That a major literary realism
never flourished in Ireland is in one sense unsurprising. For culture
demands a material base; and there was little of that in one of Europes
poorest countries (p.135)
It is as though Carleton, like
Griffin and the Banims before him, is unable to organise his plot in accordance
with some deep historical logic, as Georg Lukacs would claim for the great
European realists from Stendhal to Tolstoy. The Irish novel from Sterne
to OBrien is typically recursive and diffuse, launching one random
narrative only to abort it, for some equally gratuitous tale, ringing
pedantically ingenious variations on the same meagre clutch of plot elements.
Anglo-Irish literature begins with one of the worlds greatest anti-novels,
and achieves its apotheosis in a couple of others.
If realism is
the home of stability, it is equally the locus of totality. (p.136)
Another check to Irish realism,
paradoxically enough, is a certain excess of reality. The stark exigencies
of history often enough disrupt the artifice of literary realism, as passionate
polemic or outraged commentary burst through the protocols of the imagination,
refusing to be naturalised in the classical realist mould. (p.137)
There is a species of Irish
fiction - the wildly popular Knocknagow comes to mind - which strives
to sanitise reality for the ends of edification , since to depict the
people in their true degraded state might only confirm their oppressors
stereotypes of them [
] Writing is torn between an abrasive realism
which in indicting the colonial[,] risks demeaning the people, and one
which in fostering the national self-esteem gives false comfort to their
rulers. (p.137)
[
] Protestant Gothic,
one might claim, is the political unconscious of Irish society, the place
where its fears and fantasies most luridly emerge. Ireland is violent,
criminal, priest-ridden, autocratic full of mouldering ruins and religious
fanaticism, and thus a society ripe for Gothic treatment. And if the form
is on the whole of Protestant origin, it is because nothing lends itself
better to the genre than the decaying gentry in their crumbling mansions
isolated and sinisterly eccentric, haunted by the sins and spectres of
the past, awash with ghosts and revenants of various kinds. For Gothic
is the nightmare of the besieged and reviled - most notably of women,
but in this case of an ethnic minority marooned within a largely hostile
people. Sheridan Le Fanu portrays Daniel OConnell as a Gothic monstrosity,
a kind of Dracula of Derrynane; and James Clarence Mangan, with his blanched
face and eccentric dress, was a type of the Undead, a kind of walking
Gothic fantasy all in himself. It is not hard to read Melmoth in Charles
Maturins magnificent novel as a type of the Anglo-Irish gentry,
haunted by a primordial crime perpetrated in the seventeenth century which
refuses to lie quite in its grave but which stalks the centuries in search
of expiation. The Faustian pacts Melmoth seeks to establish with the dispossessed
are all about Irish class politics - about the ghastly bonds of hatred
and affection between exploiter and exploited. In a bizarre paradox, the
oppressor has put himself morally beyond the pale, and so has a kind of
grotesque affinity to those he persecutes.
Gothic, that most extravagant of literary
forms, is also secretly one of the most materialist. If it is full of
hapless victims left to rot in remote asylums, you can be sure that this
is because somebody is trying to get his hands on their money. The Irish
name for this materialist Gothic is Sheridan Le Fanu, where money is usually
to be found lying at the root of metaphysics, as in the disputed will
or murderous struggle over inheritance. For Gothic is the form in which
the dead take command of the living, a fiction of transmitted curses and
aboriginal trespasses, all of which can be decoded as the deadweight of
inherited property moulding the present of an Ascendancy now entering
its dotage. The power of [140] capital, which sucks blood from the living,
is the most vampiric phenomenon of all. Le Fanu is thus fascinated by
states which are ambivalently dead and alive, where real and unreal undecidably
mingle, as the world of the Ascendancy itself is always part fantasy and
part reality, and his work lays bare the guilt and paranoia of a social
class on the wane, not least in that cockpit of feuds and loathings known
to polite company as the family. There is indeed an unspeakable horror
at the heart of things, but it turns out to have the drearily familiar
names of fraud, coercion, exploitation. (P.140-41).
The novel form, as Bakhtin instructs
us, may be dialogic to its roots; but in Ireland this is so in a rather
more precise sense. For what we are listening to when we read Agnlo-Irish
fiction is one side of a fraught conversation with the British reading
public, the other side of which we have to infer or reconstruct from the
works on the page. Irish fiction, like Irish political rhetoric, is always
discourse craftily or dipolomAtically operhearing itself in the ears of
its interlocutors, always at some level a covert act of propaganda or
special pleading for metropolitan consumption. (p.141).
ON Bram Stoker:
One might add in parentheses
here that there is no more palpable Gothic allegory of the decline of
the Anglo-Irish gentry than Bram Stokers own celebrated novel, written
at the time of the Land Acts which stripped the landlords of their power.
Like them, Dracula is literally running out of land; by the end of the
novel he is being hotly pursued around Europe, furnished only with the
crates of Transylvanian soil he needs to bed down in for the night. His
material base, like that of his authors, is rapidly dwindling, and
once deprived of his earth he will die. The Anglo-Irish landlords will
similarly wither, or at least shift to Bournemouth, when their earth is
removed from them, though that will demand rather more than a sprig of
garlic and rather less than a stake through the heart. Dracula is a great
Anglophile, given to pouring over maps of the metropolis and pathetically
setting up home in - of all places - Purfleet. He is much preoccupied
with legal documents, and when he is slashed with a knife it is coins,
not blood, which cascade out of him. Dracula lives in a material world,
and is therefore of necessity a material ghoul. (pp.140-41); Joyces
writing is the non-Irish speaking Irish writers way of being unintelligible
to the British [
] He was a heir to a set of cultural lineages
for which realism, as the fruit of a developed colonialist civilisation,
had never been anything but profoundly problematic. (p.146; see
further also under Terry Eagleton.) |