Transatlantic

by Colum McCann

—Why don’t you fly anymore? He gave a half-smile. —We get older, he said.

THEY SHOT TOMAS as he pulled up his boat to shore in October of 1978. Nineteen years old. Still in university, his second year, advanced probability. I am still not certain whether it was UVF or IRA or UFF or INLA or whatever other species of idiot was around at the time. In truth, I have a fair idea, but it hardly matters anymore. Our ancient hatreds don’t deserve capital letters.

Belfast is full of odd people who have hidden away from the Troubles: they live inside tiny spaces and enormous imaginations.

The academic question was when, in fact, they, the Irish, had become white.

There isn’t a story in the world that isn’t in part, at least, addressed to the past.

When I sat down beside them, their silence was lined with tenderness. We have to admire the world for not ending on us.