translators-from-ireland

"Beloved, it is morn! A redder berry on the thorn, A deeper yellow on the corn, For this good day new-born."

"The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!"

"Youth’s bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled— All hath crumbled But grief alone!Whither, O whither Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruin’d and grey Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded— Ah, where are they?Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night: Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I bless’d the Giver With hush’d delight.Youth’s illusions One by one Have pass’d like clouds That the sun look’d on. While morning shone, How purple their fringes! How ashy their tinges When that was gone!As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp— As meteors are quench’d In a stagnant swamp— Thus Charlemagne’s camp Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond valley, And the Wonderful Lamp,And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun’s rambles, And Crusoe’s isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii’s daughters ’Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile,And all that the pen Of Fancy can write Must vanish in manhood’s Misty light; Squire and Knight, And damosel’s glances, Sunny romances, So pure and bright!These have vanish’d, And what remains? Life’s budding garlands Have turn’d to chains— Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O’er desert plains."

"The cherished traditions of a people, however extravagant they may appear, are in every instance valuable sources of information. No matter what amount of error may have been heaped upon them in their downward course through ages—no matter what incrustations may have formed around them—still like the statue in the block of marble the original form of truth is there, and requires only the discriminating hands of the historian to reveal."

"It will all come right, if you try. The beginning is not everything."

"Wee leave Creete Country; and our sayls unwrapped uphoysing, With woodden vessel thee rough seas deepelye we furrowe. When we fro land harbours too mayne seas gyddye dyd enter Voyded of al coast sight with wild fluds roundly bebayed, A watrye clowd gloomming, ful above mee clampred, apeered, A sharp storme menacing, from sight beams soonye rejecting: Thee flaws with rumbling, thee wroght fluds angrye doe jumble: Up swel thee surges, in chauffe sea plasshye we tumble: With the rayn, is daylight through darcknesse mostye bewrapped, And thundring lightbolts from torneclowds fyrye be flasshing. Wee doe mis oure passadge through fel fluds boysterus erring, Oure pilot eke, Palinure, through dymnesse clowdye bedusked In poinccts of coompasse dooth stray with palpabil erroure. Three dayes in darcknesse from bright beams soony repealed, And three nights parted from lightning starrye we wandered, The fourth day foloing thee shoare, neere setled, apeered And hils uppeaking; and smoak swift steamed to the skyward. Oure sayls are strucken, we roa Furth with speedines hastye, And the sea by our mariners with the oars cleene canted is harrowd On shoars of strophades from storme escaped I landed, For those plats Strophades in languadge Greekish ar highted, With the sea coucht Islands. Where foule bird foggye Celaeno And Harpy is nestled: sence franckling Phines his housroume From theym was sunderd, and fragments plentye remooved. No plage more perilous, no monster grislye more ouglye, No stigian vengaunce lyke too theese carmoran haggards. Theese fouls lyke maydens are pynde with phisnomye palish; With ramd cramd garbadge, thire gorges draftye be gulled, With tallants prowling, theire face wan withred in hunger, With famin upsoaken."

"Scant had he thus spoken: when that from mountenus hil toppe Al wee see the giaunt, with his hole flock lowbylyke hagling. Namde the shepeherd Polyphem, to the wel knowne sea syd aproching. A fowle fog monster, great swad, deprived of eyesight: His fists and stalcking are propt with trunck of a pynetree. His flock him doe folow, this charge him chieflye rejoyceth. In grief al his coomfort on neck his whistle is hanged. When that to the seasyde the swayne Longolius hobbled, Hee rinst in the water the drosse from his late bored eyelyd. His tusk grimly gnashing, in seas far waltred, he groyleth; Scantly doo the water surmounting reache to the shoulders. But we being feared, from that coast hastly remooved, And with us embarcked the Greekish suitur, as amply His due request merited, wee chopt off softly the cables. Swift wee sweepe the sea froth with nimble lustilad oare striefe. The noise he perceaved then he turning warily lifteth. But when he consider’d that wee prevented his handling, And that from foloing our ships the fluds hye revockt him, Loud the lowbie brayed with belling monsterous eccho; The water hee shaketh, with his out cryes Italie trembleth, And with a thick thundring the fyerde forge Aetna rebounded. Then runs from mountayns and woods the rowncival helswarme Of Cyclopan lurdens to the shoars in coompanie clustring. Far we se them distaunt, us grimly and vainely beholding. Up to the sky reatching, the breetherne swish swash of Aetna. A folck moaste fulsoom, for sight most fitlye resembling Trees of loftye cipers, with thickned multitud oak rowes; Or Joves great forest, or woods of mightye Diana. Feare thear us enforced with forcing speediness headlong To swap off our cables, and fal to the seas at aventure."

"A wind fane changabil huf puffe Always is a woomman."

"Now manhood and garbroyls I chaunt, and martial horror. I blaze thee captayne first from Troy cittye repairing, Lyke wandring pilgrim too famosed Italie trudging, And coast of Lavyn: soust wyth tempestuus hurlwynd, On land and sayling, bi Gods predestinat order: But chiefe through Junoes long fostred deadlye revengment. Martyred in battayls, ere towne could statelye be buylded, Or Gods theare setled: thence flitted thee Latin ofspring, Thee mote of old Alban: thence was Rome peereles inhaunced. My muse shew the reason, what grudge or what furye kendled Of Gods thee Princesse, through so cursd mischevus hatred, Wyth sharp sundrye perils too tugge so famus a captayne. Such festred rancoure doo Sayncts celestial harbour? A long buylt citty theare stood, Carthago so named, From the mouth of Tybris, from land eke of Italye seaverd, Possest wyth Tyrians, in streingh and ritches abounding. Theare Juno, thee Princes her Empyre wholye reposed, Her Samos owtcasting, heere shee dyd her armonye settle, And warlick chariots, heere chiefly her joylitye raigned. This towne shee labored too make thee gorgeus empresse, Of towns and regions, her drift yf destenye furthred. But this her hole meaning a southsayd mysterie letted That from thee Troians should branch a lineal ofspring, Which would thee Tyrian turrets quite batter a sunder, And Libye land likewise wyth warlick victorye conquoure."

"The real writers are tenacious creatures, and they found a way long before there were writers workshops and creative writing courses in the universities. In the absence of formal frameworks, personal initiatives and informal frameworks become more important."

"The ‘novel’ is a publishing convention that deforms the story. If more attention were given to form there would be fewer novels and better stories. There's no reason a publisher can’t put out a story that's a hundred or even seventy pages long. But a publisher will look at a story like that as defective novel, ineligible for shortlists. It should be in a collection. Or pumped full of air, turned into a novel… It's a pity. You see some good writers behaving like performing monkeys."

"I was kind of solitary. I'd spend a lot of time on my own, reading books. I didn't integrate very well."

"I called the boss a ‘fucker’ one day – not to his face, but it got back to him – so that was the end."

"I used to write in the Rathmines public library. I was on the dole and living in a bedsit down the road. It was too cold to write at home. I had one of those meters that you had to put 50p into. So I'd go down the library every morning and after lunch to scribble stuff in longhand in the study room there."

"I don't want to become the kind of writer who's putting out a book every two years. Money is not my primary concern. I've been broke before and I'll do it again."

"I think if you've got something to say and you can say it with less, that's the way to go."

"I meet people who tell me things like, ‘I read your book in two days’. Please don’t do that. These things take me years to write. Slow down. Everything you read, slow down. Reading is our great act of resistance in this age of speed and carelessness."

"I write to discover something, not so much to set down what I already know. I see ignorance and confusion all around me. I see these things in myself. I'm subject of all kinds of fears and conflicting desires. But one of those desires, the sanest one, is to see through the confusion."

"Tolstoy's War and Peace is overblown – do yourself a favour and read his Death of Ivan Ilych."

"It's practically my subject, my theme: solitude and community; the weirdness and terrors of solitude: the stifling and consolations of community. Also, the consolations of solitude."

"Include me in your lamentations."

"And in a disused shed in Co. Wexford, Deep in the grounds of a burnt-out hotel, Among the bathtubs and the washbasins A thousand mushrooms crowd to a keyhole."