Blog Portfolio – It’s pronounced “Jack O’Metty”!

I’m the type of person who makes casual reference to Alberto Giacometti in everyday conversations. I have a vivid childhood memory of watching a Euronews cultural vignette which outlined the great sculptor’s methods; starting from a large scale he would pare down and reduce his sculptural figures until almost nothing remained save only the most minimal of features which could be said to represent man. Giacometti’s problem was knowing when to stop before his clay figures, once larger than himself, disappeared to nothingness. I use this as a metaphor for my own critical thought. I consider and consider and pare and reduce until sometimes nothing remains. The trick is to create some academic content  before this happens. I don’t always succeed. This blog is a document of that process; its posts representative of others which got pared away. Though Giacometti hated the miniature figurines he produced, he felt compelled to make them. Whereas I quite like the blogs I’ve written, I do know that compulsion. If we ever happen to have a chat and I mention ‘Giacometti’, now you’ll know what I’m on about. Feel free to cuff me ’round the ear.

Giacometti commented on the relative sparseness of his own critical  work thusly:

Write perhaps, but only if I cannot avoid it. Do not embark on long critical explanations about art. In any case, it is simple, the subject. Categories. Efficaciousness. (209)

The subject. Categories. Efficaciousness. Simple. If my blog posts are nothing else, they are evidence that for me such things are never simple. Academic writing itself for me is often arduous. The subjects I analyse themselves sometimes seem intractably complex, before and after critical analysis. Perhaps to make such things simple is the hallmark of genius; making genius not necessarily the sole preserve of the artist. I see that simplicity of expression and process in the finest critics.   In my blogs I read a willing scholar strain against his limitations, striving for simplicity through the complex. That they were written at all is heartening to me however. That I didn’t pare them away to nothing, that I have a valid sustainable critical voice. In parts the blogs themselves succeed in showing this, but more often they narrate the struggle to achieve and maintain that voice. The academic work of greatest worth takes place elsewhere. Once I realised this I became a better blogger. That this happened over the last 24 hours is incidental! Let’s look at some blogs and the story they tell, the moral of which is: I’m just beginning.

Within the blogs written over the course of the past few months, there are clear counterpoints as well as through-points: what pleases me most is that I can see progression in both my criticism, but also, more importantly I think, my idea of myself as an academic. In the early blogs I see a lack of confidence in the act of critical utterance, a constant resort to disclaim and excuse. Though aware that any progression by definition must be constant I am pleased with the modulation I read when making this comparative self-analysis. The voice with which I express myself in the blogs has also been refined. What at first was faltering, often inflected with pique and exasperation, has become more true, nimble, and sure. By design the tone is sub-academic, situated outside of the space from which I draw my more exacting critical work. This voice, often self-referential and deprecating of my scholarly position, itself has been refined, becoming more of an ally to my scholarship, than dissonant and prone to scepticism, which its first iterations sometimes were. The honing of this parallel voice is a finer achievement than the criticism contained therein. Though the criticism is fantastic also of course!

This. This is why Hemingway is so embarrassing.

My first post, Why is Hemingway so embarrassing? looked at a writer I had to a large extent abandoned as adolescent. It marks out the reasons for this turning away through an analysis of Hemingway’s novel A Farewell to Arms and its protagonist Frederic Henry:

Like all Hemingway heroes, Henry is variously; fluent in a European language, a solemn observer of local custom, obsessed with masculine conduct, brave, contemplative, a high functioning alcoholic, and above all, ludicrously capable.

I go onto criticize Hemingway for a lack of honesty:

Introspection is always hinted at in Hemingway, never detailed. The results of his theory of omission, ‘that you could omit anything if you knew that you omitted and the omitted part would strengthen the story and make people feel something more than they understood’, is that we are made ‘feel’ something we can never understand, are left to stare through the opaque window of his prose at a primary feeling whose depths we can only wonder at.

I then state a position which I would later qualify in a subsequent post regarding the way in which Hemingway ended his stories:

The gnomic way in which he ends stories for instance, by his design, an expression of significance and meaning, are often cliff edges over which we are flung, left to run furiously in the air Wile E. Coyote style vainly seeking traction … If we as readers aren’t meant to ‘understand’ but rather ‘feel’, can we say that he himself lacked true self knowledge, understanding?

I recanted the stridency of this critique through circuitous means; a reading of an essay by John Berryman contained in his collected criticism The Freedom of the Poet. In it, Berryman makes a convincing case for the simple beauty of expression which Hemingway can achieve at his best, focusing on the story, “A Clean Well-Lighted Place”. There is a hint of relief in my volte-face:

My point of contention with both Iceberg Theory, and Hemingway, is that the more interesting story takes place after the full stop of the final line; that the stories themselves often do not support the gnomic construction of their resolutions. Such may be the case elsewhere, but not here.

In allowing me the forum to document a reappraisal of a retrograde critical position such as this one the blog has been of great benefit.

My second post dealt with two poets, Desmond O’Grady and Stephan Spender, and two of their poems, “Purpose”, and “The Uncreating Chaos”. I come at O’Grady’s poem from a personal perspective, criticizing it as superficial and unrewarding:

“Purpose” as the briefest of samples, written in his middle age, the position of the poet is one of hindsight, lacking the immediacy of the Steven Daedalus type exclamatory willfulness, which it recalls. It fills me with … peevishness.

I contrast this with Spender:

Spender’s poem is a cutting critique of posture, fakery, heroics. … It’s ironic, self-accusatory, replete with self doubt. All that O’Grady’s rhetoric isn’t.

Returning to read these early posts I find myself upgrading their formatting: Youtube clips which before hid behind hyperlinks now take centre-stage. A definite improvement in my IT skills!

The comparison I make is perhaps harsh on O’Grady, who I have found to be a fine translator. It highlights my personal taste in reading poetry, and is still further an example of how that taste may colour my criticism. I address this issue further in a later post which deals with my friendship with a classmate, Dean Browne, and my criticism of his poetry.

The distance between poet and subject, and the traversing of that liminal space through narration of remembrance is the key here: the astronomer who feels the final rebuff yet is accepting of his place in the universe, its limitation not seen as a cause for despair but universal, is not the poet: in the telling, the remove, something is lost. I prefer when poets play both Citizen and Narrator. I’m slow to make such a criticism here, maybe the mapping of the remove is the point.

I see the later piece as more accepting of the validity in a poetic remove, whilst still maintaining the validity of my preference.

I really enjoyed writing the piece on Dean. I purposefully sought to make real an inspiring Salonesque collegiality which I imagine the UCC of Theo Dorgan, Maurice Riordan, Sean Dunne, for example, to have been, for right or wrong. We are actually friends too of course! The blog was again a perfect forum to make comment upon a source of learning which sits outside of the seminar and the reading room. I feel that my writing style had evolved by this time to the point where I was able to incorporate humour and feint more confidently: the blogging voice, as it were, coming closer to my own, gaining in authenticity.

My next blog, Bill Lawson – ‘Douglass, Memories, and Disappointment’, is where I see a shade of pique and skepticism begin to come through in my blogs. It’s quite perfunctory and snarky, and doesn’t adequately engage with Professor Lawson’s thesis. This snark would reach its apogee in the post entitled, The Academic Culture Industry. It’s something of a place-holder post, not seeing my criticism advancing. In it I return to the theories of Adorno, a theorist I first read some years ago. My analysis of his theories are quite blunt here owing to that remove. The frustration I was feeling in finding the authenticity I’ve mentioned here, as well as a dip in the brio with which I seek to bring to my studies in general, is seen in the post, which is a reductionist broadside against the concept of the modern University. The say we hurt the ones we love, don’t they? This is me lashing out:

… To what extent are MA courses, like the one I’m studying now, extraneous arms of the “Culture Industry”? To what extent are we in MA programmes  merely the descendants of those Jazz loving soda guzzling ignoramuses who packed the picture houses at weekends to keep cool in California?

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The world’s foremost… hater of Jazz music.

I have toyed with the impulse to rewrite both posts, expunge the lines which now cause me to balk, but I think they’re of better use in their original iterations, standing in contrast (I hope!) to some of my other posts which I feel come at their subjects with better graces, with a truer voice. If this amounts to them taking on currate’s egg status then so be it, they will be of use as marking points along the road.

My next post, Essay Writing – Hanley Style, is the sole post which relates to film criticism. That it does so only tangentially is an indication of a more general critical reticence which I felt when addressing the medium. I have a great love of film, and have thoroughly enjoyed studying the subject formally over the past two years. This enjoyment has not brought with it a corresponding confidence in analytical expression however. Reading my classmate, Martin Curran’s blog, which deals primarily with film, I can only be envious of the freedom of expression which he brings to the area. When seeking to bring the comparable critical exactness with which I seek to analyse other artistic arenas I find myself continually laying my hand to the wrong tools; a bolster when an awl is needed. My post on the area narrates in a way this dynamic, seeing myself mired in ever deepening complexity when simplicity of expression, as I have mentioned, should be the aim.

I’ve two embryonic ideas which I think might be worth developing: A look at the cinematography/mise en scene of I Went Down. Looking at the influence of nature documentary on De Buitleir’s style, and how in so doing a new representation of rural Ireland was created in Irish Cinema; A look at Lenny Abrahamson’s “Prosperity”, an examination of the links between the televisual and the filmic. Maybe looking at Kieslowski as a precusor, and Soderbergh as a contemporary exponent.

Further posts which are linked, this time more positively, are two posts which reflect upon my presentation style, IAAS Postgraduate Conference 2015 – Reflection, and Textualities 2016 Mini-Conference – Reflection. The first details my experiences preparing and delivering a paper at the postgraduate conference of its title. In it I make the case for an off-the-cuff presentation style which allows opportunities for improvisation. I also argue for the inclusion of extended readings of the poetry which I am then analyzing.

Reading a couple of verses of poetry skirts the risk of a presentation devolving into a poetry reading; bringing with it a concomitant change in tone. Is there anything more awkward than a poetry reading without the poet? I stand over the approach. Poetry speaks for itself, at its finest will always remain inscrutable, and necessitate subjective engagement.

Reading this now, it appears an overly strident position to hold: again it acts as a document of a progression in my style which is on-going. The following remark also, though intentionally flippant, comes off as polemic:

People just read out papers they’ve written at these things. Word for word. Where’s the fun in that?

What is more admirable in this post is my charting of the journey I undertook to arrive at my argument: initial idea, development and application of the critical gaze, through to its realization, and finally the after thoughts of possible revision and modulation.

A few months have now passed since I wrote the above. I think that approaching the ‘Big House’ as primarily a home, frozen over through remembrance which Gould Fletcher does, is in its way, remarkable and worthy of praise. I prefer his approach to that of Adrienne Rich, whose poem “In the Wake of the Home”, touches on similar ground … The sanguine nihilistic finality of Gould Fletcher is a more apt poetic position from which to address America’s past, through the personal not the collective, arriving at that emblem ‘Hope’ through existential inquiry as opposed to projection.

That I remain supportive of my initial critical argument,  having gone through this process, is encouraging to me. Again, the blog allowed me to come to this realization.

The post in which I reflect on the Textualities 2016 Mini-Conference continues the line of thought which the IAAS Conference began. In it I analyse my presentation, which I wasn’t entirely happy with, in large part owing to the flawed approaches to presentation style which I held, as outlined. In it, I again expand on my evolving presentation style, as well as outline my search for an effective theoretical framework on which to base my reading of the poetry of Michael Hartnett, the subject of my forthcoming thesis. This blog post documents a change in direction, away from an examination drawing on Deconstruction and Translation Theory. It deals in depth with my reactions to my delivery of the presentation itself, and my reflections upon it, eventually coming to a defense of my initial intention, if not the methods used.

I’m very happy for those classmates also who have written of the rush and sense of accomplishment which they experienced at the event. On reflection I see that it’s by over-complicating things that I denied that to myself. Drawing from broader reflection, however,  I know I won’t change my intention. Nor should.

Whether this resolution is warranted is yet to be seen. As I said in my introductory paragraph, I’m just beginning.

The blog post which I am most pleased with is my Interview with Des Healy. In it I describe my meeting with the man who was amongst Michael Hartnett’s closest friends, co-conspirators, and confidantes. It took me a very long time following the initial interview to come to write this post. I struggled to find halter for the register of voice which I felt represented Healy himself, as well as my own experience. The piece is the most experimental of all those featured on my blog. Its parataxical form and clipped syntax create something which stands apart, certainly from my earliest efforts.

Gough’s in Charleville is a fine bar. You’ll find old ladies sitting at tables having tea and scones. Tradesmen in high-viz jackets on their lunch break. Neat habitual drinkers fastidious in their movements. An odd business meeting. Sky Sports News on mute on the TV. A good fire. I leafed through Monday’s Echo whilst I waited for Des to arrive. 8 Across, four letters. “Science fiction novel by Frank Herbert”. D.O.O.N. The Co. Limerick town standing in for the alien planet. The odds for a horse Charlie Chawke had running in Thurles that evening had come in from 5’s to odds on. The happy pride in the telling as the barman had him backed that morning. Only a youngster.

Des Healy. Amongst the best of men.

I believe in adopting this style I achieved the simplicity of description which the interview merited. I think I give the reader a feeling for both Des Healy, as well as his relationship with Hartnett. Certainly to the greatest extent that my ability as a writer allows.

My final, and most recent blog focuses on the recent Centenary Celebrations of the 1916 Rising, expanding upon that event to comment upon the vagaries of close reading through an in-depth analysis of a passage of prose from John McGahern. It encapsulates well the significance this blog has taken on for me: a medium for immediate quick-fire analysis, as well as simultaneous examination of that analytical process. Taking a talk given by Dr Heather Laird as its centre-point, and using the device of a particular close reading of the text, That They May Face The Rising Sun,  I seek to shed new light on  a strand of McGahern’s work, as well as his treatment of Irish Nationalism. Whether I achieve my aim is for the reader to decide. That I had the confidence to try, using the blogging medium is itself an achievement. For me at least!

In conclusion then, let me return to Giacometti:

Artistically I am still a child with a whole life ahead of me to discover and create. I want something, but I won’t know what it is until I succeed in doing it. (87)

He made this assertion well after he had established himself as one of the greatest sculptors of this century, of any century in fact. The humility he shows, in perpetual readiness to discover and create, is one I seek to emulate. Substituting the word “critically” for “artistically” I come to a sentence which is close to my own self-ideation. This blog is a document of acceptance of this truth. I hope that this is clear in its posts, and that the insight I gained in writing them will aid me in achieving the success which I am striving for.

Thanks for reading!

Works Cited

Bonnefoy, Yves, and Alberto Giacometti. Giacometti. Paris: Flammarion, 2012. Print.




IAAS Postgraduate Conference 2015 – Reflection

I spoke at the Irish Association for American Studies Postgraduate Conference on the 28th of November last. The conference draws together scholars engaged in Postgraduate study, either at MA or Doctorate level, who have particular interest in American studies. You’ll find further details, and a link to the conference brochure here.

John Gould Fletcher, 1886-1950

I presented on the poet John Gould Fletcher, a minor poet in the American canon, most often mentioned in conjunction with the Southern Agrarians, a group whose debatable legacy colours much of the critical reception of his poetry. I drew parallels between Gould Fletcher’s poems which address his upbringing in the Antebellum South, with those poems in Yeats which deal with the “Big House” of the Irish variety. I called it, “Big Houses and Lost Causes: Parallels and disparities between the poetry of the American South and the Anglo-Irish Ascendency”. One half of a snappy title.

It was my first experience of academic conferences. I learned a lot. Some of which lessons I shall impart to you now, gather round…

There is nothing so pleasurable in academia as the honing of an initial interest into a defendable critique. I first read Gould Fletcher last year, finding him to be an intriguing poet, whose varied output spans symbolist dross to lyrical confessional poems of searing intensity. Façade, trope, and device, form a catafalque for the poet’s exposed self in poems which deal invariably with his past, his family home, his father, and death. That these poems were so rare amongst his output, added to their import. I felt the thrill of discovery. I read all of the criticism on him which I could find, tangentially covering the Southern Agrarian movement, as well as Modernism more broadly. I flirted with the easy pratfall of championing an under-appreciated poet beyond the scope of his achievement. Whether I was spurned or was duped is for those who attended the conference to judge. I defined Gould Fletcher’s treatment of the “Big House” legacy of the South as:

riven with an anxiety which both creates a personal coding of a collective imaginary, and allows for the achievement of an “Integrated Nostalgia” through the acceptance of the opacity of memory.

I contrasted this, with the less laudable treatment of the “Big House” motif in Yeats’s poetry, a subject of criticism which is more common. I felt that such a contrast both shed a new light on that area of Yeat’s work, whilst also highlighting the value of what Gould Fletcher achieved. That Gould Fletcher wrote these poems contemporaneously with those of Yeats, at once adds to his achievement. A small but significant victory for a minor yet rewarding poet.

The Ghosts of an Old House


In this room my father died:

His bed is in the corner.

No one has slept in it

Since the morning when he wakened

To meet death’s hand at his heart.

I cannot go to this room,

Without feeling something big and angry

Waiting for me

To throw me on the bed,

And press its thumbs to my throat.


Other things I learned. People just read out papers they’ve written at these things. Word for word. Where’s the fun in that?

Reading a couple of verses of poetry skirts the risk of a presentation devolving into a poetry reading; bringing with it a concomitant change in tone. Is there anything more awkward than a poetry reading without the poet? I stand over the approach. Poetry speaks for itself, at its finest will always remain inscrutable, and necessitate subjective engagement. To facilitate such an engagement through a reading of the poems themselves is the least the critic owes the poet being critiqued.

W.B Yeats, 1865-1939. Original Gangster. 

The after-conference pints took place in McDaid’s. That the pub has been abandoned by the literati since the ’60’s didn’t seem to matter (they migrated to Gogarty’s? Grogan’s?). I left a dour discussion of faltering PhD’s and short term teaching contracts to meet with some friends of mine who I hadn’t seen in months. We watched Tyson Fury become the Heavyweight Champion of the World. Drank pints in pubs where poetry is never mentioned. I learned there are doors out as well as in.

Though I was proud of having presented in such a forum, and felt energized having gone through the process of preparation and delivery, I learned that the confidence I gain in my little academic victories soon ebbs and falters. Reading some poems by Robert Lowell earlier today, “Those Before Us”, “The Withdrawal”, “Robert T.S. Lowell”… I wonder, if I had read them prior to my reading of Gould Fletcher would my criticism have been finer? Was my critique based more on the intuition I rely on, sometimes fall back on, rather than the intellect I am seeking to hone in these years at UCC? No Matter. If I can never fool myself, I seem to be able to fool others, least-ways I was on that day in UCD. All very pessimistic, I allow.


A few months have now passed since I wrote the above. I think that approaching the ‘Big House’ as primarily a home, frozen over through remembrance which Gould Fletcher does, is in its way, remarkable and worthy of praise. I prefer his approach to that of Adrienne Rich, whose poem “In the Wake of the Home”, touches on similar ground. When Rich pushes off from remembrance into an area of freer imagined thought in section nine of her poem, I feel she loses the intensity which she has built in the previous sections. What is left is rhetoric of a kind, something I read in her work which is not to my particular taste. The sanguine nihilistic finality of Gould Fletcher is a more apt poetic position from which to address America’s past, through the personal not the collective, arriving at that emblem ‘Hope’ through existential inquiry as opposed to projection.