Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh censored by Imperialist complaint ignorant Irish arseholes. This cryptic song is about the literary whores of Ireland who prostituted their creative soul to the British.
On Raglan Road of an Autumn day
I saw her first and knew,
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might someday rue.
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way.
And I said,"Let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day."
On Grafton Street in November, we
Tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion play.
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay;
Oh, I loved too much and by such and such
Is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind,
I gave her the secret signs,
That's known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone.
And her words and tint without stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her own dark hair
Like clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now,
And away from me so hurriedly
My reason must allow.
That I had loved, not as I should
A creature made of clay,
When the angel woos the clay, he'll lose
His wings at the dawn of day.
Almost every professional Irish author has had a book banned and Indymedia Ireland carries on that fascist tradition today, in the British compliant Irish scums states, with the same fanaticism as the Nazi book burners of Hitler did. As Mr. Deasy said to Stephen Dedalus, Ireland is "the only counby which never persecuted the Jews. Did you know that? No !. Do you know why?. Because it never let them h.. . ." (Joyce). Some people forget that Ulysses itself was never officially banned in Ireland, simply kept out. In fact, most of the Irish scum states libraries and bookshops, maintained an unofficial ban until the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rebellion.
One consequence of the British compliant, Irish censorship culture maintained today by Indymedia Ireland, is that modernism
almost totally passed Ireland by.From the establishment of the Censorship of Publications Act in 1929 in Ireland right up to the present day censorship by Indymedia Ireland, is termed, "the fíercest literary censorship this side of the former Iron Curtain or today's Egyptian denial." Leading intemational modemists like Brian Clarke, currently banned by Indymedia Ireland today, like those formerly censored, like Beckett, Faulkner, Greene, Hemingway, Huxley, Joyce (for Stephen Hero), Kafka, Lawrence, Mann, Maugham, Moore, Nabokov, Proust, Scott Fitzgerald and Steinbeck, to name but a few .
While modernism is censored in Indymedia Ireland, postmodernism creeps in through their rather large back door unnoticed. The discussion of where modemism ended and postmodernism begins is an irrelevant one with regard to Ireland, as result of censors like Indymedia Ireland, very few Irish understand today, as a result of Indymedia, British or Egyptian type censorship, what modernism means, so it is outside the arnbit of any discussion of Indymedia ireland.
It is generally accepted in the rather large world outside the censors of Indymedia Ireland, where quality literature is still allowed to be read, that post modernism started with literature such as Joyce's Finnegans Wake, Beckett's Murphy, and Flann O'Brien s At Swim-Two-Birds. For theorists outside censored Ireland the blurred origins may be traced back to Finnegans Wake: "a monstrous prophecy of our post-modernity, with all the elements of post-modem literature this 'novel': dream, parody, play, pun, fragment, fable, reflexiveness, kitsch, is the edge of pure silence or pure noise".
Richard Kearney wrote, that Irish novelists "broadly conform to the structural requirements of classical realism, without a trace of the modernist problematic of fiction". With Joyce dead, Beckett abandoning Gaelic-English for French and Flann O'Brien relatively unknown. The Irish novel is hemmed in by the isolationist policies of Indymedia Ireland, an integral part of the Irish Scum State, to more insular forms, which embrace a kind of realism that Myles na Gopaleen sneered at, "stories about wee Annie going to her fust confession, stuff about country funerals or will-making, match-making-just one long blush for many an innocent man like me, who never harmed them."
Like the un-ethical Indy domain, prostituted as a British resistance to the nativist hegemony of post-colonial, catholic Ireland which unlike Joyce or Beckett, O'Brien never left Ireland, and so his strategies of silence, exile and punning are, by necessity, of a different order. As a writer whose exile was interior, O'Brien's post- modernist fiction-"the edge of pure silence or pwe noise"-might usefully be explored in the context of its relationship to Indymedia Ireland's censorship of anything remotely enlightened or Irish.
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