Skip to main content

On St. Patrick

 To me, St. Patrick's Day is mainly about storytelling. I don't know if Ireland is disproportionately "good" at writing, but consider the names: Edna O'Brien, Synge, Mark O'Connell, James Joyce, Colm Toibin, Yeats, Sean O'Casey, Brian Friel, Claire Keegan, William Trevor, Colin Barrett, Sharon Horgan, John Banville, Roddy Doyle, Martin McDonagh, Conor McPherson, Frank McCourt, Seamus Heaney, Sally Rooney, Brian Moore. This seems abnormal.


My kids and I read "Patrick, Patron Saint of Ireland," by Tomie dePaola. We have read it many times. DePaola understands that a good story is about a character, not a message. And Patrick has a good story. He is captured from Britain and sold into slavery in Ireland. Alone, he talks to God incessantly for six years. Given a chance to return to Britain, he "seduces" a group of hounds, so that they will force their master to create a Patrick-sized vacancy on his ship. But, then, Patrick is restless in Britain. He senses he must return to Ireland to become an evangelist.

Back among ye banks and braes, Patrick narrowly avoids assassination. In fact, he comes close to losing his life on twelve separate occasions. He travels all over the countryside, baptizes thousands of people, and begins a movement. After his death, churches sprout up everywhere, and the canonization effort begins.

My other way of observing March 17th is to spend time with the works of the great Irish-American novelist, Alice McDermott. A writer's impossible job is to create weather with words; you're not merely describing rainfall, but instead you are actually persuading the reader that he or she is sopping wet. McDermott is famous for warping her syntax to manipulate her reader's mood. Take the unnerving first sentence of her career-defining second novel:

That night, when he came to claim her, he stood on the short lawn before her house, his knees bent, his fists driven into his thighs, and bellowed her name with such passion that even the friends who surrounded him, who had come to support him, to drag her from the house, to murder her family if they had to, let the chains they carried go limp in their hands.

In my (somewhat foggy) mind, St. Patrick's Day exists so that we can all take a minute and celebrate that first sentence.

Slainte.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more