Last year, I took a class that made me question traditions: can traditions be positive or negative? This questioning began right around the time of St. Patrick's Day, which led me to question my tradition of wearing green and eating lucky charms on St. Patrick's Day. These are fun traditions, but I came to the conclusion that these acts have been stripped of any substantive meaning for most Americans.
It's a hollow tradition.
I didn't want to blindly take part in this tradition any longer, so I went to the library and checked out a book about the celebration of St. Patrick's Day in America. St. Patrick's Day became a holiday in the early 20th century because of the conscious effort of Irish Americans to show their support for the Ireland's movement for independence.
If you don't think I'm nerdy yet, it gets worse. I'm sure my roommates hated me for doing this, but at our St. Patrick's Day feast of dyed green eggs, bacon and pancakes, I brought down a stack of books containing my favorite Irish writers. Then I made them listen to me as I read passages from James Joyce and Yeats.
So here are a few passages to celebrate St. Patrick's Day:
"The Dead"
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the c o rooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the c o rooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
A few months ago I watched this film on Instant Netflix. It is about the hunger strike led by IRA leader Bobby Sands. I was blown away. It is directed by Steve McQueen, written by Edna Walsh (a brilliant playwright whom I love), and acted by the talented, beautiful Michael Fassbender.
"Hunger" Sands & Priest Dialogue: witness some incredible dialogue.
"Lakes Isles of Innisfree"
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
i feel like i should incorporate more yeats in my life...but don't quote me on that, because i don't know if i want to make that kind of hasty commitment. thanks for sharing the passages, though. they are lovely. as are you.
ReplyDeleteThis is FABULOUS.
ReplyDeleteBut I think you should have just gotten drunk. Isn't that what St. Patrick's Day is REALLY about?