Philip O Ceallaigh
High Country, like the title story, has a daring simplicity to it. A young man takes the bus, hitchhikes, and walks to try to reach the remote uplands. But it is hard to escape the towns. The houses, the noises, the ugliness extends on and on. The people he encounters are drunk, talk ceaselessly of money, or try to cheat him. This is not pessimism; it is a minutely realistic account.
There are too many people in the world, inhabiting every square metre of arable land. Six billion, seven billion, or eight billion – whichever it currently stand at, it’s too many. The story reminds me of my own attempts to reach the mountains on a bicycle: getting caught in vast roundabouts, finding what appeared to be a country road only to arrive a few minutes later back in Tallaght, then at last gaining altitude, looking back at the city spread below like a coarse-grained vomit, and then getting caught in a traffic jam up the mountains. And the cars are much faster than in rural Romania where O’Ceallaigh was rambling.
Read on …
When he descends from the woods towards the backs of some houses “he felt furtive, as always, slipping invisibly through such places”.
The story is as real as it gets. But also a footnote, a tiny plaint, to Wordsworth’s ambitious vision of the relationship of man and nature.
‘You Believe in God?‘ is another that dares to tell a commonplace tale, one that invites the reader to respond “Why do you have to tell this story? It doesn’t show any insight into muslim culture.” The story is of a commonplace confidence swindle. It concludes:
Wherever you travelled in the world, no matter how strange it seemed, an inevitable sameness forced its way through. People smiled at those who handed them money, despised those who had none.
When I read writing that confronts reality head-on like this, I ask myself “How did this ever get published? How did it manage to receive the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur of the print section of the international entertainment industry?”
Tombstone Blues is a great read. It’s an unpredictable traveller’s tale, with diary extracts, notes on history, quotations from St. Antony, religious reflections, Egyptian traffic chaos and much more. The reader is drawn into an involvement with the narrator – disagreeing, fascinated, or sympathising. At one point there’s a scene of anal sex. What the hell is this about? Is this what O’Ceallaigh thinks the reader wants? Is the writer taunting us?
It’s an unresolved story, jutting uncomfortable through the boundaries of fiction, failing to maintain a coherent theme or consistent aesthetic, awkward and real.
O’Ceallaigh is the most interesting recent writer out there. He’s crucial reading for anyone who hates literature and for anyone who loves literature. If Dan Brown was the first thing you read, let this be the second. Very likely you’ll throw it across the room.
Valancourt The Viaduct reissue
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Irish Times Q+A