Book 6: Birds of America

Birds of America
Lorrie Moore

Usually short story collections have ups and downs, but most do have a general level of quality, with a few stories rising above to enchant and a few being, well, less than memorable. Given my previous experiences with Lorrie Moore, I expected Birds of America to present a group of witty and endearing gems; what I got, however, was almost precisely the opposite: a group of disjointed, cloying, and boring stories with only one that seemed to justify the time put into reading it, let alone the rest of the collection. Don't be fooled by the abstract, too-long title, for "People Like That Are the Only People Here: Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk" is a moving tale of a parent's worst plight, and its impersonal manner transcends the plane of pretentious litfic experimentation on which it is built, becoming instead a universal exploration of pain and suffering, an oasis of meaning in a desert bereft of entertainment or, sadly, plot. This story has plot, and characterization, in spades, and almost- but only almost- makes one look more fondly upon the author. Unfortunately, the majority of the stories in this collection, while having their moments, meander along pointlessly until reaching a noncommittal ending that really has nothing to do with the preceding story. It's possible to read these as portraits, and while yes, they are in a sense rich and layered, they fail to captivate; these are still lives, not moving images, and one cannot blame readers for simply wishing that Moore would get on with it already. Too much in here bows to the litfic intelligentsia, appearing to work in profound subtlety but being instead almost unbearably boring. There are moments, of course, where Moore displays her searing ability to peer into the depths of the human soul, but these are quickly swallowed by the boredom that plagues each of these stores. Likewise, both "Which Is More Than I Can Say About Some People" and "Charades" each come very close to being meaningful, before eventually wandering off into the same meaningless, but critically beloved, territory of utter pandering. Lorrie Moore is, I believe, capable of much more than she shows in Birds of America, but the collection sags under the weight of its own assumed importance and never becomes, well, interesting.

Grade: C-

Book 37: The Blackwater Lightship

The Blackwater Lightship

Colm Tóibín

Colm Tóibín is certainly aware of the assertion that all unhappy families are unhappy in their own way, and in The Blackwater Lightship he presents one that is marred by over fifteen years of resentment. This is a novel about understanding and forgiveness, a well-written book that explores the ways in which the past can haunt us and how it continually affects who we are at the present. One of the risks run in presenting a story populated (by definition) with people who harbor a deep sense of having been wronged is that such characters- and, indeed, such people- are often cold and unlikable, which is often the case in this novel. Main character Helen is vividly realistic, for example, and as her backstory is carefully revealed it becomes obvious that Tóibín has put a great deal of thought into creating his characters. She is not, however, terribly likable, and none of the characters who are stuck together for this long weekend can provide any real comic relief- or even a break from the resentment that comes to dominate the book. Some authors are able to create powerful narratives despite a lack of lighter moments (like Cormac McCarthy in The Road), but the characters in The Blackwater Lightship are often simply being rude and petty, perhaps simply for the sake of doing so; by the time the inevitable redemption begins to come around, readers may not care what happens to these petty people.

This is not to say that The Blackwater Lightship is without its merits, however. Any one of these characters could have sprung directly from real life, and the tangled web of the past has been slowly and deliberately constructed to make them who they are. And as cliché as the scenario (a group with a complicated history, plus newcomers from a different world, are forced to spend the weekend together) is, the undercurrents that run throughout the book make it unique and give it its own vibrant feeling. Tóibín's prose is simple and exact, relating what's there and not relying on fancy language to create or maintain assumptions: the characters and the situation speak for themselves. Though it's not always pleasant and can rely a bit heavily on well-tread literary ground, The Blackwater Lightship is a well-written glimpse into the lives of a group of realistic and thoroughly understood characters that provides insight on the power and consequences of unrepentant, raging resentment.

Grade: B+

Book 36: The Third Policeman

The Third Policeman

Flann O'Brien

Allowing one's story to slowly slide into the realm of the absurd opens up a world of possibilities, but if the world presented strays too far from any beaten path readers may be jettisoned left and right. It's a fine pancake, as the policemen in The Third Policeman might say, and one that this author manages, for the most part, to navigate successfully. The book begins normally enough, evoking a very straightforward story in the vein of nineteenth-century narration, complete with an overly academic narrator and delightful footnotes supporting his pursuit of the mad philosopher de Selby. Even here, however, O'Brien slips subtle hints that all might not be as it seems; and indeed, once things begin to get truly bizarre the firm establishment of this dry narration helps ground the narrative. This grounding is also accomplished when O'Brien begins each chapter by stepping outside of the main story and into often hilarious pseudoscientific asides, which balance the just barely plausible with the outright absurd in surprisingly thought-provoking ways. These asides and footnotes are, however, only distractions, and their humor only offers a temporary fix for the often wayward plot, which can sometimes send heads spinning in unpleasant directions.

This conflict between the charmingly odd and the outright insane marks The Third Policeman, and it is not only evident in its structure. Some pieces of the plot are truly original and thought-provoking, while others will produce deserved laughs. Some developments, however, are just baffling, seemingly absurd for their own sake and appearing to serve no greater purpose. It seems as though O'Brien has a tendency to get carried away by his own ideas, to the point where reading becomes laborious and all traces of the plot- and readers' interest- disappear. It is regrettable that the author allows himself to just carried away by his own ingenuity, as he possesses that particular characteristic in spades. From the elaborate set of commentaries he creates for the fictional de Selby to his deftly employed twisted logic, Flann O'Brien weaves a wandering story that becomes, with its last gasp, a poignant morality play. The path he charts in The Third Policeman is sharply written and often amusing, but it takes a few too many wayward steps to be entirely enjoyable.

Grade: B+

Book 34: Bog Child

Bog Child

Siobhan Dowd

With the recent apology from Britain about the Bloody Sunday murders and with my internship finding me diving ever deeper into Ireland's tangled political divisions, it's difficult at times to understand the impact of the Troubles, which are of course not that long past. Bog Child is a coming of age story set against this difficult background, and it is all the more poignant because its story spans the border between the North and the Republic as well as the border between peace and war, ever porous in a politically charged, guerilla-style fight. Readers get the feeling that Fergus, who rests carefully on the edge of the opposing forces, is not placed there at the whim of the author but instead represents, in a way, a kind of majority strained between the personal and political and wishing, above anything, for peace. Very occasionally tending toward a firm, if not exactly heavy, moral sensibility, Bog Child firmly roots its philosophy in a story and a likeable and extremely realistic main character. Readers sympathize with Fergus and can fully understand the choices he makes, which seem to be the right ones but in which a hint of ambiguity lingers.

This ambiguity between right and wrong, and its clever deployment among morally sound choices, is embodied more strongly in the backstory carefully intertwined with Fergus's last childhood summer. It, too, follows themes of sacrifice, and despite a seeming clarity it offers, upon reflection, not moral platitudes but merely a satisfaction that the moral high ground was taken, with a hint of doubt hovering over the matter nonetheless. This trend toward certainty makes the novel powerful in that it echoes life in its managed complexity- morality in Bog Child is neither black and white, nor impossible to strive for; it is neither mandatory nor irrelevant. It's messy and complicated and, set against a chaotic background of both political and personal consequence, surprisingly tranquil. This book is at once compelling and meditative, full of insight yet incessantly driving its characters forward. The prose is clear and careful without drawing attention to itself, and the book is easy to read without being silly or empty. Dowd can become a little overly moralistic at times, but her exploration of sacrifice and the meaning of peace in Bog Child offers a contemplative and realistic view of the Troubles and of the importance of morality in morally ambiguous times.

Grade: A

Book 31: The Dead Republic

The Dead Republic
Roddy Doyle

This book marks the conclusion of Doyle's The Last Roundup trilogy, which chronicles the life and times of sometimes (Irish) republican, always interesting Henry Smart and, along with him, many of Ireland's 20th century growing pains. By the time this novel opens, Henry has had enough adventures to fill a lifetime, and the youthful exuberance that began to fade in Oh, Play That Thing! has given way to a more reflective, sober tone and a much calmer pace as Henry, though still full of energy, begins to seriously reflect upon his life. The prose still moves with occasional fits and stutters, a combination of Doyle's frenetic pacing and Henry's memory lapses, but the action proceeds, for the most part, at a reasonable clip. Doyle returns his star character and his readers to an Ireland changed by 30-odd years of relative stability, on the eve of the Troubles, and Doyle searches for the reasons behind the fighting. Henry's position as one of the original republican heroes of the GPO puts him in a unique position to view and criticize his heirs as, yet again but with much greater believability, he is thrust into the middle of history's important events. The author, however, employs thoughtful restraint and strains credibility most when describing outside events (such as a secret, complicit peace process behind the current violence), still an improvement over implausibly placing Henry in their midst. There is, too, a subdued element of magical realism, but it adds to the mythos surrounding Henry and helps cement his status as Ireland's own eyewitness.

With its more relaxed pace, action in The Dead Republic occasionally slows to a grinding halt, but conversations are crisp and Doyle manages to make sense out of a historical whirlwind stretching from the 1950s to the present day. The hints and forward glimpses of coming action are again deployed here, alternately to intriguing and annoying effect. Also evident in both supportive and detrimental ways is that Doyle is incredibly deliberate, taking care in crafting his characters and narrative but not always to the benefit of his work. Occasionally, it seems as though he is too aware of the scope of his book which, when given the chance to stand on its strengths of character development and attention to historical detail, often speaks for itself. The Last Roundup trilogy is Roddy Doyle's attempt at a sort of Great Irish Novel, and he has created a worthy main character in defiant Henry Smart, a man who by the end of his story has seen the promise, successes, and failures of the Irish Republic both as a native and prodigal. The Dead Republic may at times be too deliberate and too overreaching, but it provides a careful and worthy end to the story of a wonderfully rounded and indeed unforgettable Irish hero.

Grade: A-

Book 29: New Dubliners

New Dubliners
Edited by Oona Frawley

Commissioned to commemorate 100 years of James Joyce's own famous collection about Ireland's bustling capital, this collection presents stories from a number of current prominent writers, all about different experiences of Dublin. Like most short story collections, the quality in New Dubliners can get a bit dodgy, with several of its stories simply meandering along without much consideration for plot or, indeed, for making sense. These stories, and the characters within them, wander without purpose and fail to make many poignant observations, let alone entertain. There are, however, a few excellent stories in this slim volume, and perhaps it isn't a coincidence that they tend toward humor. "As If There Were Trees," by Colum McCann, is an exception to this suggested rule, looking head-on at the ethnic diversity in an economically disadvantaged area in a powerful, quick story. Other excellent pieces use humor, or the appearance thereof, to mask and even illuminate darker themes. Ivy Bannister's "Mrs. Hyde Frolics in the Eel Pit" displays, as its title may suggest, a solidly ironic tone, and the audience's mirth at deducing what poor Mrs. Hyde must fail to realize masks the inherent tragedy, as her house of cards is surely soon to topple.

There is a different, sad kind of irony in Bernard MacLaverty's "The Assessment," which brilliantly uses narration to convey the self-assuredness, and latent anxieties, of those with Alzheimer's. Repeated phrases may seem humorous, but in the end, as the reader understands the cause of the repetition, it turns out that MacLaverty is writing not a joke but a brilliantly, painfully resonant story about loss. Other stories are competent, neither particularly revelatory nor agonizingly aimless: Maeve Binchy's "All That Matters" is a amusing, if trite (just as, incidentally, one of her main characters is), and "Martha's Streets," by Dermot Bolger, provides the almost obligatory direct Joyce tribute, though it stands too as a testament to the power of literature. Then, too, there is the purely joyful "Benny Gets the Blame," by Clare Boylan, an amusingly narrated story of childhood shenanigans. New Dubliners does not touch on a wide array of facets of Dublin life, but it is a competent collection; its slow stories go quickly enough and the gems are indeed worth finding.

Grade: B+

Book 28: This Charming Man

This Charming Man
Marian Keyes

It is easy to dismiss books aimed at a female audience as chick-lit fluff, and I admit that I was ready to wave this book off despite its being named of the the Bord Gáis Irish Book Awards 50 Books of the Decade. Though many familiar chick-lit elements are present in This Charming Man, there is a far greater depth to this novel, which is, ultimately, about power. Using a pattern of horrific domestic violence as her core theme, Marian Keyes offers portraits of four very different women, each told in a distinct style. By doing this, Keyes reveals not only the most private thought of these women, and therefore their reasons for becoming enamored with the charming man of the title, but also her own range and talents. From a slightly ditzy stylist's stilted journal entries to a seasoned journalist's fluent cynical sarcasm to heavily personal third-person narration, Keyes effectively uses language to build her protagonists and by allowing each to tell her story allows the book to resonate very powerfully. The book's intimate portrayal of severe, self-feeding anxiety and alcoholism is absolutely riveting, a perfect depiction of a relentlessly self-critical and over-analyzing mind.

The book is not, however, all doom and gloom and indeed carries quite a sense of humor. Various running jokes prevent the book's dark moments- which are occasionally pitch-black- from becoming overwhelming and act to demonstrate the discovery that humor is never entirely gone (except, of course, when it actually is). The book, despite creating four powerful and realistic lead characters, can, however, drag at times, often opting for a slow reveal rather than offering relevant information more directly. It quickly becomes obvious that the book is about domestic violence, and there is no need to prolong several big reveals for as long as the book does; most readers will have figured out the most important "secrets" long before they are revealed (though Keyes very effectively deploys one giant red herring). Another large, plot-thickening event comes so entirely out of the blue that it strains credibility, being so inexplicably out of (thoroughly developed) character. Love stories are also easily predicted; though there is enough heart and good writing to sustain the novel, it drags on somewhat longer than it should in its denouement and cannot be in any way considered a narrative trailblazer.

This Charming Man is an odd concoction. It reads alternately as a traditional chick-lit story, a journalism-fueled mystery/thriller, and a stream-of-consciousness character exploration. It has bone-chilling depictions of violence and an army of rural Irish crossdressers. It is, then, perhaps an outstanding reflection of reality in some of its myriad facets. Despite some missteps in plotting, Marian Keyes puts her talents on display in depicting and successfully juggling the stories of four compelling modern women caught in the brambles of ages-old patriarchy. Add to this a slight hint of satire and This Charming Man becomes much more than the standard chick-lit fare; this book is a powerful novel that is, despite its stunningly realistic take on a very real problem, fun and edifying to read.

Grade: A-

Book 27: A Star Called Henry

A Star Called Henry
Roddy Doyle

Having heard of the author of this book, I decided to read this wide-spanning work of historical fiction that begins a trilogy tracing the personal history of Henry Smart from, thus far, the streets of the Dublin slums to the ranks of the IRA. Doyle uses the powerful narrative voice of Smart to evoke a first-hand view of some of the worst neighborhoods in Europe and to present an alternative, less nationalistic, view of the 1916 Easter Rising and Irish War of Independence. Henry's voice may at times seem a bit more sophisticated than his self-reported upbringing would imply, but it is full of joyful cynicism and skepticism and more often than not rings true as he brings readers through important historical points in Irish history. There is a hint of magical realism to the book but it balances nicely with the harsh reality portrayed, actually grounding the book by remaining consistent with the way Henry must see things. the most egregious of the fantastic elements occur with Henry's grandmother, but she arises seldom enough that the oddity doesn't become overwhelming or unnecessarily distracting.

Doyle seems to have a firm grasp on history, but unfortunately goes a bit too far in inserting Henry into contemporary events- putting him in the GPO during the Rising makes sense, but making him the protegé of James Connolly less so. Nonetheless, Doyle is able, through Henry, to make keen observations about the Irish wars and, indeed, larger patterns of violence and social class. A Star Called Henry is not, however, a plot-driven novel, and it finds most of its narrative momentum in Henry's accelerated growth. Henry is complex and fascinating, full of anger and resentment but at the same time naturally intelligent and very intuitive. Roddy Doyle is able to bend Henry's language nicely, giving the novel a distinct feel and creating very vivid portrayals of the complex emotions wrought by rough historical waters. A Star Called Henry is a remarkable, personal, and accessible history of Ireland's growing pains juxtaposed with those of an unforgettable angry young man.

Grade: A

Book 26: The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009

The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009
Edited by Mike Cronin, William Murphy, and Paul Rouse

It has been a longstanding ambition of mine to see a hurling match, and I decided to take advantage of the greater number of books available on the subject here in Ireland to familiarize myself with native Irish sports. I turned to The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009 as an academically slanted collective history of the organization that oversees the Irish games, choosing the book primarily because of its recent publication. The name, however, is a bit misleading, as the chronological coverage of the volume ends, for the most part, far before the present state of the games. Nor is this book particularly good as an all-around, basic introduction. With its essays concerning very specific facets of the Gaelic Athletic Association's presence in, and effect on, Ireland, The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009 fulfills the promise of its own introduction by prompting further academic debate, assuming basic familiarity with the history of the GAA and some of its social aspects. By this standard, however, the book largely succeeds in presenting well-argued, thoroughly researched, and generally readable chapters on a good variety of aspects of the organization. Background essays on the history of sport in Ireland are excellent, particularly Richard Holt's illuminating essay on the context of American and Continental sports against which the GAA originally developed in the late nineteenth century, nicely complicated by Dónal McAnallen's essay on the amateurism within the Irish sports. Also intriguing are essays offering competing views on the association's effect on, and concern with, outside political and historical events and attitudes, solidifying the book's academic credentials. The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009 may be slightly mis-titled, but it nonetheless provides a solid intellectual basis on which to consider the history of Gaelic sports in Ireland.

Grade: A-

Book 25: Winterwood

Winterwood
Patrick McCabe

As the winner of the 2007 Irish novel of the year award, Winterwood comes with a set of expectations, though it's difficult to explain what, exactly, lies behind this book. McCabe used an erratic, unreliable narrator for his book which, while initially disorienting, gives the story a certain air of mystery that echoes its thematic journey into the depths of grief. This is not, however, a mournful novel- McCabe and his narrator take matters into their own hands and chart a rather twisted path through the rough "outlands" of madness. The book maintains a strong connection to its Irish setting, exploring the impact of folk myths on the modern country, and portraying a sense of a haunted culture. Redmond Hatch's journeys away from and back to his old mountain home are framed uneasily by narratives that waltz through time as McCabe reveals the backstory piece by painstaking piece. A lack of certainty may frustrated some readers, but as the book progresses it becomes increasingly clear that this haphazard construction is, in fact, another facet of the story, which upon reflection is rendered quite thoroughly by the uneasy narration. Winterwood is a far from concrete novel that looks at madness and loss and leaves the question open whether we can ever fully escape our past.

Grade: A-

Book 22: The Course of Irish History

The Course of Irish History
Edited by T. W. Moody and F. X. Martin

I decided, prior to and during my departure for the Emerald Isle, to read up on Irish history, complicated and controversial as it is, and The Course of Irish History was recommended to me as a thorough and relatively unbiased account. Editors Moody and Martin have put together a comprehensive collection of historical essays that, all told, create an intelligent and pleasantly readable history of the tumultuous island. There is the expected variation of quality amongst the essays, but each appears to be written by an expert in the time period, lending the volume intellectual depth throughout. Additionally, the project coheres incredibly well, and aside from a few spelling inconsistencies across chapters, reads as a singularly conceived and executed history rather than as a selection of essays. Each essay naturally builds and expands upon the ideas in preceding chapters and, generally speaking, the authors are aware of the overall aims and scope of the project. This ensures that a sense of balance and focus is maintained throughout the book, broken only in the final three chapters (which were, in fairness, each added in revised in expanded editions), which occasionally stray into the unnecessarily specific.

Regardless, The Course of Irish History is readable and informative for both scholars and those simply interested in, well, the course of Irish history. With its essays presenting a variety of perspectives, particularly the later chapters that address the divergent, yet intimately connected, histories of Northern Ireland and the Republic, this book provides a full and remarkably even story with intellectual integrity and easy prose. The Course of Irish History is an excellent introduction to the story of Ireland for those with limited preexisting knowledge as well as providing a useful jumping-off point for future study.

Grade: A

Book 17: A Traveller's History of Ireland

A Traveller's History of Ireland
Peter Neville

I am eagerly looking forward to traveling to Ireland this summer, and I figured it would be worth my while to seek out a quick and more or less easy history of Ireland to supplement my existing knowledge of Ireland. Neville's ambitious volume, which seeks to present Irish history from the first known settlements through the early 2000s in approximately 225 pages, accomplishes a readable and fairly comprehensive history of Ireland that strikes a good balance between hitting the important events and going into sufficient depth to prevent the book from becoming a list of places, names, and key events. That said, however, Neville does not always give sufficient definitions for the people and political parties he describes, which can get lost between chapters and even paragraphs; the book would benefit greatly from a glossary to supplement its useful timeline and lists of Irish monarchs, presidents, and prime ministers. Neville also suffers from a truly horrendous plague of exclamation points that belittle the factual credibility he attempts to gain with the transparency given to areas of contention. These small flaws ensure that A Traveller's History of Ireland is not perfect, but they do not overwhelm the utility of the text, which is clearly written and which covers enough points of Irish history with sufficient breadth and depth to provide readers with an accessible history of the island. Neville is able to present the particularly difficult history of religion in Ireland with tact, only slipping a bit as the history winds its way into the present period. The book itself is arranged into small, tidy chapters with plenty of headings and sub-headings to orient readers who may be looking at the book on the fly. Overall, A Traveller's History of Ireland is an excellent short general history of Ireland that will provide a solid base of historical understanding to its readers.

Grade: B

Book 22: Great Irish Short Stories

Great Irish Short Stories
Edited by Evan Bates

Even since visiting the lovely Emeral Isle last May, I haven't read as much Irish literature as I'd like; Finnegans Wake doesn't even begin to count, belonging instead to a class of delusional self-grandeur that I fear is international. Regardless, I was pleased at the way these stories took me back to places I had seen and give the reader a good general sense of the Irish people and the kinds of stories they might tell. The collection is varied and, though the majority of its stories originate from a twenty-year period, includes pieces from throughout the history of Irish literature and concerning many different subjects. Irish tradition revolves around a lot of mythology, and the collection duly includes "The Only Son of Aoife", Lady Gregory's easily readable simplification of a story from The Táin, and the less-accessible "Death of Fergus", more obtuse in its style but heartily mythological and appropriately weighty nonetheless. The collection also pays due attention to British customs and influence on Irish culture, with Maria Edgeworth's "The Limerick Gloves" centering on events in England regarding an Irishman and showing a hint of the beginnings of the mystery genre, with its central conflict explained entirely in the story's closing pages. "Green Tea" by J. Sheridan Le Fanu similarly owes its structure, that of an obscure narrator presenting his mentor's correspondence, to the prevailing trends of the time, but its focus on spirituality gives it a somewhat distinct Irish air.

Many of the stories delightfully bring the Emerald Isle to vivid life, especially in their unapologetic rendering of local dialects and inherently Irish customs and insights. Willam Carleton's "The Donagh; or, The Horse-Stealers" is a brilliant example of a darkly humorous folk story, belonging distinctly to local Irish culture while maintaining a broader scope. Similarly Irish in concern is George Moore's fabulous "Home Sickness", which re-imagines the immigrant narrative and establishes an interesting perspective on those who came to America seeking fortune and their relationship to the pastoral simplicity of their homeland. The story is subtle and perhaps the collection's best, both conventionally and as a representative of something inherently concerning what it means to be Irish. Far less serious but equally excellent is "Lisheen Races, Second-Hand", which is a romp that tackles a particularly unfortunate day when an Irishman attempts to impress a good old boy from Oxford, who is duly horrified at the crude habits of the islanders and who receives his share of bad luck on the road to the races. James Joyce does make an appearance, in "The Dead", a selection from Dubliners; while it is well-written and interesting throughout it doesn't seem to have a point and describes an isolated incident that has no real bearing on, well, on anything other than describing itself. Such is modernism.

Overall, this particular volume of Great Irish Short Stories provides a good look at the variety of Irish literature while still providing stories that preserve a common Irishness about them. That they do this is various ways is a tribute to the selective powers of the book's editor, Evan Bates, and his keen perspective. A story that can stand proudly on its own, like "The Weaver's Grave" by Seumas O'Kelly, which is a darkly funny tale of two old hats attempting to find a specific and obscure grave location in a decaying cemetary for an undefined aristocracy, finds a greater sense of purpose in a collection such as this, where it becomes representative of a kind of stubbornness and folk mythology commonly attributed to the Irish people, both by outsiders and by themselves. By and large, the stories in this collection each reveal a distinct facet of Irish culture whether by intent or accident. The early stories easily show their English influence, particularly in plot structure, while the later stories gradually become more concerned with a kind of Irishness and national pride, just as the country moves toward partial independence (all but one of the stories was written before 1922). The collection could have been more chronologically inclusive and it's true that many of the stories are merely average, but taken together they provide an interesting tapestry of the island and its literary heritage.

Grade: A-

Book 32: The Táin

The Táin
Translated by Thomas Kinsella

I'm not quite sure what I expected upon picking this book up, but this sure wasn't it. The hero is anything but heroic, continuity is simply nonexistent, half of the book consists of long lists of unpronounceable and irrelevant names, the book is filled with gross-out humor, the plot ends entirely unexpectedly and with no actual resolution, and I could go on for quite a while criticizing. Needless to say, I loved every minute of it. This might be the most entertaining book I have ever read in my entire life.

Forget plausibility. Forget heroes. This Irish epic takes everything you thought you knew about literature and throws it to the wind, yet somehow the reader cannot help but float along on every unexpected gust. The story itself is predicated on a seemingly silly premise: basically, the king and queen of [not Ulster] find that their possessions are entirely equal...except for a divine bull owned by the man. What to do? The feisty queen Medb, friendly thighs and all, decides that an expedition is needed to procure the bull's counterpart of Ulster. Yes. This is one big cattle raid.

Ulster, stuck in its birth pangs, seems s.o.l. until the brave hero Cúchulainn comes in, slaying the armies of Ireland left and right without even a hint of realism. This is a man who can throw an apple straight through a man's head while balancing on the tip of a spear. Cúchulainn is a mighty warrior, and it seems that the Irish like to be honest, given the fact that his many infidelities only seem to add to his honor and prestige. No matter that he sleeps around and cheats in battle- here is a strong warrior true to his oaths (and always to his friend Fergus) and consistent, even if he's consistently a stuck-up asshole.

Along with the obvious (and forgivable, seeing as its essentially a mythic epic) problems with realism, the book has serious continuity issues. One main character has an epic death, only to resurface fleetingly in the very last sentence of the book. The hero is flawed, but not even in an Oedipal, lesson-imparting way. Cúchulainn is really like your typical feminist stereotype of a man (what other kind of person would refrain from killing an entire court of friends only upon receiving naked women?), but he is never called out on it.

What's interesting, though, is the glimpses of morality and obligation that we do get in the book. Take, for example, recently defected Fergus. Born an Ulsterman, he now finds himself a disgruntled exile chilling with the Connacht army. Despite his new loyalty to Medb, he always keeps an eye out for his countryman Cúchulainn. Cúchulainn himself may not be the most morally upright of heroes, but he is a man who knows the power of an oath; his fault is that he selectively employs his sense of obligation.

Overall, then, the work is enjoyable amongst (and possibly because of) its flaws. Something, somewhere, was lost in translation over the years, but the general guiding principles of Irish honor are somewhat intact. The Táin is an interesting glimpse into the lives of the early Irish, the composition of their moral compass, and it's quite the entertaining ride.

Grade: A