Tom Inglis

Making Love

In this moving memoir Tom Inglis recounts his life and the love he shared with Aileen, who died from breast cancer in 2005.

Relentlessly honest about his feelings and his failings as a husband and a lover, and touching on everything from jealousy to the loss of his child, Inglis provides a compellingly written and raw portrait of a man struggling to comprehend love, death and the complexities of living.

Tom Inglis was born and raised in Dublin. He and Aileen met as teenagers and developed a lifelong love. They married and had three children, Arron, Olwen and Luke (who died tragically at nine months). Tom is Associate Professor of Sociology in UCD and lives in Dublin.

Praise For Making Love:

“breaks all the boundaries of life-writing with it's truth and honesty, taking us right out to the frontiers of love and death. This is a love story written with intense intimacy, allowing us right into the room in the dying hours of his partner's life. We become witness to the moment of loss and the extraordinary reflection which her death brings, a celebration of life as it becomes written backwards. Revealing, open-hearted, deeply moving and full of those astonishing details which stack up to create real love, rather than the rhetoric of love; those unforgettable moments of shared biography which go far beyond the grave.”
Hugo Hamilton

About the Author
Tom Inglis was born and raised in Dublin. He is an Associate Professor of Sociology in UCD. He married Aileen shortly after graduating. They had three children, Arron, Olwen and Luke (who died tragically at nine months). He is the author or editor of several books including Moral Monopoly: The Rise and Fall of the Catholic Church in Modern Ireland, Lessons in Irish Sexuality and Global Ireland: Same Difference. He lives in Dublin.
220 printed pages
Original publication

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    bakhtiyarhas quoted2 years ago
    ‘You’ve got to get rid of the stress. You’ve got to breathe in from the stomach.’
    Manolya Akanhas quoted3 years ago
    Aileen lay dying in bed beside me. I looked out through the window. There was still life outside. The landscape of the rooftops on Winton Avenue was as it always has been. The weather and seasons brought changes, but there was the same vista of houses and gardens. She would go, but they would go on: sucking in life and death.
    Inside our house, in

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