You’ve probably never heard of arguably the most important work of modern Irish literature, Cré Na Cille (Graveyard Clay) by Máirtín Ó Cadhain, because it was translated to English for the very first time this year.
Máirtín Ó Cadhain (1906-1970) was an activist for the preservation of the Irish language and worked to protect the rights of the Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking) communities in the 1930s. He was arrested in 1939 “under the Offences against the State Act and spent nearly five years between three or four prisons,” which provided him ample time to write (1). Cré Na Cille was published in 1950 in serial form in the Irish Press, and was a critical success, as Ó Cadhain was regarded as, “a formidable controversialist and satirist” (Ibid). His political background lends itself to one of the not so subtle themes in this book – the historic animosity between Ireland and England.
This is a book about Irish identity.
It’s also a book about death.
Graveyard Clay is set in the lower chambers of an Irish graveyard in South Conomara where the local dead (as well as some not so local dead, such as a French airman) chatter, gossip, and slander their neighbors from inside the confinements of their coffins. Though the time set for the story to unfold is “eternity,” the recently departed have left the living realm of World War II-era Ireland. Graveyard Clay unfolds entirely in dialogue, with no explicit indications as to who is saying what. Instead, characters are revealed by the words and expressions they frequently employ, as well as their venomous opinions about their fellow graveyard mates. This style makes reading Graveyard Clay feel like a ridiculously chaotic play; its themes of death and meaninglessness explored through a comedic lens have led it to be compared to the works of Irish playwright Samuel Beckett.
The Trump (Trumpet) of the Graveyard –who opens the middle to later chapters with a meditation on life, death, and decay– acts as a sort of god-like, omnipresent figure, and is a very Beckett-inspired character:
Here in the graveyard the spectre of Insensibility is violating coffins, grubbing up corpses and kneading the decayed flesh in his cold earth-oven. He cares nothing for cheek of sunlight, fairness of complexion or the pearly teeth that are the maiden’s pride.
Graveyard Clay opens with a monologue from recently buried Caitríona Pháidín. She has some of the most colorful baggage of any of the graveyard tenants and she’s carried it all into her coffin; a coffin that must constantly make room for more bodies to pile atop her. Caitríona is a fiery, bitter woman who anxiously awaits her deplorable daughter-in-law (referred to as Nóra Sheáinín’s Daughter) to join her in the grave – something she hopes will occur after Nóra Sheáinín’s Daughter’s next childbirth. Caitríona is also at odds with her sister Nell (still living), whom she calls a pussface. Nell got hitched to the man Caitríona loved as a young woman.
Much of the graveyard’s gossip stems from Caitríona’s hatred of Nóra Sheridan (also dead, marked by her frequent conversations with a Galway woman named Dotie), whom she commonly refers to as Nóra Filthy-Feet. The dead each take sides as to whose gossip they believe more –Nóra’s or Caitríona’s– which comes to a head when Nóra is elected to be in charge of the graveyard Rotary.
One of the major themes of Graveyard Clay has to do with the anxiety of a proper burial. Which graveyard tenant had the most people attend their funeral? Who has the most beautiful gravestone, let alone a gravestone at all? Who collected the most money on their altar? Some of these questions can be answered depending on which section the dead occupy in the graveyard: The Pound Place, the Fifteen-Shilling Place, and the Half-Guinea Place. This stratification sets the scene for the book’s comment on death’s relationship with wealth. Historically, the wealthy could ensure a proper burial, something the poorer classes could not; this weighs heavily on Caitríona. Each time someone is added to her coffin, such as Seáinín, she inquires of them as to whether her funeral service was impressive and whether her cross of island limestone has been placed over her grave; but her fellow tenants seem to be preoccupied with their own ailments:
“What sort of funeral did I have, I’m asking you?”
“The heart, God help us! The heart is a serious matter, Caitríona. A weak heart…”
“To hell with your heart! You’ll have to give up that nonsense here…”
Graveyard Clay is a challenging, hilarious read about dead people aimlessly arguing with one another, and who fail to get in death what they had hoped to get in life. I have to disagree with William Brennan in The New Yorker, for it’s not the sort of book you might want to curl up with late at night to read leisurely. I’d recommend a strong espresso and a pen in hand to mark dialogue and keep track of characters.
Featured Image is of Ireland’s Beara Peninsula, photo by Field Notes from Fatherhood.
Sources:
- Iomaire, Liam Mac Con. “Introductory Note.” Introduction. Graveyard Clay. New Haven & London: Yale UP, 2016. N. pag. Print.
