Conversations

"Oh, that died a terrible death," said my father. He wasn't referring to a family friend, or pet, or even the terrible violence lately in Iraq. He was referring to the rapid demise of the delicious, handmade, cracked pepper Edam cheese we had bought at the Saturday market. I love the way my parents' generation use language. The Irish have been mangling the King's, (and Queen's), English, to delightful effect, for centuries. The name of the blog is an example. It was the punch line to a friend's story about a man whose car was stolen while he was in the pub. "I came out of the pub, and there it was - gone!" (it seemed an appropriate title for a blog, given that blogs are often a commentary on things that are fleeting). A critic once wrote, when reviewing Brendan Behan's "Borstal Boy," that the English save words like misers while the Irish waste them like spendthrifts. Based on my voluble English collegues, I'm not sure if the former is true, but the latter is a fact!

A chatty Irish friend once said to me, "I hate Americans. They actually listen to me when I speak." There's much truth to this. American conversations are about communication, Irish ones are a form of guerilla theatre. You've got to time your attack and get in while the other person is taking a breath. If you don't, you can be on the receiving end of a masterwork of conversational improvisation, with multiple themes, topics, and punch lines. The conversationalist will think nothing of diverging from the main topic at any time to elaborate on any interesting side themes that become apparent. Linearity, conclusions, and even truthfulness are not required. Once there are more than two people involved, you might as well throw in the towel and enjoy the ride.