Mac Grianna This Road Of Mine

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-84351-790-0
Verlag: The Lilliput Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten

First published in Irish by An Gúm in 1965, the magnificent autobiographical novel by Seosamh Mac Grianna Mo Bhealach Féin is translated here for the first time into English by Mícheál Ó hAodha. With notes of Dead as Doornails and The Ginger Man in its absurd comedy, Seosamh Mac Grianna pens his reaction to an anglicised, urbanised, post-revolution Ireland, demonstrating his talents at their peak. This Road of Mine relates a humorous, picaresque journey through Wales en route for Scotland, an Irish counterpart to Three Men in a Boat with a twist of Down and Out in Paris and London. The protagonist follows his impulses, getting into various absurd situations: being caught on the Irish Sea in a stolen rowboat in a storm; feeling guilt and terror in the misplaced certainty that he had killed the likeable son of his landlady with a punch while fleeing the rent; sleeping outdoors in the rain and rejecting all aid on his journey. What lies behind his misanthropy is a reverence for beauty and art and a disgust that the world doesn't share his view, concerning itself instead with greed and pettiness. The prose is full of personality, and Ó hAodha has proved himself adept at capturing the life and spark of the writer's style. His full-spirited translation has given the English-reading world access to this charming and relentlessly entertaining bohemian poet, full of irrepressible energy for bringing trouble on himself. As well as the undoubted importance of this text culturally, Mac Grianna is able to make rank misanthropy enjoyable - making music out of misery. The voice is wonderful: hyperbolic but sincere.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Mac Grianna, Seosamh

Weitere Mitwirkende

Ó hAodha, Míchéal

Leseproben

1

They say the truth is bitter, but believe me it’s harsh and this is why people avoid it.

It was early in my life that I saw it stretched out in front of me, the road of my heart’s desire, the winding path skirted by peaks more beautiful than any hills found in music and the breath of wind above more perfect than any earthly breeze – as wine vanquishes water; the old bridge that listens to the whispering stream for as long as first, fleeting memories linger; and whitewashed villages set between the early noon and the mouth of the dawn; and sheltered nooks quiet and peaceful where one rests and comes to know every living sprig and herb, the scattered roses made of dreams:

Ar bhruach na toinne le taobh na Finne

’S mé ’féachaint loingis ar sáile.

On the edge of the wave beside the Finn

As I looked on ships upon the sea.

The way of no return, that inconstant road between care and fear. Who’ll tell me that I never walked it – me, the king of Gaelic poets in this, the twentieth century, the era of Revival? Who’ll tell me that I was guided by the words of casual friends most days since I was born? And even if I was always slow to let them guide me, I still found myself halfway between admiration and contempt. You’d need patience with the likes of me, and I’ll tell you now why. And I’m afraid they still won’t understand even when I give them the truth straight.

But then, what’s the point of me writing this here book if I am to remain misunderstood? And so I’ll tell you now why I didn’t keep my distance from these casual friends of mine the most of my days, and why I didn’t take the path of joy and enchanted wandering as I should have; it’s a long time now since I abandoned the armour that most other men sport – a steady job and opinions that stand to you and ensure you fit in with the crowd. Bad as I was, I never had any time for all of that. But then I also had a deep and powerful fear of myself. No wonder – when you think that my own crowd were always down on me as if there was a danger in me that the world could never see. And it was always like this: when someone else caught a cold, they felt sorry for them; if I got one, it was something to be ashamed of however. If someone else got angry, they were alright because they knew how to control themselves; but if I got angry, I was a wild bull of a man. If someone else did something untoward, it was quickly forgotten and they got away with it; but if I did something wrong, I never heard the end of it. I don’t like this type of Christianity, if Christianity it is – but there’s a lot of it in this world. Maybe I had a power in me that I didn’t understand; maybe I still don’t understand it. Is it any wonder that I felt myself tied up in a thousand knots before I’d done anything at all, I ask you? I rebelled. I broke out of schools and colleges. In 1916, I left Saint Eunan’s with the intention of joining the British Army but Easter Week put an end to that. I disappeared from other colleges too and yet, despite it all, I reached the age of twenty-one and I had qualified as a schoolteacher. If it wasn’t that I had some bit of guidance from others, if it wasn’t that I had a right fear of myself, the truth is that I’d have had no education at all. They didn’t understand what drove me deep down and even if they tried to give me the odd bit of guidance, it was only very rarely. I knew early on that they were trying to break my spirit in reality, and so I was rash and uncontrollable as a consequence. I was wary of others. I also wrote stories that might never have seen print if it wasn’t for others. Because I’ve never believed that the poet should prostitute his art. Once my writing became known and others understood I had that gift which was very rare in the Ireland of my day – the gift of poetry – I think they expected me to share my store with them. I refused however. They couldn’t get a word out of me. I never revealed what was really on my mind. I protected my inner soul. People close to me claimed that I was lazy and yet the same people saw me working, and working harder than any man at times. They tried to pin me down and box me in but they could never manage it. I had too many sides to me. That’s my gift. And eventually they let me be, even if they – my casual friends that is – kept inviting me around to their houses for longer than I’d hoped. In the end, they left me alone. It was painful at first but I got used to it. Because I always wanted to be alone. There were people close to me that I had a great respect for needless to say – in so far as they understood. But I could tell that they wanted too much from me and even if I’d shared my gifts with them from morning till night and week on week, they’d never have been satisfied. Maybe I made them jealous or greedy.

Maybe I didn’t understand then what I do now – that it’s in our nature to steal the wealth – one man from the next. I hope I never hurt anyone. To put twenty words into one, for the guts of ten years I tried to make a living the same as anyone else, even if any blind man born could tell that I wasn’t like the others. I was afraid back then that if I found myself in trouble no one would help me out. And it’s in my nature that I couldn’t care less about anyone else. A searing honesty and courage is what lies behind this view of the world. I always knew – because I’ve got a wise head on me – that honesty is very difficult if you’re too poor for it and the same goes for courage also. You can make the most of your gifts if you have a bit of material comfort. But because I didn’t give a damn about humanity, I found myself on the margins. Still, my imagination and art were well served by this isolation seeing as I was free of the pollution of the mind that characterizes contact with others. Life has a grip on every man born in one essential aspect however. People may differ from one another but they all have an appetite and I had an appetite as good as the next man. I had to keep my belly full. I had to earn my bread somehow; and the wheat can’t grow by itself.

I won’t bother here now with the nine schools I taught in across the nine counties of Ireland. Or the fact that I gave up teaching in the end when I had a dream that the whole world was bound tight with ropes – up, down and across – like the lines in a school roll-book. I couldn’t suffer the world any longer and it embroidered this way. The second job I had was translating books into Irish. The government was running a scheme for the publication of Irish-language books and I began working on this. Not that the government of the day was known for its promotion of poetry or art. And the truth is, neither I nor the others were too taken with An Gúm1 from the beginning either – other than making jokes about it, that is. It came looking for me and gave me books to translate. An Gúm had a welcome for everyone back then, or until it had enough books published to keep it up and running. But then the publisher became difficult and it was afraid that people might earn big money from it. We won’t bother with that for the moment however. The way I saw it – it was willing to pay me for work that was as easy as tying your shoelaces, so that I didn’t give a damn what the place was called really or what stupidity it got up to either.

I wasn’t long working there however when I discovered that this business was no game – not at all. I was working with literature the same way another man cuts timber or collects sawdust. An Gúm were the harshest people on writing I’ve ever come across and even if six or seven of the greatest poets that ever lived came back and worked for them, they couldn’t have been harsher or more strict on them. There were others working there also whose company I often found myself keeping. But it was just my luck that any time we met up the sole topic of conversation was An Gúm. It was bad enough working in the place but to be talking about it all the time as well! I’d run into people I knew every now and then out on the street and they’d ask me: ‘Are you still translating the books into Irish?’ That was a real punch in the gut for me, you can be sure, the likes of me who’d proved that I could write real poetry! I hated An Gúm and it was this same hatred that kept the few small embers in my soul aflame – until it came time for the reckoning. I always hoped to destroy An Gúm somehow and I couldn’t have cared less about the consequences for myself either. This is not to say that there weren’t some advantages to working there of course. I didn’t have to get up too early in the mornings or rush around the place like everyone else. And I got my wages in a lump sum and enjoyed spending it too. But then I was tied down in other ways also. I never trusted the civil servants in the system fully. I took the advice of my casual friends and didn’t get above my station either – by earning more money than others or by making waves at work. I watched and learned how the world works quietly and in my own way instead. And I loved the freedom of working there even if I was tied down by certain rules and regulations in other ways also. It was still much better than the slave whose every hour is subject to the clock.

I was four years working there when the government changed. This was likely the moment of reckoning, I said to myself. It was just after New Year in 1932. A few of us did whatever we could to find out what the future held for us there. People went and spoke to the...