How agreeable are you?

I think I’m quite agreeable, but if I’m talking to somebody that I’ve had a serious disagreement with, it isn’t unknown for me to say later to Paula [his wife], “Now, wasn’t I very polite?” and she’ll look at me and burst out laughing. I believe you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, so I’ll always try to find a consensus. Whether I succeed, you’d have to ask other people.

What is your middle name and what do you think of it?

It’s Anthony, and I have no thoughts whatsoever about it. I’ve never used it. The Confirmation name thing, though – the Christian Brother went around the class and asked me what my choice was, and I chose Joseph. “Why Joseph?” he asked. Because “Joseph is the patron saint of workers”. There was this pause while he looked at me. I looked back at him, and he just shook his head and moved on.

Where is your favourite place in Ireland?

If I had to pick one, then it would be Audley Place in Cork, at the top of Patrick’s Hill. It looks out on to a most extraordinary view of the entire north side. I remember there used to be a phone box there, and whenever there was a thunderstorm, I was in the habit of going into the box and watching the son et lumière, the whole north side lighting up with lightning flashes, then going dark and lighting up again.

Describe yourself in three words.

Impulsive, considered, memorious. Since I was a child, I’ve always been telling myself, ‘remember this, you need to remember this’.

When did you last get angry?

Let’s say a child is badly injured at birth, and the State is obviously at fault. The family goes to court for compensation, and the State spends hundreds of thousands fighting them, when the case is clearly open and shut. That makes me angry. It’s an expression of a deeper malaise of State institutions and Government departments treating us as a problem at best, as the enemy at worst. It’s a defensive, some might say offensive, attitude that’s rampant in the public service. To be fair, let me say that you meet stellar individual exceptions to this; the culture of indifferent hostility must upset them as much as it upsets me and many others.

What have you lost that you would like to have back?

I’ve lost three brothers in the last few years. I lost my parents a long time ago, and I’d like them all back. I’d also like my agility back. I was always very physically agile. I was a tree climber, I’d cycle everywhere, run everywhere. I loved gymnastics.

What is your strongest childhood memory?

Perhaps not the strongest, but a recurring memory is that I used to travel to matches in what is now called Páirc Uí Chaoimh on the crossbar of my dad’s bike. Coming home after a club championship when Na Piarsaigh, of which he was one of the founders, had won with a spectacular goal, I remember leaning back into his arms as we cycled past the Dunlop factory, where he worked, and he saying, “Ah, that was the way to win,” and I’m saying, “It was, Dad, it was.” That moment, that beautiful moment, means so much.

Where do you come from in your family’s birth order, and has this defined you?

I’m the eldest of a family of 15, so I was the groundbreaker. The first one to stay out late at night, and so on. I was kind of chancellor of the exchequer to my mother’s domestic management. I was the one who always knew when we had to shift from one shop to the next until we cleared the tab, the one who knew how she was worried about buying shoes for the twins and how there wouldn’t be money until next week. That absolutely defined me and gave me an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, but one of the joys of the last number of years has been seeing the extraordinary power, energy and capacity of my brothers and sisters, to the point where I’m now the retired eldest. I go to them for advice, and that’s a great feeling.

What do you expect to happen when you die?

I lost my religious faith when I was about 13 or 14. I’m an agnostic; I think it would be absurd to call myself an atheist, which seems to me entirely too self-regarding. I think that we are here to witness, to pay attention. It seems unlikely, philosophically and psychologically, that all this gain would simply vanish. I don’t believe in simplistic reincarnation, but my sense of the nature of life makes the idea of consciousness continuing, in whatever form and context, a strong possibility. That said, I’m also prepared for utter extinction. I just hope that on my deathbed, I will be dignified and appreciative of all that life has given me.

[ I’m adopted. My brother is someone I’ve greatly looked up to and admiredOpens in new window ]

When were you happiest?

The enduring happiness in my life is spending it with Paula, no question. Through all the vicissitudes of life, the ups and downs of daily living, to know that she’s there in the world, near or far, is my experience of happiness. There are other happinesses, too, of course. It’s always nice when you finish a book, for instance, and you think, ‘Ah, maybe it’s not too bad.’ Ultimately, I’m at my happiest when everything is harmonious, and something is about to happen. I just love the music of what is.

Which actor would play you in a biopic about your life?

I imagine that George Clooney is already booked up, so I’m going for James Nesbitt as we’re not dissimilar in appearance. He’d have to work hard at the Cork accent, though.

What is your biggest career/personal regret?

I’ve had mini careers, like running the Cork Film Festival with Mick Hannigan, or taking an old boys’ club like Poetry Ireland and turning it into a vibrant institution; there was a great satisfaction in working with so many people to make these things happen. I don’t regret the jobs I did, but I think I would have been better served in some sense to have given more time to the writing. That said, you don’t have a career in making poems or in writing; you have a life. Personally? I bitterly regret any hurt I have caused.

What psychological quirks do you have?

I clean as I go when I’m cooking. I can’t bear the idea of finishing a meal and then looking at a huge pile of pots and pans. By the time the meal is ready and on the plates, everything that has been used in the making of it is washed and on the drying rack. Also, books and papers on my desk are always lined up square to the edges. I’ve borderline OCD about this. Otherwise, my workroom is always in a state of semi-chaotic flux. There is balance, but none of it amounts to mania. That’s the best I can say.

Theo Dorgan’s latest novel, Camarade, is published by Mercier Press.

In conversation with Tony Clayton-Lea.