Curious
title, fittingly the garbled Irish of this grandmother
for 'gan spleachas', or 'without dependence',
a phrase characterizing well the productive, respected,
if not internationally acclaimed writing career,
in English and Irish, of this Limerick-born writer.
His life having started its expression in the prequel
There Was an Isle: A Limerick Boyhood. Obviously
as he's born 1927 and so only slighter more advanced
in age than Frank McCourt, Ó Floinn benefits
from timing for his autobiographies and his hometown's
sudden prominence on the bestseller lists. From
the cover you may assume an opportune 1999 entry
in the burgeoning autobiographical hard times in
our departed oul' Ireland genre. Yet, Ó Floinn
(the cover gives his last name as the anglicised
version, I suppose fitting like the book title since
his name hovers between the two languages therefore)
eschews sentiment.
He's
a tough-minded character, not with his mitts but
with his often-pawned typewriter. Whether in the
Kerry Gaeltacht or rural Limerick, he stands up
for himself without puffery but out of a hard-earned
pride, as his writing, although neglected by scholars
of theatre, has added up to a long resumé
and a record of commitment and polish in both his
languages. Not only as Béarla are
his talents belittled. He exposes the distorted
mentality of the state-controlled An Gum publishing
establishment and its refusal to allow that a writer
not born in the sainted Gaeltacht could, from a
very young age, achieve the same level of literary
prowess as an untutored fisherman from the Blaskets.
When submitted often to a 'blind' peer review, his
Irish stories and novels gained applause. (Even
with my considerable limits of comprehension, I
marvelled at his nuanced renderings of Irish into
English in the passages he translates throughout
the book.) But after their author was named, and
proven to be Limerick-born, so not technically 'a
native speaker', his nimble skills often met with
rejection. He never gives in, however. His character
allows him to stand up against censorship of his
plays, clerical deceit, financial chicanery by the
Abbey Theatre, and finally to quit Bord Fáilte
over its mealy-mouthed spinelessness out of principle
although he and his family could well not afford
his resignation. You must read this to find out
the four-letter word that the tourist board never
allowed him or its publicists to use in their promotional
brochures!
Over
and over, all his diligent writing does not pay
the bills. I found it heartening or perhaps disheartening
to find that he, like all of us who have tried to
submit our pieces, gets rejected even after his
publishing career seems assured. The uncertainty
of an aspiring-to-be-professional writer living
without fame (except the humbler kind in the eyes
of admiring pupils, he lets slip in one anecdote
forgivably) is expressed vividly. He shares his
ups and downs with a touch of wit and humor but
avoids playing into what too many readers may expect
to find when they see the words long attached to
him on his way about the publishing offices as a
"young writer from Limerick." He keeps
integrity, if not amassing profits.
He's
no dilettante or bohemian. Anthony Cronin's Dead
as Doornails, or John Ryan's Remembering
How They Stood, thoughtful accounts of McDaid's,
Ginger Man's inspiration, Behan, Flann O'Brien and
Kavanagh in the pre-Temple Bar postwar period in
dear dirty Dublin: these are neither his haunts
nor his crowd. Unlike them, he put first the support
of his wife and children, and so had to work regularly!
It makes for a more sober tale in more ways than
one.
This
therefore is an insightful, and impressively not
embittered, example of the Irish writer who does
not fall into the stereotype (he hardly drinks but
cider for much of the tale, in his innocence thinking
that pubs dispensed it as non-alcoholic!) but who
unmasks the less melodramatic demons against which
he daily had to contend under Archbishop McQuaid
and Dev (the latter man is portrayed deftly) and
Seán South (Ó Floinn's youthful companion
in Limerick) during the 50s. South/Sábhat's
early personality receives eloquent but unblinkingly
precise depiction here, from one who knew the later
IRA activist before he was romanticized into a ballad's
subject and a republican martyr for the Cause. You
read this section thinking how strange it must be
to have been friends with just another young fellow
in the neighborhood, who a few years later becomes
renowned for exploits you never knew him to be preparing
for, such was his unassuming mien. Ó Floinn's
reflections on South provide some of this autobiography's
best passages.
Our
author would like to write all day but must teach
-- 'back in the chalk mines' the recurring saying.
But he manages to write all sorts of prose on the
side, and tries to keep his career, in this book
spanning about 1950-1966, sustained in the face
of narrow-minded petty Catholic Ireland still mired
in complacency, inefficiency, and prejudice. He
credits those far less publicised clergy and Sisters
who did much to help others quietly, as well as
castigating those who abused their power in the
name of the Church. He also observes well that it
is ridiculous to blame the temper, say, of one priest
hearing your sins and becoming frustrated with you,
as justification for losing your faith. Confusing
the sin with the sinner, he argues, should not result
in abandoning belief in what the faith represents
beyond its human and therefore weaker manifestation
among us.
As
he documents, such an honest life is not rewarded,
at least financially. He muses how he had considered
the lilies of the field for so long that he could
be counted a professor--one of the narrative's best
analogies! The book reads straightforwardly as if
he's speaking his reflections to you, as they occur
to him. Obviously this disguises the craft involved,
but an easy tone about hard lessons he captures
well. This makes for an engaging, self-effacing
but not self-conscious, relating of life as an intellectual
who refuses (at least for long) to take the boat
to Britain (or almost East Africa) during dire times
for him and his ever-growing brood. He turns down
repeated offers to teach at Brandeis in the US since
he fears the loss of his marital fidelity and/or
the erosion of his personal ethical code. Both,
from the evidence he presents, serve to discipline
his determination to succeed without turning him
priggish or aloof.
One
aspect that gains far too little attention: his
teaching stints. How he spent so many hours so many
years in various schools gains little direct detail,
although he's deadly accurate on what a schoolteacher
in a village was expected to do, outside of his
immediate occupation, to justify his "free"
house provided by the parish. His depiction of such
a life under the thumb of the parish priest should
diminish any rose tint that may be assumed incorrectly
by a reader coming to this expecting a bucolic romp
in the meadows or blarney banter of the local farmers
down the pub.
He
tells rather more about trying to get hired and
getting fired than what happens in the interim.
McCourt, also a teacher of course for many years,
did not write at night, so he led a fuller social
life, I suppose, when he wasn't grading papers!
Ó Floinn, by comparison, reveals too little
beyond the focus on 'a writer's life'. This makes
his account a bit too tipped towards the life of
himself as the scribe only. His children are not
named, although their number increases steadily.
You do not find out much about his domestic life
or as the teacher who must take the other half of
each day's effort.
This
is his prerogative, to arrange the relation as he
wishes of his life, to protect privacy, but it does
mean that nearly all of the story's told about a
writer writing, failing to get paid and/or published,
and his frequent shifts of venue. The subtitle tells
you what he delivers. Most authors however gifted
cannot make such material inherently as exciting
as a life spent adventuring or encountering dramatic
challenges, but Ó Floinn does his best to
keep you following his recollections. It's a rambling
journey at times, but as this book sounds like a
transcription rather than a literary artifact, it
does gain verisimilitude in the looser telling of
events as they jumble.
As
one who works in education myself, perhaps I expected
too much about the classroom. He does stick to his
subtitle admirably well, I admit, and what I see
as a minor shortcoming in such concentration may
to other readers be a strength of the book, for
(unlike, say, McCourt's disjointed quick cash-in
follow-up 'Tis,) the tale of his mid-life
does not wander off on digressions. Ó Floinn
does stop suddenly at the end to allow for a sequel
promised to be dramatic. If he writes it, I hope
I will be there to read it. This time, it'd better
find a publisher.
