Jim McKeon has a storyteller's face; between the lines of age there are numerous lines of life. Such crags conjure days of seanachies and smoldering hearths, of story and song. Although McKeon is in the business of biography, his subjects are true characters; the local legends in every Irish parish. Indeed, had roles been reversed, McKeon the biographer could easily be accommodated in a Frank O'Connor yarn. He never expected to be a writer. Says the Corkman, "Growing up in a poor, rural family of seven, I aimed to stay in school until the age of 13 or 14 and then to work and help the family, as was the norm."

Work began at the age of 14 in Cork City's Post Office. He remained there for 29 years, writing only in his spare time. Though literally a man of letters, he never gave up the dream of being a career writer. Indeed, citing an early influence he recalls, "my secondary school headmaster told me that I had a 'fabulous memory' and at the time I didn't know what the word even meant."

After his long stay in the Postal Service, McKeon decided to write full time. He wrote 10 plays for theatrical production, as well as numerous TV and film scripts before completing his first book in the mid-'90s. After garnering positive feedback for his first two books, McKeon got his big break scribing his biography of Frank O'Connor The inspiration for the biographer came early; he was eight when O'Connor's tale "First Confession," was read to him. McKeon could empathize with the agonies of the protagonist in O'Connor's most widely-anthologized short story. Moreover, as a Cork native, he had an insight into O'Connor's home turf. McKeon was both 'fascinated with his writing and his personal life."

O'Connor's combative nature caused his life to be plagued by controversy. He had a fracas with the Catholic Church and the Republic's Censorship Board; indeed, the latter singled him out in a manner best labeled proto-McCarthyism. Explains McKeon, "following the war, O'Connor wasn't allowed to leave Ireland, and he wasn't allowed to work in Ireland. He couldn't work for a year."

O'Connor survived by writing under the pseudonym Ben Mayo for the Sunday Independent newspaper. It was a position he held for nearly two years. As McKeon explains, "This offered him the chance to take shots at the church and the censorship board without anyone knowing it was O'Connor writing the article."

Unlike his favorite subject, McKeon has avoided controversy. But life obviously has not been easy for one of McCourt's generation. The hardworking McKeon's most priceless investment has been the education of his kids. He admits, "We have had some rough times putting five children through college but things are looking up now."

This burly, good-natured writer has an appreciation for the lean years, as they are the marker by which to gage the successes of the last few years. "When you have been down, it's great when things go up so you can really appreciate the good times."

Indeed, recent success now affords him small luxuries. He has traveled extensively this last year. This follows a 12-year period when he and his wife went without a vacation.

Since he left the Post Office, he has inundated himself with a backlog of dreams and work. He has written four books in the last five years (including the acclaimed biography, Frank O 'Conner-A Life, which appeared in paperback in Ireland in early May). He has been a guest on the nation's most famous radio and TV programs and more recently, RTE (the national radio and television company) broadcast a documentary on his life.

McKeon has been invited to lecture in Alabama and is currently working on a screenplay for the BBC. The teddy-bear ish writer also works in local youth development, crafts a weekly newspaper column and hosts a radio chat show. He is still living in Cork with his wife Margaret and their five children; he is currently trying to find time to write his fifth book. Recently he made his way to the United States and New York City in particular where he did a few readings and enjoyed the following adventures.

--Kevin Smith/Eddie Scannell/Nick Kennedy

At last, a life-long ambition of mine was about to come true. I was heading for the United States and, more importantly, I was going to New York for the very first time. Boston was the first stop and the journey was very pleasant mainly because a group of Americans on board somehow discovered that I was a writer, and to my embarrassment, it was photographs and autographs all the way. Complete with suntan lotion I landed in Logan to be greeted by a snow storm. I felt right at home. Everyone was kind and gener ous. In fact, Boston was more Irish than Ireland. Next day it was a beautiful drive up to New Hampshire and the idyllic Hanover University. Again, everyone was charming. It was getting frustrating: no rudeness, aggression or bad manners; not even a little mugging. The following morning these lovely people put me on the train to New York. It was a long, slow journey-Vermont, Connecticut, rapids, bridges, colorful timber country. I even saw my first moose.

The driver kindly stopped the train so we could photograph this magnificent animal. For a fleeting moment I thought that this was all a dream and that I'd never left Ireland. Was I being lulled into a false sense of security? Even the moose was friendly.

I was horn and raised in Cork in the south of Ireland. Although it is the country's second largest city it has a laid-back, easygoing style to it. Village-like in its intimacy, the manana syndrome was very prevalent, with visitors usually smothered by friendliness and genuine curiosity. Now I was going off on a short tour culminating in a visit to New York - the greatest city in the world--the center of the universe.

Advice was forthcoming from all directions: "Be careful;" "Don't make eye contact with anyone." At Cork Airport my worried 12-year-old daughter hugged me and said, "For God's sake, Dad, don't go around looking up at the sky with a camera 'round your neck."

We then hit New York. I emerged from Penn Station looking around in wonder: the buildings, the color, Madison Square Garden, the relentless traffic. I eventually hailed a cab. My initiation period was about to begin.

The driver must have been a failed kamikaze pilot. He took off like a scalded cat with me praying in the back seat. For the next ten minutes my life flashed before my eyes. I couldn't help but notice that he was driving with one hand while writing on the seat with the other. I suddenly became very religious. He must have had some Irish blood in him because as I paid him I asked if he always drove that fast. He replied, "You should be with me when I'm on my own, man." In a flash he was gone into the night. Then while crossing the busy street, I was very nearly killed by another taxi. I struggled to the nearest bar to recuperate. More surprises were to await me.

The noise and the buzz were incredible. There is no such thing as a quiet pint in New York. I felt conspicuous sitting by the bar with a big suitcase at my feet. Yet within minutes I was made to feel completely at home, although my provincial Catholicism was shocked but secretly pleased by the bluntness of the nearby females. At least they tell you exactly what they want. As the night wore on I met one young man whose mother was the barmaid in my Cork local, two others whose fathers were great friends of mine, and a girl whose father was an old classmate. And this was supposed to be the vast, cold, capital of the world? So far it was behaving like a big, cuddly puppy.

I then got into conversation with another young man who was depressed and told me that he intended to commit suicide that night. For an hour I pointed out how lucky he really was: youth on his side, a reasonable job in a great city and if he wanted to he could be a millionaire in no time.

Where I come from, near Blarney, eloquence is as natural as Guinness. That young man hadn't a chance. By the time I was finished with him his heart was overflowing with the joys of living. It was now past midnight and it had been an eventful first few hours in Manhattan. I decided to go for a meal which was another culture shock. I can honestly say that at home I would go into a hotel, order and eat a meal, and be out on the street again before a New Yorker is even finished looking at the menu. Here eating seems to be a huge, all-night, slow ritual to be relished. I spent several nights just drinking coffee and watching people eat dish after dish; each plate accompanied by little plastic containers of mayonnaise, relish, ketchup, mustard and God-knows-what. Also, it was interesting to see four people order one large ice cream and four spoons. I had never seen this practice.

The next five days were spent walking the length and breadth of New York, at ground level, experiencing the unique mixture of color, creed, music, laughter and generosity. I felt like a child full of wonder let loose in a chocolate factory. Everyone I spoke to, no matter where they came from, was, first and foremost, proud to be a native of New York. All my preconceived notions were shattered; I was welcomed with open arms and not once did I feel threatened in any way. This was so unlike my native Cork where many places are completely out of bounds.

There was so much to see in so little time: Fifth Avenue, Madison and Park Avenue, 42nd Street, Broadway, Times Square and the magical Avenue of the Americas. I was lucky enough to witness a black genius give an impromptu drumming performance using nothing but two sticks and an assortment of plastic buckets. He was mesmerizing. The marble majesty of Grand Central was a joy to behold. The very vastness of St Patrick's Cathedral was awesome.

On my last day I sat sipping a coffee on Third Avenue and watched in wonder. There seemed to be more people here than in all of Ireland. My mind dwelt on the calm quietness of my home where I could sit at the side of a stream and watch the grass grow. That beautiful state is not so much an absence of sound as a presence of peace.

Yet if I was to use one word to describe New York it would be 'noise'-a non-stop, cacophony of lambasting noise. How different my youth was: simplicity, happiness, uncertainty, poverty, TB, polio, ignorance and love. Lady Poverty was a constant companion and she seldom lowered her ugly head. Now all this seemed like a million miles away.

I sat in JFK Airport. My body ached all over. It had the tiredness ones gets from a hectic week with an over-demanding mistress. As my plane disappeared into clouds I caught one final glimpse of the Empire State Building. It seemed to smile and wink at me as it stood there stiff and erect like a mother hen keeping its beady eye on everything away down below. Big Apple, you big, beautiful creature, I may be gone but, like MacArthur, I shall return.