FRED JOHNSTON,
Sir, - At the time that Sebastian Barry's play Hinterland was under attack from various quarters, I supported utterly his right to use the stage to comment on public issues and public figures - theatre has done this since time immemorial - and I wrote to him and told him so.
What interested me most about the nature of the criticism his play received (I attended it, script in hand) was that there might remain a view that the personality around which the play is allegedly based was still an icon of sorts and as such required protecting. Thus something about the nature of our culture was revealed.
On the other hand, the "criticism" the play received did the play no harm at all in box-office terms.
I am very disappointed, therefore, to read of Sebastian Barry's remarks at the Hay Festival. His listeners must have loved it, of course - the Irish writer still "persecuted" at home. Mr Barry appears to be in love, like so many Irish writers, with the notion of martyrdom for his art under a harsh Soviet regime; it is a romantic view, of course, and common to a literary culture whose participants usually take care not to protest against or criticise any organ of the State or its institutions.
Sebastian Barry is not the new Sean O'Casey.
It would be a very good thing indeed for sales of one's literary works if one were forced to "flee the country for safety"! The fact remains that literature here sold its incisors long ago; it is simply impossible to be banned. In political terms, writing has no force.
This is the fault of our writers, no one else. The fate of writers does not concern the taxi-driver, the bus-driver, the schoolteacher, the factory worker; nor, let's face it, the politicians.
As a writer, I am considerably less important in practical, social terms than the chaps who collect my household rubbish. I have no power at all compared with postmen, who, by striking, can alter the economic performance of an entire country. So let's stop being silly. - Yours, etc.,
FRED JOHNSTON,
Circular Road,
Galway.