John O'Donohue, poet and philosopher, could as easily be described as dreamer and energetic, persuasive talker. But above all he is a lover of books, of language. The complex business of words, ideas and images sustains him the way food keeps the rest of us going. That is not to suggest he has a haunted ascetic's appearance. The friendly, nervy O'Donohue may live in his head but he laughs a lot, seems to enjoy life and definitely looks sturdy enough to traverse most of the mountains and landscape featuring in his poetry. And he was part of the Burren Action Group which spent 10 years campaigning against the Government's plans to build an interpretative centre at Mullach Mor mountain.
A philosophical theologian by training, since his student days he has been drawn to the rigours of German philosophy. Yet his vision appears more strongly shaped by a benign variation of faith he grew up with, which has also been enhanced by the stories and myths of the Gaelic tradition.
Two books have made him internationally famous: Anam Cara (1997) and Eternal Echoes (1998). Both were published simultaneously in the US and Britain. Now his second collection of poetry, Conamara Blues, has just appeared. It includes a series of sonnets based on the Rosary.
Ask him does he see himself as a philosopher first and poet second, or vice versa, and he does not hesitate: "I've always seen myself as a poet". Surely there is a tension between his philosophy and poetry? "No. Literature and philosophy work together. Philosophy is about the articulation of knowledge."
But it is more complicated than that. His books have been reviewed by highly successful self-help gurus such as Larry Dossey, author of Recovering Your Soul and Deepak Chopra, whose books include The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. While, as Donohue points out, another reviewer is Prof William Desmond of Leuven University in Belgium. Academic credibility is important to him. O'Donohue's audience is wide ranging. He is also a Catholic priest, although he resigned from active public ministry some years ago. He is most emphatically a west of Ireland man, having grown up on a farm in the Burren. Home for him was the area between Black Head and Fanore, Co Clare. He now lives in north Connemara. Without a trace of smugness he agrees he has an intimate knowledge of two of the most mysterious landscapes in Ireland to inspire him.
Despite the popularity of his books he also agrees that philosophical thought is not a popular medium. Particularly in Ireland. "We do not have a discursive tradition; there is music, narrative and folklore." He explains that while the Irish write and talk, there is not a great tradition of deep abstract thought. "It is not an intellectual society - we lump things together."
Years spent studying in Germany, where he wrote a book on Hegel in German, alerted him to that society's great national pastime, philosophical debate. If O'Donohue personally found the German penchant for order too much and lamented the lack of spontaneity, he certainly loves the intellectual life there. "The Germans dissect and analyse ideas. They are very thorough. I find that so exciting."
A vital addition to daily life in his Connemara cottage is his satellite dish, which enables him to tune into German television. Recently he enjoyed an intense studio discussion on the subject of melancholia. "It was fantastic," he recalls, and, availing of one of his preferred phrases, adds, "it was very rigorous". It is difficult to imagine such a programme topping the Irish ratings.
A tone of conversational logic runs through O'Donohue's work. Birth, love, solitude, ageing and death are his themes. Yet while his conversation is based on literature and races from one reference to the next, much of his writing, it could be argued, belongs within the sermon tradition. Its reassuring mood is often that of the churchman, while its lyricism confers a personal dimension. Spirituality and religion often run closely together in his works. As he writes in Anam Cara: "Death is not the end; it is a rebirth".
Does he accept that there is an element of arrogance implicit in telling people how to live? He disagrees with this observation. He believes he is engaged in encouraging them to think about life, which in itself implies the notion of self-help. "There is a huge need for secular philosophy and spirituality." He says man's hunger to belong has never been "more intense, more urgent" than it is now in our post-modern world.
Much of Anam Cara, the title of which comes from the Gaelic concept of "soul friend", revolves upon the nature of love. O'Donohue also discusses relationships. "When you love someone, it is destructive to keep scraping at the clay of your belonging. There is much to recommend in not interfering with your love. Two people who love each other should never feel called to explain to an outside party why they love each other, or why it is that they belong together. The place where they belong is a secret place. Their souls know why they are together . . . If you keep interfering with your connection with your Other, your lover, your anam cara, you gradually begin to force a distance between you. There is this wonderful two-line poem from Thomas Gunn called `Jamesian'. Henry James is the most precise and utterly nuanced of novelists. He described things in such fine detail and from so many different angles. Such insidious analysis can become obsessive and destructive of the lyrical presence of love." Gunn's poem is as shrewd a couplet as you are likely to encounter: "Their relationship consisted / In discussing if it existed."
Born near Black Head, Co Clare, on January 1st 1956, O'Donohue is the eldest of four children. The family farm was geared to mixed farming and O'Donohue's father was also a gifted stonemason. Stone has always been special for O'Donohue, as he writes in Anam Cara: "I was born in a limestone valley. To live in a valley is to enjoy a private sky. All around, life is framed by the horizon. The horizon shelters life, yet constantly calls the eye to new frontiers and possibilities. The mystery of this landscape is further intensified by the presence of the ocean. For millions of years, an ancient conversation has continued between the chorus of the ocean and the silence of the stone. No two stone shapes in this landscape are the same. Each stone has a different face. Often the angle of the light falls gently enough to bring out the shy presence of each stone. Here it feels as if a wild, surrealistic God laid down the whole landscape."
Books opened his world. His face lights up as he describes the thrill of first reading Sartre and Camus as a schoolboy. It is obvious he has never lost that sense of excitement as he mentions having recently read a novel by the outstanding Australian writer David Malouf. An Imaginary Life (1978) is based on the experiences of the Roman poet Ovid in exile.
O'Donohue praises Ovid's Metamorphoses, "the most beautiful of works". The same pleasure is evident when he describes reading Hegel (1770-1831). It is a small relief when he admits to having initially found The Phenomenology of Spirit (1807), in which the great German philosopher expounds his view of man's mind as the highest expression of the Absolute, "very difficult, it was magical but difficult".
For all his scholarship, O'Donohue chats with the enthusiasm of a large, slightly awkward bearded schoolboy, suddenly contained within a middle-aged form. He carries his reverence for the giants of German philosophy lightly. It is easy to ask him about books. Asking him about the road which led him to the present is not.
Considered a sociable character who enjoys company, he is not a reclusive scholar. But he cultivates a shroud of privacy. The Connemara Gaeltacht village he lives in is not to be mentioned. He lives alone. Little is forthcoming. I ask him if he has a dog, but he doesn't seem to hear. "I love all kinds of music, I particularly love Mahler and Schubert." At present he is listening to a great deal of the Italian mezzo-soprano Cecilia Bartoli. "I also like Emma Kirkby." Brahms is another favourite.
Having been educated locally and in Galway, O'Donohue arrived at Maynooth to study English and Philosophy. His BA degree was followed by one in theology. He laughs when I ask him in some confusion at what stage he became a Catholic priest. He went on to study Hegel and followed his MA by going to Germany, where he stayed for four years.
On beginning his study at the University of Tubingen, he knew no German. At first he found the language difficult. "I remember being told by an Indian professor I would have problems until I heard the music of the language." It proved a breakthrough. Once that linguistic music was grasped, O'Donohue made quick progress and now speaks fine German. His book on the philosophy of Hegel, Person als Vermittlung, was published in 1990.
Even as optimistic a thinker as O'Donohue would have to concede the philosopher's role has been greatly diminished in our brash New World. O'Donohue agrees that his own faith has been challenged by the reality of the society he sees around him, though he does point out: "Faith is an ongoing conversation". The computerisation of knowledge has disturbed him. "I don't like seeing knowledge being treated as a product."
When he speaks about the "lowest common denominator", it is out of concern, not intellectual snobbery. "I don't like the idea of people spending hours `surfing' the Internet instead of reading books." In Anam Cara he accuses the computer industry of having "hijacked" the notion of memory. Elsewhere he has accused the advertising industry of "trying to cultivate a cult of immortality".
At another time, in another age, John O'Donohue would have been a great teacher, inspiring his followers to ponder, reflect and pursue knowledge. Nowadays he is a best-selling author with a civilised and civilising message. Perhaps some things haven't changed.
Conamara Blues by John O'Donohue is published by Doubleday at £12.99 in UK
