If you could eat only one type of cuisine for the rest of your life, which would you choose?  Italian, French, Indian?  It’s a question I have occasionally discussed with friends and their answers often illuminate their personalities.  Even more illuminating is the question “If you could read only one nation’s literature for the rest of your life (whether in translation or not), which would you choose?”

I don’t find it a difficult question to answer.  For me it would be Ireland (including its diaspora), without hesitation.  Why?  It can’t simply be because Ireland has produced a handful of writers whose work is inexhaustibly fascinating to me and repays repeated reading (think of Samuel Beckett, James, Joyce, and W.B. Yeats).  Can’t every country make a similar claim?  And it can’t be because it’s a country that refreshes its stream of fascinating writers on a regular basis.  Ireland’s stream of new talent is no greater than England’s or America’s.

So what is it that draws me to stories from Ireland?  It has to be something to do with a connection to “home”.  I read the stories of William Trevor, John McGahern, and Colm Toibin and I hear the voices of Ireland and the rhythms, cadences, and accents of Irish men and women talking.  I can picture the settings, the places, the faces.  I understand at some intuitive level the lives, feelings, and motivations of the characters and that deepens immeasurably the experience of reading and my engagement with the stories.  I like my answer but don’t like the implication.  Will I always miss nuances in a John Updike novel because I wasn’t born or raised in America or because my parents weren’t Americans and will my experience always be less than that of a reader who was?  Is there no such thing as a global story?