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When a fresh dead person arrives there is excitement as the dead can hear about the circumstances of their own demise and what sort of funeral they had, and what news there is generally. Most are locals, close neighbours, who knew one another in the world above the one they inhabit now. There is a literary fellow and a Frenchman among the dead. They also discuss Irish politics, the All-Ireland final and the war. Their tones are animated by vitriol, petty jealousy, banter, highly charged insults, often-repeated small memories (one character drank 42 pints, for example, and has occasion to mention this a good many times) and old resentments (the postmistress, who used to open letters, is much resented) and worry about how much their graves cost (as there are class distinctions in the graveyard). Their concerns are almost entirely material. What is remarkable, despite their existence on the other side of life, is that the characters have no interest in philosophy or spiritual matters. Slowly, as you read, you realise you have been lured into a fictional universe made up of voices and interruptions, much fragmented talk, non-sequiturs, and then sudden bursts of sheer poetic clarity in which a phrase or a half-sentence takes on a sonorous resonance and has a dark suggestive power. The book depends on its own rhythmic energy anyone seeking plot or character development should abandon hope. Or you won’t hear any live person either, and you won’t have a clue what they’re up to, except what the newly buried crowd tell you.” “This is,” one of them says, setting down the rules for this unruly novel, “much the same as the ‘ould country’ except that we only see the grave we are in, and we can’t leave our coffin. As they talk, it seems they have forgotten nothing. The characters in The Dirty Dust are dead they share the same graveyard. Thus Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s Cré na Cille, first published in 1949, translated now as The Dirty Dust by Alan Titley, belongs to a tradition, fragile perhaps, but also – the two above-mentioned books are grave comic masterpieces – powerful. These are merely two example of the hospitality that the novel has offered to our brethren who have, as the Americans say, passed. has been dead throughout the book and that all the queer ghastly things which have been happening to him are happening in a sort of hell which he has earned for the killing.” In February 1940, when he had completed The Third Policeman, Flann O’Brien wrote to the American writer William Saroyan: “When you get to the end of the book you realise my hero or main character. The first paragraph attempted to make things clear: “I am a deceased writer not in the sense of one who has written and is now deceased, but in the sense of one who had died and is now writing, a writer for whom the grave was really a new cradle.” The Brazilian novelist Machado de Assis published his novel Epitaph of a Small Winner in 1881. The dead, after all, have wider experience and less to lose. The relationship between band and audience is in that sense like the relationship between two lovers making love, where cause and effect becomes very hard to see, even impossible to call by its right name one is literally getting down, as in particle physics, to some root stratum where one is freed from the lockstop of time itself, where time might even run backward, or sideways, and something eternal and transcendent is accessed.Since the novel is an autonomous space filled with invention and illusion, there seems to be no good reason why the guests at the feast of fiction should not include the dead as much as the living.
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And of course the band is also watching the dancers, and getting ideas from the dancers' gestures. Since everyone is listening to different parts of the music-she to the trumpet melody, he to the bass drum, she to the trombone-the audience is a working model in three dimensions of the music, a synesthesic transformation of materials. The dancers interpret, or it might be better to say literally embody, the sounds of the band, answering the instruments. John, once told me that when a brass band plays at a small club back up in one of the neighborhoods, it's as if the audience-dancing, singing to the refrains, laughing-is part of the band.