Dr Éibhear Walshe, the author and director of creative writing in the School of English and Digital Humanities at University College Cork, died this week.
Born in Waterford, he studied in Dublin, and his books include Kate O’Brien: A Writing Life (2006), Oscar’s Shadow: Wilde and Ireland (2012), and A Different Story: the Writings of Colm Tóibín (2013).
His childhood memoir, Cissie’s Abattoir (2009), was broadcast on RTE’s Book on One. His novel, The Diary of Mary Travers (2014), was shortlisted for the Kerry Group Novel of the Year Award in 2015 and longlisted for the 2016 International Dublin Literary Award. He was associate editor, with Catherine Marshall, of Modern Ireland in 100 Artworks (2016), edited by Fintan O’Toole and shortlisted for the Bord Gais Energy Irish Book Award. The Trumpet Shall Sound, his second novel, was longlisted for the 2021 International Dublin Literary Award. His last novel was The Last Day at Bowen’s Court (2020).
“His smile, his good humour, his collegiality, his vision and ambition to cultivate and celebrate Creative Writing here at UCC has impacted generations of writers,” a university spokesperson said. “Éibhear’s remarkable care for his students was at the core of his work, encouraging and supportive, he always had time to listen.”
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Eibhear was pre-deceased by his father John. He is survived by his mother Celine, brothers Eoin and Sheamus, sisters Ria and Oonagh, extended family and a wide circle of friends.
His requiem Mass is on Friday, August 2nd at 10.30am in St Joseph and Benildus’ Church, Newtown, Waterford, withburial afterwards in St. Mary’s Cemetery, Ballygunner.
His colleague, poet Liz Quirke, has written a poem in his memory.
Bury Him With Green Carnations
i.m Eibhear Walshe
On February 2oth,1892, Oscar Wilde encouraged his friends to wear green carnations to the opening night of his play, Lady Windermere’s Fan. This symbol could signify homosexuality, dandyism, or “nothing whatsoever”.
let us gather those thrown ornaments, pluck from our lapels
what symbols we have to hand, “specks of mystic green,”
objet d’art, arsenic laced and beautiful, preserved
and nevermore to wilt. Let Oscar’s folly be the posey we bind
to remember that another good man has walked off stage
into the afterlife, he who taught us the dialects
by which we could recognize each other, the subtext
of wink and nudge, brush of moustache on a bare shoulder,
the subtlety of white lace and Greek recognizing Greek,
the danger of committing love’s embrace to paper.
Let this obituary be written down in lavender, dab your eyes
with the colour-coded hankerchiefs in your pockets
as we mark his abrupt departure. And who will teach us now,
that he has gone to the great salon in the heavens
where Speranza and Kate are waiting with a full decanter
while on the corridor we file past his office door,
closed by him for the last time and never again to open.
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