Surrounded by the past yet living in the present for the future

 

 

I've spent the last few days on holiday in Ireland. Although born and raised in England, my mother was Irish, and so I feel a strong sense of affinity with the place and its people; as do thousands of other exiles, and sons and grandsons of exiles, who wash up on its shores all year round in search of Irishness. It's a romantic place, that's for sure. And the people have a deserved reputation for hospitality and for being great talkers.

 

But like everywhere else, Ireland has its dark side. My father, who was a matter-of-fact sort of Englishmen, liked the Irish people he met, but could be dismissive of much that was Irish. He often criticised the Irish for living in the past. Back in the 1960s, the Ireland he encountered was a place where people beat the hell out of each other in the name of politics and religion. And yesterday, while visiting a museum in Dublin, I was struck by how many Irish writers of the past could only live in exile and love their country from a distance.

 

I know of few other places where you can spend your days among the ghosts of the past. Romantic Ireland, beloved of the tourists, thrives on this reality. Whether it's the Orangemen in the north with their marching season and memorials to King Billy and the Protestant succession, or the reminders of political rebellion and national self-determination in the Republic, you are confronted at every turn by two parallel societies characterised by a strong awareness of their own history. But how does that impact on their present? And how does historical awareness equip the two Irelands to face their future? 

 

Fron the outset, it must be said that there is considerable benefit to be gained from living in places where the past is so ready available.  An interest in the people, events and beliefs who lived before us feeds our natural intellectual curiosity. It stimulates our imagination, and allows us to escape from the stress and strains of our everyday here-and-now. In this sense, contemplating history can be an inexpensive form of therapy, a healthy from of escape. Respect for what was done in times gone by can give us a balanced perspective on current trends and where we need to go in the future, both collectively and individually. Places in the world which lack a sense of history can feel rootless in the present, and uncertain about which direction to take in the future.

 

But too much history can be oppressive. It can weigh down on us like the rock weighed down on Sisyphus, who you will remember, was condemned to push his burden up the mountain till it rolled to the bottom again, and so on for ever. Too much history can make us avert our gaze from dealing with the present, or making the necessary preparations to create our future. History-oriented folk often commit the cardinal sin of idealising the past.  Living with too many ghosts can make us incurably romantic. And the ghosts invariably disappoint. Because historical ambitions so often end in failure, whether it's the powerful losing their power, or the rich their money and influence. It may be a cliche, but it's true that everything changes, and like the successors of Ozymandias, "Look on my works, ye mighty and despair!" Historical inebriation can push us over into cynicism and a generalised feeling of discontent. Is that why Ireland has always been a land of mass emigration and continues to be so?

 

These were my thoughts as I roamed Ireland last week. In the Ulster countryside I drove past the flags and the bunting. I arrived in Dublin to do pilgrimage to both history and literature. But for the few hours I shared the life of its people, north and south, I was also cheered by another picture I saw: a vibrant present-day Ireland of global travellers, making full use of the opportunities new technology gives us for communicating with each other. I met positive young people keen to learn English and make their own future; people bent on creating a better world, and above all enjoying themselves in many different ways. All this in the context of a troubled history. Or should I say, in spite of that history? I leave it to you, the reader, to be the final arbitor of that.