published some of his finest work later in his life, his inclusion gives a distorted, if conscionably corrective picture of “recent Irish poetry”.
Irish alternative and experimental poetry is much more visible a decade into the twenty-first century than it was at the century’s turn, when the debate about the status of the Irish avant-garde was being vigorously thrashed out on the pages of journals and internet forums. The inclusive survey offered in John Goodby’s Irish Poetry Since 1950: From Stillness into History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000) was long overdue and has become the standard treatment of the period; central to his narrative was an indictment of the conservative critical orthodoxy. David Wheatley’s Dublin-based poetry journal Metre ran from 1995 to 2005, publishing lesser-known Irish poetry from the Republic and Northern Ireland alongside poems from more canonical writers of past and present, essays on L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, and special issues on American poetry, Central European poetry and the Irish Poetry Diaspora. In the pages of this journal Goodby, again, reviewed Douglas Oliver, Denise Riley and Iain Sinclair’s Penguin Modern Poets anthology and Sinclair’s Conductors of Chaos together with pamphlets from Maurice Scully and Randolph Healy under the heading ‘Who’s Afraid of Experimental Poetry?’. There the most pointed challenge was levelled at an English critical establishment, for its failure to recognise alternative poetries across the Irish Sea. Michael Smith was invited to edit Irish poetry’s ‘journal of record’, Poetry Ireland Review, from 2002-3, and in the following year David Butler offered succinct advice on ‘Where to Look for the Wild Honey’ in that publication. The interdisciplinary New Voices in Irish Criticism series from Dublin’s Four Courts Press (2000-2005) offered a refreshing breadth of critical and theoretical perspectives, in which Irish neo-avant-garde poetry was not overlooked.
In the introduction to Vectors: New Poetics (San Jose: Writers Club Press, 2001)Robert Archambeau described poets like Healy and Joyce as “hostless”— without the backing of ‘powerful presses or university programs’. And whilst those support networks haven’t fully materialised, Joyce was elected member of Aosdána, the Irish affiliation of artists, in 2004, Maurice Scully in 2009. These poets have increasingly found accommodation online, in criticism and in anthologies, albeit an accommodation of “otherness”. The Dublin poet Billy Mills, who runs hardPressed poetry with his wife Catherine Walsh, a press devoted to experimental poetry from in and outside of Ireland (and named advisedly), is responsible for The Guardian’s Poster poems feature.But there is still a great distance to be travelled in terms of this poetry’s native representation. The Irish government’s distribution of Arts Council funds is implicated here, but so is the publishing and reviewing culture and the Academy in Ireland today.
Alex Davis at University College Cork has arguably done more than any critic in the British Isles to promote Irish modernist and avant-garde poetry. In no small part because of the work of graduate students and faculty in that institution, the city of Cork has become the nexus of Irish avant-garde energies. An international poetry conference organised by Romana Huk and held at the University of New Hampshire in 1996, Assembling Alternatives, brought together the poets who are treated in today’s criticism as a readymade avant-garde community; before the conference, some of them had not met. Following Assembling Alternatives,‘SoundEye’ festival for new and experimental art forms, co-founded by Trevor Joyce, has been held annually, in conjunction with a conference of alternative writing administered by Davis.
It is telling, however, that a book of the proceedings of the original New Hampshire conference, edited by Huk and published by the University of Wesleyan Press, is widely available, whilst a search for For the Birds: Proceedings of the First Cork Conference on New and Experimental Poetry (26 April 1997), edited by Harry Gilonis and tantalisingly footnoted by Davis himself and Robert Sheppard in The Poetry of Saying, is an infuriatingly circular process. Published by Mainstream Poetry Press in apparently paradoxical conjunction with Mills and Walsh’s hardPressed poetry and Joyce’s New Writers’ Press, the internet trails this book has blazed lead to a Stanford University library catalogue entry, to hollow Google Books and Open Library records, and u-turn to the Davis and Sheppard footnotes, before becoming lost in a torrent of ornithology. In fact, the only search results for the Mainstream Poetry Press refer back to this elusive book.
This isn’t the only such case. An English reader interested in Healy will have to visit the Cambridge University Library or the Poetry Library in Southbank to consult David Annwn’s Arcs Through: The Poetry of Randolph Healy, Billy Mills and Maurice Scully (Dublin: Coelacanth Press, 2002). An Irish reader might just have to do the same—no copies are available in Dublin’s National Library or any major university library (UCC’s copy has been on order since 2003). And as a further illustration of the necessary self-referentiality of Irish avant-garde publishing, Coelcanath Press was run by one of the book’s subjects, Maurice Scully.
Small presses and print-runs, co-publishing, self-publishing and self-promotion: all of these conditions are charmingly bound up in the mythology of the international literary avant-garde. Cambridge offers a rare example of a functional, flourishing avant-garde community: the notion of a Cambridge School of poets may be contested, but a coherent body has formed around poet-academic J. H. Prynne, supported by Cambridge University and a number of small presses, such as Rod Mengham’s Equipage and Salt, which published Healy’s Green 532. Salt celebrated its tenth anniversary in 2010, having become an anomalous species of “big-small” press, with global offices.
In Ireland, small presses have a speckled history of dormancy and resurrection, but survive by mutual support. Joyce’s involvement in the New Writers’ Press lessened along with its output in the eighties, but there was a renewed interest in the press and its authors when the first Cork Conference for Alternative Writing in 1997 marked the thirtieth anniversary of its founding. Maurice Scully’s The Beau was an important forum for poets emerging in the late seventies and eighties in the Republic of Ireland, publishing Healy’s first chapbook, 25 Poems (1983). The thirtieth anniversary of the New Writers’ Press marks a neat, unofficial handover to Healy’s Wild Honey Press, which has published new volumes of Joyce’s poetry since 1998, and Mills and Walsh’s hardPressed Poetry. hardPressed was founded in 1985, before Assembling Alternatives, and had been publishing Mills and Walsh’s work and a scattering of other authors including David Lloyd, Augustus Young, and British Revival poet Tom Raworth, whose receipt of an Irish passport in 1990 was celebrated with a pamphlet of poems. After 1996, the catalogue was broadened by the distribution of books from other small presses. A journal produced by hardPressed ran for only two issues, but their blog is well-maintained and provides links to poems by its published and distributed authors, as well as reviews and relevant articles. Wild Honey Press has been the more potent publishing force over the past decade and a half, producing chapbooks from John Kinsella, Peter Riley and Ron Silliman as well as an increasing list of Irish poets.
Peter Fallon’s Gallery is Ireland’s equivalent of the “big-small” press, founded in Dublin in 1970 and now based in County Meath. Its authors continue to appear on the poetry shortlist for the Irish Times Literature Prize (the other small press which occasionally appears on these lists is Salmon, based in County Clare, and the largest press in the West of Ireland). Mills has described a ‘hierarchy of status’ in Irish poetry publishing, in which Gallery makes up the ‘solid middle class’.6 And Fallon has to an extent supported this, speaking of the generous assistance of Arts Council Ireland in keeping Gallery alive—a support not felt by the more marginal Irish publishing houses. Fallon has claimed that Gallery is not commercially driven; with a list that has included most of the celebrated, commercially-viable Northern Irish poets of the last four decades (Ciaran Carson, Medbh McGuckian and Derek Mahon are Gallery authors, Paul Muldoon and Seamus Heaney have published occasional Gallery volumes), it has perhaps been easier for him to keep an open aesthetic agenda, and to provide a home for Irish-language poets.
Many Irish presses have suffered for not paying heed to native commercial interest. Anthologies of Irish poetry sell well globally and remain in print, but the impulse for anthologising newness doesn’t seem to be favoured in Ireland. Poet, blogger and critic Michael Begnal, committed to the promotion of experimental writing in Ireland, has commented on the different anthology cultures in Ireland and America, where temperature-taking has been a central concern since Donald Allen’s landmark The New American Poetry of 1960. A transatlantic allegiance was evident in The Black Mountain Press of Ballyclare, Antrim, which published Breaking the Skin: Twenty-First Century Irish Writing (2002), anthologies of fiction and poetry from Irish authors under 45. The poetry anthology garnered some local interest but wasn’t picked up by Poetry Ireland Review. Black Mountain Press is now defunct. The Munster Literature Centre is a non-profit organisation funded by public donations, Cork’s City and County Councils, and Arts Council Ireland. The publishing arm, Southword Editions, issued a series of Best of Irish Poetry anthologies from 2007 to 2010, the last volume edited by Matthew Sweeney. Announcing the discontinuation of the series, Patrick Cotter, Artistic Director of the MLC, cited extremely poor sales: equivalent American and British volumes sell in tens of thousands, Best of Irish Poetry sold in tens. He remarked that the series had attracted only one review in four years and received no support from Ireland’s library system.
Whilst sales comparisons are skewed on the basis of population alone, the failure of The Best of Irish Poetry series and muted reception of Breaking the Skin supports the complaint, of Cotter and others, that there is an endemic apathy in Ireland for poetry that is truly contemporary. Sweeney’s selections for the 2010 Best of were not particularly angled toward alternative writing: poems by Augustus Young and David Wheatley are collected in a thicker body of poems from Muldoon, Leontia Flynn, Nick Laird and other well-knowns. It could be said that the linguistically-exciting, experimental poetry of the Irish neo-avant-garde doesn’t lend itself to the anthologist’s processes of contraction. In Healy’s most ambitious work, Arbor Vitae (1997), the despotism of deaf education, and its unrelenting focus on spoken language, is critiqued as multiply-voiced snatches of historical narrative and visual word-games, anagram and acrostic, intersect.The new-futurist collage of Maurice Scully’s Things That Happen extends over two decades, culminating in Tig (Exeter: Shearsman, 2006). Benjamin Keatinge is surely right to read Beckett in Scully’s palpable obsession with “going on”, or how ‘one thing leads to another’, as a motif from the 2004 instalment of his project, Livelihood, reads. The shift between present and remembered experience is indicated by oblique marks, parenthesis, or pages of blank space, which present a bold challenge to the extractor.
The most recent addition to a substantial field of anthologies, Patrick Crotty’s imposing The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry takes an admirably long-view of Irish poetic tradition(s).7 It is distinguished by a crop of new translations of Latin hymns, medieval and early-modern bardic poetry, and poems in Ulster Scots from the nineteenth-century. Representation of the contemporary poetry scene is perhaps necessarily distorted in an anthology of such breadth, and so grievous are omissions like Denis Devlin and Thomas MacGreevy that one imagines some conflicts of copyright have prevented their appearance. But the subdued sound of recent experimental writing and its modernist lineage is rationalised by the editorial principles. In Crotty’s introduction Scully, who doesn’t make the cut, is described as a scare-quoted ‘modernist’, ‘for whom the art is as much a visual as an aural one.’ His conviction that Ireland’s ‘major contribution to world culture for a millennium and a half’ has been ‘poetry and song’ occasions a strange swerve in the book’s narrative, where the section ‘TRANSFORMATIONS, 1971-2009’, in which poets like Scully, Healy and Walsh should rightly be placed, is succeeded by a section of ‘SONGS AND BALLADS SINCE 1801’.
Where arguments for the irrelevance of the contemporary avant-garde tend to assume a society in which newness is accepted, and art no longer tyrannised by stable archetypes, Ireland perhaps provides a prime situation for a viable avant-garde movement, with the sublation of the lyric poem its object. Yet the lyric subject persists, a distinguishing (not inhibiting) feature of Irish neo-avant-garde poetry as defined by Alex Davis. The “Healy not Heaney” tag has been irresistible for some, but Green 532 contains many an oblique lyric answer to Heaney: read ‘Frogs’, for example, with ‘Death of a Naturalist’ in mind. The lyric is dissected in part III of Healy’s twelve-part chapbook investigating the properties of fire, Flame (Bray, Ireland: Wild Honey Press, 1997), where an acrostic issuing from ‘CARNALITY’ gives shape to the section. A bracing, anagrammatic re-ordering seems to reveal profound, supra-lexical connections between the written poem and the cleansing flame: ‘Clarity/ A lacy cyan in a lyric … alacrity’.
Healy hasn’t reacted sorely to Ireland’s indifference; in interview, he has suggested that the absence of a discernible audience freed up his poetics.8 The peculiar lyric touch in Healy and Trevor Joyce’s work owes much to a shared training in mathematical sciences. For Healy logic, syllogism and anagram are important organising principles. And whilst indeterminacy rules in his poetry, he transforms metaphorical language into something more solid: number pictures, equations of energy and matter. In a cruder extension of Muldoon’s famous capacity for literalising clichés, soothing aphorisms hover uncomfortably over a poem like ‘World War II’, which puts a value to the weight in gold of that war’s casualties.
SoundEye was named for the meeting of visual and aural arts which the festival celebrates, a sensory meeting central to the development of Irish experimental poetry since the sixties. And an interest in perception—as biological, creative and philosophical act—is perhaps the most compelling commonality in these poets’ work. Catherine Walsh’s determinedly multi-lingual poetry is interested in the international languages of neuroscience and ophthalmology. In Pitch (Exeter: Shearsman, 1994), the idiom flits between insouciant narrative and scrupulous attention to image-making, its neural, visual, legible and aural processes:
The formal precursor is Pound, specifically the Pisan cantos which are ‘br[ought] to focus’ under the Confucian sign of ch’êng. Light scatters before image or pattern can be made, and the left column above sketches genealogies of scientific knowledge, from Indian physicist Chandrasekhara Raman’s discovery of ‘raman scattering’, to the grandfather of neuroscience, Santiago Ramón y Cajal. Yet ‘raman’ and ‘ramón’ don’t resolve, in the right margin, with ‘vraiment’, as we’d like to read, but the disruptive archaism raiment, and in the next lines we are flatly ‘reduced’ to ‘the graphic mannerisms of that cultivated / expression o fart’, a bathos reminiscent of the earlier Joyce.
Walsh’s experiential treatment of scientific discourse reaches its most sustained expression in Optic Verve: A Commentary (Exeter: Shearsman, 2009), where pages of dissolute verse-columns, phantom sense-threads teasing us horizontally and vertically, amidst passages of apparently cogent ‘self-commentary’ make for her most challenging reading. The philosophy of perception is read against an oppressive background of ‘C18th rationalism’. And this inquiry is suggestive of a thoroughly Irish lineage to Walsh’s poetry and thought: from George Berkeley to W. B. Yeats, and, more recently, Derek Mahon. Yeats’s drinking song truism, ‘Wine comes in at the mouth / And love comes in at the eye’, invites unpicking in this work.
Though Healy, Walsh, Scully and Joyce are conveniently grouped on national as well as aesthetic grounds, it is a deracinated criticism they tend to attract. This is broadly symptomatic of a departure from the oppressively inward-looking Irish poetry criticism dominant in the twentieth-century, and pointedly symptomatic of a hostility felt by some of these poets toward the narrow prescriptions of a critical culture which excluded them. The paradigm of the avant-garde artist in exile (or less dramatically, outside of Ireland) has some relevance here, but so does the more ancient mythic archetype of homecoming—Walsh and Mills lived in Spain and England before settling back in Ireland; Scully has lived in Italy, Greece and Africa, returning to teach in his native Dublin. Tig,the closing instalment of the Things that Happen odyssey, is named for the Irish “home”.Interests and engagements outside of Ireland notwithstanding, there is much in this work that has and will furnish the critic of Irish poetry with familiar terms of appraisal. More benevolent “hosting” within Ireland would surely be well repaid in the exciting, ranging contemporary soundscape it would reveal. The cost of not showing where to look for alternative voices in Irish poetry is greater than £39.99.
1 Graham Gillespie, Love, Sorrow and Joy: A New Voice from the Irish Avant-Garde (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2010)
2 Fintan O’Toole, ‘In the Light of Things as they Are: Paul Durcan’s Ireland’, The Kilfenora Teaboy: A Study of Paul Durcan, ed. Colm Tóibín (Dublin: New Island Books, 1996), pp. 26-41.
3 John Wilson Foster, Colonial Consequences: Essays in Irish Literature and Culture (Dublin: The Lilliput Press, 1991)
4 Clair Wills, That Neutral Island (London: Faber & Faber, 2007)
5 Alex Davis, ‘Deferred Action: Irish Neo-Avant-Garde Poetry’, Angelaki, Journal of the Theoretical Humanities, 5:1 (April 2000), pp. 81-93.
6 Billy Mills, ‘The Word from Ireland’, Samizdat #4, Fall/Winter 1999, http://www.samizdateditions.com/issue4/and-wordireland.html
7 Patrick Crotty, ed., The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry (London: Penguin Classics, 2010)
8 Interview with Robert Archambeau, Readme #1, Fall 1999, http://home.jps.net/~nada/healy.htm