flesh of their arms and of their legs, and of their stomachs and their backs” (172). Imelda incessantly meditates on past, as and more her reveries claimed her in Kilneagh’s “more the classroom or when she wandered about the fields or during Sunday-evening anthems, or in bed. It was a like reading her diaries, and habit she’d gotten into, mother’s Imelda even dreams of Sergeant head, listening” (183). Rudkin’s murder, imagining “the its weight tearing the flesh that still attached it to the body. She imagined the eyes and the mouth, and the body twitching the seen a once for nearly a minute way she’d turkey’s after The grotesque images present in imagination illustrate her death” (187). Imelda’s insanity caused by history and its power on the present. As Richard Russell claims, in the violence of the past finally traumatizes her to “Imelda’s imaginative immersion such a degree that she becomes a silent, a of sorts to atrocities mute, vicarious ‘witness’ associated with (3). reflections on past drive her insanity Kilneagh” Imelda’s Kilneagh’s forward and reiterate destructive power over the Quinton family. history’s Imelda is also driven mad by her revenge and exile. She repeatedly asks father’s her mother, Marianne, when Willie is coming back. Despite the skepticism of others, her mother answers, will come back, you know. One day Willie will come “He back.” Encouraged by her hope, Imelda likes to imagine return. She mother’s Willie’s into a familiar reverie: her father again stepped off the bus at oftentimes “drifted in a suit that was as light-coloured as his (183). She seeks to Driscoll’s dressed hair” discover the father she has never known, pursuing him in . . . in her “a photograph bedroom, standing among rows of other boys. It was hard to make out what he mother’s looked like . . . he was smiling a little in the photograph, but when she tried to look more closely at his face it of her father remains as misty became misty” (171). Her knowledge
flesh of their arms and of their legs, and of their stomachs and their backs” (172). Imelda incessantly meditates on Kilneagh’s past, as “more and more her reveries claimed her in the classroom or when she wandered about the fields or during Sunday-evening anthems, or in bed. It was a habit she’d gotten into, like reading her mother’s diaries, and listening” (183). Imelda even dreams of Sergeant Rudkin’s murder, imagining “the head, its weight tearing the flesh that still attached it to the body. She imagined the eyes and the mouth, and the body twitching the way she’d seen a turkey’s once for nearly a minute after death” (187). The grotesque images present in Imelda’s imagination illustrate her insanity caused by history and its power on the present. As Richard Russell claims, “Imelda’s imaginative immersion in the violence of the past finally traumatizes her to such a degree that she becomes a silent, a mute, vicarious ‘witness’ of sorts to atrocities associated with Kilneagh” (3). Imelda’s reflections on Kilneagh’s past drive her insanity forward and reiterate history’s destructive power over the Quinton family. Imelda is also driven mad by her father’s revenge and exile. She repeatedly asks her mother, Marianne, when Willie is coming back. Despite the skepticism of others, her mother answers, “He will come back, you know. One day Willie will come back.” Encouraged by her mother’s hope, Imelda likes to imagine Willie’s return. She oftentimes “drifted into a familiar reverie: her father again stepped off the bus at Driscoll’s dressed in a suit that was as light-coloured as his hair” (183). She seeks to discover the father she has never known, pursuing him in “a photograph . . . in her mother’s bedroom, standing among rows of other boys. It was hard to make out what he looked like . . . he was smiling a little in the photograph, but when she tried to look more closely at his face it became misty” (171). Her knowledge of her father remains as misty