Work On That Bedside Manner

One of my favourite things about Irish myths and epics is the vastness of scale, the often surreal degree of exaggeration, particularly when it comes to feats of strength and of warfare. Thus, Fionn is described as having calves the size of a calf, widening to thighs the size of a cow, culminating in freakishly disproportionate shoulders the width of a mountain pass. That such absurd litanies of physical attributes, athletic feats or bloody triumphs are recounted in such blankly deadpan tones is a great deal of their charm. Still, I was unprepared for the hilarious brutality of the following passage, found in Ciaran Carson’s new translation of The Táin:

The first doctor came up and examined Cethern.
“You won’t last long”, he said.
“Then neither will you”, said Cethern, and he dealt him such a blow with his fist that his brains spurted out from his ears. In the same way he killed fifty doctors. Or maybe it was fifteen.

“It wasn’t a good idea”, said Cu Chulainn to Cethern, “to kill the doctors”

“It wasn’t a good idea for them to tell me the bad news”

And doctors say they have it tough these days.

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