Ciaran Carson’s The Star Factory is perhaps the most poetic of autobiographies to come out of Ireland thusfar.  Carson first made his literary mark as a poet before venturing into writing about traditional music.  It is a joy to see his astounding love of and facility with language applied to Belfast, a city too many of us associate only with tragedy and strife.  I’ve spent my obligatory weeks in Belfast, and found my own knowledge of the place just enough to bind me to the sweetness with which most of the vanished city of of Carson’s kidhood is described.  He lays out the map, and illustrates locations and people with clarity, but more often than not, Carson is immersed in the asides that make his work so pleasurable to read for we language buffs.  Hs discusses the whys and wherefores of knitting in his family, the role of dinnsenchas (story of place names) in Irish, the post office in Northern Ireland and its legacy–the asides alone are worth the price-tag.  Perhaps I love Carson’s words too much.  I certainly wish I could claim some small part of them.  In the meantime, I’ll read some of his poetry to sate myself while I wait for his next book to be published.

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