![]() It must be still there, anciently, in the cement mixes of that time following, lying in the little lines of the sidewalk, deep in the very heart’s core of the citizens.īroken vestiges, buried scraps, things which “must still be there” but have long gone unnoticed: Barry’s work disinters, sometimes after “a thousand thousand moons,” such lost histories. The storm blew its sorrowful dust about all day, covering everything and everybody. “The others must still be there, a queer memorial to me and my mother, in the darkness.” The other image is of a gigantic dust storm that struck New York in the 1930s, when she was there on honeymoon: One is a string of pearls that belonged to her dead mother, given to her as a child by her father, which she broke: “The little cultured pearls poured out on the floor, and made a dash for the gaps between the floorboards.” A few were rescued. In a novel by Sebastian Barry from 2011, On Canaan’s Side, a very old Irishwoman in America is writing her life story, a story of obscure survival through the dark, violent dramas of twentieth-century history, stretching back to “a thousand thousand moons ago, as one might say.” Among her memories are two images of tiny, utterly lost things. ![]() Crowder/Topical Press Agency/Getty Imagesīritish warships arriving at Donegal Bay during the Irish Civil War, July 1922 ![]()
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