Mulcahy Conway Associates

The Colour of a Man Fading Away I have been spouting off about things I don't like quite a lot recently so it is high time I raved about something wonderful. So here I go. The Vagabond's Breakfast by Richard Gwyn is the best book I have read so far this year. I think it is a masterpiece of memoir writing. It also scared the shit out of me. On the surface it really isn't the sort of book I would normally read. It may well not sound like the sort of book you would normally read. If I had to sum it up in a sentence I would go for this one: A writer suffering from liver failure looks back on episodes from his life as a drunk and down and out bumming around Europe. But here's the thing, it is a truly remarkable story and written seemingly without an ounce of self-pity. It is as if the author is saying 'here are the facts about my life, you may find them interesting, but I am not asking for sympathy'. And the facts are interesting. In 2006 Gwyn was given a year to live unless a suitable liver donor was found. He really isn't very well. Cirrhosis of the liver, duodenal ulcers, perforated oesophagus, thrombocytopenia, umbilical and inguinal hernias, ruptured varices: the prognosis is poor, and the failure of my liver to process proteins causes ammonia to seep to the brain, making me temporarily insane. The prognosis is poor? No shit, Sherlock. I started reading this late one night, fully intending to flick through just a few pages to get a flavour of things, and found myself riveted by chapter two. It was utterly terrifying. The chapter in questions describes the symptoms of hepatic encephalopathy, which reach a height for Gwyn in the spring of 2007. He tries to set fire to a power cable thinking he is, for some inexplicable reason, lighting a lighter. On another occasion he is discovered by his teenage daughter attempting to stuff an alarm clock with bread. The episodes get more and more violent until he peaks, and ends up in a semi-coma.

Richard Gwyn began The Vagabond’s Breakfast while recovering from a liver transplant. A memoir of the nine years of drink, drugs and vagrancy that did for his first liver, it’s a jagged tale gracefully told. Full of humane surreality, there’s something whole, even holistic, about the brokenness of the life it pieces (back) together. Like many books about illness, it’s also about health: Gwyn is a citizen of both realms, describing life with “two passports.”