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651 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published August 26, 2004
The art of storytelling is reaching its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out. This, however, is a process that has been going on for a long time. And nothing would be more fatuous than to want to see in it merely a "symptom of decay," let alone a "modern" symptom. It is, rather, only a concomitant symptom of the secular productive forces of history, a concomitant that has quite gradually removed narrative from the realm of living speech and at the same time is making it possible to see a new beauty in what is vanishing.Ireland is perhaps a bit behindhand in this secular process, as I recall from the good priests and nuns of my Catholic education, and that is a good thing for those of us who love a good tale. Allow me to end with the storyteller himself, on the last page of Ireland:
Conveniently for me, I liken Ireland to whiskey in a glass -- a cone of amber, a self-contained passage of time, a place apart, reaching out to the world with sometimes an an acrid taste, a definite excess of personality, telling her story to all who would listen, hauling them forward by the lapels of their coats until they hear, whether they want to or not. But always, always -- the story is the teller and the teller is the story.This is the first of a score or more books I plan to read this year featuring those tales of Ireland -- tales told by historians, poets, and storytellers like Frank Delaney, a worthy practitioner of his craft.