Máirtín Ó CadhainCritiques

I came to this story with no background which would help me understand it. I'm not a literature major, nor an Irish language enthusiast, nor an Irish history enthusiast. I like good writing, and good stories. This is both, but if you are looking for a plot, or completion with a wrapped up ending, it is not that. It is a book of conversations. Conversations of the dead who are in the cemetery.

This book was depressing in some ways for me. Imagine having to spend eternity listening to trivialities of all those in the graveyard; never do they grow or learn, it is a closed, endless, loop, like a cocktail party in Hell. It was very interesting however, to watch the writer develop the personalities of each resident to the point where the reader knew who was speaking simply by what they said. Their words defined them. There are no descriptive passages, only dialogue. One gets an idea of their lives through what they say and what their neighbors say in response.

I puzzled to find meaning in the story. What I came up with is this: It is a treatise on the ridiculous nature of humankind. It was interesting for culture, history and the craft of the writer. I won't read it again, but I'm not sorry I've read it because I find that it sticks with me and causes me to ponder about Life, the Universe and Everything.

I read the version with the title "Graveyard Clay" translated by Liam Mac Con Iomaire and Tim Robinson. Great introductory material.½

I really wanted to like this book...and really struggled to finish it. I love the premise: that the dead continue to talk (and bitch and moan) just like they did before is hilarious. And that the main character does not have a gravestone and they keep dumping more bodies on top of her unmarked grave is even better.

The unidentified speakers didn’t bother me as much as it appears to have bothered other reviewers. But I did get to a point where there was just a certain sameness to what was being presented; while I wasn’t expecting “action” some manner of variation would have been nice. Or maybe it needed to be shorter...?

The character known as N is an Irish civil servant, a radio and television commentator whose employment status may be a bit shaky. N's wife dies and he's notified while at work. Instead of going straight home he wanders the city, worried about the cost of the wake and funeral and doesn't see the need for so much ceremony. "Was it in the end any different from burying a dead mouse?"

N knows he should go home and tend to the arrangements but continues to flit about, confused and indecisive until his wallet is stolen and all the money for the funeral with it. He meets a series of people that seem to be giving N advice despite not knowing him.

Translated from the Irish, this tells the story of a man suffering from great loss, although his relationship with his wife is not directly addressed. It's unmistakably an Irish tale.

„Es gibt keinen Präzedenzfall“
Das ist das große Pech für J., den Papierbeauftragten im Verwaltungsdienst, der aus Versehen von seinem Vorgesetzen in einem fensterlosen Raum eingeschlossen wurde. J. hat zwar einen Zweitschlüssel, doch der bricht ab. Der Feierabend kommt und J. hat es noch nicht geschafft, sich zu befreien. Er muss also die Nacht in der Behörde verbringen. Am nächsten Morgen wird man zwar auf seine missliche Lage aufmerksam, doch was kann man tun? Es gibt keinen Präzedenzfall und somit ist eine Lösung nicht in Sicht.
Im Laufe der Geschichte tummeln sich alle möglichen Leute vor seiner Türe, auch der örtliche Abgeordnete und der stellvertretende Staatssekretär. Die Presse ist genauso vertreten wie die Kirche. Alle bedauern ihn, suchen nach Lösungen, doch niemand will die Verantwortung tragen , also bleibt J. weiter in seinem Raum. Er begehrt nicht wirklich auf, denn er weiß, dass die Vorschriften wichtig sind und einzuhalten sind.
Diese Geschichte ist sehr kurios und absolut grotesk. Das kleine Buch ist schnell zu lesen und doch sollte man konzentriert an die Geschichte herangehen. Einiges wird nur angedeutet und daher nur verstanden, wenn man Ire ist oder sich sehr gut auskennt in der Geschichte Irlands. Im Anhang gibt es dazu weitere Informationen.
Es ist eine tragische Geschichte, die uns der irische Schriftsteller Máirtín Ó Cadhain erzählt, und die nichts desto trotz sehr unterhaltsam ist.

This second collection of short stories has come from Máirtín Ó Cadhain to maturity as a short storyteller. He had not met his peak as a writer - seriously, he was just starting - but his probationary period was inside. In this book, Ó Cadhain created his mastery of the language and the subject. He first addressed the city as a matter of writing.

The Dirty Dust is a book set in the West of Ireland in the 1940s. World War II is going on but more important for the characters are the goings on in their small town. Through the book the individuals discuss what is happening and gossip about their friends, neighbours and enemies. The twist is that all this takes place in the graveyard as the protagonists are all dead!
The concept of the Dirty Dust is unusual and works well. The author is able to give each of the characters their own individual voice which works well. All in all an enjoyable book.

I was utterly uninterested in this when I started it. Eventually, I was almost engaged but the idea of just the mainly unidentified voices talking in the graveyard did nothing for me. I would have preferred just a tiny bit of plot line to actually figure out a bit who everyone was.

A brutally boring read. The only possible payoff for such a sustained meandering chorus of pissing and moaning would be a heavy dose of Irish humor. It is either missing or has been far lost in translation.

The original language of this book is Irish. It was written during World War II and set in the Catholic graveyard of a small Connemara (very rural and remote part of County Galway in the West of Ireland) village where Irish was the only language spoken, not unlike the village where the author, Máirtín Ó Chadhain, grew up.

The novel documents the conversations between the corpses in the graveyard. The corpses can converse with one another but have no direct knowledge or communication with the living people of their village and only get a chance to update their knowledge of what has been happening in the world since their death when a recently deceased member of the community is buried and brings all the fresh gossip to the conversation.

Máirtín Ó Chadhain (1906 – 1970) is regarded as having been the best writer in the Irish language of the Twentieth Century. Cré na Cille is viewed by Gaelic scholars as the Irish language equivalent of Joyce’s Ulysses. (Disclaimer: I must put my hand up and confess that the two Joyce works I have attempted to read, “Ulysses” and “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man”, did not help me comprehend why his works are held in such high regard. I may be a Philistine but that’s the truth.) Being the Joycean Philistine that I am this accolade for Cré na Cille would not in itself encourage me to read the book. My introduction to Ó Chadhain’s work happened when I was commissioned to write a review of his recently translated novella, “An Eochair” (The Key), for the 1916 Commemoration Edition of “The Green Book”, a literary magazine published twice a year by The Swan River Press. When reviewing “The Key” I not only read the book but also researched the life of the author. Both my enjoyment of the novella and the knowledge I gleaned about the author and the societal context of his life and writings meant that I was bound to read this novel as soon as it became available to me in a language I could fully understand. This opportunity presented itself to me during 2015 and 2016 when the first two English translations of the novel, first published in 1949, appeared.

There is an hypothesis that translators were afraid to translate a novel so highly respected for fear that their translation would not do it justice and hence damage the reputation of the book as a masterpiece of the Irish language.

The 2016 edition I am reviewing was translated by Liam Mac Con Iomaire and Tim Robinson, and was published by Yale University Press. This is regarded as the more academic of the two translations with the English title of this version, “The Graveyard Clay”, being regarded as closer to the Irish, “Cré na Cille”, than the other edition’s English title, “The Dirty Dust”.

Being the more academic translation, “The Graveyard Clay” contains footnotes explaining points of translation and explaining some of the background behind allusions to Irish folklore or local sayings and customs. It also includes an extensive bibliography of Ó Chadhain’s original works, translations of his works, research references used in translating the book, and a selection of audio-visual materials relating to Ó Chadhain and his works. It also has a twenty-three page introductory note and a four page discussion on translating the book.

I read a comparison of the two translations in which the reviewer characterised the two books as follows (and I paraphrase):

“The Dirty Dust belongs on a bedside cabinet with a bookmark working its way slowly towards the back of the book while The Graveyard Clay belongs in an academic library.”

Not yet having read the other translation, generally regarded as more popularist and vulgar, I cannot express an informed opinion on the matter.

Apart from a few semi-florid soliloquies delivered by the longest resident corpse in the graveyard (who refers to himself as the “Trump” of the graveyard – more a reference to seniority than recent American political history) the book is reported speech with all the interruptions and disjointedness of a conversation in a relatively isolated, rural community, in a time when electricity and running water were unheard of, a slated roof was only something the gentry would have, and where your only source of heating was the turf fire fuelled with the turf you dug from the bog in the Spring. A motorcar was something of a novelty and the local schoolmaster and the priest were regarded as demigods who could do not wrong. It was a time when people whose relatives had emigrated to the U. S. of A. or to England would have to go to the Priest or the Master asking them to read any letters they received and also asking them to write letters to their relatives in response.

Life for the majority of people in the village was a struggle to make ends meet and a struggle with nature to provide food and shelter for their family.

The Cinema was something that only a few people in the village had seen; the priest’s sister wearing trousers and smoking cigarettes was something peculiar to talk about; and the only person of colour the people in the village had ever seen was a butler working for an English earl who has a big house in the area.

As stated earlier, the story takes place while World War II is taking place. Ireland was neutral in relation to that war and its recent history of revolution, war of independence, and civil war gave rise to a confused and mixed political tapestry amongst the residents of the village and, consequently, the graveyard.

Through the conversations of the corpses we find out about the petty hatreds and jealousies of the village; the suspected sharp practices of the shop keeper and the publican; the “tricks of the trade” practiced by the local insurance sales man who dupes people into taking out policies that will do them little good; the social hierarchy, from the miserably poor, through the people managing to survive by raising a few pigs, fattening a handful of cattle, selling the few eggs they can encourage their hens to lay, to the earl and his big house and property.

We hear about the two sisters who never speak because one of them married the man the other wanted; we hear about the postmistress who appears to know all the news about people’s relatives abroad before they receive letters with the news; we hear about the man who was stabbed by another villager because they were on opposite sides of the civil war; and we hear about every political view held in rural Ireland at the time, and which people carried with them to their graves.

Ó Chadhain has used the mechanism of conversations amongst the dead to paint an accurate picture of life in a remote rural village in the 1940s. While it is likely he based much of the characterisation on the inhabitants of his own home village, the characters, opinions, behaviours and jealousies would be fairly common to any such community.

The language in the book is strong in places, xenophobia and racism raise their heads a few times, and hatred of England appears occasionally. All in all, The Graveyard Clay, is an interesting depiction of life in a remote rural village in the west of Ireland and it acts as a microcosm of political views in the country at the time.

My commentary above may paint a rather bleak view of the book so I must hasten to say that this book is written with tremendous wit and humour. It is laugh out loud funny in places. Some of the humour is dependent upon knowledge of Irish history, particularly in relation to schemes initiated to influence society in a particular way, such as the revival of the Irish language. Given this book was written by a native Irish speaker and set in an area where only Irish is spoken, some of the moves to promote the use of Irish would appear redundant or totally foolish.

I would suggest this could be a difficult read for some people but it will be rewarding to those who can struggle through the colloquialisms and the footnotes. I will give it a four star rating with the proviso that it is probably not going to be everybody’s cup of tea.

The Key [An Eochair]
by Máirtín Ó Cadhain

Translated by Louis de Paor and Lochlainn ÓTuairisg
Dalkey Archive Press, May 2015, 200 pages

Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s The Key (An Eochair to give its original Irish title), is more than just a satirical story about hierarchical rigidity and bureaucratic idiocy of the Irish civil service—or indeed any civil service. It is a display cabinet for the author’s cynical, or some would say accurate, views on political parties and politicians; on the influence of the Catholic Church within the instruments of the State; on nepotism and cronyism; on preferential treatment for the privileged; and on the systemic misogyny prevalent in the society of the time.
The story’s protagonist, referred to as “J.”, is a junior paperkeeper, i.e. he looks after files. In the early pages of the story, J. is instructed by his boss, “S.”, on the importance of files, how the civil service is files, how files are the civil service, and God created them both. S. also wastes no time in putting the fear of God into his new underling and leaving him in no doubt about how insignificant a being J. is.
The plot of this novella is a simple and amusing one: S. leaves the office early for a two-week holiday to the Isle of Man. Unbeknownst to J., S. has, through force of habit, locked J.’s office door while J. was daydreaming inside. On discovering the locked door, J. at first panics, but then realises he has a copy of the key in his desk drawer. Unfortunately, the key is a bit stiff to turn so he increases the torque. Snap! The rest of the story describes J.’s attempts to get someone’s attention and, once his predicament has been discovered, the machinations of his unnamed government department, the Board of Public Works, the fire brigade, the army, Fine Gael, Fianna Fáil, the Sweat Party, the Catholic Church, J.’s wife, the gardaí, and a cast of thousands as they attempt to release J. from his office prison—all while staying within the strictures of the civil service regulations and procedures.
Written in the early 1950s, a time when Ó Cadhain was working in the civil service as a translator for the Dáil (the Irish parliament), The Key was based on his first-hand experience of an environment that would not have been conducive to the active mind of the author. The son of a poor farming family from Connemara whose first language was Irish, Ó Cadhain had always had a sense of social justice and a longing to improve the lot of the poorer people of the West. This yearning led him to political activism and his membership in the IRA eventually saw him interned in the Curragh from 1939 to 1944.
While in the Curragh, Ó Cadhain read French and German classics, both of literature and of philosophy, often in their original languages. He also read the Russian classics in English translation, lamenting that his mastery of Russian was not sufficient to allow him to read them in their original form.
Ó Cadhain was a prolific writer, not only of original ma¬terial, but also as a translator into Irish. His contributions to the Irish language eventually won him a position as lecturer in the Irish department of Trinity College Dublin in 1955. The appointment of Ó Cadhain, a former IRA member with left-wing political views, was testimony to his exceptional achievements in support of the Irish language and his contri¬bution to the body of Irish literature.
Some understanding of Ó Cadhain’s life experiences and his political motivations sets a context for the reader to more fully appreciate the content of The Key. The main character J. represents the poor rural person from the West. He is the personification of the people the author has striven to defend and protect. We see J. bullied by people in authority and being used by politicians in pursuit of their own glorification. He is offered help by the clergy of the Catholic Church while at the same time being preached to about how he should live. J. also finds himself in the Kafkaesque situation of being at the mercy of an inexorable institution, the civil service, as it follows its procedures and achieves nothing but procrastination and the worsening of an already intolerable state of affairs.
Ó Cadhain, like many great writers, has written this story for the common reader. It includes references to bodily func¬tions, bawdy behaviour, and flagrant sexual abuse that would be considered too crude if the audience were from a more polite society. The author writes in his native dialect and this reinforces the thought that he was writing this for his own people, the rural poor of Connemara who would enjoy his lampooning of the “posh ones” up in Dublin.
As with any translation certain meanings become lost. One element that stands out is the translation of “Shean-Cheann” as “Old One”. J.’s wife is referred to as his Old One, which in English comes across as an almost derogatory term akin to Arthur Daly’s referral to his wife as “Her in doors”. In Connemara, however, the Shean-Cheann is the woman of the household to whom everyone turns to for advice and leader¬ship. It is a term of respect and deference which is important to understand when reading The Key in English as the first mention of “his Old One” comes right after the statement, “Bloody women! All jokes aside, isn’t it amazing how they understood nothing, ever.”
The Key can be read as a simple satire akin to Mervyn Wall’s, “They Also Serve . . . ”, or Antony Jay and Johnathan Lynn’s Yes Minister, and it can be enjoyed as such. However, an understanding of Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s political views, family background, and life experiences adds layers of meaning to the story and makes it a manifesto of protest and a declara¬tion of frustration with a social order, political system, and an assemblage of public bodies that function without any reference to doing anything that benefits the individual citizen in need—the very citizen the institutions and entities were established to support.
Written in the early 1950s, published in the late 1960s, this new translation of The Key, which also reproduces the original Irish text, is as relevant today as it was sixty-five years ago.½

Another time, another place.

The Dirty Dust is eavesdropping at a party in the early 1940s in western Ireland. The party goes on forever, with different guests striking up conversations here and there. There is no coherence, no drift, and no point. They are all dead, and this is their cemetery. It is fantastically busy underground, at least as far as conversation. They relive old battles, reopen old wounds and perpetuate old wives tales, grudges and rumors. To be a fly on this wall makes your head spin.

There is no narrative (except for a short, generic introduction to each chapter); it’s entirely dialogue, though mostly monologue. The speakers are not identified unless you infer from the response to an accusation or a question. They are fiery, hard cursing, bitter and vengeful. They are in short a small Irish community where everyone was in everyone else’s business all the time.

There’s a lot of bitterness at being buried in the half guinea or the 15 shilling section rather than the one pound section, except none of them is certain that’s true, being underground and all. When someone new joins them, they ask about where they ended up and who came to the funeral. And then criticize them. The newly arrived feed the fires with the latest from aboveground.

There was no radio, television, telephone, texting or internet in western Ireland in the 1940s. There was no disengagement. A big city cemetery in 2015 would be, shall we say, much quieter. No one would know anyone buried there. In this cemetery, it’s as if nothing had ever stopped, but now the gloves come off, as there’s no longer any need for politeness.

There are running jokes, and everyone is a caricature. The best line in the book: ”May I not leave this spot if I am telling you a word of a lie.” So good O Cadhain used it twice.

The Dirty Dust is an entire soap opera in one condensed, closepacked package.

David Wineberg

These gems of Ireland's poor and downtrodden were written originally in the Irish (Gaelic) language and reflect the speech patterns and thought processes of the native language. Beautifully translated into English.

Megaspeciel - jeg har indtil nu kun mødt et andet menneske der ligesom jeg syns at dette var en enestående fantastisk bog. Kun direkte tale