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Showing posts with label Kate Rice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kate Rice. Show all posts
Kate Rice ✍ Like most people, my social media feed has recently been awash with news of protesters in Dover, Portsmouth, and other seaside towns, demonstrating against small boat migration and the RNLI’s "helping hand." 

The fallout from these actions hit a boiling point when the Portsmouth Lifeboat Station was forced to temporarily suspend its services due to the intense physical and online abuse directed at its volunteers.

Where I can usually form a coherent opinion on complex public matters, I find myself completely baffled by this. The RNLI has existed since 1824, and since its inception, it has been an entirely indiscriminate humanitarian service. Its founding ethos is to protect those in peril on the sea—full stop. There is no clause stating "protect as long as they look like us" or "protect as long as they hold the right documentation." Its only mandate is to save those who are drowning.

When I was a child visiting the seaside, the RNLI hubs were places of community and pride. Volunteers were always happy to show you the lifeboats and share stories of maritime history. They never spoke of a political agenda because they didn't have one; their sole focus was saving lives. To any normal person, this selflessness is admirable. So why are we now seeing crowds calling themselves "patriots" protesting heroic charity work, threatening good-hearted volunteers, and driving vital rescue operations off-service?

The forced closure of the Portsmouth station creates an undeniable hazard. On an immensely popular stretch of coastline, risks emerge every day for hobby sailors, windsurfers, families, and yes, migrants in small boats. The irony is that during the Portsmouth incident, RNLI volunteers even stepped in to ensure the safety of the protesters who had waded into the water to confront the arriving boat. The charity protects everyone.

This unconditional humanity isn't new. During the Second World War, the RNLI routinely rescued downed German airmen from the sea. They did so without stopping to check documentation, and without pausing to consider that these men were actively at war with their country. They saved them simply because they were human beings facing death in the water. Once safe on solid ground, the proper authorities took over.

This is exactly what happens on the rare occasions they assist small boats in the English Channel. It is not the purpose of a volunteer rescue crew to act as border enforcement or to assess legal status; their only job is to ensure a person doesn’t die when a tragedy is entirely preventable. Channel rescues make up barely more than one per cent of the RNLI's nationwide callouts, yet volunteers are being branded as "traitors" online and targeted at their stations. Demanding that volunteers stand by and watch people suffer or drown is, without question, inhuman.

All human beings possess a fundamental right to life and safety. The human condition must always take precedence over a political or legal status. Protests targeting a lifesaving charity are dangerous reflections of xenophobic rhetoric. The consequences of these actions do not just endanger migrants; they put the volunteers themselves at risk and threaten the legal citizens who rely on those same lifeboats every single day.

When does it end? Will these critics only be satisfied when more small boat crossings end the way it did for two-year-old Alan Kurdi, the Syrian child whose lifeless body washed ashore, becoming a horrifying symbol of global inaction and a heart breaking picture on the cover of our newspapers? We cannot allow political bias and bigoted anger to dictate who lives and who dies when the means to save them are readily available.

The RNLI and its lifesaving mission must be fiercely protected. To those standing on the shores shouting insults at rescue boats, I ask a simple question - will you only be satisfied when the tide brings in nothing but bodies to bury?

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Hating The RNLI

Kate Rice ✍ The advance of modern technology is undoubtedly something to be celebrated. Scientific and medical advances allow doctors to diagnose disease, detect injuries and develop life-saving treatments. 

These are innovations that have transformed our lives, and we’re far better off than our ancestors were for it. So why has the rise of generative AI become such a divisive issue?

Beyond its well-documented environmental impact through the immense resources required to power and cool data centres, generative AI also raises political, ethical and cultural questions. This is particularly relevant when considering its growing use by businesses and organisations in the North of Ireland.

Venues such as Felons, PD and the Rock Bar are longstanding institutions within West Belfast's Republican community, and alongside preserving Republican history and culture, they have consistently expressed solidarity with the Palestinian people. But I was a bit disturbed to find out from a friend living in West Belfast that all three have recently used generative AI to create promotional posters and flyers and for many, this presents a potential contradiction.

The most widely used generative AI platforms, including ChatGPT and Google Gemini, are developed by companies whose technologies have become intertwined with the Israeli state. Investigations by the Associated Press found that advanced OpenAI models, accessed through Microsoft's Azure OpenAI Service, have been used by the Israeli military to process, translate and analyse intelligence data. Internal documents also showed a dramatic increase in Microsoft's AI services being used by Israel following the attacks of 7 October 2023. OpenAI has also amended its usage policies to permit certain national security applications, when previously it prohibited military applications.

Google has faced similar scrutiny, like in 2021 when Google and Amazon signed Project Nimbus, a $1.2 billion contract with the Israeli government to provide cloud computing and artificial intelligence infrastructure. Google maintains that the contract supports civilian government services rather than military operations. The American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) reports that, during 2024, Google processed additional requests from the Israeli military for access to Gemini AI technologies. Google itself disputes this characterisation of its work, maintaining that Project Nimbus is meant to support civilian government services.

The AFSC also notes that Google dismissed more than fifty employees who protested the company's work relating to Israel and Palestine, and that Alphabet later removed its previous commitment not to develop AI for weapons or surveillance applications as mentioned above.

Questions surrounding AI are not limited to military partnerships, but to the general content we are exposed to online. This year, Israel's Ministry of Foreign Affairs contracted Havas Media Network, which in turn signed a $6 million agreement with the American company Clock Tower X LLC to coordinate a large-scale digital communications campaign. According to reporting by Responsible Statecraft and Snopes, the campaign's stated purpose is to combat antisemitism online. The campaign has also been described as an effort to expand Israel's digital public diplomacy by distributing content across platforms popular with younger audiences, such as TikTok.

Even though this agreement was not made directly with OpenAI, it’s still a worrying concern of potential organised efforts to shape the online information environment, that may influence the material that AI systems and search tools draw upon, and that search engines show to us. The extent of that influence is difficult to measure, but to me it raises some pretty legitimate questions about how political narratives are reflected in AI generated responses.

There is also the question of creativity itself. Generative AI cannot create independently, it only produces content by learning patterns from vast collections of writing, artwork and other media created by human artists. Many artists, writers and musicians argue that these systems rely upon their work without consent, credit or compensation. As AI-generated content becomes cheaper than commissioning human creators, concerns about the future of creative professions continue to grow. Within the Republican community, this raises another uncomfortable question. Ireland's history is one of protecting language, literature, music and artistic expression against centuries of suppression. Organisations and community centres with a basis in Republican values have consistently promoted Irish culture and the importance of preserving it. Is embracing generative AI technology, something that many artists believe undermines human creativity consistent with those values?

If solidarity with Palestine remains a core principle within many Republican spaces, it is reasonable to question whether relying on technologies developed by companies whose products have become integrated into Israeli government and military infrastructure reflects that commitment.

Another difficulty with AI usage in our era is that it’s not always clear which apps and websites use these particular AI models. These include services like Canva and Meta.

Ultimately, the debate surrounding AI is not simply about convenience or innovation. It is about culture, ethics and the values we choose to support. If you asked my personal opinion, I think I would rather celebrate the intelligence of people working to preserve Irish and Palestinian culture than rely on systems whose outputs are shaped by vast datasets and the priorities of the companies that build them.

Sources



As Israel uses U.S.-made AI models in war, concerns arise about tech’s role in who lives and who dies


⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Sons of AIreland

Kate Rice ✍ Like most people, I have seen the recent social media posts condemning those who have defaced the mural dedicated to Brendan Hughes in Twinbrook.

I have also seen the comments going back and forth, blaming agents of Sinn Fein, youth branches, or some anonymous person with a spray paint can.

I am not here to cast blame. It can’t be said definitively who has done it, though the reasons behind the accusations have their standing in history - Sinn Fein and friends are no strangers to turning their backs on Brendan Hughes, or using his memory to bolster their image. The image of Gerry Adams holding his coffin despite Brendan’s expressed wishes against this comes to mind.

Regardless of where the finger of blame can be pointed, the act itself deserves condemnation, no matter who committed it. Areas like West Belfast are filled with murals committing to the memory of Volunteers, all of which have their place. Why then does a mural of Brendan Hughes bring such internal debate? Because of the stance he took in his later years?

It is easy for us, with our perfect hindsight, to make blanket statements about this man. This doesn’t make them correct. I have heard people condemn Brendan Hughes for being against the peace process. He was not against peace, but he was against peace that was “won” on terms that had been hashed out and refused much earlier on in the conflict, because the terms were not enough. He was against peace that saw Volunteers like himself thrown to the wayside, paid unfairly in work that came after, with no offering of support for the mental toll that followed their campaign and prison conditions. A peace that saw men who were happy to give the orders and wave their hands while never getting those hands dirty - boosted into the stars of high politics and public esteem, while the working people of the North were left standing and wondering exactly what they fought for. All of this comes from Hughes’s own words and grievances, his experience with cowboy construction sites and the uncomfortable world he stepped into upon leaving prison.

I similarly make no claim that Brendan Hughes was a man carved from sainthood. He was a normal man, capable of error and capable of mistake. He was a man who was able to reflect on the actions of his younger years and ask himself and the people around him if it had been worth it. And truly, was it? The Good Friday Agreement resembled many points refused in the Sunningdale Agreement - in 1973, when the toll was still high enough, it was suggested and Republicans deemed it not enough for what cost had already been paid. If all was to come to the same political conclusion, was it truly worth it for the conflict to continue, for the toll to rise even higher on all sides? It’s a question that entities like TPQ have deliberated over many years.

Brendan Hughes could be criticised for many things, as all figures of political and public visibility can and should be. But he should not be condemned for this. One main point of socialist ideology should be to question leadership, to ask if the boat they are taking us in is big enough and strong enough to carry us all to better places. If you must deem Brendan Hughes a tout for the interviews he gave and the views he shared, you must in turn ask yourself for what reason you take issue with a working class man asking the system “why?”

If you believe that the defacing of a mural to Brendan Hughes is a just action, you must ask yourself 'why?' too. Murals exist all over West Belfast, murals that remain respected and visited and pictured even now. Should we only take the pieces of a person that are suitable to the present political narrative? Do you truly value the voice of a Volunteer? Or can you only extend that value to a voice that tragically fell quiet before it had the opportunity to ask itself questions?

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

The Dark Mural

Kate Rice ✍ On another day in the city, I accidentally wandered into the remains of an Orange march, with another one promised on the horizon. 

I didn’t see the actual march. I didn’t want to. I had no desire to witness more of the spectacle that had made my dad so passionate, and ultimately, so small-minded. The march that had passed through earlier had left urban chaos in its wake - the street choked with rubbish and empty plastic bottles. Despite it, the air was tense with anticipation for the next. People lined the pavements, settling into folding camping chairs like they were preparing for Glastonbury.

I watched a crowd dressed in bright orange t-shirts, the Red Hand of Ulster plastered boldly across their chests. One woman stood out, completely smothered in the Union Jack - right down to a sparkling red white and blue bowler hat.

I know I am supposed to be here to learn. I know I am supposed to lean away from my inherent biases and view every side of this fractured city with an open mind. But as I looked at them, I realized my capacity for open-mindedness had a strict and painful boundary. I cannot look at the culture my dad came from with the same generous, seeking eyes I gave to West Belfast.

To me, Loyalism isn’t an abstract political identity or a different perspective on history. It is inextricably linked to my father’s alcoholism. It is the quiet backdrop to the violence of my childhood. The flags and the far away pattering of drums didn't feel like a cultural celebration, but the visual language of the beast that had lived in my own home. Standing on that littered street, trying to force myself to understand a culture that hurt me felt less like learning, and more like rubbing salt an old wound I had long thought healed. I had to walk away.

It makes me feel bad to write this down. I came here wanting to learn, wanting to be entirely equal and fair, but I just can't bring myself to do it. It feels selfish, in a way, to wilfully look away from an entire half of this city's culture.

But how can I look at a celebration of his identity and not see him? All I have ever learned or heard from my dad is bigoted rhetoric and pure, unadulterated hatefulness. When I see their flags and hear their songs, I don't see a community. I see my dad’s pride in being a British soldier, I hear his visceral hatred toward Republicanism, towards immigrants, towards Other.

My mind instantly flashes back to my developmental years - years spent in a perpetual state of terror, walking on eggshells just to appease a volatile man. I did everything I could to make sure he wouldn't abandon me, or worse, raise a hand to me the way he so easily did to my mum. The people lining the streets for the march might see a proud tradition, but to me, that pride is stained. It is the language of the man whose born history ruled my childhood. To ask myself to look at Loyalism with open, objective eyes isn't just a historical exercise, it's asking myself to forgive the violence in my own history before I am ready. For now, my open eyes are reserved for the places that don't look like him - though I hope with time, I can view the North in its entirety without my personal feelings covering my eyes.

Following Charlie’s advice, I dropped into the Rock Bar. The moment I crossed the threshold, the bartender caught my eye and smiled. The immediate ease of the place washed over me. I ordered a Coke and asked him where else I should visit. Without hesitation, he suggested the Felons Club. He told me it was a place where people who had lived right through the heart of the conflict gathered, and that many of them, on occasion, were happy to share a few words of their own personal history.

Buoyed by the welcome, I walked back to the house to collect my partner. I asked the woman at the bar if there was anyone who might be kind enough to talk me through the history of the photos dotted around the place. A man named Gerard, wearing a Celtic shirt, generously offered to show me the history lining the walls. He walked us through a gallery of memory and respect. There were pictures of famous rebels, the hunger strikers, the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising, and the tragic story of Tom Williams, a young man executed in prison whose body was later secured by the IRA just so he could be buried alongside his mammy, as he had wished. There was art depicting the coffin boats of the Great Famine, and then, upstairs, the most delicate testament to human endurance: harps, crosses, and chairs painstakingly carved and crafted by the prisoners of Long Kesh.

I’ll confess, I got a bit teary eyed. The woman behind the bar caught sight of my tears and looked genuinely surprised by my emotion. I realized then the vast distance between us. To her, this raw, heavy history was an everyday reality she had long learned to respect and live beside. To me, stepping into it with fresh eyes, the visual evidence of so much collective grief was a visceral, overwhelming shock to the system.

The ideas I’d had about it being a conflict of ideals and politics was sort of slapped straight out of my head. Just crosses and harps, carved by the hands of ordinary men in cells, often dressed only with a blanket as part of their humanitarian protest to be treated as prisoners of war.

On another day, I visited the Falls exhibit at an old primary school and listened to an audio archive of the curfew implemented on the Falls. How Belfast had started as a small town, the linen mills, and the inequality in job and housing allocation between the Catholic and Protestant communities. Inevitably, I cried again. There’s this bit where they show you a ten minute film of footage from the curfew, and other events including when police broke into a Sinn Fein office in 1964 and confiscated the tricolour from the window, and the burning of homes in the area. You can see families just carrying their furniture through the street while these great big orange flames burst through window frames and lick up the brick sides.

On the 15th, we travelled to Drogheda by train and met with Christopher Owens and TPQ’s patriarch himself, Anthony McIntyre. We sat in a gorgeous little pub garden and spoke the world. I gave my thoughts on some things but it was an honour to sit back and listen to these two men who had both experienced the conflict in some regard speak of their personal history - and their taste in music, books, and drinking spirits. For this I must give my thanks to both gentlemen for their welcoming hospitality, their endless patience for my naive questions, and Christopher’s suggestion of a pre-pub Dominoes.

I fly home on the 17th, and already the thought of leaving is saddening me. There’s still so much I wish to see and hear and listen to. I am both pleased and embarrassed to say that my naive optimism and view of a complicated history remains intact - I hold hope for a United Ireland, a peaceful future, and many more such naked conversations about the burden of heritage. Belfast, you have been a dream to me. No longer will I imagine a shadowed beast and whispered history, inaccessible to those who didn’t live through the days of gunfire and fear. Thank you for your patience with me. One day I will come back with both eyes open, unburdened by personal history so that I might properly appreciate yours.

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Belfast 🪶 The Tale Of The Pope In The Pub Garden 🪶 Act Ⅱ

Kate Rice ✍ I have been to the north of Ireland many times in my life, mostly when I was too young to remember anything other than souvenir shops and shamrock green trinkets packed into my bag. 

Every time I have visited, it has been with a guiding hand on my shoulder to remind me which areas are “ours”, and which areas are “theirs.”

At the age of 25 (now 26), I decided to make the big and terrifying leap into the North on my own, into the fray of those yellow taped areas. When making my bookings, I felt something of a brave explorer hurtling inevitably towards an unsatisfying ending - Alexander Supertramp excitedly spotting that abandoned bus on the Sushana River. The city centre ignited little sense of adventure within me on arrival. High street shops and people rushing to and from work to lunch and back again is ten a penny in England. Was this the great big bad my dad had warned me about? Teenagers mooching around outside McDonalds, blocking the doors? I could find that anywhere. Ten years ago, I would have been that.

I confess, I got cocky. I had peaked Everest, I had looked into the belly of my father’s imagined great beast and seen only metropolitan life and a Glider system my own city would envy. We crossed the Westlink, and a man speaking loudly into his phone stopped my partner (in his Norway shirt) and asked if they were playing England. On confirmation, the man shook his hand and told him he hoped they’d win. Friendly, but the first hint I’d had since arriving that there had ever been a time of historical significance here at all.

The memorials came quickly then. Walls and electrical boxes painted and trussed up and faded and painted again - faces that had been gone from this world since before I was born. Signs written as Gaeilge, tricolours in windows. Surely this must be the beast, then? The refusal to let their dead fade out of memory, rampant and rainbow splattered support for political struggles all across the world? But still, no. The big bad shadow of West Belfast had been made clear to me from childhood, and yet I hadn’t seen it.

We stopped for a moment outside Divis Tower. If you’ve read my previous works, you might know that I have a historical interest and fascination with Brendan Hughes - when I first started looking into Irish history for myself without parental blinkers on, each “side” was an amalgamation of clay and belief and gun. Brendan Hughes was the first person to take shape, my first real awakening that it had been a conflict of people and not just ideals. It was sobering to see the Tower he spent his final years in, which feels silly to say, but I have charged myself to be truthful with my travel diary.

We then briefly slipped into the D Company memorial, which was beautifully kept. There were flower arrangements on the stone plinth, and a tricolour flying overhead beside a Palestine flag. There is an unexplainable peace that comes over most people when they enter a memorial space, and I am no exception. However, I’ve never experienced such a peace-less peace. Constantly asking myself if I should feel guilty for it, if I should be holding up a sign that says “please be patient, still learning.” That feeling still hasn’t quite gone away.

I’m an emotional person by nature, and the countless amounts of mural art in West Belfast took my breath away at each and every turn. The Peace Wall, the famous mural of Bobby Sands MP. Such a famous face, painted with great care on the side of a building in a thoroughly working class community felt almost comical in a way. I think I had expected fanfare, or to find these murals on the sides of palaces and great big museums. Thinking on it, the people depicted in this art may prefer it the way it is.

One day I got the notion to walk to Felons by myself. In my studies, it had been mentioned a couple of times for the pieces of history inside and the pictures on the walls. My attempt to visit on an earlier day with a local friend had ended in a swift rejection at the door - apparently, he was barred. We’d ended up in PD on that day. As I walked, navigating the physical boundaries of the road, a voice called out from a bus stop. It was an old man named Charlie, remarking on the brilliance of the weather. When I asked him for directions to the Felons, he didn't just give me a route; he gave me an itinerary. He told me to stop at the Rock Bar first, assuring me of the friendliness inside, all while making sure to mention - several times - that he wasn't much of a drinker himself. He was a tea man. He gave me a piece of survival advice for the local pubs, wrapped in dry wit: "Don't buy anyone a drink, or you'll find yourself the friend of every man in the bar."

He laughed about how he couldn't spell or pronounce the name of the street he lived on. Then, with the same casual cadence, he pointed across the road. He spoke of the 1970s. He described the gunmen who used to crouch in the upper levels of the buildings opposite us, and the ambient, suffocating fear of knowing you could be shot at any moment just for existing on the pavement. He recounted the slurs flung at him by British soldiers and Loyalist faithfuls. The casual nature of his delivery was gutting, in a way. This was just the backdrop of his youth.

Hearing him mention the army, a lump formed in my throat. I decided to take another terrifying leap into the truth. I told Charlie that my dad had been one of those British soldiers. I told him I was here to learn on my own, bracing myself for the shift in his eyes, waiting for him to shrink away or tell me, rightfully, to fuck off.

Yet, the legacy of that conflict hadn't hardened him to the stranger standing in front of him. He looked at me, the child of a regiment that had policed and belittled him, and he chose to be kind. He looked at the door my dad had always held closed, and he opened it wider for me. He assured me that everyone would be kind, and friendly. They’d respect my presence as long as I respected theirs.

Before we parted, this man, who had survived the worst of the city's history looked at me, an English outsider, and made a promise. He told me he would sit at that bus stop until midnight if he had to, just to wait and see me walk back down the street safe and happy before he went home. I had spent my life being warned about the dangers hidden in these streets, inheriting a fear of a beast that didn't exist. But standing there, I realized the only thing waiting for me in the shadow of the Westlink was an old man offering to guard the safety of a soldier’s child over an imaginary cup of tea.

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Belfast 🪶 The Tale Of The Pope In The Pub Garden 🪶 Act Ⅰ

Kate Rice ✍ with a poem.

Of Meat And Men

War Makes Meat Of A Man
the white marbled slab of wealth
whole and without cut
in its red brick abode
♞♜♝
 you are no such prime slice
 bloody and tender and quick to rot
 diced and piled high
 on No Man’s Table
♞♜♝
meal of cheap cuts 
shoulder and shank 
broiled and stewed soft 
to feed the few 
 ♞♜♝
you are easy to buy
and easy to carve
butcher shop gristle
cut the baby fat off you.

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Of Meat And Men

Kate Rice ✍ with a poem.

Hunger

Bodies stacked with grass stained mouths
buried shallow beneath the glen
you looked away, and then for Sands
you looked away again
♞♜♝
It’s long been known, the surest road
to reach a proud man’s heart
is through a stomach filled by hand
the working person’s art
♞♜♝
It is easy to shrug off hunger pains
when it is not your gut that aches
it’s easy to feel no need to give
when you’re fed by what it takes
 ♞♜♝
But hunger is an angry thing
you’ve used it here before
you carved it here in ‘famine’ years
they wielded it in war
♞♜♝
They refused your empty plate
the scraps of hoarded greed
and sat with a hunger, raw and ripe
that justice alone could feed
♞♜♝
Lust for freedom is without age
their hunger marked as crime
hope will outlive an Empire’s rule
and time is time is time

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Hunger

Kate Rice🔖 answers thirteen questions in Booker's Dozen.

 Reading Aloud And Allowed


TPQ: What are you currently reading?

KR: I’ve just started the ‘Shardlake’ series by C. J. Sansom. Mystery novels aren’t usually my kind of thing, so it’s a pleasant little change up.

TPQ: Best and worst books you have ever read?

KR: Worst book is a hard one for me because there’s definitely been a few times in my life where I’ve purposefully read those trashy sort of self-published smut books at the joking recommendation of a friend. Joke reads aside, the worst I’ve ever read was All Fours. Can I say that? I get the message but I just sort of felt embarrassed.

Best book, too many to name. Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler is my modern sort of guilty pleasure. The Crucible by Arthur Miller, though that’s a play. I Could Live Here Forever by Hannah Halperin, Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan - I can’t decide!

TPQ: Book most cherished as a child?

KR: For some reason I remember being really attached to this book called My Life with George by Judith Summers. It’s an autobiographical story about her dog George who she bought as a companion after losing her husband. I didn’t understand a lot of it as a child - I’d mostly just gotten it because there was a dog on the cover - but there was something within it that made me reread it a few times.

As a teenager I sort of attached myself to books like The Bell Jar and the Virgin Suicides. I felt it was very important to have books that were physical reminders - I was Girl in Pain. Very overdramatic, but great books.

TPQ: Favourite Childhood author?

KR: Jacqueline Wilson. No one was doing it like she was.

TPQ: First book to really own you?

KR: I have two - Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler and The Vegetarian by Han Kang. I read The Vegetarian as part of my university studies and was completely enraptured by it. It’s this incredible story about a woman who refuses to eat meat after she has a nightmare, but ends up devolving into some kind of psychosis. It’s told through the perspective of three other people - two of them being men in her life, and I think it’s such a stunning piece on womanhood and the use and abuse of the body as the last element of control over oneself.

Sweetbitter follows a 22 year old young woman moving to New York City from rural Ohio. She gets a job at this really upscale restaurant where everything is fast paced and everyone is on drugs. She meets this mysterious bartender and a senior server who are completely wrapped in one another, pseudo-incestuous, and she wants desperately to be part of their little private world. It’s just this fantastic exploration of food and the senses, sex, the subtle impact of child abuse. I recommend both these books to everyone.


TPQ: Favourite male and female author?

KR: Stephanie Danler, Donna Tartt, Louise Kennedy, Megan Nolan, Sylvia Plath, Han Kang, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - the list of female authors is endless.

Male authors I’m more hesitant towards after publicly admitting to liking Neil Gaiman pre-exposé. I like Arthur Miller’s work, George Orwell, Simon Stephens, Gabriel García Márquez.

TPQ: A preference for fact or fiction?

KR: I do tend to lean more towards fiction, but I’ve been reading quite a lot of non-fiction recently. Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe, The Widow Clicquot by Tilar J. Mazzeo etc.

TPQ: Biography, autobiography or memoir that most impressed you?

KR: I read a few autobiographies when I was younger purely because I recognised the faces on the front. Miley Cyrus, Miranda Hart etc, but I wouldn’t say they stuck in my mind. I recently read a sort of memoir/biography based on the personal letters of Lord Byron, which was fascinating. Odd man.

TPQ: Any author or book you point blank refuse to read?

KR: Rowling. I read some as a child but I won’t give a second more attention to someone who disregards and vilifies an identity.

TPQ: A book to share with somebody so that they would more fully understand you?

KR: Stray by Stephanie Danler.


TPQ: Last book you gave as a present?

KR: The two favourites I mentioned earlier, both to the same friend.

TPQ: Book you would most like to see turned into a movie?

KR: That’s a hard one. There’s a few I’d like to see turned into films, but only if I’m starring in them and I get to pick who I star alongside. Anthony Boyle, call me.

TPQ: The just must - select one book you simply have to read before you close the final page on life.

KR: A book answering every question I’ve ever had in my life. Failing that, I suppose I’d like to read something I’ve actually ended up writing and publishing.

⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.

Booker's Dozen 📚 Kate Rice

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