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272 pages, Paperback
First published January 11, 2018
In Ireland, starving was always about honour. The old way among the peasants of that country, as I understand it, was that if someone had wronged you, you sat down at their doorway and went on hunger strike. And if you died there at the person’s door, they were forever dishonoured, and reparations would have to be paid to the family of the deceased. To get the hunger striker up from where they sat, amends had to be made for whatever wrong you’d done them, and then they’d eat again. That was the history the IRA were drawing on, every time they used the hunger strike as a weapon.
That’s how people hold on to their identities, and hold together their images of themselves, by remembering, playing out the feeling of their childhoods like a high clear note from a clarinet cutting through the hubbub of their buzzing adult lives.
People caught in old photographs always look like early drafts of themselves to me, unfinished. I never think people look like they’ve fallen away from who they really are as they get older. All their lives, as they turn grey, as the lines grow deeper, people seem to me to be working their way towards their true faces, until the last face they present to the world is finally like the telling of the whole truth.
There ought to be truth and reconciliation in every stratum of the lives people live. All that laying out of things shouldn’t be only reserved for the public sphere, the fractures in families are just as complex, just as terrible.
What is needed is an amnesty, a forgetting. What might save us all is a way to put our lives behind us, and love facing into the future, not always turned back looking for the past. But the song of memory is forever calling.