![The Ring By Brayan Machahon Question Answers Alternative English-I (AEC) [Gauhati University FYUGP B.A/BCom/BSc 1st Sem]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJRBt9fn4YeF-O_KjD1tou3LZVOEieRv8rTIYEOl0vOskz6sHxP3xwtsUvFqBIJIfbO53qgQuTdCa77Mzv3taUAuOjZ2bgQ-JKgtJteyBiMTAPR_QaJqETWrcXDkYbqqnK_F5Utjykai1dv4ZKQH8V_9UW-Ej876Kv598qQWu5ktT1_vxdVaTkCy-hSq2G/s16000-rw/1000335675.webp "The Ring By Brayan Machahon Question Answers Alternative English-I (AEC) [Gauhati University FYUGP B.A/BCom/BSc 1st Sem]")
FICTION
The Ring By Brayan Machahon
Bryan MacMahon :
Bryan Michael MacMahon (29 September 1909-13 Febru- ary 1998) was an Irish playwright, novelist and short story writer from Listowel, County Kerry. A schoolteacher by training, his works include The Lion Tamer, Patsy-o and his Wonderful Pets and The Red Petticoat. He wrote an autobiography, The Master, and his works include an English translation of Peig, the Irish- language autobiography of Peig Sayers.
Early life and education:
MacMahon was born on 29 September 1909 to parents Patrick and Joanna MacMahon, in Listowel, County Kerry. He was one of four children, his father was a clerk in a law office, a butter- buyer and exporter, and his mother was a schoolteacher. His fa- ther was also a member of the Gaelic League. He had a tradi- tional country up-bringing, which he illustrated in the first chap- ters of The Storyman (1994). He learned his love for the Irish language from his grandmother, who was a native Irish speaker. His grandfather was weighmaster in charge of the market and Bryan assisted him often. He was educated in Scoil Réalta na Maidine, Lios Tuathail, and then St Michael's College, Listowel, where he was influenced by the writer Seamus Wilmot, who encouraged him in his passion for writing. Like his mother, he also had a passion for teaching. He attended St. Patrick's Teacher Training College in Drumcondra, County Dublin. After this, he taught in Donore Avenue, off South Circular Road in Dublin. Due to family pressures, he resigned his teaching post in Dublin in 1931 and returned to Listowel, where he lived for the remain- der of his life.
He became principal teacher of Scoil Réalta na Maidine and taught there for 44 years. During the Second World War. MacMahon worked in factories in England. He wrote about this experience in his 'Plain People of England' column for The Bell magazine. He opened a book shop in his wife Kitty's name on the main street of Listowel.
Family:
MacMahon married his wife Kathleen "Kitty" Ryan in 1936.[6] Kathleen was born on 14 June 1911 in Cashel, County Tipperary, to parents James Ryan and Ellen Ryan (nee O'Connor). MacMahon and Ryan were married in the Roman Catholic Church of Cashel on 4 November 1936. They had five sons, including Bryan, a judge of the Irish High Court, and Garry, who played Gaelic football for the Kerry senior inter-county team from 1958 to 1962 and went on to practice law. One of his other sons, Owen, is a solicitor with PG MacMahon Solicitors.
Later life:
During his later years, MacMahon paid more attention to the media while continuing to publish. Together with John B. Keane as well as other Irish playwrights, he founded Listowel Writers' Week in 1970, an international literacy festival based in'.'- MacMahon's home town of Listowel. In 1989, MacMahon fea- tured on The Late Late Show, with Gay Byrne. MacMahon pub- lished his first autobiography, The Master, in 1992, which docu- mented his career in teaching. The book went on to win the 1993 The American Ireland Literary Award. MacMahon released a second autobiography in 1994, The Storyman, which focused primarily on his career as a writer.
Throughout his career, MacMahon was awarded many acco- lades for his contributions to Irish literature including the Kerryman of the Year award in 1987. He also was awarded American Ireland Fund Literary Award 1993 and the award of the degree of LID from the National University of Ireland in recognition of his work. MacMahon was a member of the Aosdána. MacMahon's final book, a collection of fictional con- versations between men and women, is entitled A Final Fling, and was published in 1998. MacMahon died on the 13 February 1998, in Beaumont Hospital, Dublin. After his death, his col- league John B. Keane said: "The streets have lost their star. He was a giant and a gentleman, and we were lucky to have had him for so long."
Short Type Questions & Answers:
1. The grandmother was the narrator's paternal/maternal grandmother?
Ans: Maternal grandmother.
2. Where was the farm of his grandmother located?
Ans: The farm was located in the Kickham country in Tipperary.
3. What does the author refer to by "the teeth of the Galtees'?
Ans: By the "teeth of the Galices, the narrator refers to the heights of the Galtee mountain range, in Munster, Ireland, whose sharpness is compared with the terrain where the narrator's grandmother's house was located.
4. Where did the author spend his summer holidays each year?
Ans: Each year, the greater part of his summer holidays was spent in his grandmother's farm.
5. What is the name of the author's uncle?
Ans: Uncle Con
6. Who held the main authority of the farm, the grandmother or Uncle Con?
Ans: Grandmother.
7. What did the first child of Uncle Con become in the later life?
Ans: She became a nun in a convent on the Seychelles islands.
8. Who was Uncle Con's wife?
Ans: Aunt Annie.
9. What was the name of the narrator's grandfather?
Ans: Martin Dermody.
10. How many children she had when grandmother lost her husband?
Ans: She had six young children-five girls and one boy
11. What did the narrator pick up once at a race-meeting?
Ans: The narrator picked up a jockey's crop.
12. What did the jockey's crop remind the narrator?
Ans: It reminded him about his grandmother.
13. What did the grandmother loss in the hay?
Ans: She lost her wedding ring
14. What is Castle Connell greenheart?
Ans: It is a fishing rod made of Greenheart wood.
15. What is limekiln?
Ans: Limekiln is a furnace or oven where lime processing is done through calcination.
16. What do you mean by a ring's keeper?
Ans: A keeper is an outer ring covering the actual ring which together made the ring set.
17. What is the name of the narrator's village?
Ans: Kerry.
18. What is the motto of the grandmother for working hours?
Ans: 'Six to six".
19. On which day the ring was lost?
Ans: It was on Monday evening.
20. What, according to the grandmother, was the reason for the loss of her ring?
Ans: According to her, her hands were getting thin, so she had lost the ring with its keeper
21.What reason did he narrator offer for his spending time in his grandmother's farm?
Ans: The narrator spent a greater part of his summer holidays in his grandmother's farm. He says that it had been a great change for him to leave their home in a bitter sca-coast village and visit his grandmother's farm.
22. What, according to the narrator, was pity to see?
Ans: According to the narrator, it was pity to see hundred yards of fine grass go to waste by the verge of road in Tipperary.
23. How did the grandmother manage to control the situation after her husband's death?
Ans: After her husband's death, the grandmother began to look after the farm. At that time, she was left with six children-five girls and one boy. But she was brave enough to face the hard world and managed everything well.
24. What were the things that reminded the narrator of his grandmother?
Ans: Once, the narrator picked up a jockey's crop at a race meeting. When he balanced it on his palm, it reminded him of his grandmother. Again, the narrator had once caught a huge salmon fish weighed up to twenty-two pound by a sixteen feet greenheart rod. That rod too reminded him of his grandmother.
25. What comparison does the narrator make betro crop and rod and his grandmother?
Ans: Like crop and rod, the narrator's grandmother bod an element of flexibility, but like these two things, there was no trace of fragility in her.
26. What was the incident when the narrator made his grandmother laugh warmly?
Ans: It was when the narrator told his grandmother about a man who had stopped him on the road and asked him if he were a grandson of Martin Dermody. When he replied that he was, the man gave him a shilling and enquired whether he was called Martin after his grandfather. The narrator then replied that he was called "Con' after his Uncle Con.
Some Extra Short Question
1. What is the setting of "The Ring"?
Ans: The setting is rural Ireland.
2. What does Michael do on his land?
Ans: He walks a circular path around his land.
3. What does the circular path symbolize?
Ans: Tradition, continuity, and the cyclical nature of life.
4. What does the impending road construction symbolize?
Ans: Progress and modernization.
5. Who is Ellen in the story?
Ans: Michael's deceased wife.
6. What does Ellen symbolize in the story?
Ans: Stability of the past and traditional values.
7. How does Michael feel about the impending road construction?
Ans: He is resistant to it.
8. What is the central conflict in the story?
Ans: The clash between tradition and progress.
9. How does Michael react to the road construction crew?
Ans: He confronts them passionately.
10. What is the significance of Michael's circular walks?
Ans: They represent his emotional attachment to the land and tradition.
11. How does Michael's internal conflict evolve throughout the story?
Ans: It intensifies as he grapples with the changes.
12. What do Michael's walks around the ring embody?
Ans: The struggle to maintain tradition in the face of change.
13. What is the message behind Michael's collapse?
Ans: Excessive resistance to change can lead to personal suffering.
14. How does the road construction crew contribute to the conflict?
Ans: They represent modernization and external forces challenging tradition.
15. What does the title "The Ring" refer to?
Ans: The circular path that Michael walks.
SHORT ANSWER TYPE QUESTION
1. Describe the significance of the circular path that Michael walks around his land in "The Ring" and how it mirrors the central conflict of the story.
Ans: In "The Ring," the circular path that Michael walks holds deep symbolic meaning. It represents tradition, continuity, and the cyclical nature of life. This ritualistic act embodies Michael's emotional attachment to the land and his resistance to change. Just as he repetitively traces the circular path, he is caught in a cycle of internal conflict the struggle between preserving tradition and adapting to change. The circular path becomes a metaphor for the larger conflict between tradition and progress, as it mirrors Michael's desire to hold onto his past while facing the impending road construction that threatens his way of life.
2. Discuss how Ellen's absence in "The Ring" contributes to the exploration of the theme of change and its impact on emotional attachment.
Ans: Ellen's absence in "The Ring" serves as a poignant reminder of the passage of time and the impact of change on emotional attachment. Although physically absent, Ellen's presence is strongly felt through memories and discussions. She symbolizes a stable past and a connection to a time when traditions were firm. Her absence amplifies Michael's sense of loss and intensifies his resistance to the impending road construction. Ellen's character underscores the inevitability of change and the challenge of reconciling cherished memories with the present. Her absence deepens the exploration of how emotional attachments are affected by the passage of time and the clash between tradition and progress.
3. How does the conflict between tradition and progress in "The Ring" manifest in the relationship between Michael and the road construction crew?
Ans: The conflict between tradition and progress is vividly portrayed through Michael's relationship with the road construction crew. The crew symbolizes modernization and external forces encroaching on his traditional way of life. Michael's resistance to their presence exemplifies the emotional struggle faced by individuals when confronted with change. His confrontation with the crew becomes a microcosm of the broader clash between preserving tradition and yielding to progress. The crew's single- minded focus on constructing the road emphasizes the inevitability of societal change. This relationship underscores the complexities of emotional attachment and the universal tension between embracing progress while honoring tradition.
4. Analyze the significance of the title "The Ring" in relation to the central conflicts and themes of the story.
Ans:The title "The Ring" encapsulates the central conflicts and themes of "The Ring" by Bryan MacMahon. On the surface, it refers to the circular path that Michael walks around his land, symbolizing tradition, continuity, and the cyclical nature of life. This reflects Michael's emotional attachment to the land and his resistance to change. The title also represents a closed loop, signifying the comfort of tradition and stability. However, as the impending road construction threatens to cut through this ring, the title takes on added significance. It embodies the conflict between tradition and progress, emphasizing the emotional struggle that arises when these forces clash. The title encompasses both the physical and metaphorical dimensions of the story, highlighting the interplay between tradition, change, and emotional attachment.
5. How does the climactic confrontation between Michael and the road construction crew in "The Ring" encapsulate the story's themes and what insight does it provide into Michael's character?
Ans: The climactic confrontation between Michael and the road construction crew serves as a pivotal moment that encapsulates the story's themes and offers insight into Michael's character. This confrontation is symbolic of the central clash between tradition and progress. Michael's passionate resistance represents the culmination of his internal conflict and his deep emotional attachment to his land and memories. Through this scene, readers witness the emotional toll of resisting change and the powerful impact of tradition on Michael's identity. His confrontational stance underscores the complexity of adapting to change while preserving one's roots. The confrontation serves as a microcosm of the broader human experience, where individuals often grapple with the tension between the comfort of tradition and the inevitability of progress.
6. How does the circular path that Michael walks around his land symbolize both tradition and his emotiona' attachment?
Ans: The circular path is a ritual symbolizing tradition, continuity, and the cyclical nature of life. It also represents Michael's emotional attachment to the land, as he walks it to connect with memories and maintain his bond with the past.
7. How does Ellen's memory impact Michael's emotional conflict in the story?
Ans: Ellen's memory represents stability and tradition. Her absence intensifies Michael's emotional struggle by magnifying his desire to hold onto the past, ultimately deepening his resistance to the impending change.
8. In what ways does the road construction crew contribute to the conflict and themes of "The Ring"?
Ans: The road construction crew symbolizes progress and modernization, contributing to the clash between tradition and change. Their presence serves as a catalyst for Michael's resistance, highlighting the external forces challenging his emotional attachment.
9. How does the setting of rural Ireland influence the mood and atmosphere of the story?
Ans: The serene Irish countryside creates a calm and nostalgic mood. It serves as a contrast to the impending road construction, symbolizing the tension between tradition and progress.
10. What is the significance of the title "The Ring" in relation to the emotional struggle faced by the characters?
Ans: The title represents the circular path Michael walks, embodying tradition and emotional attachment. It also symbolizes the cyclical nature of human emotional struggles, reflecting the challenges of adapting to change.
11. How does Michael's confrontation with the road construction crew encapsulate the central conflict of the story?
Ans: Michael's confrontation represents the clash between tradition and progress. His emotional resistance mirrors the broader human struggle to navigate change while holding onto cherished values.
12. What message does "The Ring" convey about the consequences of resisting change?
Ans: The story suggests that excessive resistance to change can lead to personal suffering, as seen through Michael's emotional turmoil and tragic collapse.
13. How does Michael's collapse add depth to the exploration of the story's themes?
Ans: Michael's collapse is a powerful metaphor for the toll of resisting change. It emphasizes the potential consequences of clinging too tightly to the past and traditions.
14. How does the circular path serve as a metaphor for the human experience of adapting to change?
Ans: The circular path, a repetition of a familiar route, parallels the human tendency to hold onto established patterns. It symbolizes the emotional struggle of adapting to change while seeking stability.
15. How does the emotional tension between tradition and change in "The Ring" resonate with readers beyond the specific setting of rural Ireland?
Ans: The emotional tension between tradition and change is a universal theme that resonates with reaciers from various backgrounds. It reflects the broader human experience of grappling with societal shifts and the challenge of maintaining emotional attachments while embracing progress.
16. How does the circular path's symbolism evolve as the story progresses?
Ans: The circular path starts as a symbol of tradition and continuity but gains complexity as it represents Michael's internal conflict and emotional struggle in the face of change.
17. Explain how the absence of Ellen shapes Michael's resistance to change.
Ans: Ellen's absence deepens Michael's resistance by representing the stable past he yearns for. Her memory intensifies his emotional attachment to tradition, making him more determined to oppose the road construction.
18. How does "The Ring" illustrate the conflict between the desire to preserve the past and the inevitability of change?
Ans: The story illustrates this conflict through Michael's emotional turmoil. His determination to preserve tradition clashes with the road's construction, highlighting the universal struggle of adapting to change while honoring heritage.
19. How does the story's resolution prompt readers to reflect on the themes of "The Ring"?
Ans: The resolution, marked by Michael's collapse, prompts readers to consider the consequences of extreme resistance to change. It underscores the need for a balance between tradition and progress, leaving readers with a cautionary message.
20. How does the story use Michael's character to explore the broader human experience?
Ans: Michael's character embodies the tension between tradition and progress. His emotional struggle and tragic outcome offer insights into the complex emotional responses people face when confronted with change, making his experience relatable to readers.
Long Type Questions & Answers
1. How does the narrator show that his grandmother had a strong hold over everything in the house?
Ans: The narrator says that although his uncle got married, his grandmother held the 'whip hand in the farm. After the death of her husband, the grandmother controlled everything in the farm. She was left with six young children- five girls and one boy. She faced the world bravely and managed well The narrator shows the strong and bold nature of his grandmother with two examples. Once, the narrator picked up a jockey's crop at a race- meeting. When he balanced it on his palm, it reminded him of his grandmother. Again, the narrator had once caught a huge salmon fish weighed up to twenty-two pound by a sixteen feet greenheart rod. That rod too reminded him of his grandmother.
Like crop and rod, the narrator's grandmother had an element of flexibility, but like these two things, there was no trace of fragility in her.
2. Give a pen picture of the activities in the hayshed.
Ans: The grandmother lost her wedding ring while she was working in the hayshed. The narrator gives a very vivid picture of their workings in the hayshed.
At that time, the narrator was with his bare legs trailing from the heel of a loaded hay-float. He was watching the broad silver parallels they were leaving in the clean after-grass. His uncle was standing in the front of the float guiding the mare. They were drawing in the hay to the hayshed.. They had already filled a pillar and a half of the hayshed. The grandmother was up on the hay and she was forking the lighter trusses. The servant was handling the heavier forkfuls. A neighbour was throwing it up to them.
3. Narrate how the search operation of the wedding ring was taken place.
Ans: On a Monday evening, while working in the hayshed, the narrator's grandmother lost her wedding ring at that time, the grandmother was up on the hay and she was forking the lighter trusses. The servant was handling the heavier forkfuls. A neighbour was throwing it up to them.
When grandmother came to know about the loss of the ring, she immediately stopped the working and began to search for it. She searched wisp by wisp, even sop by sop. As it was not found, she again began her searching the next day. She did not let others to do it. She worked hard all day and stopped her searching sharply at six, as her motto of working was, 'six to six"
Till Wednesday, she was unable to find the ring, though she had made a fair gap in the hay. When the narrator and his uncle enquired about her success in the evening, she looked very pale. On Thursday morning, she seemed more strained and was reluctant to leave the rick even to take her meals. The family members provided her tea several times during the day. Friday was also an unsuccessful day. All the people of the house became stressed.
By Saturday afternoon at about three o'clock, grandmother found the keeper of the ring. She again continued to search till six o' clock at six, she came in and took her tea.. But, after an hour or so, she became restless and announced that laws were made to be broken and began her search again. At dusk, she returned and lighted a lantern and went back to resume her search. After some time, Uncle Con took her coat and threw it across her shoulders as it was cold outside. Then Uncle Con, Aunt Annie and the narrator were sitting around a big fire waiting for grandmother.
It was about twelve o' clock at night, when they heard her footsteps on the cobbles. Placing the lantern on the ledge of the dresser, she announced that she had found the ring at last.
4. Narrate, how the grandmother reacted after her finding of the ring. What does the reaction show?
Ans: The narrator gives a vivid description of the incident that was taken place just after finding the ring. On Saturday night at twelve o'clock, grandmother found the ring. At that time, Uncle Con, Aunt Annie and the narrator were sitting around a big fire waiting for her. They heard her footsteps on the cobbles. Placing the lantern on the ledge of the dresser, she announced that she had four ring.
Grandmother came and sat by the fire. Her face was as cold as death and her eyes did not even flicker. The wedding ring was inside its keeper and she kept twirling it round and round with the fingers of her right hand.
But suddenly she hid her hands under her check apron. It seemed as if she was ashamed of her finger's betrayal. At that moment, without any prediction, she touched her fists with her face and uttering her husband's name she began to sob and cried like the rain.
The reaction which grandmother show reflected her emotional attachment with her deceased husband 'Martin'.
5. How does the character of the grandmother saw sternness and emotion can coexist? Discuss with the o your study of the character of the grandmother.
Ans: In the story, "The Ring', the writer depicts the character of the grandmother in a very balanced way. Though, at the beginning of the story, we find a very stern grandmother, yet, gradually her character has been transformed with a touch of emotion to it.
The narrator says that although his uncle got married, his grandmother held the 'whip hand in the farm'. After the death of her husband, the grandmother controlled everything in the farm. She was left with six young children-five girls and one boy. She faced the world bravely and managed well.
The narrator shows the strong and bold nature of his grandmother with two examples. Once, the narrator picked up a jockey's crop at a race- meeting. When he balanced it on his palm, it reminded him of his grandmother. Again, the narrator had once caught a huge salmon fish weighed up to twenty-two pound by a sixteen feet greenheart rod. That rod too reminded him of his grandmother Like crop and rod, the narrator's grandmother had an element of flexibility, but like these two things, there was no trace of fragility in her.
The emotion of the grandmother was seen during and after the search of the wedding ring lost by her in the hayshed. She worked very hard alone to find the ring and did not even let others to do it. "Six to six was the grandmother's motto for working hours. But, in the case of the ring, she herself broke it saying that laws are made to be broken.
Her emotional outburst was seen after finding the ring. Grandmother came and sat by the fire. Her face was as cold as death and her eyes did not even flicker. The wedding ring was inside its keeper and she kept twirling it round and round with the fingers of her right hand.
But suddenly she hid her hands under her check apron. It seemed as if she was ashamed of her finger's betrayal. At that moment, without any prediction, she touched her fists with her face and uttering her husband's name she began to sob and cried like the rain.
The reaction which grandmother show reflected her emotional attachment with her deceased husband 'Martin'.
OR
In "The Ring," the character of the grandmother is depicted in a balanced manner, with sternness and emotion coexisting. The narrator describes her strong and bold nature, reminiscing about her experiences with a jockey's crop and a large salmon fish. The grandmother's emotional outburst is evident during and after the search for her lost wedding ring. She works hard alone, breaking the law and twirling the ring around. After finding the ring, she hides her hands under her apron, feeling ashamed of her betrayal. She sobs and cries like the rain, reflecting her emotional attachment to her deceased husband, Martin. The story highlights the complexity of the grandmother's character and the importance of balancing sternness and emotion in a family dynamic.
6. Discuss the significance of the circular path that Michael walks around his land in "The Ring" and how it represents both tradition and the emotional conflict he faces.
Ans: The circular path that Michael walks around his land in "The Ring" holds profound significance as a powerful symbol that encapsulates both tradition and the emotional conflict he faces. This symbol serves as a cornerstone in Bryan MacMahon's narrative, representing deeper layers of meaning beyond its physical manifestation.
First and foremost, the circular path is a representation of tradition.
Michael's regular walks along this path create a ritualistic act that mirrors the cyclical nature of life itself. The circular motion signifies continuity, mirroring the unbroken connection between generations and the perpetuation of customs and values. This tradition is deeply ingrained in Michael's routine and becomes a physical embodiment of the past he holds onto.
However, the circular path also embodies the emotional conflict that Michael grapples with. As he repetitively traces the same route, he reflects the internal struggle between embracing his cherished memories and confronting the imminent change represented by the road construction crew. This conflict highlights the tension between preserving tradition and yielding to the forces of progress. Michael's walks become a physical representation of his emotional turmoil, showcasing his desire to maintain the status quo while recognizing the inevitability of change.
Furthermore, the circular path serves as a metaphor for the broader human experience of navigating change. It captures the universal struggle of balancing the comfort of the known past with the uncertainty of the future. Just as the circular path is familiar, safe, and predictable, the emotional attachment to tradition provides individuals with a sense of security. At the same time, the circular path's repetitiveness mirrors the cyclical nature of human emotional responses to change, representing the internal journey people undertake when faced with the need to adapt.
In essence, the circular path is a microcosm of the emotional and thematic conflicts present in "The Ring." It is a visual representation of tradition's steadfastness and the emotional turmoil brought about by impending change. By walking the circular path, Michael physically enacts his struggle, inviting readers to connect with the complex emotions associated with preserving heritage while acknowledging the inevitability of progress. Through this powerful symbol, Bryan MacMahon skillfully engages readers in the universal human experience of grappling with the interplay between tradition, change, and emotional conflict.
7. Analyze the role of Ellen's absence in "The Ring" and how it adds complexity to Michael's resistance to change.
Ans: Ellen's absence in "The Ring" plays a pivotal role in shaping the narrative's emotional depth and complexity, particularly in relation to Michael's resistance to change. Through her absence, Bryan MacMahon expertly weaves a layer of poignant symbolism that enhances the reader's understanding of the protagonist's internal struggle and his response to the impending changes.
Ellen, Michael's deceased wife, represents a tangible connection to the past and the stability of tradition. Her absence, therefore, serves as a powerful reminder of the passage of time and the ephemeral nature of life. Her memory lingers in the narrative, not just as a character of the past, but as an embodiment of an era characterized by familiarity and comfort. This absence accentuates the emotional resonance of the story by making her a presence through her absence.
Ellen's absence adds complexity to Michael's resistance to change by intensifying his emotional conflict. As he grapples with the road construction crew and their representation of progress, Ellen's memory amplifies his emotional turmoil. Her absence becomes a symbol of the emotional gap between the past and the present, highlighting the challenge of reconciling cherished memories with the reality of change. Michael's emotional attachment to Ellen's memory further deepens his attachment to tradition, fueling his resistance against the impending changes that threaten to sever this connection.
Furthermore, Ellen's absence magnifies the internal struggle that Michael faces. His desire to maintain the emotional bond with his wife becomes entwined with his desire to preserve tradition. Her absence becomes a catalyst for his resistance, as he associates the impending road construction with the disruption of his connection not only to the land but also to the memory of his wife. This complexity gives rise to a multi- dimensional emotional landscape, where the past, present, and future intertwine.
In summary, Ellen's absence in "The Ring" serves as a multi-layered symbol that adds depth to Michael's resistance to change. Her memory represents stability and tradition, intensifying his emotional conflict by underscoring the passage of time and the impact of change on emotional attachment. This absence makes Michael's struggle more relatable and highlights the intricate balance between preserving cherished memories and adapting to the inevitable shifts that life brings.
8. How does the conflict between tradition and progress manifest in "The Ring," and what insight does it provide into the characters' emotional struggles?
Ans: The conflict between tradition and progress in "The Ring" is a central theme that manifests through various elements of the story, revealing the characters' emotional struggles and providing insight into their responses to change. This clash between the old and the new is embodied by both the circular path that Michael walks and the road construction crew.
Michael's circular path symbolizes tradition and continuity. It represents the cyclical nature of life, emphasizing his emotional attachment to the land and his wife Ellen's memory. The path's repetitive nature mirrors his resistance to change, highlighting his internal struggle to preserve the past. On the other hand, the impending road construction represents progress and modernization. The construction crew's arrival symbolizes the encroachment of change upon Michael's cherished traditions.
The characters' emotional struggles come to the forefront as they grapple with this conflict. Michael, who walks the circular path as a ritual to uphold tradition, faces a challenge to his emotional equilibrium when confronted with the road construction crew. His emotional attachment to his land and the memories it holds clash with the crew's intrusion, reflecting his internal turmoil. This conflict externalizes his emotional struggle, providing insight into the complexities of his character and his deep-seated attachment to the past.
Similarly, the emotional struggle is evident in the responses of the construction crew. They represent progress and modernity, embodying a different set of values from Michael's attachment to tradition. Their inability to comprehend the emotional significance of the circular path underscores the dichotomy between their worldviews, highlighting the vast divide between tradition and progress.
In essence, the conflict between tradition and progress serves as a canvas upon which the characters' emotional struggles are painted. It deepens their personalities, revealing the multifaceted nature of human responses to change. Michael's unwavering commitment to tradition and the construction crew's focus on progress create a rich tapestry that reflects the broader human experience of adapting to shifting circumstances. Through this conflict, readers gain valuable insight into the emotional depth and complexity of the characters as they navigate the intricate landscape of tradition and change.
9. Explore how the Irish countryside in "The Ring" serves as more than just a setting, enhancing the narrative's atmosphere and emotional resonance.
Ans: The Irish countryside in "The Ring" goes beyond being a mere backdrop; it becomes a dynamic element that significantly enhances the narrative's atmosphere and emotional resonance. Bryan MacMahon expertly employs the setting to create a vivid and immersive environment that deeply influences the reader's connection with the characters and their experiences.
The lush descriptions of the Irish countryside evoke a serene and nostalgic mood. As readers traverse the landscape with the characters, they are enveloped in the tranquility of the rolling hills, lush fields, and picturesque vistas. This immersive portrayal not only establishes a vivid visual backdrop but also sets the emotional tone of the story. The idyllic setting contrasts with the impending road construction and the conflicts arising from the clash between tradition and progress.
Beyond aesthetics, the Irish countryside becomes a metaphor for the characters' emotional attachment to the land and tradition. The landscape becomes an extension of Michael's identity, reflecting his deep-rooted ties to his heritage. Just as Michael walks the circular path to connect with his past, the readers are invited to emotionally engage with the land through its description, intensifying their connection to the story's themes.
Moreover, the Irish countryside serves as a reflection of Michael's internal state. The peacefulness of the landscape mirrors the tranquility of tradition and the comfort he finds in his routine. As the impending road construction threatens this tranquility, the setting takes on added tension, mirroring the emotional turmoil Michael experiences. The clash between the serene countryside and the construction crew's intrusion amplifies the story's emotional stakes, pulling readers deeper into the characters' struggles.
In essence, the Irish countryside becomes a living, breathing entity in "The Ring." It shapes the narrative's atmosphere, imbues it with emotional resonance, and serves as a conduit through which readers can connect with the characters' internal conflicts. By intertwining the setting with the story's themes and character development, Bryan MacMahon transforms the Irish countryside into an integral and powerful element that elevates the narrative beyond a simple backdrop.
10. How does the climactic confrontation between Michael and the road construction crew encapsulate the central conflict of "The Ring" and reveal deeper insights into Michael's character?
Ans: The climactic confrontation between Michael and the road construction crew in "The Ring" serves as a pivotal moment that encapsulates the central conflict of the story while shedding light on the intricacies of Michael's character. This confrontation becomes a microcosm of the broader clash between tradition and progress, and it offers profound insights into Michael's emotional journey.
At its core, the confrontation embodies the central conflict between tradition and progress. Michael's passionate resistance to the road construction crew reflects the tension between preserving the past and embracing change. His emotional attachment to the land and his circular walks, representing tradition, collides with the crew's modernization efforts, personifying progress. This clash magnifies the broader societal struggle between tradition and the forces of change.
Deeper insights into Michael's character emerge through his confrontation. His unwavering commitment to defending his land and traditions showcases his resilience, determination, and emotional depth. His actions reveal the extent to which he is willing to fight for what he believes in, even in the face of adversity. This confrontation underscores his vulnerability as well, as he exposes his emotional attachment and the pain of potentially losing a significant part of his identity.
Michael's emotional journey becomes palpable through this confrontation. His desperate attempt to protect his land and traditions, which he associates with his deceased wife Ellen and his own sense of self, reflects his profound emotional turmoil. This moment of confrontation unveils the complexity of his response to change - his fear of letting go of the past and his struggle to reconcile his attachment to tradition with the evolving world around him.
Additionally, the climactic confrontation leads to a tragic outcome that serves as a cautionary tale. Michael's collapse highlights the detrimental consequences of excessive resistance to change. It underscores the emotional toll of clinging too tightly to the past and tradition, ultimately resulting in personal suffering.
In conclusion, the climactic confrontation between Michael and the road construction crew encapsulates the central conflict of "The Ring" - the clash between tradition and progress. It also offers a window into Michael's character, revealing his resilience, vulnerability, and profound emotional attachment. This moment serves as a poignant representation of the broader human experience of grappling with change while honoring cherished memories and traditions.
11. The Irish short story.
Ans: The short story is, for me, a natural form, as difficult and as easy to talk about as, say, walking. Do we need a theory about going for a walk? About one foot, in front of the other? Probably, yes. "I made the story just as I'd make a poem," writes Raymond Carver, "one line and then the next, and the next. Pretty soon I could see a story - and I knew it was my story, the one I had been wanting to write."
It is the simple things that are the most mysterious.
"Do you know if what you are writing is going to be a short story or a novel?" This is one of the questions writers get asked all the time. The answer is "Yes," because the writer also thinks in shapes. But it is foolish asking a writer how much they know, when they spend so much time trying not to know it.
This is what the American writer Flannery O'Connor did not know about her iconic story "Good Country People": "When I started writing that story, I didn't know there was going to be a PhD with a wooden leg in it. I merely found myself one morning writing a description of two women I knew something about, and before I realised it, I had equipped one of them with a daughter with a wooden leg. I brought in the bible salesman, but I had no idea what I was going to do with him. I didn't know he was going to steal that wooden leg until 10 or 12 lines before he did it, but when I found out that this was what was going to happin I realised it was inevitable."
She does not say when she knew she was writing a short story, as opposed to the first chapter of a novel - or a radio play, or the rough draft of an epic poem - at a guess, it was quite early on. The writer's ignorance may be deliberate, but it plays itself out in an established space. The sentence is one such space; the story is another. In both cases, form and surprise are the same thing, and the pleasures of inevitability are also the pleasures of shape.
This is not an argument for a lyrical as opposed to a social theory of the short story: characters are part of it too; the way people do unexpected things, even if you have invented them yourself. The short story delivers what O'Connor calls "the ex- perience of meaning"; the surprise that comes when things make sense.
Much of what is said about the short story as a form is actu- ally anxiety about the novel - so it is worth saying that we do not know how the novel delivers meaning, but we have some idea of how the short story might. There is something irreducible about it: "A story is a way to say something that can't be said any other way," says O'Connor, "and it takes every word in the story to say what the meaning is." The novel, on the other hand, is not fin- ished by its own meaning, which is why it must grow a structure or impose one; making the move from story to plot.
Short stories seldom creak, the way novels sometimes creak; they are allowed to be easy and deft. Some writers say that the short story is too "easy" to matter much, some say it is the most difficult form of all. But if the argument is about ease as op- posed to difficulty, then surely we should not under value ease. And though it may be easy to write something that looks like a short story (for being not long), it is very hard to write a good one - or to be blessed by a good one - so many of the ones we read are fakes.
The great Irish short story writer Frank O'Connor thought it a pure form, "motivated by its own necessities rather than by our convenience". I am not sure whether the novel is written for our convenience, but it is probably written for our satisfaction. That is what readers complain about with short stories, that they are not "satisfying". They are the cats of literary form; beautiful, but a little too self-contained for some readers' taste. Short stories are, however, satisfying to write, because they are such achieved things. They become themselves even as you write them: they end once they have attained their natural state.
Or some of them do. Others keep going. Others discard the first available meaning for a later, more interesting conclusion. In the interests of truth, some writers resist, backpedal, downplay, switch tacks, come back around a different way. Poe's famous unity of impulse is all very well, but if you know what the im- pulse is already, then it will surely die when you sit down at the desk.
There are stories in The Granta Book of the Irish Short Story that I have chosen because they are beautifully made, like Seán O'Faoláin's "The Trout", and there are some that are slightly un- tidy, but good anyway. This is what O'Faoláin himself called "personality", saying that what he liked in a short story was "punch and poetry". The tension is always between the beauty of the poem and the felt life of the novel form.
Frank O'Connor bridged the gap between the aesthetic and the cultural in a more romantic way. "There is in the short story at its most characteristic," he writes, "something we don't often find in the novel, an intense awareness of human loneliness." His book, The Lonely Voice, which was published in 1963, is still a touchstone in any discussion of the short story form. The question he asked as this collection also asks - was why Irish writers excel at the short story. The answer, for him, lay in the loneliness to be found among "submerged population groups".
These are people on the margins of society; the outlawed, the dreaming and the defeated. "The short story has never had a hero," says O'Connor, offering instead a slightly infantilising idea of "the Little Man" (as though all novels were about big ones). Americans can be "submerged", because America is made up of immigrant communities, but the proper subjects of the short story are: "Gogol's officials, Turgenev's serfs, Maupassant's prostitutes, Chekhov's doctors and teachers," and, we might note, not a single English person of any kind. The novel requires "the concept of a normal society", and though this, O'Connor seems to say, is avail- able to the English, there is in Irish society a kind of hopeless- ness that pushes the artist away. The resulting form, the short story, "remains by its nature remote from the community - ro- mantic, individualistic and intransigent".
In his useful essay on the subject, "Inside Out: A Working Theory of the Short Story", John Kenny says that the short story has flourished "in those cultures where older, usually oral forms, are met head on with the challenge of new literary forms equipped with the idealogy of modernisation". O'Connor's theories place the short story as the genre of the cusp between tradition and modernity. The story is born from the fragmentation of old cer- tainties and the absence of any new ones, and this produces in the writer a lyric response, "a retreat into the self in the face of an increasingly complex... reality". The first thing to say about O'Connor's ideas is that they rang true at the time. Whether or not the short story is, in essence, an assertion of the self- small, but powerfully individual - to the writer it certainly felt that way.
It is interesting to test that sense of "the Little Man" against a new, more confident, Irish reality; one in which good writing continues to thrive. Is "submerged" just another word for "poor"? Is the word "peasant" hovering somewhere around? There is so much nostalgia about Ireland - especially rural Ireland - it is important to say that this is not the fault of its writers. They may be closer to the oral arts of folktale, fable, gossip and anecdote, but speech is also a modern occupation. Irish novels may often reach into the past, but the stories gathered here show that the form is light and quick enough to be contemporary.
If you want to see life as it is lived "now" (whenever the "now" of the story might be), just look at the work of Neil Jor- dan, Roddy Doyle or, indeed, Frank O'Connor. Meanwhile, who- ever thinks the short story harmless for being closer to a "folk" tradition has not read John McGahern, whose stories are the lit- erary equivalent of a hand grenade rolled across the kitchen floor.
Seán O'Faoláin, that other pillar of 20th-century Irish short story, was wary of the lyrical view. In his book The Short Story, published in 1948, he writes: "Irish literature in our time came to its great period of efflorescence in a romantic mood whose concept of a writer was almost like the concept of a priest: you did not just write, you lived writing; it was a vocation; it was part of the national resurgence to be a writer."
Indeed, the number of stories about priests and the sadness of priests that have not made it into this volume are legion parish priests, curates, bishops, all lonely, all sad as they survey the folly of their congregations, and 99% of them celibate. I left most of them out for seeming untrue, and offered instead a couple of stories, by Maeve Brennan and Colm Tóibín, about the more interesting loneliness of the priest's mother.
In the same way that it might be said that much of what is written about the short story form is actually anxiety about the unknowability of the novel (which we think we know so well), perhaps much of what is written about Irish writing is, in fact, anxiety about England. Sometimes, indeed, the terms "England" and "the novel" seem almost interchangeable.
Perhaps it is all a yearning for what O'Connor called "the concept of a society". In its absence, we must do what we can. And if we can't be as good as them, we'll just have to be better, which is to say, more interesting. O'Faoláin says it pretty much straight out: what he likes in a short story is personality, and the problem with the English is that they don't have any. "The fact is that the English do not admire the artistic temperament: they certainly do not demonstrate it." Dullness is their national ambi- tion and preoccupation. "In short, the English way of life is much more social and much less personal and individual than the French."
O'Faoláin can't quite fit America into this scheme: "Why America should produce interesting personalities in the short story I simply do not understand unless it be that American soci- ety is still unconventionalised." Even Frank O'Connor's "sub- merged" Americans surface with some rapidity. I don't want to dishonour O'Connor or O'Faoláin, who are heroes to me now as they were to me in my youth, and I am certainly not saying that the English are interesting, in any way - God forbid. I am just saying it is there, that's all: that national prejudice is still preju- dice, even if you come from a plucky little country such as Ire- land, where it's only endearing really, apart from when it's not.
What interests me is the way O'Connor and O'Faoláin talk, not about how wonderful the Irish are as artists, but how vile they are as critics. O'Faoláin describes the conditions for the Irish artist as "particularly difficult complicated by religion, poli- tics, peasant unsophistication, lack of stimulus, lack of variety, pervasive poverty, censorship, social compression and so on".
An ambitious Irishman, O'Connor writes, "can still expect noth- ing but incomprehension, ridicule and injustice".
Of course, things are different in the 21st century, now that poverty has been banished (or was, for a whole decade) and the success of our writers is officially a matter of national pride. But it is perhaps still true that if Ireland loves you, then you must be doing something wrong. There is a lingering unease about how Irish writers negotiate ideas about "Ireland" (the country we talk about, as opposed to the place where we live), for readers both at home and abroad. We move, in decreasing circles, around the problem O'Faoláin voiced in 1948. "There was hardly an Irish writer who was not on the side of the movement for Irish politi cal independence; immediately it was achieved they became criti cal of the nation. This is what makes all politicians say that writ ers are an unreliable tribe. They are. It is their metier."
I first read O'Connor when I was maybe 10, maybe 12 years of age. I chose his story "The Mad Lomasneys" for the way it stayed with me, quietly, ever since. If you wonder whether this is the selection of a 12-year-old, I admit she is certainly here too, that the reason the short story remains an important form for Irish writers of my generation is because the work of O'Connor and O'Faoláin and Mary Lavin were commonly found on Irish bookshelves, alongside, in my own house, "The Irish Republic" by the nationalist historian Dorothy Macardle, and Three to Get Married by the Rev Fulton J Sheen (the third in question, I was disappointed to discover, being God).
Our sensibilities were shaped by the fine choices of Profes- sor Augustine Martin, who set the stories for the school curricu- lum, among them "The Road to the Shore", a story that revealed as much to me about aesthetic possibilities and satisfactions as it did about nuns. We were taught French by reading Maupassant and German through the stories of Siegfried Lenz, though if the short story is a national form it did not seem to flourish in the national language of Irish, where all the excitement - for me at least was in poetry. The fact remains that I grew up with the idea that short stories were lovely and interesting and useful things, in the way the work of Macardle and Sheen was not.
This may all be very "submerged" of me, but that is to patronise my younger self. I still find the modesty of the form attractive and right. How important is it to be "important" as a writer? The desire to claim a larger authority can provoke work, or it can ruin it. In fact, writers claim different kinds of author- ity: these days a concentration on the short story form is taken as a sign of writerly purity rather than novelistic incompetence, though it still does not pay the bills. (This was not always the case. O'Faoláin lamented the popularity of the form which "is being vulgarised by commercialisation". Readers and editorss he writes, "must often feel discouraged.")
"The Mad Lomasneys" is a story by O'Connor that is not much anthologised. This may be, in part, because it does not present a recognisable idea of "Ireland". It does not deal with the birth of the Irish Free State, like "Guests of the Nation", or wine childhood innocence like "My Oedipus Complex" or "My First Confession". I did not reject these stories for being too "Irish": so many of O'Connor's stories are good, I just wanted to see what happens when you give the bag a shake. I realised, when I did this, there are even more stories about choice and infidelity in the Irish tradition than there are about priests. I don't know what this means; why both O'Faoláin and William Trevor, for example, write endlessly about love and betrayal or, to take the problem further, why "either/or" is a question asked by the work of contemporary writers such as Keith Ridgway and Hugo Hamilton, who then answer "both".
Is choice a particularly Irish problem? What about shame - a streak of which runs through the work collected here? Humilia- tion, perhaps? Maybe we should call that "the problem of power". There is also the problem of the family, which is the fundamen- tal (perhaps the only) unit of Irish culture, and one which func- tions beyond our choosing. Until very recently, you could only marry once in Ireland - though this does not answer the question of how many times you can love, or what love is. Catholicism may give Irish writers an edge when it comes to talking about the larger questions, but you could say the adulteries in Trevor owe as much to Shakespearean comedy as to the problem of the Catholic church. In fact, I think Trevor owes much to the En- glish short story tradition (as does the work of Clare Boylan), but let us not confuse things here. Let us keep everyone in the one box, and then talk about the box, its meaning and dimen- sions, and then let us paint the box green.
So, perhaps we should move beyond the box to ask the ques- tion: are all short stories - Russian, French, American and Irish in fact about loneliness? I am not sure. This may be part of writers' nonsense about themselves, or O'Connor's nonsense about being Irish, or it may be just be the general nonsense of being alive. Connection and the lack of it is one of the great themes of the short story, but social factors change, ideas of the romantic change, and the more you think about literary forms the smaller your ideas become. Life itself may be a lonely business (or not): the most I have ever managed to say about the short story is that it is about a change. Something has changed. Something is known at the end of a story - or nearly known - that was not known before. "We are on our own" may be one such insight, but others are surely possible.
I put the selection together as an Irish writer - which is to say, as one of O'Faoláin's "unreliable tribe". Some of the stories made me close the book with a slam. "Music at Annahullion" by Eugene McCabe, for example, defied me to read anything else that day, or that week, to match it. I found it difficult to finish Maeve Brennan's "An Attack of Hunger", because it came so close to the pain it described (is this a good way to whet the reader's appetite, I wonder.) The world in Claire Keegan's "Men and Women" stayed with me from the day I first encountered it. I looked for stories that had made me pause when I read them the first time around: stories such as Colum McCann's "Every- thing in this Country Must" that I finished in the knowledge that I could not, in any conceivable universe, have written such a thing myself.
Perhaps Irish writers, like Irish actors, rely more than is usual on personality in that balance of technique and the self that is the secret of style. The trick might be in its suppression, indeed, an effort that must fail, over time. John Banville, Edna O'Brien, McGahern, Tóibín - these writers become more distinctive as people, even as their sentences become more distinctively their own. It is a jealous kind of delight to find on the page some inimicable thing, a particular passion, and if the writer is dead, it is delightful and sad to meet a sensibility that will not pass this way again. The shock of recognition runs through this anthol- ogy. As much as possible I have tried to choose those stories in which a writer is most himself.
A writer has many selves, of course, and an editor has many and mixed criteria - some of them urgent, as I have described, and some more easy. The selection is from writers who were born in the 20th century (cheating a little for Elizabeth Bowen, who was born in 1899); I wanted to put together a book that was varied and good to read, with a strong eye to the contemporary.
If this selection has anything to say about Irish writing, then it does so by accident. I chose the stories because I liked them, and then stood back a little to see what my choice said - about me, perhaps, but also about how tastes change over time. There is a deal of what O'Faoláin called "personality" at play in the stories chosen here, but, at a guess, not much that he would recognise as "charm", or even (God save the mark) as "Irish charm". It is too easy to move from "personality" to a mannered version of the self, and this can seem a little hokum to us as the years pass. It is possible that, as truths emerged about Ireland, or refused to emerge, Irish prose writers became more blunt or more lyrical, or both at the same time.
Folktale and short story pulled apart over the years - a split made radical in Éilís Ní Dhuibhne's "Midwife to the Fairies" only to rejoin in the recent work of Claire Keegan. Fashions are darker now. New work is sometimes tainted by misogyny, and this seems to me as lazy a reach as sentimentality was to the writers of the 50s and who knows? as likely to look a bit stupid, in years to come (perhaps this is what makes Patrick Boyle's "Meles Vulgaris" so amazing, for being out of joint with his time.) But these are all trends rather than truths, and only to be noted in passing. Time makes some stories more distant, while others come near, for a while. What I wanted to do was to select work that would bring a number of Irish writers close to the reader, today.
Some great Irish writers - Sebastian Barry, Patrick McCabe, Dermot Healy - love the stretch of the novel or they love mis- rule. Some, such as Deirdre Madden or Claire Kilroy, need space to think or to plot. But this book celebrates a fact which I have so far failed to explain: that so many Irish writers also love the short story. They defy current wisdom about the books business and, in their continuing attention to the form, refuse to do what they are told. This may be partly because of the small but crucial distance Irish writers keep from the international publishing in- dustry. The stories in this collection were written for their own sake. They were written in rooms in Monaghan or Dublin, in New York, Dún Laoghaire, Devon, Wexford, Belfast, Bucharest. It seems to me remarkable that the members of this scattered tribe, each in their solitude, has managed such a conversation. The stories in this anthology talk to each other in many and un- expected ways. Is this another aspect of the short story that we find unsettling: its promiscuity, its insistence on being partial, glancing, and various?
My romantic idea of Ireland did not survive the killings in the north, and the realisation, in the 80s, that Irish women were considered far too lovely for contraception: it foundered, you might say, between Dorothy Macardle, and Canon Sheen. Per- haps as a result, I found it difficult to lose myself in the dream that was the recent economic boom. My romantic idea of the writer, meanwhile, did not survive the shift into motherhood - I might have felt lonely and wonderful, but with small children, I just never got the time. But though I am not a romantic, I am quite passionate about the whole business of being an Irish writer. O'Faoláin was right: we are great contrarians. When there is much rubbish talked about a country, when the air is full of large ideas about what we are, or what we are not, then the writer offers truths that are delightful and small. We write against our own foolishness, not anyone else's. In which case the short story is as good a place as any other to keep things real.
Q. Themes of Silence in Irish Short Fiction.
Ans: If silence in Irish short stories is part and parcel of the generic and aesthetic characteristics of the modern short story, in Irish short fiction these formal patterns of silence often reso- nate with the exploration of silence as an aspect of plot and theme. In critical analyses of the uses of silence in Irish fiction, silence is mostly seen in a negative light: as the result of personal or social trauma, as the consequence of tyranny or oppression or as the impossibility of expressing what society censures as taboo. In interpersonal relations too, silence is often construed as the corollary of secrets, of what must remain hidden in a family or community. Nevertheless, in recent short stories in particular. silence also often figures as a positive element, whether as a mark of respect for others or an ideal of communion that by- passes speech. In what follows I will provide examples for each of these six thematic forms of silence-trauma, tyranny, taboo, secret, respect and communion-before in a final part zooming in on some recent stories by Claire Keegan so as to show how these themes of silence are often intertwined, reflecting the am- bivalent value of silence in contemporary Irish society.
The association between trauma and silence is well-estab- lished in psychotherapy and trauma studies. In Irish literature, silence has been linked to such national traumas as the famine or the civil war, which have long been suppressed in history and memory. In her analysis of late nineteenth-century regional short fiction about the famine, Marguérite Corporaal reads generic conventions of condensation, acceleration and ellipsis as "play[ing] a significant role in repressing the horrors of hunger as well as, paradoxically, in transferring the severe local trauma of this turbulent era to transnational audiences" (2015, 23). Trauma can be of a personal nature as well, as in Edna O'Brien's "A Scandalous Woman" (2003), where Eily literally stops talk- ing after an unwanted pregnancy forces her to marry the man who all but raped her: "Eily was silence itself (...) even to her mother she refused to speak, and when asked a question she bared her teeth like one of the dogs" (256). O'Brien's famous last line, "our was indeed was a land of shame, a land of murder, and a land of strange, throttled, sacrificial women" (265), moves from this single instance of silencing to the silence of women under patriarchy more in general.
Eily's personal trauma is therefore connected to the larger patriarchal structures of oppression, which are also a recurrent source of silence and silencing in Irish short fiction. In fact, re- versing the silencing of women under patriarchy has been one of the dominant trends of Irish women's fiction since the 1970s. Although short fiction as a rule lends itself less well to historical topics, the rewriting projects of Éilís Ní Dhuibhne's The Pale Gold of Alaska (2003), Emma Donoghue's The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits (2002) and Martina Devlin's Truth and Dare (2018), effectively give voice to historical women silenced in fiction and fact (D'hoker 2016). Maeve Kelly's stories about the oppression of women in rural communities of 1980s Ireland similarly draw attention to the close ties between submission and silence. In "Orange Horses" (1991), for instance, domestic abuse seems an accepted part of the traveller community, where anything a woman does can be taken as insubordination. In the face of such oppression, the women counsel each other secrecy and silence: "Her sisters had always given her plenty of advice. Don't get too fat or you won't be able to run away when he wants to bate you. (...) Keep half of the money for yourself. Her mother gave her one piece of advice. Keep silent and never show a man the contempt you feel for him. It is like spitting in the face of God" (34-5). Elsie learns "her mother's secret of silence" (36) and keeps a stash of money buried under her caravan. When the caravan burns down and the bodies of Elsie and her daughter are not found, it is up to the reader to decide whether they have escaped or finally succumbed to repression. As McDonald notes about silence in a postcolonial context, an "imposed muteness" is in Kelly's story "transformed into cunning reticence" as si- lence becomes a strategy of resistance (251). Moreover, in mak- ing Elsie the focaliser of this story, Kelly gives her a voice, thereby critiquing the patriarchal tyranny that seeks to suppress her. As Simon Workman observes, "Kelly's fictional treatment of do- mestic abuse, one of the most nefarious issues facing Irish women, displays her most radical attempt to articulate an emancipatory perspective within a narrative world that exposes a virulently oppressive state and society" (2019, 312). In this way, Workman argues (313), Kelly's short fiction is at one with her work for the Limerick Refuge for Battered Wives and with her contribution to the government report about domestic abuse, aptly entitled Breaking the Silence (1992).
The project of breaking the silence resulting from structures of oppression, exclusion and disempowerment has received quite some attention in Irish studies, from postcolonial as well as femi- nist perspectives. As Maria Beville and Sara Dybris McQuaid claim, "in terms of understanding Irish culture and society, it is invaluable to realise the profound implications of silence for narratives of history and identity" (2012, 3), whereby silence can be both an aspect of muteness, when one is not allowed to speak, and one of cuteness, of deciding not to speak. McDonald's reading of short stories about the Troubles similarly points out how the story's narrative strategies of "silence and refraction"- ellipsis and eclipse-dovetail with the "difficulties of articula- tion, expression and communication in a fraught and fractured political context" (258). In the short stories of Mary Beckett, he continues, "a patriarchal dimension to the persecution and mute-ness of the heroines profitably complicates a one-dimensional understanding of political oppression in terms of sectarian su- premacy" (258).
Especially in its feminist dimensions, the project of giving voice to the marginalised and suppressed often involves address- ing topics which patriarchal society has long outlawed as taboo.
One could think of the female desire and sexuality treated in the stories of Edna O'Brien, the lesbian love represented in Mary Dorcey's A Noise from the Woodshed (1989), the conflicted ex- perience of motherhood dramatised in several of Anne Enright's stories or the still controversial topics of abortion, gender change and body-shaming tackled in Lucy Caldwell's Multitudes (2016) and Intimacies (2021). While the social taboos addressed in Irish short fiction do not differ from those treated in longer fiction, strategies of eclipse and ellipsis characteristic of the modern short story facilitate the oblique but powerful treatment of these taboo topics. In her discussion of Irish short stories which tackle the taboo of old age, for instance, Heather Ingman notes that "[t]he short story form lends itself particularly well to the subject of ageing" (2018, 125). She singles out in particular the short story's use of epiphany, "moments when middle-aged characters become aware of time passing", and of subjective, ecliptic narration to validate the inner consciousness of the demented, thereby coun- tering "society's tendency to write off [their] inner world (...) as of no importance" (147, 22).
The modern short story's elliptical form is also well-suited to staging the ramifications of secrets in interpersonal relations. While these secrets may be related to larger social silences of trauma, taboo and tyranny, in many stories their force is particu- larly felt in the smaller settings of a marriage, family or small community. Thus, secrets and silences mark the dysfunctional marriages explored in Maeve Brennan's Dublin stories as well as the sibling relations in Mary Lavin's Grimes stories (D'hoker 2013, 2016, 69-7). Silence as the inability to communicate be-tween mother and daughter is also powerfully explored in Edna O'Brien's "A Rose in the Heart of New York" (2003), where the visit of Rose's mother to New York fails to result in a reconcili- ation and rekindling of their old affection. Her mother's death, soon after the visit, leaves Rose with a silence even more devas- tating than before:
She wanted something, some communiqué. But there was no such thing. A new wall had arisen, stronger and sturdier than before. Their life together and all those exchanges were like so many spilt feelings, and she looked to see some sign or hear some murmur. Instead, a silence filled the room, and there was a vaster silence beyond, as if the house itself had died or had been carefully put down to sleep. (404)
A sustained engagement with the insidious nature of secrets characterises William Trevor's stories (Clark 2001). Marta Goszczynska links Trevor's preoccupation with secrets to such formal characteristics of his fiction as "discontinuities (includ- ing shifts in point of view, prolepses and analepses) and silences that riddle his texts, many of which are explicitly signalled through graphic means: blanks between paragraphs and ubiqui- tous asterisks" (100). Paul Delaney notes similarly, "[n]ot only is silence a crucial component in the narrative technique of Cheat- ing at Canasta, it also feeds into the subject matter of the text, as secrets are frequently kept and characters choose not to talk or are silenced" (2013, 191).
In Trevor's posthumous collection, Last Stories (2018), se- crets and silences again abound between the characters. In "Two Women", a boarding girl unwillingly learns the truth about her biological mother; "An Idyll in Winter" tells the story of an adul- terous affair; in "The Crippled Man", a woman keeps the death of her crippled cousin a secret in order to preserve his pension; and in "The Piano Teacher's Pupil", a boy silently steals a small object of his teacher every time he comes for a lesson. Yet, in several of these posthumous stories, silence is connoted posi- tively: a character's remaining silent is seen as a mark of re-spect, sympathy or tribute to another person. The two Eastern European painters who witness the woman's act of deceit in "The Crippled Man", for instance, are repeatedly described as "not saying anything", "not speaking", working "in silence" (2018, 10-12). Their reticence, which exceeds their limited knowledge of English, makes the woman's secret safe with them: "they did not say this was a grave, or remark on how the rank grass, in a wide straight path from the gate, had been crushed and recov- ered" (32). It is a form of respect for the woman, whose "history was not theirs to know, even though they were now part of it themselves" (33).
Silence as reticence also pervades "The Piano Teacher's Pu- pil". The teacher knows her most gifted pupil is stealing things, but she keeps silent about it; just as the boy himself is always silent, safe for the beautiful music he plays for her. The teacher's unease about this betrayal is resolved, however, in an epiphany at the end of the story when she accepts the mystery of the other as of a kind with the mystery of music and life itself:
Long afterwards, the boy came back-coarse, taller, rougher in ungainly adolescence. He did not come to return her property, but walked straight in and sat down and played for her. The mys- tery there was in the music was in his smile when he finished, while he waited for her approval. And looking at him, Miss Night- ingale realized what she had not before: that mystery was a mar- vel in itself. She had no rights in this. She had sought too much in trying to understand how human frailty connected with love or with the beauty the gifted brought. There was a balance struck: it was enough. (2018, 9)
This positive sense of silence, as a mark of respect for an- other person, a form of openness to alterity, has also been com- mented on by Beville and McQuaid, who refer to Luce Irigaray's observation: "the first word we have to speak to each other is our capacity or acceptance of being silent (...) silence is the word, or the speaking, of the threshold a space of possible meeting,of possible hospitality to one another" (cited in Beville and McQuaid, 2).
The larger sense of mystery evoked in the closing moment of "The Piano Teacher's Pupil" is also connected to the formal strat- egy of the epiphany, with its long tradition of "healing silences" (Bindeman, 3). For, as Woolf's term "moment of being" sug- gests, the moment of (epistemological) illumination is often ac- companied, sometimes superseded, by an immersive, ontologi- cal experience (D'hoker 2008, 64–65). In Irish short fiction too, many epiphanies consist of a moment of silent communion with nature, other people, the world, even God. The closing epiphany of "The Dead" readily comes to mind, but George Moore's "Homesickness" (1902) provides an even earlier example. Its ending evokes James Bryden's "silent life" as consisting of "the green hillside, and the bog lake and the rushes about it, and the greater lake in the distance, and behind it the blue lines of wan- dering hills" (Moore 2000, 31). If in Moore's story this ideal of a silent, spiritual communion with the ancestral land in Ireland is always already lost, in more recent short fiction, it resurfaces in a more positive way in moments of communion with nature. In Claire Louise Bennett's "Morning, Noon and Night" (2015) for instance, the character's self-sought silence and isolation becomes a means of coming closer to nature. In brief epiphanic moments, the silence can even give way to a kind of transcen- dence:
I would listen to a small beetle skirting the hairline across my forehead. I would listen to a spider coming through the grass towards the blanket. I'd listen to a squabbling pair of blue tits see-sawing behind me. I'd listen to the woodpigeon's wings whack through the middle branches of an ivy-clad beech tree and the starlings on the wires overhead, and the seagulls and swifts much higher still. And each sound was a rung that took me further upwards, and in this way it was possible for me to get up really high, to climb up past the clouds towards a bird-like exuberance. (31-32) In other contemporary Irish short stories too, silence seems to take on more positive overtones than allowed for by the "break- ing the silence" paradigm, which has tended to dominate in Irish studies. The result is a more nuanced and ambivalent notion of silence, which I will explore a little further in the final section of this chapter, by looking at the different forms of silence in Claire Keegan's short stories.
-00000-
![The Ring By Brayan Machahon Question Answers Alternative English (AEC) [Gauhati University FYUGP B.A/BCom/BSc 1st Sem]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJRBt9fn4YeF-O_KjD1tou3LZVOEieRv8rTIYEOl0vOskz6sHxP3xwtsUvFqBIJIfbO53qgQuTdCa77Mzv3taUAuOjZ2bgQ-JKgtJteyBiMTAPR_QaJqETWrcXDkYbqqnK_F5Utjykai1dv4ZKQH8V_9UW-Ej876Kv598qQWu5ktT1_vxdVaTkCy-hSq2G/w200-h200-p-k-no-nu/1000335675.webp)