Anthropology experts identify two main categories of societies based on their verbal communication tendencies – those who chat abundantly and those who are more reticent. Among these, some specific characteristics can immediately be identified by people.
In contrast to Ireland, Finland’s social norms discourage public conversations. As such, if you were to travel from Helsinki to Kolari by train, you’d notice the noticeable silence, with the only exchanges happening between known companions.
Conversely, hop on a train from Dublin to Cork, and you’re likely to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you. The Irish love to engage and interact, even while waiting in queues for the Christmas festivities – a stark contrast to the quietness prevalent in parts of Northern Europe, where people are generally more reserved and keep to themselves.
Historically, Ireland has been known for its eloquence. This trait is well encapsulated in Irish literature of the 18th century, with works by authors such as Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin and Tadhg Gaelach showcasing this verbosity. Irish playwrights recognised in the English language are appreciated for their wittiness, decency and lively dialogue. Indeed, who could outshine the street poetics of O’Casey or Oscar Wilde’s quick-witted exchanges?
John Millington Synge’s mastery of the Irish language is equally impressive as his ability to twist and bend the tongue in English. Similarly, Cré na Cille’s entire narrative revolves around conversation – it’s filled with greetings, lamentation, scorn, and biting wit for around 364 pages. Tomás Ó Criomhthain’s Allagar na hInise, just like his vibrant day-to-day chatter about everything from foraging seaweed to quirks of The Dingle town’s nightlife, a gem of the Irish language.
However, this has not been the case lately, as this chattiness appears to be on the decline.
Recently, watching a Pat Collins movie inspired by John McGahern’s book “That They May Face the Rising Sun”, I was filled with a sensation of fear. The grave silence, the profound dedication, the absence of dialogue, the lack of vibrancy, the void of expressiveness, the unvoiced idea that words were potent declarations, that they were being wasted, that the state’s fiscal spy was on the way to catalogue them, and a dictionary insufficiently comprehensive to go beyond half a page – all of this was ominously compelling.
Yes, the cinematography was undoubtedly exquisite, amplified by the location, Galway. I shudder to imagine the issue if filming was to happen in County Leitrim – it would have to be done using monochrome reels or, even worse, a dreary grey. The very scenario is intensely Chaplin-esque.
As I departed the venue, a thought implanted itself in my mind: we as a civilisation have undergone a significant evolution. I found “The Quiet Girl” endearing because in the end, she was the quiet one, encapsulating the essence of the movie. But this theme of silence, enthusiasm, wit, and temporality, also found ubiquitously across Sally Rooney’s literary works, especially in “Normal People”, is painfully relatable. It’s a prayer-worthy concern that the mute characters could become the new ‘normalcy’ in a couple of generations, if not earlier.
Has eloquence deserted us? Or are we just grappling with articulation? These are merely questions thrown into orbit around the heart of contemporary ‘communication’ discourse.