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Certain phrases in the text derive from the following sources:

In the Interim Time: “The old is not old enough to have died away and the young is still too young to be born” is from Gramsci.

In “The Eyes of Jesus”: “Back home in the house that we have never left” is from Meister Eckhart.

For Citizenship: “Turn anger into anxiety” is from James Hillman; Turn anxiety back into anger” is from Robert Bly.

About the Author

JOHN O’DONOHUE is the author of several books, including, most recently, Beauty, and the international bestsellers Anam Cara and Eternal Echoes, as well as two collections of poetry, Echoes of Memory and Conamara Blues. He lives in Ireland and frequently travels to the United States to give lectures and conduct workshops.

ALSO BY JOHN O’DONOHUE         

Beauty: The Invisible Embrace

Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our

Yearning to Belong

Conamara Blues: Poems

Divine Beauty

ALSO BY JOHN O’DONOHUE

Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong

Conamara Blues: Poems

Beauty: The Invisible Embrace

To Bless the Space Between Us

Copyright © 1994 by John O’Donohue

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

www.crownpublishing.com

Originally published in paperback in Ireland by Salmon Publishing, a division of Poolbeg Enterprises, Ltd., Dublin, in 1994.

Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

O’Donohue, John, 1956–2008.

Echoes of memory / John O’Donohue. — 1st pbk. ed.

p. cm.

Originally published: Dublin : Salmon Pub., 1994.

1. Ireland—Poetry. 2. Spirituality—Poetry. I. Title.

PR6065.D574E24    2011

821′.914—dc22                   2010045523

eISBN: 978-0-307-71759-7

v3.1

Dí féin, anam-ċara

Mo smaoínte agus mo shaol

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

I

Air Holds Echo

Nowhere

Taken

After the Sea

Raven

Beannacht

November Questions

Uaigneas

Lull

Fossil

Woman and Steel

II

Hungers of Distance

Purgatorial

Exiled Clay

Instead of Kissing the Cross

Anything Can Come

Young Mind

Broken Moon

Expectation

Nothingness: The Secret of the Cross

Self-Distance

Ich wünsche mir

Cottage

The Voyage of Gentians

Betrayed by Light

Voices at the Funeral

i Body

ii Grave

iii Coffin

iv Forgetfulness

III

Clay Holds Memory

Exposed

Origins

Raid

Damage: A Conamara Cacophony

Gleninagh

Selves

Tropism

Outside Memory

Chosen

IV

Icons of Love

Nets

The Grief of Love

Invocation

Frail Shelter

Afterwards

Jealousy

Skeletal

Messenger of Sight

Moon Blessing

Nothing Else Matters

Love Notes

Found

From the Womb Before the Dawn

Conamara in Our Mind

Arrival

First lines

About the Author

I—Air Holds Echo

Not on my lips look for your mouth,

not in front of the gate for the stranger,

not in the eye for the tear.

PAUL CELAN

Nowhere

They are to be admired those survivors

of solitude who have gone with no maps

into the room without features,

where no wilderness awaits a footstep trace,

no path of danger to a cold summit

to look back on and feel exuberant,

no clarity of territories yet untouched

that tremble near the human breath,

no thickets of undergrowth with deep pores

to nest the litanies of wind addicted birds,

no friendship of other explorers

drawn into the dream of the unknown.

No. They do not belong to the outside worship

of the earth, but risk themselves in the interior

space where the senses have nothing to celebrate,

where the air intensifies the intrusion of the human

and a poultice of silence pulls every sound

out of circulation down into the ground,

where in the panic of being each breath unravels

an ever deeper strand in the web of weaving mind,

shawls of thought fall off, empty and lost,

where only the red scream of the blood continues unheard

without anonymous skin, and the end of all exploring

is the relentless arrival at an ever novel nowhere.

Taken

i.m. my father, Paddy O’Donohue,