“I first came to Frank O’Connor by way of a possessive pronoun. The fiction shelves of a secondhand bookshop in Dublin proposed an antique orange Penguin: author’s name in white, title in black, no strident capitals on the spine, and the cover taken up with what was in those days a come-on – a blurry author photo. It was not this, or the distinctly familiar name that made me buy it (the original 3/5d now having become six euros), but the title. My Oedipus Complex and Other Stories. It was the slyly inviting “My” that did it. A lesser writer might have settled for “The”, and the book would have stayed on its shelf.