William Trevor's reading was word music, with each phrase following in perfect apposition to the last and the next. He read an old story* about a wedding reception, in which he succeeded in bringing everyone present at it to life. There was a priest who moved between groups, including the mothers of the couple and an aunt, the two fathers, the bride with two of her friends, her two sisters and the husband of one them, waiting, viewed through the window in a car with three children, the groom and two of his friends. All their conversations and thoughts developed in parallel as the story unfolded and people circulated. Every character was distinct and vital. There wasn't one word out of place, or one supefluous, and all followed inexorably from the initial scene to the last detail. It was, he said, about "the small towns of Ireland" (quoting Betjeman)and a world that "no longer exists". He then read a memoir that reflected on a visit to the places of the story and ended on recollections of cinema outings to Cork, and a note of "perfect happiness".
* Theresa's Wedding from The Collected Stories by William Trevor