Thursday, February 15, 2018

The Relief of Just Doing It

I've started reading Endymion by John Keats today. I've started reading this poem on several occasions before, but I've never got past a page or two. I've loved poetry all my life, but it's always been lyric poetry that principally appealed to me. The idea of a long narrative poem, or simply a long poem in general, is daunting.

Despite this, I have read long poetry in the past. I've read Paradise Lost, The Canterbury Tales, The Divine Comedy, and many others.

And yet, long poetry still seems to me like terra incognita, a continent I keep intending to explore, but which remains beyond my ken.

I feel such a sense of shame about this. Poetry has brought tremendous pleasure into my life-- sometimes even an almost animal pleasure. And yet, side by side with this, I've felt a life-long shame at not reading enough poetry, or not reading it seriously.

Very often, when I read prose, I feel ashamed that I'm not reading poetry. Prose seems like baby's stuff in comparison.

I don't only feel shame for my own sake, but for the sake of my culture. It bothers me that poetry remains unread, for the most part, and that it's the magnum opera of the great poets that remains unread-- the works (generally long poems) which they would have considered their most important.

I know I've mentioned all this before. I don't mean to bore my regular readers (any more so than usual, I mean).

In this post, I'm thinking more about the strange sense of relief I feel when I finally buckle down to something I've been avoiding for a long time-- a sensation that might be familiar to my reader, as well.

I felt this sensation earlier this week, when I went canvassing door-to-door with the Irish pro-life campaign. As many of you will know, this year there will be a referendum on whether we should remove the Eighth Amendment of the Irish Constitution, which protects the life of the unborn.

My contribution to the pro-life cause, so far, has been restricted to attending rallies and writing letters to the newspaper.

I've always bauked at the idea of bothering anybody. The prospect of walking up to a stranger and accosting them makes me squirm. I'll even avoid asking for directions as long as I possibly can.

Despite this, I felt it was my clear duty to go canvassing to protect the Eighth Amendment. So on Monday, I found myself knocking on doors in the suburb of Finglas, and pressing pamphlets on unsuspecting householders. It wasn't so bad, in the end; I had somebody with me, and I find it a lot easier to knock on doors than to approach someone on the street.

But, more than anything else, I felt a powerful sense of relief that I was finally doing something that I'd been resisting for so long.

The same tension is at work when it comes to my feelings about the Irish language. As I've explained in previous posts, in my lifetime I've travelled from a sense of outright animosity towards the Irish language, towards an intermittent sense of desolation at its neglect. Now and again, I feel a sense of outrage that, every single moment of every single day, Irish people make the choice to speak in the language of another country rather than their own.

I've often imagined what a sense of blessed relief there must be in choosing to conduct your life entirely in the Irish language, as far as possible. I'm sure it has tremendous challenges and frustration, but what a weight of guilt and shame must fall away from such an Irishman (or Irishwoman)-- to know that you, at least, are doing everything you can to give life to the language!

The most important application of this concept, of course, is sanctity. Very often, when reading the lives of the saints, a sinner like me is struck by the thought: "Imagine the relief that there must be in simply casting away sin, casting away worldliness, and living entirely for Jesus!".

Various passages in the lives of the saints provoke this reaction in mw. One that often comes to mind is an account I read of the Curé d'Ars' daily routine. His entire day was spent either in his parish church, or visiting his flock. Many hours were spent in the confessional alone.

That must have been gruelling-- but surely, such dedication would be accompanied by a lightness of heart, knowing that you were giving everything for Jesus, holding nothing back? "My yoke is easy, and my burden is light".

In the meantime, however, I continue to speak English, and to read prose rather than poetry, and to sin. God help me!

12 comments:

  1. I thought of you when I saw something advertised in the Perth paper this week... Bill Murray from Groundhog is touring Australia doing an unusual concert- reading excerpts from American writers accompanied by a cello apparently- it didn't seem of interest to mention until you wrote the above piece mentioning preference in literature.
    You didn't hint at what the reception was like on Monday

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Bill Murray is quite the oddball.

      The reception was fine, everybody was very polite, and nearly everybody took our pamphlets. Some expressed support, some expressed disagreement, but most were non-commital.

      Delete
  2. Why don't you start a podcast and interview people / have them for a chat?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sorry I only saw this comment now. It's a good idea but the technological aspect of it is a bit beyond me. I might get someone to help me with it, though.

      Delete
    2. Since a few people have suggested this, I decided to press ahead with it. I've just emailed my first potential interview subject, hopefully I get a positive reply!

      Delete
  3. Speaking of Gaeilge, a while back I picked up Alan Titley's translation of Mairtin O'Cadhain's 'Cre na Cille' widely regarded as the greatest novel in Irish of the 20th century. A few days ago I decided to stop reading it, as the sheer frustration of not being able to read it in Irish, and the absurdity and embarrassment of not being able to read it in Gaeilge was too much for me. Better unread than a 21st century English version!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes, I've often felt the same thing. I read The Poor Mouth by Flann O'Brien, but never An Béal Bocht which is the original version, and feel jealous of that. I've never read Peig, but if I read it, it will be in Irish...

      I've never been able to rad Ó Cadhain. The last time I gave up I consoled myself with the thought that I don't read literary modernism in ENGLISH, either.

      Delete
  4. There's a horrific irony in that Titley's version is full of 21st century slang and curses, which I found really annoying, whereas the other translation which is considered more faithful was co-authored by Tim Robinson, an Englishman who became famous for charting Connemara folklore and fauna, and who learned the language and did the translation as, in his own words, partial atonement for English colonisation of Ireland.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I (an Englishman) had never heard of Tim Robinson. Will remember his name - thanks!

      Delete
    2. I'd never heard of him, either. I'm grateful for his work on behalf of Irish culture, but the whole idea of expiating for the sins of your ancestors is something I disagree with.

      Delete
  5. His books are relatively well-known - he is a legend in Connemara. He lived in Roundstone, but sadly I believe his health has now deteriorated and he was obliged to move home to England. I saw his house a couple of years back, just sitting there with all his books and the damp beginning to get in, a tragedy.....Incidentally, I told an Irish friend of mine of my decision to give up the Titley translation and he accused me of "cultural neuroticism", the kind of reply that makes me despair for any future for Gaeilge.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. That is a sad story.

      The perfect reply to your friend would have been: "Don't be an ass".

      Delete