"All nations are an invented or imagined community, and the Irish have shown more relish for that fiction than most." And maybe the collaborators here could have benefitted from some of that enthusiasm.
The essays collected, ranging from the prehistoric to the modern (late 80's), are something of a mixed bag, definitely in need of some editorial indulgence. Too often I felt pushed along, past surely important issues and people who, for a few paragraphs, would have given the `comprehensive and authoritative survey' lauded on the back cover but, for me, unfulfilled. Katherine Simms' chapter on Norman Ireland, the best (worst?) example, descends into a succession list of obscure and ephemeral petty-chiefs who occlude any larger socio-political comprehension and eclipse the general condition of the peasantry to the extent that even the Black Death is only referred to in passing. To an extent, land-tied lives are much the same across countries and centuries (bloody squalor), so, yes, by focusing on the specifically Irish quota of kings and property, laws and wars, the book does what it says on the tin. But cold autopsies rarely make a good read, and it's only until we get to the final chapters (Declan Kiberd's on Literature & History especially) that we are allowed continuous accounts involving people rather than names.
To be fair though, writing over 2000 years of history into less than 300 pages is about as foolish a feat as any, and hoping to understand a countries peoples and places in a week is equally so on my part. So for students of Irish history, who'll go on to more involved accounts of the "apparent debacle of Jacobitism in 1745", or those "endemic rural secret societies", which are here ever and so so frustratingly only ever alluded to as though we already knew, I imagine this volume will be a god-send of context and quick-reference; for you, this is good, buy now with your pennies. But but, looking for an enjoyable read and some memorable facts about the Battle of the Boyne and that Parnell guy who wot did dat fing, I say Pah! to you and your miserable fact-loving, name-bleating recital. Yeats' Book of Irish Verse, with its poems on crispy-pancake-loving leprechauns and incessant defeat, makes much more sense to me.