GEORGE MACKAY BROWN
Letters to Gypsy: Cold East Wind
GMB & Gypsy
© Gunnie Moberg,
Gypsy, if this horrid, cold mist-bringing East wind goes on much longer, I shall be very angry.
the wind, “I love to blow from
That foolish wind, little does it know that it curdles the marrow in the
bones of man and cat and makes us quite ill . . . Especially delicate
creatures like you and me . . .
Whereas, when it blows from the West — which is after all, the airt it
loves best — it brings music and magic to us, seal songs and the
breath of mermaids and the merry splurge and dance of whales. And more, it brings aromas of the magic isle in the west,
that people have known was there for thousands of years. The Gaelic-speakers called it Tir-nan-Og (which means ‘the
land of the young’). Once
we’re there, believe me, Gypsy, we'll never be old and sick and weary — for pussies there’ll be a silver fish on
a plate every day, and a nice stone – emerald or lapis lazuli — to
sit on always in the sun, and no dogs and no bad-tempered
householders who ‘shoo’ pussies off their doorsteps.
There, in Tir-nan-Og, even the East wind is gentle and full of scents and
sweet sounds. But you have
to be good to get
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