The Letters of Seamus Heaney – A Review

Poet’s correspondence, curated by Christopher Reid, is touching on almost every page.

The figure of Seamus Heaney is recognizable. I mean that literally. The large frame, the wild hair, the kind face. Even in silhouette – as seen on the front cover of the first edition of Verano, 1969 – the observer recognizes that they are gazing at the supremely talented poet. There is an irony and contradiction to this, as the Irishman was wary of having to ‘play himself in public’ and guarded towards any biographer or journalist keen on prying into his personal life. So, perhaps a reader of this collection of letters might approach this book with relish, eyeing a chance to make accessible what was previously distant, bring closer a man at a remove from us by virtue of his hero, laureate, national treasure status.

The mysterious life

On this front, this book mostly delivers. His most frequent opener was a mea culpa for answering late, which reveals the breadth of his correspondence, his commitment to maintaining friendships and his helter-skelter life. Apart from what he chooses to say in his letters – even here, and off the poetry page, writing is a deliberate act – his warm personality shines through in the most unforced, natural ways. Gracefully, he quotes other poets, reveals private concerns, or patiently responds to queries from translators or students, laying out the complex nuances of his local references or approach to poetry as a whole.

Yet, we only ever see his side of the letters, and mentions of people of events are presented without much context as, naturally enough, the two people communicating were fully aware of the pertinent facts. This not a criticism. It is a reminder of the fact that, even in this laid bare state, the full extent of any person’s life always contains an element of mystery. And Heaney’s life truly contained multitudes. Reading the book, which is a joyful experience, can be challenging. How does one read a collection of letters that span several decades, full of varied topics, with no narrative building up a head of steam? By remembering to pause and savour the kaleidoscope of his literary and cultural experiences.   

Second edition of Verano, 1969.

Dizzying movement  

The book is propelled by a dizzying sense of movement. Heaney escapes the Troubles for Wicklow and Dublin, with the former offering a bolthole in times of creative need, when the Derry-native needed a respite from the lecture circuit, when he needed a moment to put pen to paper. There are the stints in Harvard, where he worries about facing a class, which was a constant anxiety throughout his teaching career. Here, we also get an insight into his marriage. Heaney ventures in one letter that some time away on the American east coast, where incidentally he sees hippies for the first time, could act as a gentle salve on the relationship. We sympathize with him as he describes the sense of dread he felt when a large manuscript from an aspiring writer thumps onto the floor after having been pushed through the letter box. We feel identified with him as a new father and a fledgling freelancer, wondering where the money and work would come from.

There is the deep friendship with Ted Hughes, the courageous and correct decision to assert his Irishness, the collaboration with Amnesty, the Nobel prize. There is the celebration of Michael Longley’s plays and Michael Hartnett’s decision to write solely in Irish. This book is epic yet personal. As he often describes where he is and what type of paper he is using, we can imagine this brilliant man hunched over a foldable tray on an Aer Lingus flight or near the beach in Saint Lucia.

There are insights into how the publishing industry works, from the early critiques of his first manuscript to harebrained promotional ideas. One proposed stunt was having Seamus Heaney helicopter into different locations for multiple launches on the same day. He was horrified. And he was equally dismayed when he realised his fame was affecting his family. One Japanese academic even turned up at his brother’s farm.

Life is strange, even for a Nobel laureate. Random anecdotes show the chaotic hilarity of the human experience, from letters destined for Ireland but ending up in Rwanda to the hard of hearing Samuel Beckett struggling to keep up with the conversation. And Heaney advising a journalist not to report on the nickname his mother used euphemistically to refer to male genitalia seems ripped from the pages of a satire.

A moving end

Seamus Heaney will always inspire hero worship, people falling over themselves to praise his words in the hope that by doing so, they will somehow be reflected in his poetic glow. However, having spent five months with this collection, my lasting impression is of a good man. Loyal to his friends, scared of offending and hungry for knowledge. It’s always bittersweet finishing a good book, but when this one concludes with his final message to his wife at the end of his life, in Latin, I was filled with a real sense of sadness. And gratitude. Accompanying Heaney vicariously through his letters has been a beautiful experience.

And remember

You can read our novel on Seamus Heaney here and find more culture on our podcast.