From the most recent London Review of Books, Irish novelist Anne Enright provides a sort of diary of Ireland’s recession.
Telling the truth was, in the circumstances, not just boring, it was also unlucky, hexed, taboo. It might even be unclean. Careless talk costs jobs. If the bubble burst it would be your fault for calling it a bubble, because, at the end of the day, it’s not an economy, it’s a mood.
I am not a Freudian about this money shit, especially these days when it is so notional, so rarely handled or seen. I do think money is a magical substance, which makes the phrase ‘frozen desire’ a little too … frozen, for me. These days I play with the idea of money as mother’s love; her body, her attention, the blessing of her gaze. It is the thing you fight your siblings for, because to be poor is to be so unloved. But money changes when you multiply it by millions of families, and that is the shift that I can not understand.
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