During the Civil War here in the 1920s, a group of ten guerillas were laying in wait to ambush an army convoy that passed this particular spot at 8 p.m. every evening on patrol. At 8 p.m. there was no sign of the convoy. At 8.10 not a sound could be heard and the waiting attackers were getting uneasy. The challenge is to be determined not to be satisfied with a country where there are large numbers of people still living on the margins, but to create a society where there are no them and theirs, where all is one. . . Irishness is not a 'ground' of being, even less a root.
Roots are for turnips and vegetables.
Roots are stuck in the mud. We are all nomads and itinerants, and our 'culture' is our caravan and pack animal. Identity hangs in the air, like a rope that dangles unsupported. We wax on that rope and let it sway. But the rope is real.