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In late August of 2002, Dublin's city center got a new traffic pattern courtesy of the city council. With a tech boom that revved up the economy and the cars that come with prosperity -- funny how light traffic used to be when 20 percent of the population was unemployed -- it was time to manage the flow of cars and buses better. But as these things go, it was a fiasco. The signs were unclear, introducing an abbreviation system no one understood and clarifying it in Irish. Even the Department of Transportation was angry about the city council's actions. It was one of those urban nightmares that probably was inevitable, perhaps could never have gone well, and while Dublin surely can't be lacking in modern day satirists, it's one of those situations that just cries out for Flann O'Brien.
Flann O'Brien, Myles na Gopaleen, or Brian O'Nolan -- depending on how you knew him -- was undoubtedly one of the sharpest commentators on Irish life ever. He had a terrific eye and ear for the humor, absurdity, and toughness of Irish life in the mid-20th century, and he shared this, to the great (and lasting) delight of the public, through his novels and regular newspaper column in the Irish Times. Happily, Dalkey Archive has been republishing his novels and collections of the columns for all to enjoy...and chortle and giggle over.
O'Brien's final novel was The Dalkey Archive, originally published in 1964. It's the story of two young men who go for a swim and stop to help a man with a stubbed toe along the way. And reflecting the calm, understated tone of the novel, it's tempting to leave the summary at that.
But it's just too irresistible to point out that encounters with a mad scientist, St. Augustine, frighteningly pragmatic girlfriends, Jesuits, various officers of the law, and James Joyce (perhaps) follow. Along with plots to destroy the world, the stalking of dead literary figures, assessments of the merits of various monastic orders, and the burglary of a private home with the assistance of the police.
This mix is the really lovely thing about the novel. O'Brien's tone is so laid back and meandering that it provides the perfect foil for the intense absurdity of the situations the two men, Mick in particular, find themselves in. When you step back from the story, none of it makes sense, but it's so intensely enjoyable being there -- why bother questioning it? Here's one example. Mick is having a drink (or a few) with Sergeant Fottrell, philosopher king of the bicycle world, who explains molecular theory to Mick:
- If you hit a rock hard enough and often enough with an iron hammer, some mollycules of the rock will go into the hammer and contrariwise likewise.
- That is well known, he agreed.
- The gross and net result of it is that people who spend most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky roadsteads of the parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycles as a result of the interchanging of the mollycules of each of them, and you would be surprised at the number of people in country parts who are nearly half people and half bicycles.
Mick made a little gasp of astonishment that made a sound like the air coming from a bad puncture.
- Good Lord, I suppose you're right.
- And you would be unutterably flibbergasted if you knew the number of stout bicycles that partake serenely of humanity.
O'Brien's newspaper columns provide more of the same. Dalkey Archive Press has reprinted two collections, The Best of Myles and Further Cuttings from Cruiskeen Lawn (only the latter is reviewed here). O'Brien began writing them in the Irish Times in 1940 and continued on until 1966, the year of his death. While he experimented briefly with pseudonyms (including "the Cruiskeen Lawn" or "Little Jug", referred to in the title of this collection) he ended up writing as Myles na Gopaleen.
In these columns, anything was a potential target for O'Brien's wit, including himself. Some of it is pretty obscure at this point, and the lack of clarity in the layout and design of the text does not help. It can be hard to tell when one column begins or ends, and none of them after the first are dated or titled. But there are such gems in the book -- especially when O'Brien writes about conversations, whether his own or those overheard in pubs or restaurants. He records lengthy one-way phone calls, incoherent conversations he gets into with pub customers, and confused tourists who get even more confused when asking for directions in Dublin. His tone is never patronizing towards the befuddled or inebriated people he runs across; instead, he mainly reflects his own bafflement at his fellow Dubliners.
In other cases, such as the majority of the "Controversy, debate" section, O'Brien directly takes on people he thinks should be taken down a notch. Sometimes this includes his own editor:
"Today, undismayed by many a reverse, I take up the cudgels on behalf of the Irish nation against the historic enemy of the Irish nation -- the Editor of the Irish Times."
Then O'Brien takes up the defense of the editor against a writer at a different paper. This defense and the resultant mocking of the writer (Alfred O'Rahilly), went on for at least eight columns, five of which are reprinted here. O'Brien's strategy of inflating trivial points and then completely undermining them must have left the targets of his attacks sputtering with frustration. This kind of mockery is not quite mean-spirited, and as a reader -- not a target -- it is a beautiful thing to behold.
Which brings us back to the Dublin traffic situation. While it would be easy to insult the intelligence or deride the lack of planning skills of the city council, it's almost too easy. Instead it's pleasant to muse upon the many ways Flann O'Brien could have gotten his jabs in. Imaginary dialogs between tourists trying to figure out where "an lar" is and if it's a must-see according to the guidebook (isn't it the Parliament, or is it a jail?). Perhaps a domestic scene between a councilwoman and her husband after he wrecked the car making a now forbidden turn. Or, of course, the inevitable conversation over pints down at the pub. Satirizing stupid behavior is harder than it looks and masters like Flann O'Brien are always in demand.
-- Kristen St. John
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About the Publisher:
Yes, Dalkey Archive is named after O'Brien's Dalkey Archive. The press specializes in the promotion of neglected masterpieces, and are the home to the paperback editions of William Gass's masterwork, The Tunnel, as well as a majority of Raymond Queneau's books in translation.
They published the first English translations of Julian Rios, everything by Nicholas Mosley, and are a must-know press for any fan of postmodernism. The press also publishes a fabulous, near-indispensable journal, The Review of Contemporary Fiction, and a handful from Arno Schmidt, the Joyce of Germany.
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