Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

Today, July 6th, is the anniversary of the death of Guy de Maupassant in 1892. How many July 6ths did Guy de Maupassant pass without realising that it would be the day of his eventual death. Something tells me all of themj.

Now we are all used to celebrating anniversaries of one form or another. In the western world we celebrate our birthdays; the anniversaries of our advents into this valley of tears. In the Eastern Orthodox tradition it is more common for people to celebrate their “name day”", the feast day of the saint after whom they were named -  provided, that is, they have not been named after someone like Keanu or Brittney. Robinson Crusoe, in Defoe’s novel, celebrated the anniversary of his shipwreck. But I am entranced by the possibility of being able to at least note the date of the day upon which I am to die. It would allow for so much purposeful preparations. There would be no need to worry about leaving loved ones behind; they could be let in on the secret years in advance. One could also make sure that all those fiddly little arrangements had been put in place. Disputes about who gets the Tom Jones vinyl collection could also be settled amicaby.

One of Leo Tolstoy’s earliest yet finest stories is entitled “The Raid”. It was set in the North Caucasus and includes details drawn from Tolstoy’s own experiences fighting the Chechens. Yet I think a short story of the same namer, though without Tolstoy’s charm and poise, could be written about events in Cavan town, as they unfolded on the weekend beginning June 18^th. At that time, customs and excises officials raided a number of licensed premises in the town and seized alcohol that was being sold there, but for which no duty had been paid, thereby making its purchases price lower and the potential profit from resale higher.

 I have heard that one premises in particular was targeted, and no, I’m not going to repeat it. Suffice it to say that its owners are well connected politically at both local and national level. What’s more the premises’s dining facilities are completely inaccessible toe me and to all other wheelchair uses. This is not a legacy of the building’s age. It should have been diaphanously clear to the planning authorities who signed off on the plans, but sure, who cares about cripples? But the owners should know that there is NO difference between the ten euro note proffered by the cripple and the able-bodied citizen, just as there is no difference between the able-bodied note and the cripple at election time.

 It will be interesting to see if any prosecutions arise. They would be embarrassing to say the least, and for that reason I suspect the ‘phones in the DPP’s office have been ringing loudly. But then as the affair of Ivor Callely shows, there is one law for members of Seanad Eirinn, quite another for the rest of us.

 Going back to the short story I suspect that the denouement of this particular roman will be inconclusive.

Every time I travel down Cavan town’s Farnham Street, and I look at the site once occup0ied by the Farnham Hall, Villon’s refrain from his “Ballade des dames du temps jadis” comes into my mind: “Mais oú sont les neiges d’antan?” (that’s your actual French that is, as Kenneth Williams said). “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” The Farnham Hall was knocked down unceremoniously in an act of barbaric vandalism one October Saturday morning. (It must be said though that the man who did it, while having the social graces of a skunk was an angel of transparency when compared to his two-faced successor.) On the altar of its destruction has risen a building displaying the architectural élan of a six-year-old playing with Lego bricks. But let us return to Villon.

He spent quite a lot of the life known to us in prison. He was very gifted intellectually, and I feel a certain affinity with him, as I often feel imprisoned. He stole money from the Chapel of the College de Navarre, which had probably been gained dishonourably anyway. Then he was sentenced to death. It was while on death row that he wrote his “Ballad of the hanged men”. One manuscript copy of the poem is illustrated by a drawing of a scaffold with three men swinging from it, two at least of whom wear something suspiciously like a smile. But Villon’s death sentence was commuted to banishment from Paris. This was in January 1463. After that he vanishes from history. He may have fallen an anonymous victim of the tavern brawls he delighted in. Maybe he changed his name (he had done it before), or maybe he led a long and fulfilling life in some French provincial backwater, his wants amply catered for by a succession of wenches.

The Ballad of the Hanged Men

 Human brothers, who live after us,
Do not harden your hearts against us,
For if you pity us poor sinners,  
God will be more merciful to you.
As for our flesh, which we fed too well:
It is long since wasted and rotten,
And our bones become ash and powder;
Let nobody laugh at our bad luck.
But pray that all will be forgiven!

If we call you brother, do not have;
Disdain for us, though we be murdered
Lawfully, since you know all about
How not all men have common sense
Intercede for us who are no more-
With the Son of the Virgin Mary,,
That his grace for us should no0 dry up,
But preserving us from Hell’s lightning.
We are no more, let no soul harry us;
But pray that all will be forgiven!

The wet rain has washed us with its mist,
The hot sun has dried and blackened us;
Magpies and crows have gouged out our eyes
And have torn our beards and our eyebrows.
Never, at no time, are we seated;
Now here, now there, as the wind changes
Ceaselessly, at its pleasure, we move;
We are pecked full of holes like a thimble.
Thus do not be of our fellowship.
But pray that all will be forgiven!

ENVOI

May Prince Jesus who is lord over us all,
Prevent Hell exerting lordship over us:
Let us not have any dealings with it.
Men, nobody is laughing where we are,
Let us pray that all will be forgiven!

(translation by Ciaran Parker)

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?

Flann O'Brien

Today April 1^s marks the forty-fourth anniversary of the death of Brian O’Nolan, aka Flann O’Brien, in my mind the greatest Irish writer of the twentieth century. He combined an immense intellect with a love of words. His second novel, The Third Policeman, is an overlooked jewel. Some of his best writing is to be found in his An Cruskeen Lawn column in The Irish Times, where he wrote under the nom-de-plume of Myes na gCopaleen. It was never enough for him to write for some numerically small elite who might understand him. Accessibility to the people of Ireland was as important. The world in which he lived appears to us the be anything but inspirational, apparently dominated by intellectual inertia and social sclerosis, yet Flann O’Brien’s genius was set ablaze by this unpromising environment.

I hope lots of people saw my book revieew of Pat Devaney’s lovely novel Una Bha in the Anglo Celt.  The work of people like Pat has to be treasured and  celebrated.

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