“It’s quite unfortunate to not be in Ireland this particular week,” Michael Harding voices over a phone conversation from his current location, Portugal. The irony of an unexpectedly bright day in Dublin on the same day doesn’t escape him. He is found pensively observing the sea, a perfectly fitting activity for a man like Harding.
He is tremendously philosophical and sardonically amusing and is delightful to interact with. At one moment, he jokingly confesses to rambling, however, his narratives are far from it. His latest book, I Loved Him from the Day He Died: My Father, Forgiveness and A Final Pilgrimage, offers insightful reflections on life, the process of growing old, and the intricate dynamics he shared with his father whom he lost at the young age of 22.
“One never realises the impact of certain words until after a considerable time has passed,” Harding explains regarding a statement someone made about him. He was told, ‘You remind me of your father’. Upon looking into the mirror, he found the feeble, ageing man his father had become in his twilight years in himself. He recalls and often quotes a psalm that talks about the short span of human life, which is 70 years or 80 for the more robust among us. This piece of wisdom profoundly impacts him when he turns 70, as it marks the beginning of a new stage of life.
Harding views his recent publication as the concluding instalment of a whole series, and he refers to it as a “chronicle of everyday human life.” He finds it intriguing how this book, incidental in its direction, draws the entire memoir series together, focusing unfathomably on his father. This narrative seems to provide a fitting closure for him and renders a portrayal of fatherhood that continuously resonates deeply within his consciousness.
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In essence, it’s a rumination on manliness. It recollects the young Harding’s fascination with senior men who exemplified a stronger version of virility compared to his father, who was somewhat feeble and isolated from society. He now yearns to have understood his father more profoundly.
“He didn’t exist long enough for me to really talk to him,” he states. “I squandered considerable time glorifying the allure and might of maleness in pubs. I recall [author] Tom McIntyre once telling me: ‘You appear to consistently reside in the patriarchs’ dwelling.’ I was always fond of elderly men. They possessed a clear aura. They had completed their journey. Regardless of the outcome, they had participated in the game, which was now concluded.”
As soon as you declare your identity, an inner voice invariably declares, ‘You’re merely fabricating that’
Did his father disappoint him? “In countless ways, I admired him, especially because he was a writer [penning book critiques for the Irish Press], yet in an equal number of ways, I felt embarrassment for him. An instance I cited in the book was his inability to engage in straightforward playfulness. I believe this is a trait that gets passed down, seeing as I noticed the flaw within myself when I became a father. I’m notably ineffective at engaging in frivolous activities like table tennis.”
Solitude is another prevalent theme in the book. It highlights the contrast between his father’s self-imposed seclusion within his home and Harding’s own isolation within his writing quarters. “My relentless yearning for solitude often led me to romanticise … This became problematic in my middle years when I experienced depression. The romantic notion of desiring solitude had essentially engulfed me, leading to an exceedingly undesirable sense of loneliness. Although solitude may sound appealing, it usually results in feeling isolated.””
His creative endeavour in memoirism, he believes, allows him to build bridges with others. In his understanding, memoirs encapsulate one’s life creatively, differentiating from autobiography – it’s not a factual account, but the world as he recalls it, incorporating his own perceptions, even when flawed. He shifted his focus from playwriting and novelist pursuits, discovering that memoir writing was like speaking openly to his audience, a joyous experience.
This he has done, in a literal sense, every written work married with a 90-minute stage performance, interpreting chapters from his books through personal storytelling.
He frequently narrates about significant instances with strangers. The rationale for this is their captivating anonymity. People are surprisingly open in undefined spaces, sharing personal experiences liberatingly. It becomes an uplifting experience when a stranger confides.
Could this be attributed to the restraints placed upon us from societal standards and expectations? He agrees, stating that social structures and expectations impose a restriction on expression, preventing one from straying from refined conversational barriers. However, an encounter on public transport, especially when issues arise, can liberate one from these constraints. Solitude fails to define you, but having social interactions can lead to self-definition.
He also highlights moments of utter humiliation, particularly when our bodies fail us, could have societal consequences. In these instances, he found a peculiar connection with his father.
If one is attentive, contradictions will arise as well, in his opinion. For instance, when you ask an individual about their persona, they may initially describe themselves as loving and family-oriented. But as the conversation progresses, they may admit not being so kind to their family. This marks the beginning of self-questioning, questioning the image they have portrayed, casting doubt on their initial proclamation. It seems, according to him, as you declare your identity, there’s a disputing voice within yourself challenging the authenticity of your declaration.
He expressed that there’s more to writing your own narrative than just penning down facts or truth. He believes it’s a process of releasing your story, thus enabling you to delve deeper into your personal realm. This experience immerses you in a world of awe and ambiguity, which according to him, is a profound experience. This philosophy of embracing the unknown, he points out, is echoed by renowned mystics, such as Meister Eckhart and Julian of Norwich.
Interestingly, he undertook a pilgrimage, Camino de Santiago in Spain, for his book. “Four years back, I was just out of Beaumont Hospital, post two spine surgeries,” he recalls. A once simple task, walking, had become a significant milestone in his life, owing to nerve damage in his leg. Ironically, it was his years of struggle with pain and incapacitation that led him to consider undertaking the Camino. As he remembers, his initial target was a modest 1,000 steps which at that time felt like an achievement. He never entertained the thought of completing the Camino until he did, albeit a small part of it, at his own pace.
He candidly opens up about his frailty as a human, sharing an instance from his journey where he woke up in the middle of the night having wet his bed. It was during such moments of utter embarrassment when his body failed him, resulting in potential social stigma, that he strangely felt a profound connection with his deceased father.
He had borrowed the title of his book from a line inscribed in Michael Hartnett’s poem about the death of his mother, ‘Death of an Irishwoman.’ The poem, which he finds incredibly moving, had resonated with him deeply following his own father’s demise, giving him a heightened sense of loss and unfulfilled potential.
Reflecting on whether his latest book signals the completion of a certain writing phase, he muses about his future plans. He anticipates retaining some elements while incorporating novelty. “I presume any subsequent book would maintain the theme of documenting daily life in my small corner of the world. However, I don’t envisage crafting it through introspection of my own story,” he contemplates.
He candidly admits that his writing process is somewhat spontaneous, with no premeditated plans. As he puts pen to paper, ideas come to fruition spontaneously. “My creation whittles its own path and effortlessly takes shape, all thanks to my editor’s patience and understanding.”
Michael Harding’s book, “I Loved Him from the Day He Died”, has been released by Hachette Ireland, priced at €16.99. Fans will have an opportunity to meet Michael for book signing at Hodges Figgis, Dublin, on the evening of Tuesday, 8th October, at 6pm.