Through a Pint Glass Darkly...
Ghosts and Lightning is the debut novel of Trevor Byrne, a young Dubliner, that has already seen him praised by the likes of Roddy Doyle - a rare feat. Upon reading the book, it's easy to see why.
Set largely in the poorer suburbs of Dublin, a place I know only too well, the narrator Denny returns home from Wales after hearing of his mother's passing. Suddenly, the realities of Irish life return in all their gritty and morally grey forms with Denny - a moral man - thrown back into the moral dillemma of his drug and drink ravaged, prejudiced, and political-correctness-be-damned Dublin lingo and loyalties. This is not the Dublin you see from a tourist bus - a place of colourful boats and scripted histories and Celtic jewellery going cheap. This isn't where you want your roots to be, it's where you want to leave.
Neither is this novel, in many ways, really about ghosts, though it is about hauntings - the memories of the past, of Denny's mother, of misery in all its forms finding transcendence through humour, American wrestling (!), football, drinking and dancing and mythic flights of the imagination (punctuated, at times, by lightning flashes of violence). Denny inherited his mother's wild irreverence and imagination, and with it he takes us on an honest and, occasionaly, frightening tour of Dublin and the surrounding environs, eventually going North in search of meaning and freedom, to mourn, to touch an ancient magic, to make good with his life.
At points, Byrne uses the occasional chemically-enhanced reverie and inborn wild imagination of Denny to weave his way into a kind of Irish magical realism - a giant horse towering 200ft in the air; Goblins and Sprites; or the evocative imagining of a long-extinct giant Elk - a chieftain in high places, a symbol of an older Ireland. These moments are, for me, gold-dust - imbuing the harsh realities with an older form of magic, inking the page with pagan sentiment. (The Fishfinger of Knowledge is sheer, hilarious genius!) By contrast, the quasi-magical scene with the foal, and the consequences, is both beautiful and profoundly terrifying. Byrne can evoke wonder, fear and revulsion - sometimes all at once.
A sense of loss and yearning - of his mother, of Ireland's collective heritage - reveals itself throughout the novel as Denny gazes at the hard men and hard lives about him, made soft and merry for a time by the shared love of stories and a bit of "banter" (often insulting, yet funny, conversation). A violent act merits a song, a saga, a tale. If in only that, Byrne shows us, we are human - flawed, morally grey, self-destructive, and all too human.
As someone who has been in the places Denny inhabits, and seen the woes and wonders, listened to outrageous stories and laughed and felt bad for laughing, I can say that the book is both authentic in its dialogue, and heart-renderingly touching in its humanity. There were many times I laughed out loud, tears streaming down my cheeks, the dialogue veering from insanely creative insults - a common Dublin/Irish artform! - to poetic description. Indeed, Byrne has turned cursing into a poetic form all his own. If you're a prude, trust me, this is authentic. If you open to it, you may find yourself lost in the poetry of language both profane and sacred.
In the beginning I kind of disliked Denny and some of his friends, then, as the tale moved forward, I realised I shared his predicament - the morally grey life of the places Denny inhabits, the sudden emergence of Ireland into multi-culturalism, the frequent hypocrisy of "Cead Mile Failte" (our so-called welcoming attitude to foreigners), all this bubbles up in the fast-talking, hard-hitting, dark and humorous dialogue of the characters. As the tale unfolds, Denny quickly emerges a good man at times compromised by his friends, family loyalties, the poverty of his birth and the hypocrisies of his country. In the end, he and his friends are looking for love and meaning in a hard place, a place only friends can survive.
Indeed, I remember the time when, in an area very close to Denny's fictional home, people would gather about a grassy mound and watch as robbed cars screeched through the night, circling and burning rubber, everyone a supplicant to crime, and the Gardai rarely showing up to do anything about it. I think of some friends from school and childhood, now dead from drugs and drug-related crime, some OD'd, some murdered; the violence and scandals and a different kind of fiddlin'. That's the Ireland Denny knows. It's the Ireland I know. At its heart, though, is a magic, an athmosphere, a love of language and story; tales and insults to make tears stream down your cheeks, like Byrne's did mine, tears of both mourning and laughter.
This is Dublin life, but not the kind you may know or have heard about. I dare say, there are a lot who live in Dublin that don't know this kind of scene. Byrne shows us it all - through a pint glass darkly (pulled by a foreigner!) - yet also gives us hope that laughter and love and friendship beyond breaking can keep back the "Slaughters" of this world, the cold and cruel capitalism, and the hypocrisy of our own immigrant past and modern prejudices. As we sit over that pint o the blackstuff in The Foggy Dew or some other pub, seeing the darkness around us captured in our Guinness, for Byrne and Denny the way we tell stories is the white froth of it all - clean and light and pure.
In short, Ghosts and Lightning is brilliant, beautiful, comic, grotesque, and frightening - a tale told by a half-demented Seanachai, a warrior-poet of old who can metre and rhyme his "fucks" as much as his "cunts". It was simply a strange and wondrous joy to read and see evoked in ways poetic, tragic, yet filled with hope, the harsh realities where I, like Denny, live. This "buke" (not book!) marks Byrne an original, authentic, and powerful new voice in literature to watch and wait for. Highly recommended.