That Benedict Kiely is not a well-known name in this country is a sign either of American provincialism or Irish provincialism—probably both. Kiely, now in his eighties, has long been one of Ireland’s best writers. The first of his nine novels was published in 1946, the most recent in 1985; he has also written seven nonfiction books on Ireland and four volumes of short stories. In 1996 he was named Saoi of Aosdana, the highest honor given by the Arts Council of Ireland. Considered by many of his compatriots to be comparable to the likes of Edna O’Brien and William Trevor, Kiely has remained a specialized taste on this side of the Atlantic.

Maybe this is because his work is so very Irish: Kiely is deeply rooted in the rural and small-town culture of his youth, so that his work and the world he creates (or re-creates) has sometimes been compared with that of Faulkner. It is not, I think, a good comparison. Kiely’s vision is infinitely lighter and brighter than the American’s; though he deals with two world wars and the seemingly endless and endlessly suppurating wound caused by the partition of Ireland, and while he is obsessed with the twin tragedies of mutability and loss, his essential sunniness nearly always sheds a softening light on these somber themes and events. His voice and his point of view are consummately humane, and in a country rent apart by political and religious prejudice he is notable for a