By DANIEL JOHNSON
What is the greatest and most
universally loved book ever written in Ireland — wilder than Wilde,
more shocking than Shaw, more experimental than Joyce, more disillusioned than
Beckett, more humane than Heaney?
The book is, of
course, Gulliver's
Travels. Its author wrote his own Latin epitaph, best
translated by another Anglo-Irishman, Yeats: "Swift has sailed into his
rest;/Savage indignation there/ Cannot lacerate his breast." Jonathan
Swift's indignation against the follies of mankind was indeed so extreme that
he has been savaged himself ever since, by critics who have seen his works as
misanthropic and misogynist, the revenge of an embittered man thwarted in his
poetical, political and ecclesiastical ambitions. Swift was so scandalous on
every level — from the gruesome irony of A Modest Proposal to the scatological reductio ad absurdum of all that polite society held dear
in The Lady's Dressing Room — that
his exile from literary London to the Deanery of St Patrick's, Dublin, has been
posthumously extended: hence his present neglect in our schools and
universities. David Womersley's definitive new edition of Gulliver's Travels, the latest of 18
volumes of Swift's works published by Cambridge University Press, is thus a
major step towards his academic rehabilitation and even vindication.
Yet not only
the English-speaking peoples, but the whole civilised world has embraced Gulliver's Travels since its first publication in 1726.
The fact that many who have not read it wrongly suppose it to be a children's
book, and that children do indeed enjoy at any rate the first two parts,
reveals its author's genius. Adapted and bowdlerised more than almost any other
literary classic,Gulliver has
survived and, though countless modern writers, whether of magical realism or
teenage fantasy fiction, owe Swift an unconscious debt, the original still
surpasses all imitations.