Nostos E-Book

John Moriarty

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

In this astonishing volume of autobiography, John Moriarty's earlier works of mystical philosophy, Dreamtime and Turtle Was Gone a Long Time, are given a biographical grounding. Inhabited by all that he reads and perceives, Moriarty recovers lost forms of sensibility and categories of understanding, reconciling them gloriously within the arc of his life. Nostos is a Greek word meaning 'homecoming'. In its plural form, nostoi, it was the name of an extensive body of literature in ancient Greece about the Greek heroes who returned from the Trojan Wars. Most of this literature has perished, but we do have The Odyssey, describing the long homecoming of Odysseus to Ithaca. Moriarty's book assumes that for various reasons humanity is now exiled from the earth, but by reimagining it and ourselves as involved in a common destiny, it enacts a homecoming, a nostos to it. Nostos is a continuous narrative describing early on how its author lost his world as surely and completely as the Aztecs lost theirs when Cortez came ashore. Thereafter, in places as far apart as neolithic North Kerry and London, Periclean Athens and Blackfoot Dancing Ground, Manitoba and Mexico, Kwakiutl coast and Connemara, the author fights his way to a kind of rest, to a requiem, at the heart of things as they terribly and resplendently are. 'The classical, Eastern and Amer-Indian legends that have informed Moriarty's life are recreated or re-enacted in this deeply personal document, which is paradoxically rich in encounters with the physical world and tender episodes of love and loss, while giving us a disturbing insight into the terrors and rare ecstasies of the hermit's lonely struggle.' - Tim Robinson

Leseprobe

NOSTOS

JOHN MORIARTY

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

Preface

When it was still a typescript I gave this book to some friends of mine. They were, all of them, much irritated by its recurrent regression to myth. Alerted, I reminded myself that, generally speaking, we here have to do with myths of two types, myths that are self-portraits, self-enactments, of our instincts, and myths that institute the basic elements of culture, fire for example, and bread. Keeping this in mind, I asked myself, how otherwise than by unwinding an Ariadne’s skein of myths, each myth an initiation into who we are, can we come home to the deeper and more difficult reaches of our psyches? Also, how otherwise can we re-open the road to culture? More urgently: given the havoc that has attended our efforts hitherto in this regard, how otherwise can we open an alternative road to an alternative culture?

Looking back in particular at our Western efforts to set up a world for ourselves, it is clear that we have persistently done the wrong thing. At this stage, it isn’t only an albatross that is hanging from our necks. From Tiamat to Moby-Dick, every dragon and monster we have attempted to slay is hanging there. And so, if we were sapient, we would stop to take breath. And to take stock, all the way back to Marduk doing disastrous business in great waters.

As a consequence of something we might do, having taken stock, our karmic inheritance might fall from our necks, but, whatever else, the human unconscious will not fall out of the human psyche. Nor, in obedience to revolutionary fiat, will it sink into inanition.

What then? Where then? By what road then?

This side of The Voyage of the Beagle, the theranthropic is officially back in business. For some people at least it is agonistically back in business. Hence the road south to the Minotaur, the road south to Coatlicue, the road south to the Canyon.

But a little way down any one of these roads, we will have come to see that revolutionaries who set up their ladder without looking to the Labyrinth are fooling themselves.

Next time, Jesus having pioneered the way for us in Gethsemane, we must attempt to bring the whole psyche with us. It is in acquiring a capacity for the whole psyche that we acquire a capacity for the whole Earth.

Keeping this in view, a more enlightened Enlightenment will suggest that our Discourse on Method is not a sufficient substitute for the Mabinogion, nor is our Principia Mathematica a sufficient substitute for a Principia Mythica.

A Principia Mythica we will continue to have only when someone is willing to live it, or be lived by it, myth after myth. In this regard Aeschylus is exemplary, for he doesn’t only retell the myths as he finds them. In retelling them he harrows them and he therefore also harrows the assumptions on which our culture is founded. Sometimes of course no amount of harrowing will suffice, for, faced with consequences, we come to see that what we need are new myths that imagine and validate new ways and these we either import or beachcomb the shores of unconsciousness for.

A Positivist will not agree, will rather suggest that we proscribe myth, and that for objectively good reasons. But then, Nietzsche discovered that dinosaur and trilobite weren’t only instinctively active in him, they were active in his thinking and dreaming, loving and hating. In its own way, of course, Greek myth knows that this is true of all of us, figuring it for us in Centaur and Minotaur. Since Centaur and Minotaur are outcrops of who we phylogenetically are, it would be unwise not to include them in an account of who we are, in an estimation of who we prospectively can be.

Even when, with the help of myth, we come to see and accept who we are, we can still mismanage who we are. Culturally, we can get off to a bad start, as I believe we in the West did. Given the ecological havoc inside and outside ourselves, it behoves us, claiming to be sapient, to do something about it.

Marx insisted that the task of philosophy is not to interpret the world but to change it. That might well be so in relation to our constructed, socio-economic world, but in relation to the natural world our task is to emancipate our eyes and minds from cultural predetermination and prejudice. Where necessary, that means emancipating ourselves from the myths and metaphors that have become forms of our sensibility and categories of our understanding. As such, whether consciously or unconsciously, they validate behaviour. It follows that if I am to heal myself I must do so all the way back to Mesopotamia, because it was there that my instincts, eyes and mind underwent their primary edification into a cultural norm. That norm I long ago experienced as a Babylonian captivity of instinct, eye and mind, and in order to flourish as a person, and to give the earth a chance, I had to emerge from it, meaning by implication that I had to emerge from Europe. This is the least we must demand of ourselves now that we have seen the earth from space. That sunlit wonder has been voyaging for four thousand, six hundred million years, and what a sadness it would be if, for want of refounding ourselves psychically and culturally, we became the iceberg into which it crashed.

What I have in mind when I talk about refounding ourselves psychically is that we would walk out of an order that has its origin in Marduk reaching for the sword and would walk into an order, not yet inaugurated, that has its origin in Jesus reaching for the karmic cup. That way, civility might cease to be a seedbed of savagery more frightful because more poisoned than anything we are likely to encounter in the wild. That way also, we may well be removing the reason for Enkidu’s revenge, seen so spectacularly for the first time in Nebuchadnezzar regressed to all fours.

Thought of which should bring us to our senses. To our pre-civil as well as to our civil senses.

To a Positivist continuing to object, I would further say that in voyaging with the Beagle, science itself has voyaged back to myth. Going ashore at Punta Alta and on Galapagos, there is something we unexpectedly see: as well as the revolutionary task of replacing an outer socio-political ancien régime that will engage the energies of a particular people of a particular time, there is the evolutionary task, continuing and common, of integrating our inner phylogenetic ancien régime, a depth of us which, as noted, has outcropped in Centaur and Minotaur.

Unlikely it is that Centaur and Minotaur will sing our ‘Marseillaise’ with us or that Coatlicue will do instant and reverent obeisance to the statue of Reason that we have set up in a secularized Notre Dame.

Nietzsche’s discovery and subsequent collapse is portent. In its portentous vicinity I hear the Fool’s question. Unhoused not just out in the heath, unhoused at home, I hear it:

‘How now, nuncle?’

Wallace Stevens called for a new intelligence. So far so good. In this book, as in my life, I have run the risk of myths that would redispose us to ourselves and to our world, that would make us available to further, indeed to final, evolution.

One last plea. My hodos has been a mythodos, a road measured not in miles but in myths, sometimes in many myths simultaneously. It has been so by need and necessity of nature in me. In no sense therefore are the myths I rehearse so many interruptions in a personal narrative. On the contrary, at stopping-off places as difficult as Mycenae, Pasiphae’s calving ground, Blackfoot dancing ground, Tenochtitlan, the Grand Canyon, the savannah under our city and the Grene Chapel, they are personal narrative, imagining me and mediating me to myself, more often than not without hope of ex-machina reprieve. Without myths I would be what Ajax was before his battle with Hector, a ‘land-fish, languageless’.

I sometimes imagine Picasso on a day when he knows that his death is upon him. Him in particular, because he has painted Guernica, and, more importantly, because he has sent a child with a dove in her arm or flowers in her arm to lead the Minotaur, blind and bellowing, back among us, and that, surely, is the counter-cultural enormity of our time. Sad to say, we haven’t welcomed them, certainly not in the way that the citizens of strong-walled Uruk in Sumeria welcomed Shamhat and Enkidu.

Unsure of what awaits him, now that his death is imminent, Picasso has been reading the ancient Egyptian Book of Gates, they being the terrible twelve Underworld gates that the dead pass through in the course of their night journey to immortal, marvellous life in Sekhet-Aaru, the Field of Reeds. It occurs to him that, in spite of four thousand years of added experience, we have no such book, and he sees what a poverty that is. In the hope of inspiration from beyond the border he has arrived at, he sets up twelve canvases in a semicircle in front of him, and he sets to work. On the first of them he paints Ishmael pushing off from his insular Tahiti. Moving on, he paints Pasiphae in somnambulant surrender to exogamous yearnings. He paints Andromeda exposed to monstrous violation at psychic low tide. He paints Hippolytus riding north along the old, laborious coast road to civilization, not this time to Athens, this time to hippolution. He paints Oedipus, himself blind, seeking to find his way in the irregular, blind Labyrinth of the Greek verb horao, meaning to see. He paints Enkidu putting his foot in our city gate, keeping it thus far open to all that we would exclude, to all that we would suppress. He paints Nebuchadnezzar regressed to all fours. He paints Jesus reaching for the karmic cup. He paints Jesus looking down into the empty skull, his own and Adam’s. He paints Sir Gawain going for broke at the Grene Chapel. He paints Narada walking out into the diluvian night. He paints Ishmael, meaning a new humanity, climbing a Kwakiutl shore into Vita Nuova and therefore into Mundus Novus.

As well as much else that he knows, Picasso at his latter end knows the risks we run when we run the risk of being fully human. And it is surely there, at the point of pushing off, that Ariadne’s ball of thread turns out to be a skein of sponsoring and inducting myths, else it is of little worth, or worse, else we repeat the protarchos ate, the primal, blind trespass that set us on the road to ecological havoc, not just to the Earth, to the Great Contrarium which, for all its all-too-red antagonisms, is yet a Great Ecumene.

Pulling apart since the big, ecumenical calamity so memorably recorded in the pit in Lascaux, history and evolution are like ships going their separate ways, ships already too far apart for loud-hailing communication with each other. Almost daily now, the distance between them deepens and widens. On the Moon widens, will widen when we get there on Mars.

Essential, therefore, that someone comes home from our long war with the world as we first found it. Essential that Mona Lisa comes down from her silly, isolating eminence and goes back by that winding, river-valley road into the great world she has for so long turned her back to, has for so long eclipsed.

At the end, below, of Bright Angel Trail, she will see what Jesus reaching for the karmic cup saw: it is ecumenically with alga, ammonite and trilobite that we evolve.

It is ecumenically with our own inner depths that we evolve.

It is ecumenically with Centaur and Minotaur that we evolve.

It is from down there, having merged, that history and evolution will for the first time set out as a single ascent.

It is what I mean by nostos: a coming back by a road winding down through the geological ages into full acceptance of a common destiny with the Earth.

In this acceptance we become who we are, Eoanthropus, and ahead of us lies a more tremendous adventure than has so far opened before the first protein, all of it, the adventure I mean, all of it lived through, to its glorious end, in three days, by Christ.

Down there again therefore, I look up at the Grand Canyon rockwalls and I say, we are in it together. Coming to the trilobite of Bright Angel shale I say, it is together or not at all that we listen to the roaring of the great world. It is together or not at all that we hazard the journey to Medicine River.

No, Trilobite, no. Being fossilized is not an impediment.

No, Buffalo, no. When you come to God’s holy mountain, let it not be because you have hooves that you turn back.

We live this side of the voyage of the Beagle. A good thing it therefore is that, anterior to enlightenments mediated by reason, is a more radical and consequently more challenging enlightenment, or unconcealment, mediated by myth. And, certainly, an enlightenment that doesn’t take full account of who we are is but a kind of wishful thinking that leaves us surprised and at a loss what to do when, within sight of our spires, we once again end up mixed to anonymity with the mud of Flanders.

And yet, in our efforts to bring our whole pysche with us, it is of precipitous importance to remember that one can be as much an Icarus in transgressive descent as in transgressive ascent.

Likely it is that it will irritate secular humanists to say so, but it is for our own sake that great depths and heights are out of bounds. And, most mercifully, they will continue to be out of bounds until, at evening, the Sun God draws up alongside out door in his mesktet or night bark, until, again in the morning, he draws up alongside our door in his mandjet or day bark.

And it wouldn’t be wise, standing astern in either bark, to declaim Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man.

Wiser by far to read The Book of Caverns or The Book of Two Ways or The Book of Gates, or Am Duat, the book of what is in the Underworld.

As the Egyptian Book of the Dead itself might advise: until you are ‘an equipped spirit’, do not go, either gently or ungently, into that big night.

Why then religion? Why then culture? Why else but to equip us in this particular way? And that means providing us with something more than a blue Bavarian gentian, a ball of thread, Proserpina’s golden bough, or an obol for Charon. Neither singly nor together, will these ancient aids bring us to the end of who we inwardly are. Myths as well, even they cannot walk all the way with us. As the Kena Upanishad insists:

There goes neither the eye nor speech nor the mind; we know it not, nor do we know how to teach one about it. Different it is from all that is known, and beyond the unknown it also is.

At their best though, on Blackfoot dancing ground for instance, myths can and do help to accommodate the psyche to itself and to the world, and will do so until, like Narada, we walk into the dis-illusioning night, and that, quite simply, establishes their worth. Be it said, of course, that in these elementary negotiations elegance of effect is not yet a primary consideration. Here, we are closer to the raw than to the cooked. Here, Clytemnestra’s ololygmos will not be scored into the adagio or andante of a symphony’s second movement. Here, in relation both to inwardness and outwardness, humanity is a New England colt grazing downwind from a fresh buffalo robe, shaken by ‘nightmare and her ninefold’. For this, I take it, is where we are since, seeing consequences, Melville infiltrated our Bit Akitu beginnings and sent them to the bottom.

For all these reasons, and others, I cannot see how the book could have turned out much otherwise than it did: wearisome in parts and, as a whole, in aesthetic arrears of what a reader might legitimately expect.

Positively, the aesthetic deficit is due to a determination to be hospitable to chaos, in the hope that while it will undoubtedly be plentiful in sterile disorder, it might also be plentiful in blessings, in the blessing, who knows, of better beginnings.

No doubt about it though: chaos is tiresome, as also is anything which overgenerously admits it.

That acknowledged, what it attempts to do is what encourages me about the book. As though written between gyres, and mostly quite sure of where it wishes to go, but not so sure that it will get there, it unexpectedly catches sight of an evolutionary destination already reached and then, in full, retrospective recovery, it very deliberately enacts a nostos, a homecoming, to

Buddh Gaia.

For that indeed is what our planet is. By reason of all who have come to enlightenment in it, it is a star brighter than optically bright stars, it is a star brighter than stars still stellar.

EASTER 2000

Acknowledgments

In gratitude to Lucy Mooney, Fr Pat Moore, Maura O’Leary, Nilus O’Sullivan and Jim T. Buckley, who generously helped to fund the production of this book. Also, in gratitude to Marie and Michael Hughes, Kathleen and Micheál McCahill, Mairéad and Tim Robinson, Dolores O’Connor, Marie Keating, Frieda and Paschal Carmody – all of whom were kind to me at a time when, for want of strength, I was unable to earn a living for myself.

ANONYMOUS: ‘Manannán, God of the Sea …’ from Early Irish Lyrics, ed. & transl. by Gerard Murphy (Four Courts Press, 1998); GEOFFREY HILL: ‘Genesis’ from Collected Poems (Penguin Books, 1985); D.H. LAWRENCE, ‘All Souls’ Day’, ‘Bavarian Gentians’, ‘Beware the Unhappy Dead!’, ‘The Death of our Era’, ‘The Hills’ and ‘Travel is Over’ from Complete Poems (Penguin Books, 1993); MAHADEVIYAKHA: from Speaking of Shiva, ed. & transl. by A.K. Ramanujan (Penguin Classics, 1972); SYLVIA PLATH: ‘Sheep in Fog’ from Ariel (Faber & Faber, 1965); DYLAN THOMAS: ‘Fern Hill’ from Collected Poems 1934–53 (Dent, 1959); W.B. YEATS: ‘Byzantium’, ‘Leda and the Swan’ and ‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ from Collected Poems (Dent, 1990). Poems by Christopher Marlowe, John Milton, Henry Vaughan, William Blake and Samuel Taylor Coleridge follow the versions given in Paul Keegan (ed.), The New Penguin Book of English Verse (Allen Lane, 2000); prose by Thomas Malory follows the versions given in Malory, Works, ed. Eugène Vinaver (Oxford University Press, 1971).

NOSTOS

Contents

Title PagePrefaceAcknowledgmentsEpigraphLapwings I rememberCopyright

And our road may have to take a great swerve, that seems a retrogression.

D.H. Lawrence

Lapwings I remember

Lapwings I remember. My mother lighting the lamp and in the field in front of the house lapwings calling, every call a complaint. Or so it seemed to me. And the wonder was that even when they were being battered by hailstones they didn’t alter their complaints. They neither lengthened nor deepened them. In all weathers, and at all hours of the night, their complaints were as elegant as their crests.

What saddened me is that they were so frightened of me. I only had to walk into the field and instantly they would become a flock of shimmerings swiftly swerving as they flew and then, as though quenching themselves, they would land farther off, among the rushes maybe, where I’d no longer be able to see them.

That’s what had happened this evening, but now again at nightfall they had come back to the richer feeding grounds beside the house and that I was glad of because if ours was a house that lapwings could come close to, then surely also it was a house that angels would come close to.

Surely tonight they would come close because since darkness had begun to fall this was Christmas Eve and Madeleine my oldest sister was singing ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’, and Chris had brought two bags of turf from the shed, and Babs had brought two buckets of water from the well, and already, its flame perfectly calm, the lamp was giving more light than the fire, with its raptures big and small.

But lamplight and firelight, that was every night.

Tonight was different.

Looking at the crib in the deep sill of our front window, I could see that the light of the highest heaven was in our house.

It was a night of wonders.

Tonight, all night, the gates of heaven would be open above us.

Riding animals higher than our horse, and wearing glittering vestments not clothes, the three Wise Men might pass through our yard tonight and if they did our father would show us the tracks in the morning. Plain as could be, we saw them last Christmas morning.

And Santa Claus would come and he would bring us what we asked for. To Babs he would bring a blouse. To me he would bring a game of Snakes and Ladders. And to Brenda and Phyllis he would bring dolls.

And soon we would have supper with currant cake.

There was no denying it, it was wonderful, and in a glow of fellow feeling with all our animals I went out and crossed the yard to the cowstall.

Pushing open the door, I looked in and at first I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing, no candles lighting in the windows, no holly, no crib, no expectation of kings or of angels, no sense of miracles. What I saw was what I would see on any other night, eleven shorthorn cows, some of them standing, some of them lying down, some of them eating hay, and some of them chewing the cud, and two of them turning to look at me.

Devastated, I had to admit it was an ordinary night in the stall.

Coming back across the yard I looked at the fowl house and the piggery and the darkness, and the silence that had settled on them couldn’t say it more clearly. Christmas didn’t happen in the outhouses. Christmas didn’t happen to the animals. The animals were left out. And since the animals were left out, so, inside me somewhere, was I.

In our house everything turned out as we expected it would.

We had currant bread for supper.

Madeleine leading the way, we sang the few bits of ‘Silent Night’ that we knew.

Around nine o’clock we went up to my mother’s and father’s room and found that Santa had come.

We played Snakes and Ladders till we were dead tired. I was five years old and I was having a bad Christmas. And it wasn’t because, in the last three games, I had landed more often on the mouth of a snake than at the foot of a ladder.

I couldn’t forget the dark stall.

And as well as that, Snakes and Ladders wasn’t just a game to me. It was a way, a first way, of understanding the world. Their throw of the dice brought the McGraths to the foot of a ladder. Our throw brought us to the mouth of a snake. The ladder carried them up in the world, the snake carried us down in it. And that’s why they had more land than we had. That’s why they had more cows, more milk to bring to the Creamery in Newtown, and more calves to sell at the fair in Listowel. That’s why Santa Claus brought them bigger and better toys at Christmas. That’s why when the Church collections were read from the altar, they were high up in the list and we were low down in it.

To make things worse, one year in February all our cows but two slung their calves. Our stall that we so depended on had become a place of awful miscarriage. Instead of life it was death that was coming out of the backsides of our cows. There was one morning when we had to bury three little heaps of soft-boned, blind jelly in the dung heaps. That meant we would have much less milk to bring to the Creamery. That meant we would have no calves to go to the October fair with.

It was just as well that it wasn’t in our stall that Mary and Joseph had sought shelter.

The thought of Mary giving birth to death was enough to quench the stars.

The bits of ‘Silent Night’ we knew we sang. We sang it again and again. And then, almost killed with tiredness, we went to bed.

*

Every evening as darkness was falling Jameen Kissane would come to our house. To us, Jameen was as old as the fog, and as wise as the bushes. Given how he lived, and the few clothes he lived in, the long months of winter were hard on him. It was a comfort to him to come in and sit in the corner under our chimney breast. There he was out of the way of the draught, and there also he got the full benefit of the fire. But it wasn’t only the fire that revived him. On the hearth, in front of him, at this time of evening, there would be a three-legged, cast-iron oven with coals beneath it and coals on its lid. The last loaf of the day was being baked. And at that time too, just before supper, the kettle, also of cast-iron, would be spitting from within the flames that engulfed it on every side.

A tall, thin man with a small appetite, Jameen would eat by the fire.

A sense I had of him is that if bogdeal could talk it would talk as Jameen talked.

Certainly it was out of a past as old as bogdeal that he talked, and that suited the kind of fireplace we all sat at.

Cutting turf every year in the bog, we worked our way down into a world no human being had ever set foot on. By midday every day for five days we would be uncovering the floor of an ancient pine forest. The preserved tree stumps and trunks we’d uncover we called bogdeal. Sometimes the bark of a trunk we’d uncover would be as distinct as it was on the day it fell, frightening birds or deer into flight. Of one thing we could be sure, and that was that it fell long before even the most mythic of our ancestors walked here. And since Ireland is a country, and since, like every other country, it came into existence with the peoples who came here and settled here, then it followed that the tree stumps we uncovered were older than it.

I didn’t know it in any very conscious way then but I now know that this sacrament of going down below history had, by the time I was ten years old, given a direction, never afterwards much altered, to my life.

But we didn’t only stand deeper than Ireland in the bog. We sat deeper than Ireland by our fire.

Embedded in some of the sods we would bring to that fire three or four times a night would be shards of the old pine bark, would be fibres of the old tree stumps.

And that’s how I thought of Jameen Kissane.

Coming as he did every night at nightfall, he was in a sense the nightfall man, and if a tree stump, just uncovered, could talk, it would talk as he talked.

And the light of our paraffin lamp wouldn’t wither such talk.

How soft it was, the light of our lamp.

The light of our lamp didn’t drive all darkness from our house.

The light of our lamp didn’t drive all darkness from our minds.

Some nights, as if in séance, our lamp called the darkness to it.

And our minds too. Talking to us the way he did, Jameen Kissane uncovered the bogdeal in our minds. And in school the next morning how almost impossible it was to give serious heed to a teacher talking about prepositions or fractions, how almost impossible it was to sit in a bare desk and give serious heed to a man talking about a golden age, a silver age, a bronze age and an iron age.

No. As if by a kind of fatality, I was already looking another way.

We did have iron in our house of course.

Over our fire we had an iron crane.

At any one time of the day an iron pot or an iron kettle would be hanging from it. We had an iron tongs. The wheels of our ass cart and horse cart were shod in iron. Outside our school wall was Cooney’s forge, and even while we were learning to distinguish a noun from a pronoun we could hear the clear ring of the iron anvil.

So there was iron in our world, there was iron in our house, but we didn’t have a mind to go with.

One night Jameen picked up a boot of mine and saw that it needed a new half sole. He asked me to bring him the hammer, the last, the tack and a strip of leather from the right drawer of the dresser. Instantly and emphatically, my mother said no, pointing to a hen hatching eggs in a wooden butter box under the table. No, she said, that will have to wait for another night. Didn’t we know, she asked, that the sound of hammering might kill the chicks in the eggs. Again, three or four days later, hearing Chris hammering outside in the hayshed, she went to the door and called out to him to stop, at once.

In our house we lived from the belief that the sound of iron on iron was lethal.

In our house the metallurgical ages gave way to a hatching hen.

*

It suited me to be backward.

But we weren’t only backward in good ways.

One day, opening a wyand of hay in the West Field, my father found four bad eggs at the heart of it. This, as it would to any neighbour for miles around, brought the cold sweat out through him. But he had to stand his ground. He had to deal with the evil, because this was piseogs, a kind of witchcraft, certainly something more wicked than mere superstition.

Settling a bed of hay on the four prongs of his fork, he took the eggs, praying as he did so, and laid them on it. Then, careful that no egg would fall off, he walked towards the river. And the river, he was so glad to tell us when he came home, had taken the awful thing out of our land.

Only slightly degenerated from its Neolithic enormities, this kind of witchcraft was as common to our locality as its bushes were. No year went by but some awful new story did the rounds. One story had it that a woman opened her door one morning and a skinned calf fell inwards across her threshold. Another story had it that a priest who openly confronted the evil had, within a week, to confront it, in truly sensational form, within his own church.

The evil, it was clear, was not afraid of God. It was not afraid to go into his holy house and fight him there.

That terrified us.

Among us the fabulous had become fact.

Among us the enormous had become norm.

Dimly, we were aware that this form of witchcraft was based on the belief that like creates like. The bad eggs or the bad butter or the bad meat that someone placed in a field would turn the cattle that grazed that field into its image and likeness. Before long those cattle would themselves be bad meat. In other words, this didn’t work by the physical transmission of physical bacteria. It worked by the ritual power of sympathetic magic. Living where we did we too lived under a golden bough. Only in our case the bough was not so golden as it was at Nemi.

And so, a god who was serene and distant and uninvolved was no good to us. We needed a God who was willing to be incarnate.

Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem.

We needed a God, who, whatever the cost to himself, was willing to come down out of his bliss and, like the river, carry this evil out of our world. We needed a God who was willing to live on among us in his sacraments. We heeded the prayer Danny O’ used to pray going to bed at night, the prayer in which he invoked the protection of the four angels at the four corners of his house, the prayer in which he invoked the protection of the four Evangelists at the four corners of his bed.

One year, on the third of the three Rogation Days, it fell to me to go to every field of our farm and sprinkle holy water on it. Crossing the gap into the West Field wasn’t easy, but I did it.

Then one day Jameen Kissane did the terrible thing. Finding butter in the field behind his house, he brought it in and ate it.

For weeks afterwards, coming as he did every night to our house, we were afraid of him. He had eaten evil. He had eaten the witchcraft of the ages. He must be contagious. He must be avoided.

In Wales, in the old days, when someone died, a tramp who walked the roads of the area would be informed and, without delay, he would come to the corpse-house. Once there, he would be invited to sit at the table and eat a meal specially prepared for him. Ritually, this meal was the sins of the dead person, and it was these sins, however mild or murderous, that the tramp was eating. Such a tramp was called the Sin-Eater.

Jameen was our Sin-Eater, but to our astonishment no harm settled on him. That should have been the end of life beneath the Golden Bough, but it wasn’t, not yet.

A few months later, in April, Tom Welsh and myself were coming up the road. We had cuttings Dan Scanlan had given us. Reaching the brow of Fitz’s Hill we recognized a woman everyone feared coming down towards us in her ass and cart. Terrified that she would put the evil eye on them, we dropped the cuttings and to make sure we were out of harm’s way we climbed through the fence where there was a break in the hawthorn hedge and went off searching for bird’s nests.

By the middle of May that year we had discovered forty-six nests, and these were the nests that were difficult to find, the nests of blackbirds, thrushes, wagtails, wrens, robins, larks, wild duck, snipe and, most difficult of all, the nests of goldfinches – three of them in the old apple trees of Paddy Aherne’s orchard.

Every evening after school that’s what we did. We went off to keep track of what was happening in these nests. On Saturdays, and again on Sundays, we would be out for most of the day.

Often, we would hear people saying that the countryside we lived in wasn’t fit for man or beast. Mary Ann Danny O’ was famous because, talking one day to a woman who had called to see her, she said, ‘Isn’t it a lonely place I am living in, and isn’t it lonely I am myself looking out this door and seeing nothing coming towards me always but the blowin’ wind and the wet rain?’

Maag Mahony, who lived in Poll, a place almost as desolate, agreed. ‘Yes,’ Maag said, ‘there are days when I look through my door and the only thing I can say about the wind is that it is blowin’ and the only thing I can say about the rain is that it is wet.’

We knew Mary Ann Danny O’. And yet, however much we tried, we couldn’t imagine her. We couldn’t imagine how she lived where she did. If only someone could, it would have been a mercy to have turned her into a bush. But then, there are limits too to what a bush will put up with.

We didn’t send a horse and cart for Mary Ann Danny O’.

We didn’t send a horse and cart for her the night she came home from Danny O’s funeral and slept in the bed he had been laid out in.

We didn’t take her in, this woman who lived where a snipe wouldn’t live.

We knew the way to her house and we blackguarded her, a rabble of us pounding her front door and then her back door with our fists, a yelling tangle of us making faces at her and screeching at her through her small, lace-curtained, cobwebbed windows.

One day, as we ran off in delighted triumph, I looked back and saw the white head of her, just the white head, craning forward in her doorway.

To this day I’ve seen nothing that so questions the right of the universe to exist, as it exists.

‘The blowin’ wind and the wet rain.’

Could it be that that is an antiphon from nature’s own requiem for her?

When Mary Ann Danny O’ pronounced it, the word wind rhymed with mind. And maybe that was her story. Maybe the world’s weather and the weather of her soul were one weather, and that being so she was able to live, into her white-headed eighties she was able to live, where a bush wouldn’t live, where a snipe wouldn’t live.

That the universe has survived Mary Ann Danny O’ leads me to believe that it could now be around for a long while.

It certainly survived long enough for Tom Walsh and myself to discover forty-six birds’ nests in it.

Clearly, these birds did not agree with us when we said that the place we lived in was the back of beyond. Clearly, sitting on their eggs in the hedges and in the heather, they didn’t agree with us when we said that the place we lived in wasn’t fit for man or beast.

How strange it was that we who so happily tormented Mary Ann were so tender towards nesting birds. Never once, by too sudden an approach, did we frighten a bird off her eggs. Never once, by lingering too long, did we make a hatching bird uneasy. Never once, by over-forcing our way to a nest, did we leave evidence of intrusion behind us. Rather than cause the slightest upset, we were happy to walk away not knowing what we would otherwise have liked to have known. And this paid off, because, to a quite remarkable degree, it fostered an intuitive sense of our surroundings in us. It was as if our oldest ancestors had whispered to us. In the stealth of our walking and, above all, in a kind of complicity with things, we were on the way to becoming good hunters.

Like good hunters, there was much that we knew.

At a glance we could distinguish a blackbird’s nest from a thrush’s nest. At a glance we could distinguish a linnet’s egg from a yellowhammer’s egg. And we knew where not to search for a snipe’s nest or a wild duck’s nest.

And because we couldn’t see them perhaps, few things we did gave us such silent delight as to insert a finger into a wren’s nest and feel five eggs, and then, to insert it again a few days later and feel five chicks.

For want of a good terrier and a good greyhound, we didn’t hunt foxes and hares and rabbits.

But that wasn’t the only reason. When we were still quite young we heard a story that put us off the idea. Out in the bogs one evening, the Hard Man loosed his hound after a big, heavy-looking hare. Coming to the place of carnage, he saw that the hare had been ripped open and her four babies had fallen out. On the football field and at fairs and at dances, the Hard Man was able, and made sure he was known to be able, to look after himself. He had never come second best out of a fight. But now, seeing the hare’s four babies, he was troubled and instead of leaving them to the hound, he picked them up and brought them home, and by a miracle of patient kindness he found a way of feeding them and caring for them and they lived. And the Hard Man himself – well, it wasn’t only that he didn’t loose his hound at hares any more.

That should have been the end of hunting among us.

It wasn’t. Not yet.

It was unfortunate for eels that they looked as they did, that they felt as slimy in the hand as they did.

Our hunting ground was a reach of river from Paddy Aherne’s to Danny Shaun’s.

Apart from an acquired sense of where we would find them, under large, loose stones in the shallows, we didn’t know much about eels.

To us they were a kind of shrivelled or degenerate water snake, and that gave us a right to be savage towards them.

Also, there was the game of Snakes and Ladders. As far as we were concerned, it could just as well have been called the game of Eels and Ladders. And even though in school we were with uncompromising severity being taught that things were as bad as they were because of a rebellious will in human beings, we nonetheless felt that in some way or another chance was also at work. Three squares ahead on the road home a snake waited for us, six squares ahead a ladder waited for us. A throw of the dice decided whether we were engulfed into a descent or enraptured in an ascent. A third possibility is that we would for the moment go forward in safety. But that kind of life didn’t appeal to us at all. And anyway, the people who lived that kind of life were always complaining about us. They were always telling on us to teacher, policeman and priest. And one of them had said, you should always hit a child when you meet him because if he isn’t coming from mischief he is going to it.

Ladders were for other people. But we didn’t take bad throws of the dice lying down.

We took on the Snake that had engulfed us. We took him on where we knew we would find him, under loose stones in the shallows of our river.

We hunted him with table forks and our glee was unconfined when we hung him aloft, gasping and wriggling, in the sunlight.

We might have been poor, someone might have put bad eggs in our hay and, following on that, all but two of our cows might have slung their calves, but in spite of that we were still alive, we were willing to live, and days there were when, coming home from the river, we were heroes. In the way that Michael the Archangel was a hero, we were heroes.

And now also we weren’t as uncomprehendingly helpless in the face of evil as we had been. We understood the thinking behind bad eggs in the hay or a skinned calf hanging from the door. Jameen had explained it to us.

There is, he said, a certain amount of bad luck in the world, and it must fall on people, not on all people, but on many people. In the way that bread and wine are the elements of the Eucharist, the bad meat and the bad eggs are the elements of a dark sacrament, a sacrament in which some people attempt to divert the bad luck that might fall on themselves onto others.

Could we in some cases, we asked him, be dealing with something more than an effort to avoid bad luck? Could we, in some cases, be dealing with ill will? Is there wickedness as well as bad luck in the world? we asked him.

The only good answer to that will come to ye in prayer, he said. But in the meantime, he continued, make sure ye don’t persecute anyone, or anything.

That from a man who had eaten bad luck.

That from a man who had eaten witchcraft and digested it and, no harm having come to him, there he was sitting by our fire, eating the supper my mother had given to him.

In doing what he did, Jameen had liberated us.

In saying what he had just said, he had challenged me to outgrow the game of Snakes and Ladders, and something must have happened, because from that night on the eels had a better time of it.

One Sunday evening everyone but me went to Holy Hour in the church. I stayed behind to mind the house and have a good fire on for Jameen when he came in.

I made tea for him and cut and buttered two slices of bread for him. Then I sat in the corner opposite him.

I was proud that he was talking to me. About how many of our cows had calved. About how much turf we had left. About what I would do when I finished in primary school.

He asked me if I felt a new power in my body.

In alarm, which I tried to hide, I said I did.

Don’t be afraid of that, he said. That is natural. Grow with that and it will make a man of you.

After that I was easier in myself than I had been for the past six months or so.

More often than not now, I’d go off through the fields on my own. There were fields that I loved. Fields with a sward of natural, wild herbs. In the Hill Meadow I saw hints of Paradise. It was the only name I had for the flowers that grew there, primroses and cowslips in the dry parts of it and in the more marshy parts, buttercups and orchids.

And I wondered.

How could something so yellow as a buttercup come up out of brown soil? How could something so purple as an orchid come up out of it? How could something so perfect as a cowslip come up out of it?

Where did the colour and the perfection come from?

And what else was down there?

What else was I walking on?

To me to inhale the fragrance of a primrose was a Eucharist.

A Eucharist without suggestion of bloodshed or blood.

Sometimes I’d inhale the fragrance down to the very soles of my feet. Then I could walk the earth without hurting it. Then I could walk in Paradise. Right here in our own Hill Meadow, I could walk in Paradise.

It was a strange world of orchids and piseogs.

It was a strange world of cowslips and bad meat.

I often thought about the priest who had preached against piseogs. On the following Saturday night, when he went into his confession box to hear and forgive the sins of his people, he sat down on thirteen rotten eggs.

*

Ours was a house of talk. Big talk. Talk that never sickened into politeness, not even in the presence of holy things. And yet, because I suppose of their estranged rarity in a kitchen hung with flitches of bacon, I was often deeply surprised by two books I would sometimes come across, one was the Mass book, the Missal, the other was Iphigeneia at Aulis.

Some of the supplications in the missal were in Greek:

Kyrie eleison

Christe eleison

Kyrie eleison

Christe eleison

Kyrie eleison

Christe eleison

Some of its antiphons and responsories were in Latin:

Dominus vobiscum

Et cum spirito tuo

Sursum corda

Habemus ad Dominum

Iphigeneia at Aulis, a book Chris was studying, that was entirely in Greek, and though I couldn’t read it, not just yet, I did know what it was about.

What I above all knew is that I only had to open these books under the flitches of bacon hanging from six-inch nails on the high cross-beam and they made sense.

Visually, if in no other way, they made sense.

Regularly, my mother would sharpen an already sharp knife on the concrete floor, knocking sparks out of it as she did so. She would go out to the fowl-house and come back with an outraged, red, squawking cock. Wedging him between her thighs, she would pluck the throat feathers and then, cutting off his gloriously combed and wattled head, she would let the sometimes spasming, spattering rope of blood flow down into a bowl where it would settle into an accusation all the more dreadful because it was so serene.

Outside, on a little rise in the yard, I had often held the basin to the red throat-torrent from a pig we were killing, held it till her last gurgle, held it till her last unsquealing collapse into cuttable meat.

Into meat so quietly cuttable that this, too, was a horror of accusation.

As accusation, the quiet was more frightful than the squeal.

What was it like, the silence of Iphigeneia after her last gurgle?

What was it like, the silence of Christ after his last gurgle?

How did the mountains survive such silence? How did the stars survive it?

One thing was sure. It is a tough universe we live in.

Or was it that the universe has decided to go blind and go deaf? Is that the only way it can cope with being what it is?

I couldn’t say. Not then. Nor for a long time after.

But how like the beach of Aulis our yard was.

How like the beach of Aulis our floor was.

Looking at the quiet head, so gloriously combed and wattled, it was hard to believe that Agamemnon could have anything but a red homecoming. Looking at it, it was hard to believe that humanity at large could have anything but a red homecoming.

Ah Jesus! How we needed not to wake up from the sheltering hypnosis of habit and familiarity.

How we needed to be put to sleep by a great religion.

How we needed a religion to cover our tracks to Ned Stack’s butcher’s stall.

Ah Jesus! How we needed to sing in a language which, because we didn’t speak it everyday, distanced and tamed the horror:

O salutaris hostia

Quae caeli pandis ostium

Bella praemunt hostilia

Da robur fer auxilium.

If only while we were singing them, these hymns drowned out the accusing silence, they drowned out the accusing squeal.

Two books there were in our house, one Classical and one Christian.

For me, for a few years, they made sense of our floor, they made sense of our yard.

*

I was sixteen years old and with barely concealed aggression in their voices older men would refer to me as ‘that young buck’.

‘Who is that young buck?’ I would hear them ask.

‘Where does that buck think he’s going?’ ‘Shouldn’t that young buck with the wavy hair be playing at full back not centre-half back?’ ‘He’ll be a fine man yet, that young buck.’

In August I was in the bog drawing out the turf with our ass and cart, the cart mounted with rails I had borrowed from Dan Quinn.

We’d had five or six weeks of good weather, so the bog was dry and firm having a good crust on it even where it was more or less bald in near the brink. That was a blessing, because it meant that the cart wouldn’t be sinking up to its axle nor would the ass be sinking up to his houghs. I was having an easy time of it, bringing out about fifty railfulls every day. There was a lot of handling in that. Filling the rails, I had of course to handle every sod once, and then, emptying them outside by the road, even with the cart tipped up, I had to handle most of them a second time. But I didn’t see one of them. What I was seeing was the convent girls. In the interest of segregation, the convent girls went to their school a half an hour earlier than we went to ours and they came home a half a hour later. But we did get to know them, always in so far as we could manage it, in circumstances of contrived casualness. All day every day for five days I saw only them.

That there was an old forest floor ten feet under me meant nothing to me now.

I wanted to walk among living pines, not dead pines, and I wanted to walk among them with Bridie Sullivan.

I often imagined it.

Having met by pure chance, Bridie and myself would be cycling home from Listowel some night and a shower would come, and we’d take shelter under a bush and I’d be all poetry to her.

In the eyes of people looking at me playing centre-half back for our college, I might be a young buck, but under the bush with Bridie I’d be Il Penseroso.

But let my due feet never fail

To walk the studious cloister’s pale,

And love the high embowed roof,

With antique pillars massy-proof,

And storied windows richly dight

Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow

To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,

The hairy gown and mossy cell,

Where I may sit and rightly spell

Of every star that heaven doth shew,

And every herb that sips the dew,

Till old experience do attain

To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give;

And I with thee will choose to live.

That is how I would picture myself to Bridie.

And Bridie would want to hear more. And there would be lots more poems that I would recite to her. And even when the shower had stopped she would make no move to come out from under the bush, and the bush would be dripping and I’d ask her was she wet and she’d say yes and I’d say me too, ’tis running down my back, and I’d turn up the collar of my coat and to show her how caring I was I would turn hers up too, and then she would say she was sad and I’d ask her why and she’d say she was sad because I was going off to a cloister, and she’d be silent for a while and I’d be silent and then she’d ask me why was I going to a cloister and I’d talk to her about the ecstasies of the saints and she’d ask me to wait for a couple of years more, she’d tell me I was needed on the Newtown football team, and I’d tell her I’d think about it and I’d tell her the next time we met coming home from Listowel, and I’d ask her when would she next be coming at night from Listowel and she’d say Sunday night and I’d say, yes, I’ll meet you Sunday night coming home from Listowel, and then we’d come out from under the bush and we’d get our bikes and we’d cycle out the road, out past Mary Hegarty’s and Danny Lynes’, and we’d stop at Blake’s Cross and she’d kind of fall towards me off her bike and I’d rescue her from a bad fall and we’d say good night and she’d cycle on towards her house which was up a side road and I’d cycle on towards ours and I’d sing so that she would hear me.

The heath was green on Carrig Donn,

Bright shone the sun on Árd na Lee,

The dark green trees bent trembling down

To kiss the slumbering Owenabwee,

That happy day ’twas but last May,

’Tis like a dream to me,

When Donall swore, aye o’er and o’er,

He’d part no more, a stór mo chroí.

The heath is brown on Carrig Donn,

The clouds are dark o’er Árd na Lee,

And many a stream comes rushing down

To swell the angry Owenabwee.

The moaning blast is sweeping past

Through many a leafless tree,

But I’m alone, for he is gone,

My hawk has flown, ochón mo chroí.

Soft April showers and bright May flowers

Will bring the Summer back again,

But will they bring me back the hours

I spent with my brave Donall then?

’Tis but a chance, for he’s gone to France,

To wear the Fleur de Lys;

But I’ll follow you, my Donall Dhu,

For still I’m true to you, mo chroí.

In reality, I was in the bog alone drawing out turf with an ass and cart and, however intense and persistent the longings, I never for a moment gave myself a chance with Bridie. I didn’t even tell her or so much as contrive a meeting alone with her. But she was on my mind to such an extent that I never actually noticed that every time I went to Newtown I met Betty Guiney. On Sundays after Mass a gang of us would be hanging around Brosnan’s Corner and she’d come to her door and call me over and ask me if I was going to the dance in Listowel tonight.

By seven o’clock Betty would be on the bar of my bike and, wind or rain, winter or summer, we’d cycle the seven miles to the dance in Listowel.

One night Betty walked out the road with Jim Crowley. I waited till she came back and three-quarters of an hour later, still on my bike, my foot resting on the pavement kerb outside her door, I said good night to her.

My problem was that for my first ten years in school, I was at the back of the class. In the end, I came to see myself as my teachers saw me and as everyone in my class saw me. Without knowing it, I made a compact with being last. And when, eventually, my exam results showed that I was first, I regarded it as a fraud. Nothing so trivial as a fact could give the lie to an old sense of myself.

Being last, it never occurred to me to put two and two together and conclude that Betty Guiney was fond of me. Even when she was on the bar of my bike and we were alone coming home from a dance in Listowel, and her hair was blowing back in my face, I never once leaned forward into it.

*

My father was sitting under the mirror at the far side of the kitchen. Sometimes my father and his dog wouldn’t only look at each other, they would seem to sit there conjuring each other across a limit of what was normally possible between an animal and a human being. That is what they were now doing, and I was happy to leave them to it, because for about ten hours a day, for the past three days, Darwin was guiding me into disaster. In a sense, the disaster occurred the moment I consented to walk with him. Since then, all I had done was to push on with him to the final enormity. It came when he led me in under a rockwall thirteen and three-quarters British Miles high:

It is hardly possible for me even to recall to the reader, who may not be a practical geologist, the facts leading the mind feebly to comprehend the lapse of time. He who can read Sir Charles Lyell’s grand work on the Principles of Geology, which the future historian will recognize as having produced a revolution in natural science, yet does not admit how incomprehensibly vast have been the past periods of time, may at once close this volume. Not that it suffices to study the Principles of Geology, or to read special treatises by different observers on separate formations, and to mark how each author attempts to give an inadequate idea of the duration of each formation or even each stratum. A man must for years examine for himself great piles of superimposed strata, and watch the sea at work grinding down old rocks and making fresh sediment, before he can hope to comprehend anything of the lapse of time, the monuments of which we see around us.