Owen Dudley Edwards was my tutor in Irish history, not literature, but the idea's the same.
Long ago, as a final-year student, he’d held me spellbound with three-hour tutorials delivered in his soothing Irish cadences. Now, listening to those familiar tones at a promotion of his latest book fifty years later, I understood that he’d been younger back then than I’d realised.
Afterwards, I asked him to sign his book. “You won’t remember me,” I said. “1973-74. You inspired me to become a writer. I wanted to thank you.”
He hesitated, then smiled. “No, of course I remember you. How are you?”
He didn’t really remember me. He was just being polite, but that was OK.
Afterwards, I asked him to sign his book. “You won’t remember me,” I said. “1973-74. You inspired me to become a writer. I wanted to thank you.”
He hesitated, then smiled. “No, of course I remember you. How are you?”
He didn’t really remember me. He was just being polite, but that was OK.
