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I've had a growing admiration for John Moriarty's ideas over the past year or so. My first introduction to him was via a short video interview with him, during which I constantly found myself nodding in excited agreement with most everything he said. One moment I would either think "Wow! I thought I was the only one who had felt this or noticed that - but he gets it, too." Then, he would say something else and I would be floored by its originality and complete aptness, and it would be an angle on something I had never thought of.
I found some of the ideas in Invoking Ireland much easier to express with these quotes and pictures. You can click them to see larger versions.
So began my occasional reading of an interview here, an obituary there (John Moriarty died in 2007), some small pieces of his writing available on line and so on. His books were a little hard to locate at first. They are more readily available from sellers like Amazon, now, or you can go direct to his fabulous publishers Lilliput Press. So, let's talk about my favourite of his books, which is also the most accessible - Invoking Ireland.
The book has been a joy, and not such heavy going as I had feared. You would find some basic knowledge of Irish mythology useful, it's true, and maybe a smattering of Irish history, as well. However, the book also has a glossary. The first couple of chapters drew me in. The theme of our existence in various realms of reality, how they mesh or exist in parallel - what this means for our shapeshifting nature between human soul and animal soul, is introduced with gentle enticement.
As the author leads us into the experiences of Amhairghin Glúngheal, Fintan mac Bochra, Cormac mac Airt, Conaire Mór and a host of others, he writes mostly in the first person. Knowing John Moriarty's personal story somewhat, the openings of many chapters had me thinking "Ah! Now he is telling his own story." Yes and no. I think that all Moriarty's works are autobiographical in a sense, as all gnostic writing must ultimately be, yet this book is also every Irishman's story, and every human being's story. It's not all easy going. Questions are asked as the book progresses, and the answers are not always satisfactory, it seems to me, but there is great honesty and humanity in the attempt.
The fact is, I did find it a heavy climb uphill through the first half of this book, once the romance of the first chapters had passed. Then, suddenly, we seemed to reach the brow of a hill, and find ourselves descending into the ease of a Kerry Puck Fair, and the story of a man forever changed by his own traditions - or perhaps I should say forever restored. This is followed by another very easily read chapter, entitled "Shaman". Again, I asked myself in the reading of it, whether the first person telling was just a convenience or more of a confession. This chapter is one of my favourites, and reads almost as a guided visualisation. A mere four pages, it is one I know I will return to again and again. It tells of a dream or vision, or perhaps a journey into another realm. The writing here is so much of one solid piece, that I struggle to find a simple quote.
Shaman tells a story of the smoke of a turf fire, of turf itself, and of an inner prehistoric landscape experienced. Speaking of the sods he'd bring from the shed each night for his fire -- "They were older, I'd remind myself, than Ireland's oldest folktale," Moriarty tells us. "What that folktale was I didn't know, but how strange it was, crossing a yard at nightfall with a prehistoric landscape in a bag on my back." He goes on to tell how one night he sat by his smoking fire, and the reek of it worked a mystical intoxication on him, and he was transported to that ancient landscape. He found an ancient pair of boots there, and putting them on, he began a strange journey. There was a lake which "didn't mirror some things it should mirror. It didn't mirror a red horse on a ridge. It didn't mirror its own islands." He continued on, experiencing a wood stinking of death, and experiencing life as a tree being felled, until finally, "The two sides of the path came together. I entered thick darkness and I didn't see the house until, seeing an old man by the fire, I realized I'd already walked into it." Here, after a riddling conversation with the old man, the adventurer undergoes a sort of agony and death, until, "it death-rattled the life I'd been living, modern life, out of me."
Shaman tells a story of the smoke of a turf fire, of turf itself, and of an inner prehistoric landscape experienced. Speaking of the sods he'd bring from the shed each night for his fire -- "They were older, I'd remind myself, than Ireland's oldest folktale," Moriarty tells us. "What that folktale was I didn't know, but how strange it was, crossing a yard at nightfall with a prehistoric landscape in a bag on my back." He goes on to tell how one night he sat by his smoking fire, and the reek of it worked a mystical intoxication on him, and he was transported to that ancient landscape. He found an ancient pair of boots there, and putting them on, he began a strange journey. There was a lake which "didn't mirror some things it should mirror. It didn't mirror a red horse on a ridge. It didn't mirror its own islands." He continued on, experiencing a wood stinking of death, and experiencing life as a tree being felled, until finally, "The two sides of the path came together. I entered thick darkness and I didn't see the house until, seeing an old man by the fire, I realized I'd already walked into it." Here, after a riddling conversation with the old man, the adventurer undergoes a sort of agony and death, until, "it death-rattled the life I'd been living, modern life, out of me."
| Another theme in the book is that of Manannán and the silver branch, which in Irish mythology was a token of a fair and pleasant otherworld. The branch played beautiful music which lulled its hearers into slumber, but at the same time often served as a sort of passport to this other realm. The author refers repeatedly to Ireland as Manannán's "lost cause" and of the audibility of the music of the silver branch across Ireland and across the world. At the same time, he is quick to remind us that "the music of what happens" is also a manifestation of the sacred, and an ever-present token of the otherworld in our own. |  John Moriarty |
Part 2 of Invoking Ireland contains chapters on Lugh, on Manannan, and on Cú Roí. The chapter on Macha, worked as a beautifully crafted piece of storytelling, is another favourite of mine. There is quite a long chapter on Danu, as well, which is very moving, containing some startling moments of descriptive clarity -- both of nature and of the author's love for Danu. An understanding of a woman's love, bound up with the unfathomable love of a goddess, somehow comes to crystalise in the a description of a rowan tree growing there between the hills known as the paps of Danu. Storytelling and imagery rule here, as they always seem to, with Moriarty.
Much of this book is a commentary on what Ireland has been, what it has become, but also the hope of what it could be again. Written at a time before the current economic woes, when Ireland was still very much the "Celtic Tiger", the author is keenly aware of what is being lost amid the success, and of what was lost in previous centuries. Moriarty used to say that he felt like he should show a passport when leaving his little rural corner of Ireland and entering the modern country. This book is mostly an otherworldly one, and yet the clues are there, encouraging not just the Irish, but all of us to look for some depth in things again, to learn to go with the grain of the land and its gods again. When this kind of commentary does arise in Invoking Ireland, it is blankly honest and incisive, but it never harangues. The point is made and we are back to the story.
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John Moriarty self-identified as a Christian and a Catholic, but as a Pagan reader I found that this book had everything to offer and I found little to discard and nothing to offend. It is interesting that the chapter in this book entitled Christ was made up almost entirely of quotes from other writers. As to why that should be, my only guess is that the author simply engaged with the material of the story of Jesus differently than he did with that of his indigenous gods. However, I was left in no doubt that he engaged with these gods at a deep level, and the best part for me has to be that in Invoking Ireland he did us the honour of reporting his findings in so beautiful and personal a way.
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