Last year when Garry Hynes asked me to edit a book on Synge, I realised that a great seachange had taken place in relation to his work. Once, he would have been viewed by many readers and writers as an old-fashioned figure whose influence was harmful, whose stage-Irishness was not to be taken seriously. Now, he has become a fascinating and ambiguous genius, whose language is rich with wit and nuance and unpredictability. He worked, as Yeats said, with a living speech, and the way he worked, his ingenuity, his style, has come to mean a lot to contemporary writers. The gap between his own shyness, his quietness and the noise his characters make is a great example of the gap between the being who suffers and the mind which creates. Although he was mild-mannered, he had no respect for current pieties, and he made this part of the fierce and uncompromising energy of his plays. Also, his book on the Aran Islands, so careful, watchful, respectful, is understood by all of us to be a masterpiece. Thus it was not hard to approach writers to contribute a piece on Synge, to help produce a book as varied and unpredictable as Synge's own work. The brief was open — use any form, any length, to pay homage to Synge, or argue with him, or conjure up the writer who has become our contemporary. It meant a lot that we were doing this for the Druid Synge Season — when all six major plays will be presented in repertory for the first time — because the Druid Synge productions over the past quarter century have, more than anything else, been responsible for our fresh understanding of Synge's genius.
