Heart of Darkness

John McGahern has been aired on The Blob because banned for scandalizing the theocracy which was running Ireland at the time. He was not the most prolific of the pantheon of Irish writers but his short list of novels sold well [if not in the Republic]and won literary prizes. I've read a few; coming back for more even though they tend to black-dog rather than pink-fluffy. Djerzi, one of my oldest pals came to stay for a tuthree days and he insisted I read McGahern's 'Memoir' which was published 20 years ago. We're both a bit institutionalized so I can obey orders. Our local part-time mini-library had a copy, so I added Memoir to our pile of something for the weekend and sacked out for most of a rainy Sunday to read it.

McGahern grew up in Co Leitrim, the oldest of a family of seven created by a school teacher and her Garda Sergeant husband. She contributed sparkle, ideas, cookies and unconditional love; he contributed the starting teaspoonful and a pervasive bullying sense of his own importance. The family would have been larger if the poor woman hadn't sickened and died, from breast cancer, when she was 42 and John/Sean was 10.  Even before the mother died, the household supported a succession of young girls to help with the children and housework. Boys were never taught how to sew on a button, let alone how to get ingredients together and cook a nutritious meal. After the mother's death, the Help was required to step into her place with assistance from any girl-childer as they became competent (before their time in a foreshortened childhood?). The rest of their childhoods were endured in the Garda Barracks in Cootehall [R].

I'm a generation younger than McGahern and grew up in a different country. When I was 6/7, my sister and I attended a primary school in Portsmouth. Towards the end of the one academic year we spent there, I boasted that I had never been beaten. Aha hubris, in that final fortnight, for trifling transgressions I was hit with a stick, by an adult, on five (5!) separate occasions. Over the next 12 years until I was old enough to vote [in 1972] that form of punishment was completely scrumpled up and thrown away . . . in England. The McGahern siblings witnessed the normal [cripes! for some definitions of normal] round of beatings in school. Some teachers more depraved than others. But at home they were subjected to savage beatings with slaps, fists, sticks . . . a shovel - by their father. They protected each other as best they could and got to read the room and act together to minimize the unpredictable unstable assaults.

McGahern the writer spend the rest of his life trying to understand, and excuse, and come to terms with the psychic destruction lashed out by the damaged savage who engendered him.

Many years later, he goes to visit with the longest-serving of the Helps. "Katie's husband was over six feet, slow and sure of movement, remarkably handsome and strong; he belonged to that generation of men who had no consciousness of their good looks other than as a form of strength". Which says much more about McGahern than the man he's just met for the first time. It's a [clunk clunk] feature of the book that the narrator wants us to know if such-an-one is symmetrical or not. I don't look in a mirror from one year's end to the other, but I know men who do: maybe assessing people's value as function of how attractive they are is part of your normality. But for me, at this point in my development as a human, it's [clunk clunk] with frankly racist / sexist /otherist overtones.

Another quote "She was walking with us past Brady's pool and Brady's house, and the house where the Mahon brother's lived, past the deep dark quarry, and over the railway bridge and up the hill past Mahon's shop to the school".  One of McGahern's (more attractive) stylistic devices is to use this sentence repeatedly through the book. As if in old age he is playing and re-playing a silent home-movie clip of the together times before Loss flushed the happiness from his young life.

The John McGahern Barracks is a community voluntary project - tours, archives, hot-desk hub and seminar rooms. Barracks, like for soldiers? Last week.

The girl who read while walking

My pal Djerzi urged me to read Milkman by Anna Burns . . . as well as Memoir by John McGahern. After Memoir , I duly read Milkman: despite getting weak with a sense of dread about 100 / 350 pages in. Wot next:  Matrix? Memoir, Milkman, Mountolive? Mudbound? .

The narrator is MiddleSister, younger than FirstSister SecondSister and ThirdSister; but older than three WeeSisters who are creepily & engagingly knowing and precocious at 6, 7 and 8. There are three brothers in the sibship, at least one already dead from The Political Problems. The book is fiction but it is true that Anna Burns grew up in the Ardoyne, a Nationalist ghetto in North Belfast. Burns adopts peculiar euphemisms or alternative reality to distance her tale a bit from the primitive, repressed, sectarian reality that were her lived experience in the late 70s. Renouncers [of the State] and Defenders [of the state] live "on the other side of the road" from each other and have long ago stopped talking. But they are over there to be demonized by parents and paramilitaries as dangerous boogie-men. The archaic coded formal language and designations in Milkman conjure up Old Order Amish if not The Handmaid's Tale: handles like SecondSister, FirstBrotherInLaw, MaybeBoyfriend emphasise that nobody is an individual but each is defined by their relationships. This web of relationships form the community. Endogamy is as normal as it might be in a remote village in Uttar Pradesh with no cars but surrounded by wild beasts.

The fact that the narrator is dating Maybe-Boyfriend from another Renouncer ghetto is viewed with suspicion when there are so many suitable boys round the corner.  But she has already weirded out her community and set in train a firestorm of rumour, fantasies and lies because of her habit of reading while walking [it's often 19thC classic fiction, incl Walter Scott R]. In real life, our Dau.I the Librarian did this from the age of six into adulthood but nobody in Renouncer circles would dream of doing so. It's basic self-preservation: while reading, your situational awareness is damped to nil. In a world riven by car-bombs [whc prev], razzias [whc prev] and sit-in-judgmental nut-jobs from your own side: dreaminess can be fatal. 

At one point two of the older girls try to warn their wee sisters about a family member who is known [but not acknowledged - that would make life too easy] to be a bit pervy " . . . if he tries to lure you in on the pretext of anything - science, art, literature, linguistics, social anthropology, mathematics, politics, chemistry, the intestinal tract, unusual euphemisms, double-entry book-keeping, the three divisions of the psyche, the Hebrew alphabet, Russian nihilism, Asian cattle, twelfth-century Chinese porcelain, Japanese unit . . . [don't be fooled and try not to stay in the same room]". If this seems a rather broadly eclectic catalogue of wee sisters' interests, note that Narrator reads bedtime stories to them from Hardy, Kafka and Conrad. In a way the Wee Sisters are a metaphor of hope for a different future: despite having grown up under the same strictures and all under the age of 10, they are free-thinkers and curious about the world beyond their own ensiloed people.

As in McGahern's childhood, a generation earlier and South of the border, gender=sex and their binary lives and tasks are rigidly coded. Boys don't cook, unless they're gay; girls have to take it on the chin, fist-style; women may be the sole-bread-winners but none of the men at home will hoover through. Everyone drinks though, which doesn't help in matters like respect & dignity . . . nor a balanced budget. Men are In Charge, as they think, until they transgress into the domain of women. Then a delegation of outraged Lysistratas will soon tell them to fuck right off and go back to playing with their guns and tonka toys put them right. It sure is hard to Other your own Mother.

Spoiler: some of the Principals find their true selves and true love in the end. But so much collateral damage along the way.

Faber & Faber

It takes a village to launch an author!

Over the last 20+ years, I've been making enough marmalade to satisfy a rapacious family and have an inexhaustible supply of 'makes and acceptable gift' for friends, relations and random visitors. The modal response from the latter group is a) thank you very much that was excellent and b) you should go into business selling it. Errm, No! Spending a couple of days squeeezing pectin from pulp and getting spattered by boiling marmalade is my wheelhouse. Standing in the drizzle at a farmer's market for €4 a pot, not so much. When you buy marmalade in Tesco, it is the work of dozens of human hands:  glass-blowers, lid-stampers, fruit-pickers, sugar-refiners, bottlers, boxers, truck-drivers, shelf-stackers. And a pyramid of gangers, QC, marketeers, designers, managers all the way up to Gerry Murphy, the Tesco Chair.

Same in publishing. There are far more authors than there are financially secure authors, and far more writers than there are [published] authors. After writing 500-800 word chunks for the internet since 1996, I've clocked up 2.5 million coherent words. It's never going to become a 60,000 word book, between covers, on  a shelf, because I am essentially a butterfly without the bottle to decide which 98% of it to leave on the cutting room floor. That ruthless copy-editing is part of the work that publishers do.

I'm currently reading Faber & Faber the untold story (2021) by Toby "3rd Gen" Faber. Their Spring 1930 Catalog offered James Joyce's Ulysses by Stuart Gilbert. At the time Ulysses itself was banned in the UK " . . . Even therefore if the original were published in England, Mr Gilbert's exposition would be valuable. As things stand it is invaluable". f&f did, eventually, pull enough teeth from James Joyce to publish Finnegan's Wake in 1939. Another coup was publishing Laurence Durrell's amazing Alexandria Quartet, which I must get round to re-reading as part of my 2026 Leventine book-fest. Also his Bitter Lemons.

C.P. "Two Cultures" Snow and Gerald Durrell [egotistical younger brother of Laurence] were discovered and launched by f&f but left for green[back]er pastures after their initial promotion and best-seller success. There was a certain amount of wounded hauteur at Faber at this lack of loyalty from these authors but their shift tracked the arrival of Literary Agents as go-betweens in the publishing world. There is no reason why a writer would have the toolkit to drive a hard bargain to turn their fruit of their labour into shoes for their own children. No more than a scientist should be able to manage a $million grant or competently HR a team of 10 effectives. Agents get a bigger slice of the pie (and their 10% on top) for authors but that slice deprives secretaries, copy-editors, typographers, designers, cover artists of their Christmas bonus or indeed their jobs; as publishers are forced to trim their sails. Read the acknowledgments of any recent book to see how many people are involved in the process. Yes, even ebooks and earbooks need work between the author's typescript and your eyes/ears.

Despite being written as a scrap-book of letters, memos and minutes gleaned from the archives with minimal narrative links, Toby Faber's book comes through as a gripping yarn. IF you can skate over the pervasive background of entitlement and snobbery. Having been refused an extension of their overdraft by the manager of their NatWest branch, one of Team Faber had lunch with fellow Old Boy NatWest Chairman to re-open the vaults.

T.S. Eliot, f&f Director, on potential new hire (and TSE's eventual replacement / successor) Charles Montieth: I am inclined to take seriously John S[parrow]'s remark that C.M. has flair rather than taste . . . C.M. is, no doubt, a plebian; but on the basis of one interview it would not occur to me to call him 'common'; and (which is the most important), I would be surprised to hear anyone designate him as 'vulgar'. Gah! This Pleb had a double-first from Oxford, was a wounded WWII veteran (Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers), and [like Geoffrey 'Founder' Faber], a Fellow of All Soul's Oxford [DIB for deets]. He went on to scoop for Faber: Seamus Heaney, Paul Muldoon, Tom Paulin, Samuel Beckett and John McGahern [and that's just the Irish]. 2x Heaney's and 2x McGahern's in my pic above L where also Spufford.

TS Eliot didn't win his 1948 Nobel Prize [“for his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry”] for Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (1939) but the latter made him (and Faber) fabulously wealthy after Andrew Lloyd Webber conjured his musical Cats from those children's poems. Indeed f&f would have gone bust in the 1980s without the Cats royalty cheques. 

Jonas aujourd'hui

Jonath qui aura 65 ans en l'an 2018

One of the first things I did when I went to college in 1973 was join the Film Soc. For good measure, I joined the French Film Soc at the other university across town where The Beloved was studying in The Arts Block. Those films set my clock: even today, if a film doesn't have sub-titles then there's something missing. I get my fix the last Saturday of every month with the Blackstairs Film Society. I couldn't get over how cool and sophisticated French films, by François Truffaut, Claude Chabrol, Louis Malle, Bertrand Tavernier, seemed back then in 1970s Ireland: when homosexuality was still illegal, and books by JP Donleavy, Edna O'Brien and John McGahern were banned.

In the middle of this beaker full of the warm South, The Boy was born at the end of 1975. The following year saw the launch of another film from La Francophonie: Jonas qui aura 25 ans en l'an 2000. It was as if it had been written and directed for The Boy. 25 years later for his birthday in 2000, I went off on a hunt for the iconic film, not least because he was then about the age which the adult protagonists of Jonas were when he was born. The internet was a smaller, clunkier and less commercial place in 2000 AD. Google existed but was eclipsed by Altavista; Amazon existed but was years from its first year in profit; DVDs existed and play.com sold them by the bucket-load but their inventory was a long way from being comprehensive - especially for old, niche, not-American films. I never did get a copy of the film but I did track down a copy of the film-script in a bookshop in Texas. I called them up, read my credit-card details down the phone, and they agreed to sell and send me the book. I was delighted. I suspect The Boy was bemused. For his 21st birthday, I'd given him a box containing 21 different bottles of beer and I'm sure he'd have preferred to get N=25 ditto 4 years later.

Mais revenons-nous a nos Jonas. It was filmed in French but in the neighbouring republic of Switzerland, directed by Alain Tanner and written by Tanner and John Berger, the English critic, writer and radical who was a real inspiration for my younger radical self. I wrote about him when he turned 90 in 2016 and again, as an obituary 2 months later. It's a bit jumpy because it tells the interwoven tales of 8 young adults in the early 1970s as they try to discover a new equilibrium after their world turned upside-down by the Paris Spring of May 1968. [Hey, that's 50 years ago next month - we must have a retrospective] Tanner and Berger decided to call their principals Max Mathilde Marco Marcel Marguerite Madeleine Marie Mathieu which must have a Meaning more profound than I can fathom unless - I have it - they are all avatars or dimensions of Marx. It's about maintaining principles and an ethical stance while having to live in a real world which runs on different tracks. About trying to make a difference while making a living. And it's still kind of fun although kind of dated.

How do I know? Because someone called Joan Alice has loaded it up on youtube! I sat still one evening last week and watched it all the way through. Indeed I stayed up way past my bedtime to see it finished. I was confused - not least by Marguerite and Mathilde who look a bit alike. Here's a review. If I watched it again, I'd mine more nuggets of socio-political comment from 1970s Switzerland but maybe my time is better spent on today's problems today.  Who's Jonas? He is the son of Mathilde and Mathieu who comes along towards the end of the film as a new broom sweeping his parents generation into the dustbin of history and replacing their world with a bright new future . . . I think.

Ewe woo

John Connell [prev] is getting traction as spokesman for the Irish countryside, although the competition Manchán Magan [prev] has landed his own TV series. And don't dismiss Kerri ní Dochartaigh [prev] just because of the missing Y-chromosome. It is certainly possible to speak {to | of | for | from} The Land as a wordsmith [Wordsworth wandering lonely as a cloud; Yeats having nine bean rows]. And shite happens in the countryside that is nothing to do with farm yard manure. But of the three living spokesppl cited above, only Connell has had his hand regularly up a sheep's vagina and we should therefore listen to him on that facet of rural life.

We were up in Dublin recently and Dau.I the Librarian pushed John Connell's 2024 Twelve Sheep life lessons from a lambing season at me because a) I'd read a couple of his earlier books b) I count a similar number of sheep every day c) we'd both trudged to Santiago at some time in the past. The conceit here is that young(ish) John buys 12 hoggets [equivalent to a heifer; a female sheep up until her first lamb delivery] from his farmer father, and tracks them through twelve chapters sort of based on the agricultural year. Or at least on the 5 months of sheep gestation. 

Early on, Connell floats the idea that the has-to-be-twelve chapters could be based on, or informed by: the zodiac [one of which is ♈︎Aries?] or the Labors of Hercules [mucking out the Augean stables?] or the Lives of the Apostles [good shepherds all?]. But (correct me if I've missed a trick) he lacks the discipline to chunk his anecdotes by these constraints. Joyce's Ulysses is a classic because he did follow through: holding the Odyssey up to mirror one inconsequential day in the life of Dublin.  

Whatever the initial aspiration of structure, the book gets flubby soon enough with too many rambling thoughts unrelated to caring for sheep and delivering lambs. The Sheep Game it is not. In current public discourse, there is a lot of Nobel Hubris about and not only among winners of The Prize. N.H. occurs when, because you've got the gong, people will listen to what you have to say about any damn bee you might have a-buzzzing in your bonnet. Connell has an ingrained expertise in scratching a living from The Land - and nobody claims farming is either lucrative or easy. But when it comes to philosophy (how we can live our best lives) he is no wiser or more competent than you or me. Been to Santiago [✓] doesn't count: I know . . . that I don't know.

There could be another story in there: a bildungsroman about the growth and development of the lambs Connell Jnr as he battles mental health and the patriarch[y] to discover his true self but that theme is very much noises off. And may have been resolved in Connell's earlier books.

A lot of the usual suspects get a mention because something they've said has been written in Connell's writer's notebook . . . and that'll do to pad out this book. Because despite 176 dead-tree pages and £12.99 rrp the generous margins, nice colophons [as above L] and 1.5pt spacing, makes Twelve Sheep only 36,000 words long. 

Influencers in Connell's journey include: John Clare; Rachel Carson; Henry Thoreau; Henri Nouwen; John O'Donohue; Hermann Hesse; Heinrich Harrer; Martin Heidegger; Erich Hartmann; the Dahlia Lama; the Buddha; Narcisse Blood; John McGahern; Thomas Merton; Father Sean, Bruce Chatwin; Erling Kagge; Thích Nhất Hạnh; Fran Contreras; Paolo Coelho; Saint Francis;  Fergus Kelly; E.M. Forster; David Malouf; Carlo Rovelli; Michael Kelly; Rover Thomas; Raven; Maria Gonzales; Wendell Berry; Nicholas Shakespeare; John Bergman; Karen Emslie; Robert Hughes; Don Watson; Adrian Stimson; Bruce Pascoe; Chief Joseph; Alex Haley; August Schenck; Padriag Colum; Pauline Matarasso; Yukio Mishima; Sam Shepard. They are all given parity of esteem word-count with an unnamed Longford neighbour who claims to cure strawberry orf [contagious pustular dermatitis; a bit like a viral impetigo] by muttering prayers down the phone. Life lessons for the reader? I don't think so.

Saturday Morning Post

I'm clearing the social chit-chat, commentary decks from tomorrow Sunday in favour of Cake. Here is your Something For The Weekend:

• Did you notice that the Soccer World Cup 2018 just kicked off in Moscow? With good timing in the politcal poke stakes, the BBC has identified a Russian teacher sacked for Instagramming her body in a swimsuit. The implication being that Russia is a desperate retro thought-police state and that will be the reason England didn't win the soccer series.
• Ireland was doing that sort of thing in the 1960s & 1980s
• in 1982 Eileen Flynn sacked for living in sin as if that was worse than living in New Ross the most depressing small town in Ireland
• in 1965 John McGahern was sacked for writing his dark-brilliant novel The Dark and shamefully abandonned by his trade union.
• The Dark? Turns out the Phil Zimbardo's Stanford Prison Experiment [tl;dr: we're all Nazis] was a stitch-up.
• I've found some happier stuff on the interweb this week
• The Lost Brothers [who?] - Echoes on the Wind
• The Boss
• Brown Eyed Girl
• Give a boy a break in Brisbane
• Reina del Cid [who?]
• Tupelo Honey
• Wildflowers
• With Josh Turner [not that Josh Turner]
• Dave Brubeck - Blue Rondo a la Turk
• Tony Hawkes hitched round Ireland with a Fridge
• Processed 'food' is often cheaper than real food. Recursive recipes.
• Tune into your pheromones.
• And it's Bloomsday!