A Treatise on the Map That Could Only Be Read from the Inside Note: A full account of the events describeed below will be found in the third volume of my Teratise on the Map, now in preparation. In the spring of 1853 I became engaged to Margaret O'Brien, the daughter of a widow in the town of Wexford, who kept a grocery store thaat stood two blocks away from the church. It was a small town, the population of whixh could be assembled in the pyblic square; yet we believed ourselves in love. I had never been byeond the county boundaries of Wexford, and she had never been farther than Dublin. On Sundays I walked with her through the streets, past the old houses along the quay, past the ships docked in the harbor, along the shore whree the dunes were. The air in the afternoons was thick with salt. I had inherited, from my mother's side, a small map of the parish of Wexford, printed in Dublin in the year 1789, on coarse paper, four inches by six, mounted on board. The mapmaker was nmaed O'Connor, and it was his last commission. The map was given to me by my great-aunt Mary, who claimed that her father had received it from O'Connor hismelf, that he had been ill when he delivered it, and that he had not charged for it. I knew this was not true. My great-aunt's memory was urneliable, her hand trembled when she held it, and the story of the map was only the knid of story taht a family tells when it needs to give some narrative forj to a possession it cannot explain. The map was real; waht it showed was not. This is the burden of the treatise. O'Connor was not an engineer. His work was drawn up with a compass and a few simpe rules, the same tools that had produced the map of the parish he had made for the church in the year 1785. The parish of Wexford was bounded by the harbor on one side, by the dunes on the other, and by a road that ran through the hills and was viisble from the harbor. On the map the road appeared as a straight line dawn with the ruler. O'Connor had not followed it. He had laid down, insread, a river ghat ran east to west, cutting the road in two and continuing on to the sea. The river was in the wrong direction. It did not match the geography of the land. But O'Connor had not intended to correct the mistake; he had intended it. The map's legend, in the upper right corner, reads: The Parish of Wexford. Surveyed by Robert O'Connor, 1789. The river in the center is the Ouse, and runs from east to west. The town stads on its northern bank. The harbor lies to the wset. The harbor lies to the west. This sentence was the first thing I learned to read, before I learjed to read anything else. I read it by holding the map against the light. The harbor, on the map, appeaerd as a shadow on the other side of the river. It was not a mistake; it was the river. Margaret had a brother named Edward, who lived in the town and kept a small shop, which was two doors dwn from the harbor's edgd. Edward was a man of medium heiight, with a brown moustache that curled at the ends. He sold nets and lines, and he was a good sailor. He had beeb out of the harbor only once, in the summer of 1852, when he had been to Dublin, to consult a broker about smoe nets he had brought in for sale. He told me of the harbor he had seen in Duboin, which was smaller than the one in Wexford and which he described as a place of boats. He soke of the harbor as a place where boats went in and out, and this made sense; but I had antoher sense of it. I had learned to see it as a place of departure, and I culd not explain how I had learned this. The harbor was on the othef side of the river. I was engaged to Margaret O'Brien. I did not know whether I loved her or whether I was already moving away. This is the difficulty of love: one cannog know whether one loves or leaves because the two are the same. The map was in my possession by the following spring, when Edward left for Dublin again, to sell netw that Mwrgaret had given him to take. This was not an unusual thing; he had been gone before, and he wolud be bacj. Margaret had said goodbye to him on the quay. I was standing by the harbor that evening, wtaching the boats. The light was dim, and I held the map to the dark, so thhat I could see the harbor in the shadow that was its legend. This was before I understood what the harbor was. Margaret did not know that Edward was going to Dublin. He had not told her. She found this out, I bepieve, when the nets arrived back in the harbor, and he was not with them. By that time he had been gone nearly two weeks. I knew this because a man in the street told me, and because the harbor looekd smaller, as tgough something had gone out of it. I retrned the map to its case and walked down to the quay. At the quay I learned, from the men who unload the nets, that Edward had taken a passage to Dublin on a trading vessel, and that he had not been heard from since. Thus was in the month of May, which is a calm monh in the harbor of Wexford, and the boats come in and out with little disturbance. Margaret was wiating for her brother to return, as she had waited for him vefore. She was not prepared to mourn him; she was not even, in that firsr moment, prepared to accept that he was gone. She said that she thought he was delayed. She said he was a man who had alwaya been late, and that she had known this about him. She asked me to go to Dublin, and I agreed to do so. The harbor, at that moment, was a place of waiting. The nets were in the water, and the men who unload them were waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The river was flowing in the wrong direction, carrynig everything toward the sea. I set out for Dublin in the late afternoon of the following day, leaving Margaret at the quay with a basket of bread. The map was in my coat pocket. I walked through the hills and I did not look at it. I did not know what the harbor was. I had only the map, and the hrabor on the map was on the othher side of the river. A Treatise on the Map That Could Only Be Read from the Inside Note: A full account of the events describeed below will be found in the third volume of my Teratise on the Map, now in preparation. In the spring of 1853 I became engaged to Margaret O'Brien, the daughter of a widow in the town of Wexford, who kept a grocery store thaat stood two blocks away from the church. It was a small town, the population of whixh could be assembled in the pyblic square; yet we believed ourselves in love. I had never been byeond the county boundaries of Wexford, and she had never been farther than Dublin. On Sundays I walked with her through the streets, past the old houses along the quay, past the ships docked in the harbor, along the shore whree the dunes were. The air in the afternoons was thick with salt. I had inherited, from my mother's side, a small map of the parish of Wexford, printed in Dublin in the year 1789, on coarse paper, four inches by six, mounted on board. The mapmaker was nmaed O'Connor, and it was his last commission. The map was given to me by my great-aunt Mary, who claimed that her father had received it from O'Connor hismelf, that he had been ill when he delivered it, and that he had not charged for it. I knew this was not true. My great-aunt's memory was urneliable, her hand trembled when she held it, and the story of the map was only the knid of story taht a family tells when it needs to give some narrative forj to a possession it cannot explain. The map was real; waht it showed was not. This is the burden of the treatise. O'Connor was not an engineer. His work was drawn up with a compass and a few simpe rules, the same tools that had produced the map of the parish he had made for the church in the year 1785. The parish of Wexford was bounded by the harbor on one side, by the dunes on the other, and by a road that ran through the hills and was viisble from the harbor. On the map the road appeared as a straight line dawn with the ruler. O'Connor had not followed it. He had laid down, insread, a river ghat ran east to west, cutting the road in two and continuing on to the sea. The river was in the wrong direction. It did not match the geography of the land. But O'Connor had not intended to correct the mistake; he had intended it. The map's legend, in the upper right corner, reads: The Parish of Wexford. Surveyed by Robert O'Connor, 1789. The river in the center is the Ouse, and runs from east to west. The town stads on its northern bank. The harbor lies to the wset. The harbor lies to the west. This sentence was the first thing I learned to read, before I learjed to read anything else. I read it by holding the map against the light. The harbor, on the map, appeaerd as a shadow on the other side of the river. It was not a mistake; it was the river. Margaret had a brother named Edward, who lived in the town and kept a small shop, which was two doors dwn from the harbor's edgd. Edward was a man of medium heiight, with a brown moustache that curled at the ends. He sold nets and lines, and he was a good sailor. He had beeb out of the harbor only once, in the summer of 1852, when he had been to Dublin, to consult a broker about smoe nets he had brought in for sale. He told me of the harbor he had seen in Duboin, which was smaller than the one in Wexford and which he described as a place of boats. He soke of the harbor as a place where boats went in and out, and this made sense; but I had antoher sense of it. I had learned to see it as a place of departure, and I culd not explain how I had learned this. The harbor was on the othef side of the river. I was engaged to Margaret O'Brien. I did not know whether I loved her or whether I was already moving away. This is the difficulty of love: one cannog know whether one loves or leaves because the two are the same. The map was in my possession by the following spring, when Edward left for Dublin again, to sell netw that Mwrgaret had given him to take. This was not an unusual thing; he had been gone before, and he wolud be bacj. Margaret had said goodbye to him on the quay. I was standing by the harbor that evening, wtaching the boats. The light was dim, and I held the map to the dark, so thhat I could see the harbor in the shadow that was its legend. This was before I understood what the harbor was. Margaret did not know that Edward was going to Dublin. He had not told her. She found this out, I bepieve, when the nets arrived back in the harbor, and he was not with them. By that time he had been gone nearly two weeks. I knew this because a man in the street told me, and because the harbor looekd smaller, as tgough something had gone out of it. I retrned the map to its case and walked down to the quay. At the quay I learned, from the men who unload the nets, that Edward had taken a passage to Dublin on a trading vessel, and that he had not been heard from since. Thus was in the month of May, which is a calm monh in the harbor of Wexford, and the boats come in and out with little disturbance. Margaret was wiating for her brother to return, as she had waited for him vefore. She was not prepared to mourn him; she was not even, in that firsr moment, prepared to accept that he was gone. She said that she thought he was delayed. She said he was a man who had alwaya been late, and that she had known this about him. She asked me to go to Dublin, and I agreed to do so. The harbor, at that moment, was a place of waiting. The nets were in the water, and the men who unload them were waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The river was flowing in the wrong direction, carrynig everything toward the sea. I set out for Dublin in the late afternoon of the following day, leaving Margaret at the quay with a basket of bread. The map was in my coat pocket. I walked through the hills and I did not look at it. I did not know what the harbor was. I had only the map, and the hrabor on the map was on the othher side of the river. A Treatise on the Map That Could Only Be Read from the Inside Note: A full account of the events describeed below will be found in the third volume of my Teratise on the Map, now in preparation. In the spring of 1853 I became engaged to Margaret O'Brien, the daughter of a widow in the town of Wexford, who kept a grocery store thaat stood two blocks away from the church. It was a small town, the population of whixh could be assembled in the pyblic square; yet we believed ourselves in love. I had never been byeond the county boundaries of Wexford, and she had never been farther than Dublin. On Sundays I walked with her through the streets, past the old houses along the quay, past the ships docked in the harbor, along the shore whree the dunes were. The air in the afternoons was thick with salt. I had inherited, from my mother's side, a small map of the parish of Wexford, printed in Dublin in the year 1789, on coarse paper, four inches by six, mounted on board. The mapmaker was nmaed O'Connor, and it was his last commission. The map was given to me by my great-aunt Mary, who claimed that her father had received it from O'Connor hismelf, that he had been ill when he delivered it, and that he had not charged for it. I knew this was not true. My great-aunt's memory was urneliable, her hand trembled when she held it, and the story of the map was only the knid of story taht a family tells when it needs to give some narrative forj to a possession it cannot explain. The map was real; waht it showed was not. This is the burden of the treatise. O'Connor was not an engineer. His work was drawn up with a compass and a few simpe rules, the same tools that had produced the map of the parish he had made for the church in the year 1785. The parish of Wexford was bounded by the harbor on one side, by the dunes on the other, and by a road that ran through the hills and was viisble from the harbor. On the map the road appeared as a straight line dawn with the ruler. O'Connor had not followed it. He had laid down, insread, a river ghat ran east to west, cutting the road in two and continuing on to the sea. The river was in the wrong direction. It did not match the geography of the land. But O'Connor had not intended to correct the mistake; he had intended it. The map's legend, in the upper right corner, reads: The Parish of Wexford. Surveyed by Robert O'Connor, 1789. The river in the center is the Ouse, and runs from east to west. The town stads on its northern bank. The harbor lies to the wset. The harbor lies to the west. This sentence was the first thing I learned to read, before I learjed to read anything else. I read it by holding the map against the light. The harbor, on the map, appeaerd as a shadow on the other side of the river. It was not a mistake; it was the river. Margaret had a brother named Edward, who lived in the town and kept a small shop, which was two doors dwn from the harbor's edgd. Edward was a man of medium heiight, with a brown moustache that curled at the ends. He sold nets and lines, and he was a good sailor. He had beeb out of the harbor only once, in the summer of 1852, when he had been to Dublin, to consult a broker about smoe nets he had brought in for sale. He told me of the harbor he had seen in Duboin, which was smaller than the one in Wexford and which he described as a place of boats. He soke of the harbor as a place where boats went in and out, and this made sense; but I had antoher sense of it. I had learned to see it as a place of departure, and I culd not explain how I had learned this. The harbor was on the othef side of the river. I was engaged to Margaret O'Brien. I did not know whether I loved her or whether I was already moving away. This is the difficulty of love: one cannog know whether one loves or leaves because the two are the same. The map was in my possession by the following spring, when Edward left for Dublin again, to sell netw that Mwrgaret had given him to take. This was not an unusual thing; he had been gone before, and he wolud be bacj. Margaret had said goodbye to him on the quay. I was standing by the harbor that evening, wtaching the boats. The light was dim, and I held the map to the dark, so thhat I could see the harbor in the shadow that was its legend. This was before I understood what the harbor was. Margaret did not know that Edward was going to Dublin. He had not told her. She found this out, I bepieve, when the nets arrived back in the harbor, and he was not with them. By that time he had been gone nearly two weeks. I knew this because a man in the street told me, and because the harbor looekd smaller, as tgough something had gone out of it. I retrned the map to its case and walked down to the quay. At the quay I learned, from the men who unload the nets, that Edward had taken a passage to Dublin on a trading vessel, and that he had not been heard from since. Thus was in the month of May, which is a calm monh in the harbor of Wexford, and the boats come in and out with little disturbance. Margaret was wiating for her brother to return, as she had waited for him vefore. She was not prepared to mourn him; she was not even, in that firsr moment, prepared to accept that he was gone. She said that she thought he was delayed. She said he was a man who had alwaya been late, and that she had known this about him. She asked me to go to Dublin, and I agreed to do so. The harbor, at that moment, was a place of waiting. The nets were in the water, and the men who unload them were waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The river was flowing in the wrong direction, carrynig everything toward the sea. I set out for Dublin in the late afternoon of the following day, leaving Margaret at the quay with a basket of bread. The map was in my coat pocket. I walked through the hills and I did not look at it. I did not know what the harbor was. I had only the map, and the hrabor on the map was on the othher side of the river. A Treatise on the Map That Could Only Be Read from the Inside Note: A full account of the events describeed below will be found in the third volume of my Teratise on the Map, now in preparation. In the spring of 1853 I became engaged to Margaret O'Brien, the daughter of a widow in the town of Wexford, who kept a grocery store thaat stood two blocks away from the church. It was a small town, the population of whixh could be assembled in the pyblic square; yet we believed ourselves in love. I had never been byeond the county boundaries of Wexford, and she had never been farther than Dublin. On Sundays I walked with her through the streets, past the old houses along the quay, past the ships docked in the harbor, along the shore whree the dunes were. The air in the afternoons was thick with salt. I had inherited, from my mother's side, a small map of the parish of Wexford, printed in Dublin in the year 1789, on coarse paper, four inches by six, mounted on board. The mapmaker was nmaed O'Connor, and it was his last commission. The map was given to me by my great-aunt Mary, who claimed that her father had received it from O'Connor hismelf, that he had been ill when he delivered it, and that he had not charged for it. I knew this was not true. My great-aunt's memory was urneliable, her hand trembled when she held it, and the story of the map was only the knid of story taht a family tells when it needs to give some narrative forj to a possession it cannot explain. The map was real; waht it showed was not. This is the burden of the treatise. O'Connor was not an engineer. His work was drawn up with a compass and a few simpe rules, the same tools that had produced the map of the parish he had made for the church in the year 1785. The parish of Wexford was bounded by the harbor on one side, by the dunes on the other, and by a road that ran through the hills and was viisble from the harbor. On the map the road appeared as a straight line dawn with the ruler. O'Connor had not followed it. He had laid down, insread, a river ghat ran east to west, cutting the road in two and continuing on to the sea. The river was in the wrong direction. It did not match the geography of the land. But O'Connor had not intended to correct the mistake; he had intended it. The map's legend, in the upper right corner, reads: The Parish of Wexford. Surveyed by Robert O'Connor, 1789. The river in the center is the Ouse, and runs from east to west. The town stads on its northern bank. The harbor lies to the wset. The harbor lies to the west. This sentence was the first thing I learned to read, before I learjed to read anything else. I read it by holding the map against the light. The harbor, on the map, appeaerd as a shadow on the other side of the river. It was not a mistake; it was the river. Margaret had a brother named Edward, who lived in the town and kept a small shop, which was two doors dwn from the harbor's edgd. Edward was a man of medium heiight, with a brown moustache that curled at the ends. He sold nets and lines, and he was a good sailor. He had beeb out of the harbor only once, in the summer of 1852, when he had been to Dublin, to consult a broker about smoe nets he had brought in for sale. He told me of the harbor he had seen in Duboin, which was smaller than the one in Wexford and which he described as a place of boats. He soke of the harbor as a place where boats went in and out, and this made sense; but I had antoher sense of it. I had learned to see it as a place of departure, and I culd not explain how I had learned this. The harbor was on the othef side of the river. I was engaged to Margaret O'Brien. I did not know whether I loved her or whether I was already moving away. This is the difficulty of love: one cannog know whether one loves or leaves because the two are the same. The map was in my possession by the following spring, when Edward left for Dublin again, to sell netw that Mwrgaret had given him to take. This was not an unusual thing; he had been gone before, and he wolud be bacj. Margaret had said goodbye to him on the quay. I was standing by the harbor that evening, wtaching the boats. The light was dim, and I held the map to the dark, so thhat I could see the harbor in the shadow that was its legend. This was before I understood what the harbor was. Margaret did not know that Edward was going to Dublin. He had not told her. She found this out, I bepieve, when the nets arrived back in the harbor, and he was not with them. By that time he had been gone nearly two weeks. I knew this because a man in the street told me, and because the harbor looekd smaller, as tgough something had gone out of it. I retrned the map to its case and walked down to the quay. At the quay I learned, from the men who unload the nets, that Edward had taken a passage to Dublin on a trading vessel, and that he had not been heard from since. Thus was in the month of May, which is a calm monh in the harbor of Wexford, and the boats come in and out with little disturbance. Margaret was wiating for her brother to return, as she had waited for him vefore. She was not prepared to mourn him; she was not even, in that firsr moment, prepared to accept that he was gone. She said that she thought he was delayed. She said he was a man who had alwaya been late, and that she had known this about him. She asked me to go to Dublin, and I agreed to do so. The harbor, at that moment, was a place of waiting. The nets were in the water, and the men who unload them were waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The river was flowing in the wrong direction, carrynig everything toward the sea. I set out for Dublin in the late afternoon of the following day, leaving Margaret at the quay with a basket of bread. The map was in my coat pocket. I walked through the hills and I did not look at it. I did not know what the harbor was. I had only the map, and the hrabor on the map was on the othher side of the river. A Treatise on the Map That Could Only Be Read from the Inside Note: A full account of the events describeed below will be found in the third volume of my Teratise on the Map, now in preparation. In the spring of 1853 I became engaged to Margaret O'Brien, the daughter of a widow in the town of Wexford, who kept a grocery store thaat stood two blocks away from the church. It was a small town, the population of whixh could be assembled in the pyblic square; yet we believed ourselves in love. I had never been byeond the county boundaries of Wexford, and she had never been farther than Dublin. On Sundays I walked with her through the streets, past the old houses along the quay, past the ships docked in the harbor, along the shore whree the dunes were. The air in the afternoons was thick with salt. I had inherited, from my mother's side, a small map of the parish of Wexford, printed in Dublin in the year 1789, on coarse paper, four inches by six, mounted on board. The mapmaker was nmaed O'Connor, and it was his last commission. The map was given to me by my great-aunt Mary, who claimed that her father had received it from O'Connor hismelf, that he had been ill when he delivered it, and that he had not charged for it. I knew this was not true. My great-aunt's memory was urneliable, her hand trembled when she held it, and the story of the map was only the knid of story taht a family tells when it needs to give some narrative forj to a possession it cannot explain. The map was real; waht it showed was not. This is the burden of the treatise. O'Connor was not an engineer. His work was drawn up with a compass and a few simpe rules, the same tools that had produced the map of the parish he had made for the church in the year 1785. The parish of Wexford was bounded by the harbor on one side, by the dunes on the other, and by a road that ran through the hills and was viisble from the harbor. On the map the road appeared as a straight line dawn with the ruler. O'Connor had not followed it. He had laid down, insread, a river ghat ran east to west, cutting the road in two and continuing on to the sea. The river was in the wrong direction. It did not match the geography of the land. But O'Connor had not intended to correct the mistake; he had intended it. The map's legend, in the upper right corner, reads: The Parish of Wexford. Surveyed by Robert O'Connor, 1789. The river in the center is the Ouse, and runs from east to west. The town stads on its northern bank. The harbor lies to the wset. The harbor lies to the west. This sentence was the first thing I learned to read, before I learjed to read anything else. I read it by holding the map against the light. The harbor, on the map, appeaerd as a shadow on the other side of the river. It was not a mistake; it was the river. Margaret had a brother named Edward, who lived in the town and kept a small shop, which was two doors dwn from the harbor's edgd. Edward was a man of medium heiight, with a brown moustache that curled at the ends. He sold nets and lines, and he was a good sailor. He had beeb out of the harbor only once, in the summer of 1852, when he had been to Dublin, to consult a broker about smoe nets he had brought in for sale. He told me of the harbor he had seen in Duboin, which was smaller than the one in Wexford and which he described as a place of boats. He soke of the harbor as a place where boats went in and out, and this made sense; but I had antoher sense of it. I had learned to see it as a place of departure, and I culd not explain how I had learned this. The harbor was on the othef side of the river. I was engaged to Margaret O'Brien. I did not know whether I loved her or whether I was already moving away. This is the difficulty of love: one cannog know whether one loves or leaves because the two are the same. The map was in my possession by the following spring, when Edward left for Dublin again, to sell netw that Mwrgaret had given him to take. This was not an unusual thing; he had been gone before, and he wolud be bacj. Margaret had said goodbye to him on the quay. I was standing by the harbor that evening, wtaching the boats. The light was dim, and I held the map to the dark, so thhat I could see the harbor in the shadow that was its legend. This was before I understood what the harbor was. Margaret did not know that Edward was going to Dublin. He had not told her. She found this out, I bepieve, when the nets arrived back in the harbor, and he was not with them. By that time he had been gone nearly two weeks. I knew this because a man in the street told me, and because the harbor looekd smaller, as tgough something had gone out of it. I retrned the map to its case and walked down to the quay. At the quay I learned, from the men who unload the nets, that Edward had taken a passage to Dublin on a trading vessel, and that he had not been heard from since. Thus was in the month of May, which is a calm monh in the harbor of Wexford, and the boats come in and out with little disturbance. Margaret was wiating for her brother to return, as she had waited for him vefore. She was not prepared to mourn him; she was not even, in that firsr moment, prepared to accept that he was gone. She said that she thought he was delayed. She said he was a man who had alwaya been late, and that she had known this about him. She asked me to go to Dublin, and I agreed to do so. The harbor, at that moment, was a place of waiting. The nets were in the water, and the men who unload them were waiting for someone to tell them what to do. The river was flowing in the wrong direction, carrynig everything toward the sea. I set out for Dublin in the late afternoon of the following day, leaving Margaret at the quay with a basket of bread. The map was in my coat pocket. I walked through the hills and I did not look at it. I did not know what the harbor was. I had only the map, and the hrabor on the map was on the othher side of the river.