J. M. Synge

We all recall how John Millington Synge was commemorated by James Joyce in his doggerel “Gas From a Burner”: 

… The Great John Millicent Synge
Who soars above on an angel’s wing
In the playboy shift that he pinched as swag
From Maunsel’s manager’s travelling-bag.

 J.M Synge was born on April 16^th 1871. He belonged to an ecclesiastical family. One of his ancestors, an eighteenth-century bishop of Clonfert, wrote and spoke widely against the Penal Laws then in force.

In his writings he eschewed a sentimental and romantic portrayal of Irish life.; He successfully achieved what he termed a collaboration between a naturalist, realist Zola-esque style and one based solely on the imaginary. His portrayal of Irish life was anathema to the gaelgoiri later satirised by Flann O’Brien in An Bėal Bocht.

Ireland was going through a period of linguistic transition in Synge’s day, as the use of Irish as a vernacular was declining. Yet Synge was sensitive to the speech of ordinary folk and he could see that the Irish language continued to9 influence the speech patterns, vocabulary and psychology of those who were adopting English. In this regard the Irish language was operating as a happy ghost.

Had Hogdkin’s Disease not taken Synge at the early age of thirty-seven, it is hard to see how his genius could have subsequently operated in the independent Ireland, whose society and culture were dominated by the Catholic Church inspired mediocrity which became Ireland’s unofficial religion, and remains so in many areas to this day. It is possible that he would have become as well known as a poet, as he was a dramatist. I include here the final lines from his poem “On an Anniversary”.

 And so when all my little work is done
They’ll say I cam in Eighteen-Seventy-one,
And died in Dublin. …What year will they write
For My poor passage to the stall of night?

 What a piece of unbelievable tokenism. I never knew such an organisation or person existed. Talk about Mahogany gas-pipes!

 People can be assured that, through the efforts of this organisation, they are being ripped off, cheated and oppressed bilingually. For so many officials of local government the only phrase of Irish they might need would be “An bhfuil an airgead agat?”

 In spite of all this hypocrisy the Irish language still thrives, though its obsequies have been choreographed with typically bureaucratic incompetence, and its undertakers have been richly renumerated.

 By the way is there a Cominiseir Bubilin?

This is the equivalent of the semi-starving cottiers of the ninteenth century having to pay exorbitant rents so as to supply the absentee landlords with money that they could fritter away on  the gaming tables of London.

Is this was Patrick Pearse died for? Where were the bankers in 1916?

During her often difficult life Marie was aware of the position she held as a linguistic repository. She helped produce a dictionary of the language along with University of Alaska linguists, and she worked tirelessly as a champion of indigenous culture.

I often wonder what will happen when the last native speaker of Irish dies. Will it be noted? Of course there will still be those who claim to speak the bastardized ersatz of “official” civil service Irish.

I often feel that the last speaker of common sense has long ago passed from life’s stage.

The Irish language

Whenever I think of the Irish language I am filled with an immense feeling of shame: shame that I cannot speak it better and that I don’t use the little knowledge I have to its full effects. For despite the best attempts by teachers over the years to inculcate hatred towards it, I still love Irish. It is part of who I am. However, English is my vernacular. My desire is to attain a state of practical bilingualism. I would be able to get there, especially as I have attained such a situation with other language, but I’m lazy.

I don’t like turning on the TV, because whenever I do so I am inevitably put into a bad mood. This morning I caught a panel discussion on, I think, RTE 1. Some little anally-retentive little prick with a Dublin 4 accent was complaining that “the money he paid in HIS taxes” was being spent to subsidise the Irish language. He claimed that he had nothing against the Irish language as such (apart from the fact that he couldn’t speak it). Somebody pointed out that the government subsidises many groups, especially disadvantaged groups. “That’s another matter entirely”, though his demeanour suggested that he would be equally appalled by the notion of HIS taxes benefiting the poor or the “great unwashed.”

Many crimes have been committed on the nation’s youth over the years under the banner of promoting the Irish language. But times have changed. The lunatic, Hurley-wielding Gaelgoir fringe, so well parodied by the late Dermot Morgan, have now mostly gone to the great Feis in the sky. Any money spent by the government on promoting the Irish language is to be welcomed. No one forces anyone to speak a language in this country, though no doubt the prickeen would compel people to speak American English, so as to promote our business competitiveness.

There are some people I form an instant dislike to, and he was one of them. I would have loved to have given him a good, sharp, arse-kicking, only I fear that, given the location, he would derive too much pleasure from the experience.

posted by Ciaran Parker @ 5:22 AM   0 Comments