When Words Fail, Ireland Remembers

It felt like the wind was knocked out of my lungs. As I stepped into a room at the Museum of Literature Ireland, I was surrounded by names and faces of more than a century of Irish literature. People whose work has become seminal the world over. From the stage to the screen, poets and novelists alike were just staring back at me. People who found their love of language in a place that once vilified it. 

Everywhere you look in Ireland, you see Gaeilge or Irish words. A language that had long been repressed throughout the country until 1922 now seems alive and well back in its ancestral home. While only 40% of the population, as of the 2022 census, speaks the language, it seems to be coming back to life. Why does this matter? Why am I boring you with fun facts about colonization and the purging of language in English of all things, the language that was put forth to eradicate Gaeilge?

Because in Ireland, words are omnipresent. Whether conjured from glimpses of the sea bashing against ancient rock or sipping a Powers whiskey elbow to elbow with fellow tavern patrons, no place on Earth I’ve been is more evocative of words. If anyone has left a profound mark on Ireland with their musings, it was Dublin’s own Oscar Wilde. His words are much of what remains of his life, reminding us that words can scorch or nurture the earth. Sometimes both. 

In Dublin, you’ll see Wilde in a lot of places. The wit’s persona never quite left, despite his death 126 years ago. Quotes splashed against brick, statues here and there, or even his name ascribed to some shop or another. You can’t escape him. While James Joyce may be the most celebrated of Ireland’s famed writers, Wilde has certainly not been a slouch, and he is undoubtedly my personal favorite of all Ireland’s literati. 

I’m not quite sure if he’d be pleased or perturbed at how lovingly Dublin has held on to his life, though it never ceases to amaze me how deeply held that fondness is. You’ll feel it the most deeply at the Oscar Wilde House museum. Kitty corner from the iconic Oscar Wilde Memorial Sculpture in nearby Merrion Square, this home is a testament to the power of words in the face of a world hellbent on snuffing them out. 

Wilde’s family home isn’t full of the storied writer’s belongings, physical trappings of his fame, or even rare copies of his work. Many of the things that were once his or those of his family are long gone — sacrificed to pay his legal debts near the end of his all-too-short life. Unlike the earthly possessions of someone like William Shakespeare, they weren’t lost to the hands of time. They were lost to the hands of his fellow man. 

Yet his memorial statue, a smirking man in repose, looks lovingly back at the house that raised him. A green carnation tucked into his lapel was an outward symbol to his queer community that he belonged — even when the court of public opinion begged to differ. From the window of his childhood bedroom, looking towards the park in which he once played, it’s as if he is staring back at you. Beckoning you to get to know the place that made him; the place that has since never forgotten him. 

Every time I return to Ireland, I’m met with a profound sense of remembering. A sense that this place does something to a person. Its luscious green hillsides, dramatic cliffs, somber grey mornings, or sun-drenched meadows are more than simply incredible inspiration for the written word. This island, with such a wide-reaching diaspora, is inescapable. It’s little wonder that folks with Irish ancestry (myself included) feel drawn to this place. 

There is a sense of peace I find in this place. One I have found in few other places around the world. It’s an overwhelming sense of calm. Even on the foggiest of days, the world is a bit clearer here. I often wonder if Wilde felt that. If the other Irish writers who spoke my creative energy into being had that sense. If there were a world in which Samuel Beckett, George Bernard Shaw, Martin McDonagh, Lady Gregory, and Oscar Wilde were in a room together, they would see Ireland as a creative space in the same way I do. 

Because it all comes back to words. Language that the Irish fought so long to hold onto. The legacies paved with words of all shades. Words in dual languages plastered on signs around every bend. All reminders that Ireland remembers. You, too, will surely remember her.

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