Sebastian Barry: ‘What we call a historical novel doesn’t exist.’

Read the interview Sebastian Barry gave to Maro Vassiliadou for *Kathimerini* on the occasion of the publication of his latest novel, *Days Without End* (translated by Maria Angelidou). The Irish author Sebastian Barry is so popular and has won so many awards that his work needs no introduction. Critics consistently highlight his mature literary style, his skill in creating an evocative atmosphere, and his talent for crafting authentic characters. In February, he was honoured with the highest distinction in Irish literature (Laureate for Irish Fiction), and his latest novel, Days Without End, has already enjoyed a highly acclaimed international reception. Clearly, then, an interview with him, on the occasion of the recent publication in Greece of Days Without End by Ikaros Publications in Maria Angelidou’s marvellous translation, is a must.However, this was not the main reason for speaking with him. It was, first and foremost, the desire of the captivated reader to ‘meet’ their author and ask the questions that unlock the secrets of his art. Sebastián Barri has the makings and the power of a great storyteller. His stories, often written in the first person, do not merely describe places, lives, passions and the adventures of people. They become the very eyes and ears of an eyewitness. They become his voice which, as if distant time and an unknown place were not intervening, speaks to you as you read.In 1850s America: This time, in his latest novel, Barry’s commitment to telling the story of two Irish families, the Duns and the McNaldys, across different time periods, takes him all the way to America. His heroes enlist in the US Army in the 1850s and take part in the wars that tore the country apart during that decade. For the author, this journey into the unknown becomes a means of speaking once again of the difficult lives of people who must always struggle and carve out their own destiny. With clarity and sensitivity, with cries and silences, violent yet tender, this novel is a journey towards maturity. And at the same time, a search into the past of a nation that contains fragments of the memories of other peoples and other continents. History is reconstructed as the protagonists seek their personal identity. Those who left, driven by necessity, find in their new home an opportunity to put down roots. And if they manage to survive, then they will be able to share scattered moments of happiness.Your earlier novel, Far, Far Away, is the story of the Irishman Willie Dun, as told from the front lines of the First World War. What inspired you to write another novel related to war, *Days Without End*, which is, however, set in America during the era of the Indian Wars and the Civil War?The character of William Dan in *Far, Far Away* has its roots in the ghost of a son in a work of mine called *The Steward of Christendom*, which dealt with the last days of his father’s life. He was, however, merely a shadow, a passing figure. That work referred in some way to my great-great-grandfather and essentially revealed that in ‘real life’ this man, my distant ancestor, had three sons who went to war. So, in essence, the novel was an attempt to find that uncle of mine who was a soldier during the First World War. Similarly, the root of his character in Days Without End lies in my grandfather, who, shortly before he died, revealed to me that he had a distant uncle who fought in the war against the Indians. I was only ten years old when he told me. We used to share the same bed during the long, cold Irish winters, and he had told me many stories from his life. But that was the only clue I had: a brief mention of that uncle, not even his name. It was enough, however, for me to ‘search’ for him 50 years later. How do you manage to describe the experiences, feelings and thoughts of a soldier as an eyewitness, without ever having been forced to fight?I never went to war, but I shared a bed with someone who did! Grandad O’Hara, whose novel is called The Temporary Gentleman, was a radio operator in the British Merchant Navy, and during the Second World War he served as an officer in the Royal Engineers, specialising in bomb disposal. He did two tours of duty in England and also travelled as far as North Africa and India. He loved to recount vivid stories of all this to me. But beyond that, I like to believe that our ancestors lie in wait within us, wrapped up in the coils of our DNA and our molecular structure. They are somewhere in the signals of the brain’s synapses. So, although I never took part in the Indian wars or the American Civil War, perhaps my distant uncle was there. And so I may have access to his life and to what he saw. After all, what we call a historical novel does not exist. You cannot return to the past as if the future had never existed, or as if what we now know so well were unknown. You simply make an effort to recreate that ‘innocent’ present, just as it was back then. Obviously, to achieve this, you have to read hundreds of books and then try to forget them, so that the necessary details emerge in your writing as if they were your own experiences.I believe that Thomas McNulty is one of the most authentic and daring contemporary literary characters. What inspired you to create him? Well, I’d been thinking about Thomas McNulty for a long time. Basically, I was concerned because he was Irish, and his people had endured 700 years of colonial rule, at times in an atmosphere akin to ethnic cleansing and the displacement of the local population. So this character had to find himself in America and, to a greater or lesser extent, become embroiled in a situation that was almost familiar to him. Furthermore, I was for a short time friends with Peter Mathiesen, the American writer, who worked extensively on the subject of Native Americans. However, the final impetus for creating Thomas came from my beloved and wonderful son Toby, who, at the age of 16, revealed to us that he is gay. He thus became my inspiration, the guide to Thomas’s heart. For this reason, the book is dedicated to him. The greater the pain, the more invisible it makes you. *Days Without End* is a hard-hitting book, set in the American West. Nevertheless, the reader never feels for a moment that this distant story – a foreign place, a foreign time – does not concern them. In recent years, your country, like Greece, has faced a very difficult economic and social situation. However, you choose to draw your themes from the past rather than the present. Why? I lived in Greece, on Paros, from 1980 to 1981. The country was just recovering from years of political oppression and was preparing to join the European Union. It was poor, but it was beginning to regain its strength. The people welcomed us warmly, just like the Irish! The tranquil beauty of the island was heart-wrenching. It was a place that became, for me, even more familiar than my own home. So I have been deeply disturbed in recent years, during the economic crisis, by the way Greece has been spoken of in the European Parliament and elsewhere. The anguish caused by this new poverty must be immense. But the greater the pain, the more invisible it makes you. You begin to disappear, even though you are still breathing. There is something of this in Days Without End, which is the story of two boys, and later two men, who have nothing of their own. And like little gods, they must create a world out of nothing. Apart from that, however, I do not possess the kind of imagination that responds to what we might call ‘the present moment’. That is the domain, the ability and the necessity of journalism. I must say, however, that without journalism and, paradoxically for the time, the photography of the 1860s in America, I could not have written Days Without End. Nevertheless, the present remains a mystery to me, and as unknown as the future. It has not yet become clear; it is not visible. In your books, you always speak of Ireland and the Irish with great tenderness but also honesty, without ever flattering them. How do they treat you? The Irish are self-critical, paradoxically. Perhaps it is a new trait of ours, or at least a recent one. For far too long we saw ourselves as victims of history, and blamed the English. However, over the last twenty years we have reassessed our own role in our misfortunes. I am referring to our behaviour towards women, homosexuals, the poor, and children. So, I have never encountered any hostility in Ireland because of my novels. On the contrary, they have been warmly embraced. Perhaps I ought to be concerned about that. Indeed, I was recently taken aback when I was honoured with the highest distinction in Irish literature (Laureate for Irish Fiction), awarded by the President of the country. On the other hand, of course, we have a wonderful President, who is also a poet. Come to think of it, when you meet him, he gives you a very warm hug!What is your routine when you’re writing? I work and read for about a year, trying to stay calm. Some very strange things happen whilst I’m writing. The need to connect with the era I’m describing is so great that my sole purpose is to be there. The means by which I travel there are syntax, grammar, language, songs. These are my own time machine. Everything I see and hear on these journeys is my story. Doesn’t that seem a bit silly, a bit childish? I think so. And yet, I’m grateful for it.