change the metaphor, this system of stylised thought can be enjoyed as a sort of intellectual ballet, full of harmony, grace, disciplined energy and calculated flexibility. But it never allows for the unplanned movement, the sudden burst of individual initiative, the leap of a solitary imagination. Just as ballet is only remotely related to how people move in everyday life, so this system is only remotely related to how they think and feel. It is an heroic attempt to strengthen the weak, reassure the fearful and give form to the formless. As such, it has been of inestimable value to Europeans for almost two thousand years. But now European man is growing up, as Bonhoeffer saw not long before my First Holy Communion Day.
Apart from its religious significance, the First Holy Communion rite in a small Irish town was, during my childhood, a provocation to rampant one-up-womanship amongst the mothers of little girls. Who would have the longest veil, the most striking wreath, the most becoming frock, the prettiest shoes and knee-socks, the smallest rosary-beads, the most lavishly illustrated prayer-book? Mothers who could never afford a square meal for their children spent absurd sums on outfits which were totally impractical since it was considered both irreverent and déclassé to wear them on social occasions. Once I heard my father muttering in his ascetic way that the clergy should condemn such inappropriate ostentation. But my mother defended it, arguing that by spending so apparently foolishly, people were expressing an awareness of the solemnity of sacramental rites – that for them extravagance was a part of worshipping. Many years later, when listening to criticisms of the lavish wedding-feasts of poor Hindus, I remembered her words. Had my father noticed the circumstance, he would certainly have deplored the fact that his daughter – attired in a Parisian outfit donated by her godfather – won this sartorial competition at a canter. But then my mother counteracted our status-improving victory by thriftily insisting on my wearing the frock ‘for best’ during that summer of 1939.
At the beginning of June my parents were more grieved than surprised to get a letter from Switzerland announcing Anton’s ‘disappearance’. (For several years he had been an outspoken opponent of Nazism.) As my father translated the news the sun was shining brilliantly across the breakfast-table, making the pot of marmalade glow amber. Then, precisely folding up the thin sheet of writing-paper, he replaced it in its envelope and said, ‘So, by August war will have come’. He was not far out. But I cared nothing for the fate of a to me unknown German professor, or for the shadow of an unimaginable war; I mourned only the loss of Real Travel.
A few months later, I went one morning to fetch the newspaper and learned that war had been declared. Hurrying home, I relished the sense of crisis in the atmosphere and expectantly scanned a cloudless sky for the first bombers. But when I realised that Ireland was not going to be involved I lost interest in the whole distant drama. For me, its chiefeffect was to intensify the boredom of grown-up conversation; I regarded literature and theology as lesser evils than military tactics. Occasionally, however, I was diverted by Hitler’s interminable monologues on the wireless. These I found irresistibly funny and I remember rolling under the dining-room table one day in an uncontrollable paroxysm of mirth. My parents, who both understood German, reacted otherwise.
Yet for my father the war was a source of considerable inner conflict; much as he detested Nazism he was psychologically incapable of desiring a British victory. (Very likely his secret wish was that Germany and Britain should do a Kilkenny cat act.) He temporarily resolved his conflict – to my mother’s unvoiced, ironic amusement – by refusing to remember Anton and persuading himself that the evils of Nazism were a creation of
Apart from its religious significance, the First Holy Communion rite in a small Irish town was, during my childhood, a provocation to rampant one-up-womanship amongst the mothers of little girls. Who would have the longest veil, the most striking wreath, the most becoming frock, the prettiest shoes and knee-socks, the smallest rosary-beads, the most lavishly illustrated prayer-book? Mothers who could never afford a square meal for their children spent absurd sums on outfits which were totally impractical since it was considered both irreverent and déclassé to wear them on social occasions. Once I heard my father muttering in his ascetic way that the clergy should condemn such inappropriate ostentation. But my mother defended it, arguing that by spending so apparently foolishly, people were expressing an awareness of the solemnity of sacramental rites – that for them extravagance was a part of worshipping. Many years later, when listening to criticisms of the lavish wedding-feasts of poor Hindus, I remembered her words. Had my father noticed the circumstance, he would certainly have deplored the fact that his daughter – attired in a Parisian outfit donated by her godfather – won this sartorial competition at a canter. But then my mother counteracted our status-improving victory by thriftily insisting on my wearing the frock ‘for best’ during that summer of 1939.
At the beginning of June my parents were more grieved than surprised to get a letter from Switzerland announcing Anton’s ‘disappearance’. (For several years he had been an outspoken opponent of Nazism.) As my father translated the news the sun was shining brilliantly across the breakfast-table, making the pot of marmalade glow amber. Then, precisely folding up the thin sheet of writing-paper, he replaced it in its envelope and said, ‘So, by August war will have come’. He was not far out. But I cared nothing for the fate of a to me unknown German professor, or for the shadow of an unimaginable war; I mourned only the loss of Real Travel.
A few months later, I went one morning to fetch the newspaper and learned that war had been declared. Hurrying home, I relished the sense of crisis in the atmosphere and expectantly scanned a cloudless sky for the first bombers. But when I realised that Ireland was not going to be involved I lost interest in the whole distant drama. For me, its chiefeffect was to intensify the boredom of grown-up conversation; I regarded literature and theology as lesser evils than military tactics. Occasionally, however, I was diverted by Hitler’s interminable monologues on the wireless. These I found irresistibly funny and I remember rolling under the dining-room table one day in an uncontrollable paroxysm of mirth. My parents, who both understood German, reacted otherwise.
Yet for my father the war was a source of considerable inner conflict; much as he detested Nazism he was psychologically incapable of desiring a British victory. (Very likely his secret wish was that Germany and Britain should do a Kilkenny cat act.) He temporarily resolved his conflict – to my mother’s unvoiced, ironic amusement – by refusing to remember Anton and persuading himself that the evils of Nazism were a creation of
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