Evoking memories of Ireland.

Today, the most unaccountable thing happened: I stepped out of my house, in Kuala Lumpur, into the depths of the Ireland, of my childhood. It was the most uncanny feeling. It is also one I shall explain.

When I left home, today, the light was subdued, the sky being heavily overcast, so that the customarily so-bright-you-have-to-squint light, had been muted, to a dull, comfortable grey. Not only that, but there was a light drizzle falling, teasing with the unkept threat of rain to come. Opposite my house, there is a verdant field, of a plush green. This simultaneous conjunction of green, drizzle and greyness, suddenly convinced some deeper part of myself, that I was in Ireland. It was so like my childhood memories of the place: the incessant drizzle, the overcast sky, and its dullness of light, surrounded by endless green, that tumbles on, as far as the eye can see. It felt, in that moment, so Irish, so characteristic of my childhood days – now very distant – in that green and moist land. It was the oddest thing I can recall feeling in many years. My body, at its core, was convinced it was in Ireland: all the cues were there, all the signs of that unforgotten land. If only I had not known, for a fact, that I was not there, I could have believed it with all of myself.

I was with Ainan, at the time – and I tried to explain to him what I felt and why I felt it. I tried to make him see what Ireland was like. He listened quietly, having no experience of the place. I realized, though, in trying to explain my sense of Ireland to him, that I needed to go there and show my children what it was like. I cannot let their childhoods pass without giving them some experience of the land that played such a part in my own upbringing.

Ireland was not long in Kuala Lumpur. An hour or two later, when I emerged from my University, the moment had passed: the sky was no longer so grey or dull, the light had brightened to its customary discomfort, the rain had stopped and the green was elsewhere. Yet, the reminder remained within me, echoing on. The message for me, is clear. I cannot forever remain in Asia, but must, some day return to Europe, even if only for awhile. Today, I had not gone to Ireland, but Ireland had come to me. There is meaning in that, it seems to me. Perhaps it is time, I returned and visited, once more – but this time, with a new family in tow. I wonder what they will make of it? I know this, however: should they visit, it will give them a sense memory, such as the one that today evoked for me. It will give them a memory that they, too, might one day recall, many years from today, when their father is old and their children are young. I have to give them that. It will give them a bridge not only to their own past, but to mine, too. Such a bridge is worth building: it is what ties us to whence we came.

Perhaps, when I am old, my children will speak of the time (s) they were in Ireland (and the UK). I will know, then, that they share some part of the world I grew up in. There is a beauty in that, a symmetry which those who reflect on life, can only find rewarding.

If I am still writing, then, I will tell of that day. To do so, will be to have come full circle, in a satisfying way. Until then, then…

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 7 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to: http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

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The mortality and immortality of authors.

A few weeks ago, I was in the library, in Singapore. Now, for those who have never set foot in one of Singapore's many libraries, I have to point out that it is, typically, a pleasure to do so: Singapore has very good public libraries. They have a wide variety of books and a pleasant environment. It seems to me that quite a lot is invested in public libraries.

I roamed around the library largely at random, noting with the delight of recognition, some of the authors of my childhood reading: Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Roald Dahl, Michael Crichton, Frank Herbert...the names danced before me, and brought to mind days on which I had either read their works, or seen films adapted from their works. Then something struck me: they were all dead.

Authors are not typical people in many ways. They live their lives in thought. Some live almost entirely in imagined worlds which they seek to record. Others write of the world as it is, as they lived it. Whichever type of author they are, they share two things in common: firstly, they are all mortal; secondly they are all immortal. By this, I mean that one day they will cease to breathe, to think, to write, but beyond that day, their works will remain to be breathed, thought and read by others. The author dies, the author's work lives on.

All my childhood authors are dead. I don't think that even one of them still lives. Many of the authors I used to read in my twenties are also dead. Those that aren't may no longer be well. Terry Pratchett, for instance, is in the early stages of a type of Alzheimer's disease. It is sobering to realize this. Authors seem, somehow, so alive: in spending time with their thoughts, on the page, it never occurs to one, that they are as fragile as all other humans and will one day pass away.

It is true to say that having children makes one more aware of the way life passes by - people mature and grow old and this happens at quite a fearful pace. Yet, I cannot help but think that the wholesale death of the authors of one's childhood is, in some ways, a stronger reminder of mortality. All those who created the culture of my childhood are dead. Even though their works live on and can still be enjoyed by contemporary readers that doesn't change the fact that there will be no more books written by these people. They are, now, forever silent. Yet, their silence is a strange silence, for it is still possible to revisit the old "conversations" one had with them, by re-reading an old book.

Authors die, but in another sense, they never do. They still populate the libraries of the world and all those that I once read, can still be found in Singapore's libraries. Somehow, that connects my childhood to the adult world I now live in, half a world away from my European origins. The same childhood culture is available here, in Singapore, to be read. Thus it is that, though Singapore could not, in many ways, be more different from the places of my youth, Singapore's children may very well enjoy some of the very same cultural experiences that populated my childhood. Their youthful memories may contain many of the same experiences as my own. Thus, not only do the works of authors of linger on, beyond their lives, but those works tend to diffuse across the world and reach places the authors themselves never visited and never knew.

I don't have the time to read, that I did, as a child. Too many responsibilities intrude on the time that I once had for such things. Yet, it feels comforting to know that parts of my childhood are only a book away. I could, if I wished, re-experience what once I felt, by re-reading some of the authors of my youth. I could sit down, again, with those antique thoughts, and recreate those literary experiences again. At the turning of a page, the decades would fall away, and I would be, once more, an enchanted child, entering a strange imagined world. However, of course, I have changed, and I would read the book differently from the way in which it was first read. I would think the work less polished, for instance. I would see flaws in its construction. I would, perhaps, argue with the way it was written. Yet, if I could set aside that awareness of words, and just read, I may, again, feel as once I felt.

I wonder what those dead authors would feel to know that others still read them, many years after they are gone. Does it warm them to know, that though they die, as all humans do, that their thoughts live on, to be spoken, again, at the reading of their words? Perhaps, they draw comfort in that, when their time comes. Perhaps they understand that part of them will never truly die. Perhaps, in fact, that is why some of them write books in the first place.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, a scientific child prodigy, aged eight years and seven months, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, five years exactly, and Tiarnan, twenty-eight months, please go to:http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html I also write of gifted education, IQ, intelligence, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, College, University, Chemistry, Science, genetics, left-handedness, precocity, child prodigy, child genius, baby genius, adult genius, savant, wunderkind, wonderkind, genio, гений ребенок prodigy, genie, μεγαλοφυία θαύμα παιδιών, bambino, kind.

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