PARAIC BREATHNACH has been justly commended for his style. And while this may sometimes appear to be damning with faint praise in the mistaken belief that a stylist must have nothing to say, it remains a solid truth that good writing is the beginning of good literature, in the debate between artistic commitment and the creation of beauty, Breathnach comes down on the latter side every time. This is simply to say that he is always a special pleasure to read for his clean, spare style, which can be poetic, supple or moving as the moment requires.
His readers will be similarly familiar with his subject matter: the innocence of youth, the wonder of old age, the misunderstanding between the sexes, the oddity of human nature. These he has written about over many books on his square inch of ivory. The earth doesn't move in any of his stories but we do get a sense of a life well lived and of the glow of those significant moments which the classical short tale is supposed to be about. "In Earr a Shaoil", for example, gives us an old man's reflections on his native place. It is a paean to the daily round, to the ordinary, to the normal all around him, a loving recreation of being alone - a kind of Robinson Crusoe without the sand. There is a description of a trout in "An Cuilin Daite" which makes us see the fish anew, as a painter might. There may well be more of nature in this collection than in any of his previous ones, not as a backdrop or as an extra romantic ingredient, but as a living, palpable presence. This is his great strength, that lie communicates this presence to us.
He can also turn a yarn when he chooses to do so, as in "Eachtra", which involves a chance meeting at a match and a number of bizarre conversations. It may be regretted that he doesn't spin more of these because he has a gift for a certain kind of off-centre dialogue which is an end in itself and yet can still draw you on. They also contrast with the general shape of most of his stories, the endings of which can be baffling. Although not every one of us is blessed with a subtle mind, the fulcrum of some of these will elude even the reader of most sapient discrimination. 1 did spot the shrewdly executed turn in "Lobelia" which is an unanswerable commentary on girlish confidence and boyish awkwardness. But other stories appear decapitated or else have achieved depths of subtlety which most of us cannot reach.
But Padraic Breathnach has done something for which most writers strive: he has created his own story-world which we instantly recognise when we step into it. It is a clean, well-lit place wherein we must keep all our senses fully attuned.
