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(The major events include: an old lady picking up a dead pigeon and subsequently feeling ill a beautiful young woman having a bath a servant getting a kiss from a stranger.) It’s at once so beautifully written that I want to quote the whole thing, and so eccentrically stylized that it isn’t easy to find a quotable line. It’s a fantastically busy and exuberant novel, in which nothing really happens.
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I’ve just read Party Going (1939), Henry Green’s comic and melancholic masterpiece, for the third or fourth time, and I’m still not sure how to convey its complex flavour. As I sheltered from the rain, by now rather less soft than it’s fabled to be, in the lee of that notable wall, it struck me as the perfect summation of the entire Anglo-Irish predicament.
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Farrell’s sublime tragicomedy about the dying days of Ireland’s Protestant Ascendancy. That precise phrase recurs, to pointed and poignant effect, in Troubles, J.
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I was, briefly, bemused on reflection, quite the opposite. Said wall, it explained, replaced one that had collapsed ‘for no apparent reason’. The castle is a fairytale sight but what caught my eye, given pride of place on one distinctly ancient and sturdy-looking wall, was a plaque. Towering over the steep, wooded banks of the Blackwater, it was built nearly 900 years ago by an English prince, was once owned by Sir Walter Raleigh and has been the Irish seat of the Dukes of Devonshire since the eighteenth century. On one of my more recent trips to Ireland, I took a detour through County Waterford to visit Lismore Castle. There must have been a reason for this, but that reason is lost, and those who understood it have been dust for centuries. Some of the objects are decorated with re-used Roman glass, a reminder both of Roman technology and of Rome’s fall more poignantly still, the majority of the items were systematically dismantled or broken up before they were buried, the precious metals and stones separated from the iron, wood, bone and cloth they once adorned. Perhaps most of all, though, the Staffordshire Hoard makes one think of passing, inheritance and decline. The few objects that are not overtly martial are religious, and these show us how Christianity and paganism overlapped in England at this time: there are Christian crosses in the hoard, but they are decorated with the interlaced plants and animals characteristic of the pagan Germanic peoples. These rich and intricately worked treasures, most of which were once decorations for weapons, conjure images of kings and warriors in the Dark Ages: Anglo-Saxon noblemen, proud and brave, the gold and garnets on their war gear flashing in the light of the sixth-century sun. I would like you to come with me first to Birmingham, to visit the Staffordshire Hoard. Although I want to tell you about a poem, let us begin with objects.