Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Seamus Heaney is a writer of the immediate and the physical. He writes the feel of the iron in your hand and the soft humus sinking beneath your feet. He writes the bite of the wind, and the romance of expectations met and surpassed, or crushed as the case may be. Yet for all the present and gross of his writing, there remains a sheen of the mythic and the sheer understanding of the immortality of the classic as it mingles constant with the world around us today.

Here is a man whom even Niamh herself can't bring away from his reverie, here is history as a series of ghosts as one walks the stations in search of - what? Here is man cursed to be a bird, seeing the world from a new perspective and trying to make sense of the insensible. It's a romance that is difficult to characterize firmly, and even more difficult to fully understand, as all of Heaney's work tends to be. Layers upon layers, yet the beauty remains undeniable.

The lesson, ultimately, seems to be that it is impossible to ever choose a favorite work of Heaney's. It's all brilliant, all different, and all undeniable.