Claire Keegan, some more Irish literature and lots of time on various forms of transport to read
Pic: Selection of past few months worth of recommended reads - Elizabeth Strout’s newest with the return of Olive Kitteridge, High by Erika Fatland- I’ll review separately but amazing account of her travels in the Himalayas, Intermezzo (still reading), Antartica and re-read of Small Things like These- by Claire Keegan, finally sharp and witty The Happy Couple by Naoise Dolan. )
I’ve been travelling for the past couple of weeks which means a couple of things- lots of inspiration, lots of reading on trains etc, and no time in which to actually write anything down properly. I’m a huge fan of the notes app, which incidentally Hattie Crissell writes about in October’s Elle (can’t link the article here). Crissell calls the app a confidante, a to-do list, a reminder and a receptacle for creative detritus. Couldn’t agree more and constantly use it to remind myself of small sparks and ideas, packing lists and anything else which needs a written home. In short, it’s where everything goes when I don’t have the time or requirement to write long-form.
Most recent notes included the release date of Claire Keegan’s ‘Small Things Like These’ in its long awaited cinematic format. I wanted to watch it in Ireland, specifically, and happily a trip coincided with said release dates. Call me old fashioned, but there’s something much more real and atmospheric about seeing a film in the place it pertains to. I saw ‘The Quiet Girl/An Cailín Ciúin’, another of Keegan’s adaptions to screen in Ireland as well. The silence in the cinema as the film ended was worth it alone, palpable and far more meaningful than watching it somewhere with less relevant sociology.
The beautiful thing about Keegan’s books is indeed that they often directly reflect Irish lived experience. Not the diddly-eye paddy whackery portrayed in Hollywood flicks like (uh oh) PS I Love You etc, which naturally are made to please American sensibilities and reinforce Irish stereotypes (all men are stoic heroes quick to get into altercations in pubs, all women are either mammyish or wild and witchy). Keegan’s novels are usually set in 1980s Ireland which was a decade marked by emigration and a good deal of oppressive Catholic overhang.
I re-read the deft 114 pager during a blissfully disconnected 2 hour plane journey last week, in prep for seeing the much anticipated screen version. It’s still a delight and for me as I assume for many, the artful suspense created by Keegan is a large part of her appeal. She confirms in a Booker prize interview that she’s more interested in tension than drama. Not a word goes to waste, and the narrative is curated in a way that brings us close to the main character Furlong, but not so close as to compromise the unfolding, subtle mysteries. The weather is constantly foggy, crows circle the town, Furlong is always awake during the weird wee hours of the morning and observes the world through his own weary, weighted lens. He’s a man who seems to have, to translate directly from the Gaelic, ‘the tiredness of the world upon him.’ He slogs through the day in his coal business, going about it in a disenchanted, methodical fashion.
“What was it all for? Furlong wondered. The work and the constant worry. Getting up in the dark and going to the yard, making the deliveries, one after another, the whole day long, then coming home in the dark and trying to wash the black off himself and sitting into a dinner at the table and falling asleep before waking in the dark to meet a version of the same thing, yet again. Might things never change or develop into something else, or new?”
The very limited interactions we hear with his wife, Eileen, their children and the local community, are telling of a life where most things are definitely swept under the proverbial rug. Including the goings on in the local covent, where we know something dark and covert is occuring but which everyone is unwilling to outwardly acknowledge. We are made aware that the women specifically, in the town, seem to be acutely aware of the Magdalen Laundry, but choose, out of fear, to say nothing. Eileen is painted as astute, as Keegan’s female characters often are, intuitive and aware of things a layer under the surface;
“It was easy to understand why women feared men with their physical strength and lust and social powers, but women, with their canny intuitions, were so much deeper: they could predict what was to come long before it came, dream it overnight, and read your mind.”
Despite this knowingness, Eileen chooses adamently, like other women in the town, ‘not to think’ and to just ignore in order to ‘get on.’ To avoid bringing trouble to the door or the ignomany of calling out something as untouchable as religious institutions. It reminded me of the documentary ‘Witness to the Future’ which looks at the work of the outspoken Anglo-Irish intellectual and essayist Hubert Butler. It tells how Butler, who was born in Kilkenny and a Protestant republican, smuggled Jewish people into Ireland from Vienna before WWII. After travelling extensively in Yugoslavia, he found evidence of the Roman Catholic Church’s complicity in the Croatian wartime persecution of Orthodox Serbs. Subsquently attracting opprobrium in 1952 by bringing up this inconvenient fact at a McQuaid era gathering in Dublin, in the presence of none other than the Papal Nuncio. He was immediately made out to be persona non grata by the church, but it only strengthened his belief in the need for intellectual dissent in Irish life.
Butler was aware of the kind of necessary compliance implicit in Irish society at the time, interwoven of course with a history of rebellion, which is what Keegan’s story draws from so skillfully. Having been in Paris the past year, I’m consistently struck by how this compares with French societal norms, where open debate, protest and general insurgence have always been considered quite integral to cultural identity. Even now, as the courage of Gisèle Pelicot, in a complex case, sets a new standard for our wider understanding of violence against women, I see an inherent will within the French to simply expect their voices to be heard. “I hear lots of women, and men, who say you’re very brave. I say it’s not bravery, it’s will and determination to change society”. States Pelicot, which to me belies an ingrained understanding that things can actually be transformed as a result of speaking out. A belief that subversive intent or simply the willingness to speak up, can be met, gradually, with a positive response.
It gives others the feeling they are not alone, which is the opposite to the hostile and shame infused environment women in Ireland were subject to, up until the relatively recent past. The last Magdelan laundry closed in 1996. It is not long since the stigma and silence around these institutions has begun to lift. We can now discuss them without fear of retribution. In 2005, the Ferns Report was published and by 2015, an investigation had begun into the Tuam Babies discovery, and Taoiseach Enda Kenny apologised on behalf of the Irish state. But the stark reminder in ‘Small Things Like These’ is that such dialogue is new for Ireland- the ability and confidence to openly question what was once an overwhelmingly taboo topic. It’s vital to those who lived with the legacy silently.
Reading Keegan’s novel, we acknowledge that this ‘other’ Ireland of the 1980s was still in very much in the shadow of post-colonial influence and that the predominance of the church held sway in almost every realm. This is why Furlong, our quiet protagonist, is such an key figure. We see his human instinct for compassion going against the urge to conform. He is somehow enlivened by the discovery that he too, can stand for something, he can go against the grain, and prevail, or at least do something to be proud of in an otherwise unassuming, ordinary life. I’ll avoid a spoiler and won’t give away the entire plot line, but there is a quiet triumph in his eventual choice to allow empathy for the unfortunate Magdalen girl he encounters, to outweigh fear of the consequences.
Like any book to movie adaption, it’s never really quite on par with what you’ve built up as your own imaginary vision of the surrounds and story. I will say that in contrast to the sense of underlying hope I sensed as a thread through the book, the film seemed bleak. Granted the subject matter is incredibly triggering, but I had understood Furlong to be a slightly more dynamic character in Keegan’s descriptions. He’s looking for meaning or to elevate the drudgery of his day to day experience, but he’s not without inner resolve. In the film he seems like a man completely in turmoil, flailing in his attempts to reconcile past and present experiences. He seems bereft, or devoid of real purpose- somewhat wordless and prone to despairing sighs. Cillian Murphy no doubt played the role with depth and aiming to do justice to the subject matter. I do highly recommend the film, for it’s important historical commentary. However I’d vouch that the majority of viewers will leave the cinema feeling the poignancy and sadness within the story, rather than uplifted by the potential for change inferred by the ending.
Landing in Lisbon for the next couple of weeks and I had to pack one book. Better make it a tome then. I’m still working through Sally Rooney’s incredibly well publicised Intermezzo, and will admit I’m enjoying it. Her ability to chronicle the minutiae of her characters experiences is always satisfyingly accurate, and quite universally resonant thematically. Whether or not we like the protagnaists, Ivan the chess genius and his depressed brother Peter, is beside the point, we recognise elements of ourselves in their follies, strengths and exploits. The style is sharp, refreshing and the work of an author with a gift for observing and translating human behaviour. The excellent thing about Rooney is also the international spotlight she’s brought to the place of contemporary Irish female writers. I’ve found myself reading multiple books by wonderful Irish female talents in the past months- homegirls Keegan and Rooney aside, there’s also Naoise Dolan (journalist, polyglot and author of the witty ‘Happy Couple’ and ‘Exciting Times’), Emma Donoghue, Anne Enright, Tana French and Sinead Gleeson amongst the slightly newer cohort (Marian Keyes always a gem). In fact I was just chatting with a friend on Friday about how quietly smug we can feel at the slight confusion (potential indignation) that the success of prize winning Irish authors is causing across the water. The Guardian has printed a couple of articles lately which outline that there are indeed many factors influencing this preponderance of Irish literary talent. In summary, some reasons for the wave of heavyweight Irish authors;
- ‘We all read like hell’ aided significantly by the fact libraries are not being closed or going out of fashion, in fact they’re flourishing and incentivised by schemes in schools such as the ‘book bag’ incentive. I’ll add to this my own opinion that as someone who attended a wide range of schools in different countries- education in Ireland is generally considered effective, traditional but solid.
- Huge government and arts council funding including a significant literature budget, arts-council-supported arts centres and festivals, Literature Ireland, and Aosdána, an association of up to 250 of the country’s most established artists. Bursaries, grants and competitions are widely available to writers as well as a tax exemption on artists’ income up to 50K.
- Some of the best bookshops in Europe in Dublin. Including Ulysses Rare Books, which specialises in rare and first editions of all the Irish classics. I even found a French first edition from 1951 of Beckett’s Molloy on a stopover last week. Not to mention the cosy cafe at Dubrays, perfect for a peruse or the much loved Hoggis Figgis (best name for a bookshop ever if you ask me).
- Tonnes of literary magazines and publications offering competitions, and showcasing new talent.
- A long history of producing great poets and authors (and musicians) which is just part of Ireland’s dna and socioloigcal make up. So the only people who aren’t shocked at the small isle’s literary heft, which is definitely a bit lol, are the Irish themselves.
That’s my two cents on Irish lit for today. Thanks for reading!
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