Out of the Dark ~ by Ken Kinsella

Earlier this year I attended the launch of Ken Kinsella's book, Out of the Dark 1914-1918 : South Dubliners Who Fell in the Great War, a 430 page tome, that took over 13 years to research and write.  When I held the heavy book in my hand, I first was reminded of James Joyce and that reported quote of his regarding Ulyses...'if it look me seven years to write it, it had better take you seven years to read it'  etc..etc.

But Kinsella's book is altogether different.  The author has taken great pains to make this a text that even those with a limited interest in history can digest quite easily.  Simply put, Kinsella has researched all the men from South Dublin who died in World War One, and collected the information together in this book.  But this is much more than just an ordinary reference book, Out of the Dark  is a detailed patchwork of interrelated stories, based on a place-centered pattern. This clever structure enables us to see how whole communities were effected by the war.

Each chapter begins with a geographical description of the place where the soldiers grew up - its contours, its rivers, its landscape - adding a sense of realism and rootedness that seems to highlight, all the more, that these were Irish soldiers, Dublin men, who went away to war.  Merging history and geography together in this way, cleverly reminds us who these soldiers were, and fixes them to a place that still exists.  They are not just lost in memory, assigned to some ancient battle long forgotten.  No, they belonged to Kilternan, Dundrum, Rathmines, Carrickmines and Foxrock etc. places that Dubliners are so familiar with in our day to day lives, and as such, cannot so easily be forgotten.  I, for one, will never see these places in quite the same way again.

Donald Lockart Fletcher from Shankill,
who died tragically during training.

In Kinsella's book, we see the impact of the war mapped out, its shadow spreading across the South Dublin landscape in a very visual, geographic way, that has never been done before in this genre.  There is more than just a black and white regurgitation of statistics here; the information lifts off the pages, as the contours of a 3-D map, vibrant with the details of each locality and its individual people.   It covers a wide sweep of the South Dublin landscape, then zooms in to closely uncover the tragic stories of those who died in The Great War.  The move from macro to micro analysis, is compelling and quite cinematic in style, something that would translate easily to the small screen I am certain.

Yet, it does even more than that: it moves laterally through families, shining a light on the lives of those who were left behind, the long forgotten fiancee, mother, father, brother, whose lives were also inevitably touched by the huge losses in the 1914-1918 war.
Kinsella deftly makes connections between families too, noting uncanny twists of fate and coincidences that wouldn't be out of place in a work of fiction.  Consider the story of local boys, Joseph Plunkett and his close childhood friend, Kenneth  O'Morchoe, which features in the chapter on Kilternan.  In the 1916 Rising, they came to face eachother in Kilmanham jail, the former facing execution, the latter in charge of the firing squad.  There are varying versions of how the story played out, but Kinsella's research finally uncovers the truth of things - but you will have to read the book to find out what happened next.

Members of the Findlater family
who lost two sons in WWI

Each chapter shows how families were decimated by the war, like the two brothers of the Findlater family.  It forces us too to consider the wider context: how groups of local women must have grieved together for their sons and how young women would have condoled together over the lost of their young men, as dreams of future lives together disappeared over night.  A promise of future happiness came to nothing for one Sybil Chambers, who exchanged her beloved William Halpin for the sum of 550 guineas, the amount left to her in his will, signed while in France the year the war ended.  Perhaps she had sensed, as he clearly had, that he might not arrive home to her safely.  And Kinsella does not end there; he follows the next generation forward too at times.  We learn that William's brother, George survived the war, but his only son went on to be killed in WWII.  In this book, the plot lines go sideways and downwards as well as forwards and back.

The book is dotted with poetry too, giving a philosphical edge to the information and something for us to quietly ponder. The greats are all here, Owen, Ledwidge etc., but there are other, unknown poets also, friends of fallen soldiers, who, like, L.A.G. Strong, could only voice their deep felt emotion through poetic verse.

Ken Kinsella's book is for anyone who has an interest in families, history, genealogy, The Great War, geography and poetry - in short, it is for everyone.  It would make a great Christmas present, especially in this centenary year of the war's commencement.  I am very excited about this book, and not just because it contains information about some of the soldiers that I am researching for my War Stories project, but because it is a mammoth piece of social history and research.  It tells a story that needed to be told, and in return, needs to be read.  I know of at least two people who will be getting this book in their (rather large) Christmas stocking this year.  Do you?

By Michelle Burrowes

The Novel in the Viola ~ by Natasha Solomons

When my Kindle announced that I was 97% through this novel, I dreaded the last 3% so much, that I had to go for a little walk to postpone the pleasure.  'The Novel in the Viola' by Natasha Solomon' is such a delightful book, that I hated finishing it.  By the time I had clicked the 'next page button' for the last time, I had already decided that I would give the book to everyone I know this Christmas.  And it will make the perfect gift too, encompassing love lost and love found; an old house and a brooding hero; a secret, and an attic.  What's not to like?

Perhaps it is because so much of this story is inspired by real events; the forced eviction of Jews from Austria prior to World War Two; the separation of families; the uncertainty about those left behind etc., which makes this such a compelling read.  Natasha Solomons' author's note tells us that the story was inspired by her great-aunt Gabi Landau, who fled anti-semitism in Europe to work as a 'mother's help', in England.  Either way, the story of Elise Landau, the novel's narrator, has us captivated from the very start.

Like that other, more famous, yet equally put-upon female narrator, Jane Eyre, Elise has to repress her vivacity and true inner-spirit to fit in.  Where Jane cries out in the gardens at Thornfield Hall, Elsie shouts into the sea, against the injustice she and her family have experienced.  Yet here, it is not mad Bertha who sleeps in the tower of the big house, but Elise herself, alone in the garret, doomed to the monotony of a servants life, where her poor knowledge of the English language ensures her silence in a way that even Jane did not experience.

And the similarities with 'Jane Eyre' do not stop there.  For a start, the tall, brooding owner of the large estate of Tyneford is called Mr Rivers, the very same name as Mr Rochester's rival and Jane's cousin, StJohn.  Both Mr Rivers and Mr Rochester have past loves and are men of the world, in stark contrast to the innocent Elise and Jane.  The houses of both novels play a huge roll in their respective stories, not merely by providing the setting, but by giving for the heroines a safe place in a time of danger, a place where they blossom and which they come to call home.  The houses suffer similar mis-haps and both Mr Rivers and Mr Rochester risk their lives for others, revealing themselves to be true heroes in their different ways.

In 'Jane Eyre', our heroine has moments of telepathic imaginings, where she visualises what is happening many miles away, as when she hears Rochester's voice call to her on the wind.  In 'The Novel in the Viola', Elsie uses her imagination to visualise her parents, her aunts and sister, chat and sing, like they used to do before Hitler made the world go dark.  This ingenious ploy allows the author to peek into different worlds that are beyond the scope of the first person narrator, and without having to always rely on letters to fill in the gaps.

Jane and Elsie are alike in other ways too.  Both take great enjoyment in finding freedom out in the natural world, each confined in their own way, one by the strict social codes of Victorian England, the other by tight controls over alien non-nationals in wartime.  At times, it feels like Elise is living in a different century as she walks through Tyneford House, surrounded by the ancient panelling and portraits, in the dark of the blackout, lit only by soft candlelight.  On the estate too she and Mr Rivers could be characters out of a Hardy novel, working side by side on the land, bringing in the crops by hand, fuel rationing putting pay to any mechanical assistance, sharing a picnic on an obliging soft mossy bank.  It would seem idyllic but for the duelling aeroplanes battling overhead.

Yet, there is something more, however arbitrary, which links 'Jane Eyre' and 'The Novel in the Viola',  and that is their glorious depiction of the English landscape: the sumptuous sunsets; the luminous array of flowers and the glory of dappled light pouring through the trees.  Yet, here is where Solomons departs from Bronte, the former making an art of it, providing the hungry reader with page upon page of sensual description. Sometimes Solomons verges on the edge of poetry, waxing lyrical about the sea and sky, fields and hills.  Reminiscent of the old fisherman covered  in sequin-like fish scales in Elizabeth's poem 'At The Fishhouses' she writes:

'An old man, his hair as white as dandelion feathers, sat on a lobster pot mending a piece of netting with a rusted knife.'

What a wonderful description of his hair, so vulnerable yet magical too.

There is something of the painter here too, each page replete with descriptive similes and metaphors.  Once, when Elise is in fear for her life, she imagines that she is being chased not by a German, but by 'Black dogs with white teeth and wide red jaws. They weren’t dogs but wolves escaped from my old fairy tale book.'  It is no co-incidence that the red, black and white colours described here are also those of the infamous Nazi flag.  Her narrative is so visual, in fact, that I feel as if I have walked through the vast county estate, opening up the seventeen gates as I pass along, have felt the wind cut at my cheeks and have tasted salt from the sea on my lips.

And so this is what I wish for my family and friends this Christmas,when too much food and drink have been taken: a brisk walk in the fresh air of the English countryside close to dark, at a time when life seemed more simple, but in truth, was heartbreakingly complicated; sad but utterly, utterly beautiful.

P.S.  'The Novel in the Viola' is also published as 'The House at Tyneford'  in some territories.

By Michelle Burrowes