Irish LanguageMicheál Ó Conghaile's third collection of stories plonks us down in the centre of a world of his own imagination.
It is a place without boundaries wherein just about anything can happen, and does. Like an abstract painter, he has already proven that he has mastered the craft of the realist narrative, both sensitively and lyrically as in his last collection, and with a blunter, colder edge in his novel, Sna Fir. We sense he is signalling he has earned the freedom to move on and to do what he likes.
He has written stories similar to these before, but not quite with the same abandon and anarchy. Here an amputated leg takes on a life of its own; an old railway station welcomes the tramps and deadwood of the world before being hauled down; an object is lost and needs to be found, but we never know what it is.
This is because, while these are always stories, they may also be disquisitions on something else. Not tired philosophical essays which kill narrative but rather fanciful embroiderings on images or meanderings around reflections. Their strength is that they are rooted in a distinct voice which subtly varies from story to story but remains undoubtedly the same. It is a version of the author's voice, of course, but it is also a certain kind of Conamara Gaeltacht voice which can talk and talk and talk forever about anything you like. At its least alluring it is the guy speaking into your ear in the corner, and at its most artistic it could be turned into a one-man show with people riveted to their seats.
The title story of the man who never laughs is one of the few that allows a brief intrusion of reality. But this is shortly crushed by the sheer inventiveness of the reasons why laughter is impossible and of the kinds of mirth which are forbidden. These wild imaginative leaps bring us later to a graveyard of words where strange verbal counters knock about and off one another. The fun and word-fencing can often mask a tragedy, or a deep wound, or an event which another writer would treat with straight solemnity.
It was Máirtín Ó Cadhain's observation that the Irish inter-mix their play with their seriousness, which confuses those who aren't able to read the codes. A man goes astray in Conamara and, after quips and asides, he gets into bed with a corpse. It is only when we see that this grotesquery is really a lament that we begin to unravel the rich layers behind Ó Conghaile's many voices, mocking, haunting, taunting, ribbing, probing, amusing, but always echoing beyond these.
The illustrations by Lijun Fang are mesmeric and capture at least a part of the manic imagination.
If this is not your favourite naggin of poitín, Éilís Ní Dhuibhne returns us to this ordinary universe of ours in her novel of memory and guilt.
On the surface it appears to be a straightforward narrative about a happily married woman with a quiet, gentle husband, a rewarding career, and two lovely children. We soon learn that her daughter has grown despondent, introspective and uncommunicative, and this prompts her mother to re-examine her own youth and childhood. This brings us back to a turning-point in her life when she attended an Irish summer college at the age of 10. The narrative is split complementarily between the past and the present, illuminating both.
This deceptively simple story is a pleasure to read. The writing is clear, plain, lucid and stylish. The artistry on the surface goes a long way down. Everyday emotions are invested with a charge that becomes more clear when people talk to one another. Éilís Ní Dhuibhne is equally accomplished in dealing with the worry of a mother whose child has emotionally departed and with the pain of a young girl meeting people her own age in an environment of freedom for the first time.
The petty jealousies, the backbiting and the bitchiness are truly terrifying, just as the small successes are hugely uplifting. In some ways, this is the story of a generation that went to a certain kind of Irish college, and of another generation that has lots of words for the ailments of modern living but no more wisdom than before.
While the story is compulsive and drives the novel along, we are being invited to think about other things as well. Even the most organised lives can be overtaken by events, and irrational beasts lurk in the undergrowth of the suburban garden. Small ticks of personality can turn the world upside down. The past can be revisited, but it is never the same place.
Éilís Ní Dhuibhne has shown in her Irish and English fiction that she is a readers' writer. They deserve this.
Alan Titley is a scholar and author. His novel for young people, Amach, has just been published by An GúmIrish language
An Fear Nach nDéanann Gáire By Micheál Ó Conghaile Cló Iar-honnachta, 142pp, €15
Cailíní Beaga Ghleann na mBláth By Éilís Ní Dhuibhne Cois Life, 190pp, €15
