The longer I stay away, the less I feel completely truthful when I tell people I’m Irish – although I’m certainly nothing else
Not long ago, a friend said – in passing, as though it was so obvious that it didn’t bear any examination – that nobody would willingly choose to live their life again from the beginning if they couldn’t bring with them the benefit of hindsight. I would, I said instantly. I’d go back and do it all over again, no problem. In fact, I’d prefer not to have any hindsight: the idea of starting over and trying to live an unimpeachable life strikes me as a particular kind of torture. No, I’d go from day one, a blank baby, just for the hell of it.
The concept of regret is difficult for me – not because I believe myself to have lived particularly well, but because to revise any decision could mean not meeting all the people I love, or not going to all the places that mean the most to me. Rather than specific regrets, I tend to harbour a large, free-floating dread that I will one day feel remorse about the way I live more generally – the biggest and most troubling element of this pre-regret being my decision to leave Ireland.
