"Irish author John McGahern has died in hospital in Dublin at the age of 71." The brief news item said that McGahern's death had followed a long battle with cancer. I was shocked when I read this, I'd hoped he'd live to be 100.
I first came to his work some years ago when a friend lent me a copy of Amongst Women. He told me I might find something in the story of a man facing death and the effect it has on his children that could help me understand the way my father's dying influenced me and my siblings. I was glad I did. Amongst Women took me into the story of a family where the father at times seemed the centre of the universe. It was territory I knew.
I was hungry for more of his writing. I found a short-story collection in the local library and here I discovered an Ireland where history happened to ordinary people. The Troubles were in the living rooms as well as in the pubs. I liked the way McGahern could see the worth of little scenes in people's lives. "He poured cream from a small white jug" seemed as important as any other event in the day.
I recommended his writing to others. One night I spoke with a Scottish friend and was happy to hear that, like me, when he got to the last page of That they may face the rising sun, he slowly shut the book, then reopened it and began it again.
I found an essay that McGahern wrote some years ago about the way he came to be a writer. He remembered the surprise of being able to borrow books from a neighbour's home not long after his mother had died. "There were few books in our house, and reading for pleasure was not approved of. It was thought to be dangerous, like pure laughter."
I read the last paragraph of the same article over and over to remind me of the way to write well. "Unless technique can take us to that clear mirror that is called style - the reflection of personality in language, everything having been removed from it that is not itself - the most perfect technique is as worthless as mere egotism. To reach that point we have to feel deeply and to think clearly in order to discover the right words."
I wish that I'd written to him, to thank him for his work. Ever since Amongst Women, I'd carried the idea of doing so.
Last year I travelled to Ireland with my two eldest sons. As we drove down lanes into the mid-west I thought of John McGahern. I knew it was his country by the shelter of trees and hedges thick with a mixture of greenery and light. I wondered if we might bump into him in a shop or if I'd recognize him walking down a road.
I have a photo of him, which I found on the internet, on the desktop of my computer. He's sitting in his kitchen wearing an old pullover, kettle gleaming on the stove, mug of tea on the wooden table in front of him, staring calmly out at the world. There's a soft smile on his face and when I look at that picture I feel as if I'm in the house of an old friend.
(this was originally published in The Age in April 2006)
Saturday, March 22, 2008
travelling with my daughter
SHE’S BESIDE me at the wheel in tee-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back off her face and tied in a bundle of braids, her mouth glossed with lip balm. It’s 10 in the morning and I’m travelling with my daughter on the road to Strahan following the Derwent as it spools up into the West coast …
Not far out of Hobart we pass through open farmland and small towns, and then the country becomes a still life as gum trees lining the road deepen into thick bush and the silence of forest. There’s ice in the gullies, a soft grey sky and low clouds that mist into the hills. Light rain falls. Sunshine into shadow into sunshine again. As we drive she sings along to a tape and brushes a jelly snake across the steering wheel in time to the music. The white Telstra purrs with her clear, sure voice.
Now and then a car or van passes but for most of the journey we have the road to ourselves. I write down the names of some of the waterways we’re passing. I tell her we have to say each word out loud and let the sound ripple though our heads before I can put it down. Black Bobs Rivulet, what’s a rivulet she asks and why only in Tassie? Bronte Lagoon, E-m-i-ly.. Char-lotte.... Scarlett and Raglan Creeks, make me a red jumper MUMMM…I can’t help laughing. She’s playing word tennis. When we pass over rivers - the Franklin, the Cardigan - the bridges are wide and underneath the roadway swift water the colour of tea streams by. High overhead an eagle is gliding. I watch its slow, heavy flight through the opening between the trees, see it dip as it reaches the mid-point above the road then rise and circle inside that space again. Welcome to the west.
We stop for lunch at Donaghy’s Lookout on a gravelled clearing beside the road and find a small track leading to the lookout point. A wild green forest covers the land as far as my eyes can see and I’m swept away by the thought of just being here. We’re part of all this beauty! The air’s so cold and we’re up so high that when I breathe I cough. I put my hands on the rail and feel ice on my skin. Someone’s left a message on the wood, a finger script in white crystals. LOVE IS THE ANSWER slopes across the ledge and away to the valley. I add the first word that comes to me when I read it. YES!
A large grey cat with eyes like yellow globes darts out from the undergrowth close to where we’re standing then disappears. Pussy gone w i l d she calls. We go back to the car and continue the trip. A bus heading south slides suddenly around a bend and for a moment I think we’re about to be pushed off the road. She steadies the wheel and then waves her hand calmly at the driver. I’m in awe of her confidence.
We reach Queenstown in the early afternoon. As we approach the old mining settlement, the road winds round and round a cluster of bare hills and then it’s a slow, careful descent into the town with the lunar landscape. Seeing the scarred grey earth when we arrive in the main street is like having shock therapy when you’d like a hug.
We laugh, imagining ourselves as Thelma and Louise on the freedom ride to where?
“Anywhere but here” she drawls and keeps on driving.
I think I’m 25.
A short time later we arrive in Strahan and park beside the Macquarie Harbour. A silky skein of water, deep, flat and glassy fills the basin of the Gordon river. We pick up pieces of huon pine and sassafras from the pine mill beside the gallery and the boy in the mill gives us directions to find the best views of the town. I notice his face reddening as he talks. She’s charmed him too. On our way back to the road she links her arm into mine and kisses me on the cheek. We reach the car, slip our seats back as far as they can go and listen to the water lapping at the pier.
(this originally appeared in Tasmanian Times February 2008)
Not far out of Hobart we pass through open farmland and small towns, and then the country becomes a still life as gum trees lining the road deepen into thick bush and the silence of forest. There’s ice in the gullies, a soft grey sky and low clouds that mist into the hills. Light rain falls. Sunshine into shadow into sunshine again. As we drive she sings along to a tape and brushes a jelly snake across the steering wheel in time to the music. The white Telstra purrs with her clear, sure voice.
Now and then a car or van passes but for most of the journey we have the road to ourselves. I write down the names of some of the waterways we’re passing. I tell her we have to say each word out loud and let the sound ripple though our heads before I can put it down. Black Bobs Rivulet, what’s a rivulet she asks and why only in Tassie? Bronte Lagoon, E-m-i-ly.. Char-lotte.... Scarlett and Raglan Creeks, make me a red jumper MUMMM…I can’t help laughing. She’s playing word tennis. When we pass over rivers - the Franklin, the Cardigan - the bridges are wide and underneath the roadway swift water the colour of tea streams by. High overhead an eagle is gliding. I watch its slow, heavy flight through the opening between the trees, see it dip as it reaches the mid-point above the road then rise and circle inside that space again. Welcome to the west.
We stop for lunch at Donaghy’s Lookout on a gravelled clearing beside the road and find a small track leading to the lookout point. A wild green forest covers the land as far as my eyes can see and I’m swept away by the thought of just being here. We’re part of all this beauty! The air’s so cold and we’re up so high that when I breathe I cough. I put my hands on the rail and feel ice on my skin. Someone’s left a message on the wood, a finger script in white crystals. LOVE IS THE ANSWER slopes across the ledge and away to the valley. I add the first word that comes to me when I read it. YES!
A large grey cat with eyes like yellow globes darts out from the undergrowth close to where we’re standing then disappears. Pussy gone w i l d she calls. We go back to the car and continue the trip. A bus heading south slides suddenly around a bend and for a moment I think we’re about to be pushed off the road. She steadies the wheel and then waves her hand calmly at the driver. I’m in awe of her confidence.
We reach Queenstown in the early afternoon. As we approach the old mining settlement, the road winds round and round a cluster of bare hills and then it’s a slow, careful descent into the town with the lunar landscape. Seeing the scarred grey earth when we arrive in the main street is like having shock therapy when you’d like a hug.
We laugh, imagining ourselves as Thelma and Louise on the freedom ride to where?
“Anywhere but here” she drawls and keeps on driving.
I think I’m 25.
A short time later we arrive in Strahan and park beside the Macquarie Harbour. A silky skein of water, deep, flat and glassy fills the basin of the Gordon river. We pick up pieces of huon pine and sassafras from the pine mill beside the gallery and the boy in the mill gives us directions to find the best views of the town. I notice his face reddening as he talks. She’s charmed him too. On our way back to the road she links her arm into mine and kisses me on the cheek. We reach the car, slip our seats back as far as they can go and listen to the water lapping at the pier.
(this originally appeared in Tasmanian Times February 2008)
Saturday, March 15, 2008
afternoon friend..
I sit in the sunroom after a day at school. It's hot, the air is still. I can't read the newspaper - too much is required of my eyes and head to do that. But I want to look at something to take me away from things.
In the bookcase beside me, I pick out a hardback - Michael Palin's Full Circle and put it in my lap. Lovely man, Michael. I'd travel anywhere with him. The book falls open on a coloured double paged spread showing his journey around the Pacific. A sweep of blue ocean bordered by green countries, the map is dotted by a bright yelllow trail that indicates the route he took.
I study it all for a minute or so and as I''m doing this, over the top of the page a caterpillar appears and slides across the paper.
A tiger by colouring, an emperor by birth, I watch as the furry traveller pushes through midwest Canada, into the US and out to the Pacific - the prow of its head rising up and down like a listing ship rolling across the waves. A sea breeze seems to riffle the tip of its hairs as it journeys south, then reaches shore and glides overland into Bolivia.
Suddenly it stops.
At the end of the page and the edge of a world, the caterpillar pauses and peers over the side. The railing's steep and sharp. A moment passes before it drops off the map and lands on my knees.
As it steadies then grips the hem of my skirt , all I can feel is nothing but peace that a small, brave creature should choose me for company on this long, March day.
In the bookcase beside me, I pick out a hardback - Michael Palin's Full Circle and put it in my lap. Lovely man, Michael. I'd travel anywhere with him. The book falls open on a coloured double paged spread showing his journey around the Pacific. A sweep of blue ocean bordered by green countries, the map is dotted by a bright yelllow trail that indicates the route he took.
I study it all for a minute or so and as I''m doing this, over the top of the page a caterpillar appears and slides across the paper.
A tiger by colouring, an emperor by birth, I watch as the furry traveller pushes through midwest Canada, into the US and out to the Pacific - the prow of its head rising up and down like a listing ship rolling across the waves. A sea breeze seems to riffle the tip of its hairs as it journeys south, then reaches shore and glides overland into Bolivia.
Suddenly it stops.
At the end of the page and the edge of a world, the caterpillar pauses and peers over the side. The railing's steep and sharp. A moment passes before it drops off the map and lands on my knees.
As it steadies then grips the hem of my skirt , all I can feel is nothing but peace that a small, brave creature should choose me for company on this long, March day.
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