5.
— … They were sent as plenipotentiaries to make a peace treaty between Ireland and England …
— I’m telling you you’re a filthy liar. They were only sent over as messenger boys, they exceeded their authority, and betrayed us, and the country is buggered up ever since …
— A white mare. She was a beauty. No bother for her to carry a ton and a half …
— … By the oak of this coffin, I swear Nora Johnny, I swear I gave Caitriona the pound …
— … “That daughter of Big Martin John
Was just as tall as any man
When she stood up on the hill …”
— … Why don’t you go stuff your England and its markets. You’re just scared shitless of the few pence you have in the bank. Hitler’s the boy! …
— … Now, Coley, I’m a writer. I read fifty books for every one that you read. I’ll sue you if you think I am not a writer. Did you read my last book, “The Dream of the Jelly Fish?” … You didn’t Coley … My apologies Coley. I’m very sorry. I forgot that you couldn’t read … It’s a great story though … And I had three and a half novels, two and a half plays, and nine and a half translations with the publishers, The Goom,* and another short story and a half “The Setting Sun.” I never got over the fact that “The Setting Sun” wasn’t published before I died …
— If you’re going to be a writer, Coley, remember that it’s taboo for The Goom to publish anything that a girl would hide from her father … Apologies, Coley. I’m sorry. I thought you intended becoming a writer. But just in case you get that blessed itch … There isn’t an Irish speaker who doesn’t get that itch sometime in his life … they say it’s the stuff on the coast around here that causes it … Now, Coley, don’t be rude … It’s the duty of every Irish speaker to find out if he has the gift of writing, especially the gift of the short story, plays, poetry … These last two are far commoner than the gift of the short story, even. Take poetry, for example. All you have to do is to start at the bottom of the page and to work your way up to the top … either that, or scribble from right to left, leave a huge margin, but that isn’t half as poetic as the other way …
Apologies again, Coley. I’m really sorry. I didn’t remember that you can’t read or write … But the short story, Coley … I’ll put it like this … You’ve drunk a pint, haven’t you? … Yes, I understand … You drank lots of pints of stout, and often … Don’t mind how much you drank, Coley …
— I drank forty-four pints one after the other …
— I know that … Just hang on a minute … Good man. Let me speak … Get an ounce of sense, Coley, and let me speak … You’ve seen what’s on the top of a pint of stout. The head, isn’t it? A head of useless dirty froth. And yet, the more of it that’s there on the pint, the more your tongue is hanging out for the pint itself. And if your tongue is hanging out for it you’ll drink it all the way down to the dregs, even though it tastes flat. Do you see now, Coley, the beginning, the middle and the end of the short story … Be careful now that you don’t forget that the end has to leave a sour taste in your mouth, the taste of the holy drink, the wish to steal the fire from the gods, to take another bite of the apple of knowledge … Look at the way I’d have finished that other short story—“Another Setting Sun,” the one I was working on if I hadn’t died suddenly from an attack of writer’s cramp:
“Just after the girl had uttered that fateful word, he turned on his heels, departed the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room, and went out into the fresh air. The sky was dark with threatening clouds that were coming in from the sea. A weak faceless sun was entering the earth behind the mountains of the Old Town …” That’s the tour de force Coley: “a weak faceless sun entering the earth”; and there should be no need for me to remind you that the last line after the last word has to be richly splattered with dots, writer’s dots as I call them … But maybe you’ll have the patience to listen to me reading it all to you from start to finish …
— Wait now, my good man. I’ll tell you a story:
“Once upon a time there were three men …”
— Coley! Coley! There’s no art in that story: “Once upon a time there were three men …” That’s a hackneyed start … Wait now a minute, Coley, patience one minute. Let me speak. I think that I’m a writer …
— Shut your mouth you old windbag. Keep going, Coley …
— Once upon a time there were three men, and it was a long time ago. Once upon a time there were three men …
— Yes, go on, Coley, go on …
— Once upon a time there were three men … ah yes, there were three men a long time ago. I don’t know what happened to them after that …
—“… I swear by the book, Jack the Lad …”
— … Five elevens fifty-five; five thirteens … five thirteens … nobody learns that … Now, Master, don’t I know them! Five sevens … was that what you asked me, Master? Five sevens, was it? … five sevens … five by seven … wait now a second … five ones is one …
6.
— … But I don’t get it, Margaret. Honest Injun, I just don’t get it. She — that’s Caitriona Paudeen, I mean — was badmouthing me to the Master. You wouldn’t mind, but I did nothing to her? You know yourself, Margaret, that I wouldn’t stick my nose into anybody else’s business, I’m too busy with culture. And there’s a big flashy cross on my grave too. Smashing, the Old Master says. She insulted me, Margaret …
— I think you had better start getting used to Caitriona’s tongue, Nora Johnny …
— But all the same, Margaret …
— … “Like an eel on a hook, by crook or by luck
Caitriona would snare Nora Johnny.”
— But she has it in for me all the time, she never stops, I just don’t get it, honest …
— … “Each morning that dawned Nora Johnny came over
To make bits of Caitriona like she would with a fish …”
— … “My beautiful daughter, she married your Paddy
Your hovel is better for all she brought in …”
—“Caitriona, you maggot, you were never ashamed
For disgracing yourself you were the best thing …”
— … All his lies, Margaret! Honest to God! I wonder what does she say to Dotie … Hey, Dotie … Dotie … What does Caitriona Paudeen say about me …
— God save us all. I don’t know who you are at all at all. I wish they had brought my sod of clay east of the Fancy City and laid me down on the flat surface of the Smooth Meadow in Temple Brandon with my ancestors …
— Dotie! I told you already that that kind of talk is only sentimental tosh. What did Caitriona say …
— I heard the filthiest talk you could imagine from her about her own sister Nell. “May not another corpse come to the graveyard before her,” she said. You’d never hear that kind of talk on the Smooth Meadow.
— Dotie! But just about me …
— About your daughter.
— … “Not a coat on her back, and I paid for that too,
Nor as much as a shirt to get married in …”
— She said that you were of the Toejam crowd, and that you were riddled with fleas …
— Dotie! De grâce …
— That there were sailors …
— Parlez-vous français, Madame, Mademoiselle …
— Au revoir! Au revoir! …
— Mais c’est splendid. Je ne savais pas qu’il y avait une …
— Au revoir. Honest, Margaret, only that Dotie knows me well she’d believe all those lies … Dotie! That old sentimentality again. You are my fellow mariner on the illimitable sea of culture, Dotie. You should be able to distil every twisted prejudice and every prejudged notion out of your head, just like Clicks did in “Two Men and the Powder Puff” …