I can’t remember when I began reading this book; “a fate-blown wisp to a pearl of incalculable price” (p.55). It became one of those books whose destiny was to be picked up periodically; but only a page or two, or four, or seven, read at any one sitting.
I rarely read short (211 pages) books so slowly. I like to get my mind into a book, stay with it, and see it through to a satisfactory closure in a matter of days. But this book had other ideas, and would brook no disobedience from me. The written words between the covers chastised me to remember that there is time and place to pause, to think, to sigh over, to question, and to conjecture & find answers; and that this book wanted nothing more than to sit quietly in the background to my life, occasionally tapping on my shoulder; and that it had laid down that decision and would brook no opposition from me.
No hurry, no hurry. I mulled over accounts of long, ago; and of legends of very long, long ago. Of observation of the human condition, and, above all, social custom, ritual and a dry humour formed from the very fabric and rhythms of island life in the North. In plays, in poetry, and in prose this book affirms Life as lived in the real world; a world far away from the life of selfish ‘what can I get for me’ that we too frequently label present-day ‘civilisation.’