Fiction - Satire - Chafing on the Wold

 Chafing on the Wold

Major Standtoux ran the George flag up the pole as he did every morning while staring in the direction of the small pink cottage where Ms Knight lived. A light had come on in her bedroom and the curtains where open. His rapt attention was cruelly interrupted by the dog making a fuss.

“Stupid bitch Mandy - shut-up!” he barked.

 The watery eyed dribbling bull terrier sniffed and waddled away. The belief that a dog resembles its owner was never more true. By a cruel twist of fate Mrs Major Standtoux was also called Mandy.

A dirty ball of rags and whiskers known as Jepp stopped, as every morning in the middle of the drive and saluted the Major.

“Up her goes!” And the Major replied as every morning.

“Clear off!”

“Nice day for it….” The old mans bright but vacant blues eyes twinkled as he chuckled and turned away.

The Major mumbled as he secured the flag rope with a figure of eight. When he looked up he saw the Vicar approaching.

It was clear to the Major that the world had gone mad at some point, at what point he couldn’t quite say.

“Morning Major.” The Vicar said.

“What?”

“Nice morning.”

Women Vicars were part of the madness. It was just not right. The Vicar, a shapely and attractive woman of thirty something, was used to uninformed male prejudice and the Major’s in particular. However, she was just slightly concerned when he started to tremble and his face contort. Unbeknown to her, over her shoulder, the Major could see two upside down feet which had appeared in Ms Knights window, followed a few seconds later by the top of the bobbing red head of Dick Davies, a thrusting muscular man.

The Vicar took the red face and trembling of the Major to be the onset of one of his rants and thought it would be wise to move on.

“What?” the Major exploded to the empty garden and stormed off to the potting shed.

Blanche Davies – Jones, an American, from South Virginia, came to Chafing on the Wold several years ago seeking out the missing links in her family tree. Her good looks, accent and soft, slow speech caused a great stir.  Unfortunately, her research was considerably hampered by the Reverend Richard Jones – Davies. A bachelor who thought that God’s will was for his not inconsiderable academic skills to be employed in the compilation of a history of narrow gauge railways 1870 – 1900, not in the keeping of parish records.

It was several days before the young lady from America managed to get an invitation to tea at the vicarage. She was greeted with some warmth at first, but over cucumber sandwiches and tea it became apparent that Ms Davies – Jones knew nothing of American railroads. Alas, she didn’t even know of The Bristol Coal and Iron Narrow Gauge Railroad Company of Virginia and Kentucky 1876. Two, rather long, hours later, they started on the epic quest of searching for the parish records together. For someone  trained as a librarian and archivist Ms Davies-Jones was reduced to silent tears.  When the vicar commented on this she said it was a slight cold. Landslides of paper made white slopes up towards the ceilings in the corners of most rooms, contained and buttressed, by badly built walls of books. His eyebrows raised in astonishment when she suggested that they might look for the parish records in the vestry.  As the vestry door opened the mice had the good grace to retire, wallowing in the satisfaction that they had prepared quite a lot of the paper for nesting material.

“Please feel free to have a fumble about,” were the last words that he uttered, after reading a piece of paper randomly plucked from a pile, which he clutched to his chest, as he fell down dead.

Fiction - Thriller - Ashes

Ashes

Chapter 2

 

As soon as he saw him he knew he would kill him.

That was yesterday morning.

He woke before the alarm clock . He got up washed, dressed and went downstairs. In the kitchen he was greeted by his overweight black labrador with a soft  whine.

“Sch! be out in a minute old boy.” But he was up and the dog was excited, it roamed up and down in front of the back door eager to be out. He filled the kettle, found his cigarettes. He caught a glimpse of his red faced coughing fit reflected in the mirror and turned away. He knew he smoked too much. He also drank too much and put on weight.  Village life was comfortable, the local pub was too close, it had good beer acceptable food. He could forget his past and lose himself by the fireside. There were worse things in life than teaching in a rural Secondary school. His present life had made him soft. He made tea, checked the time and smoked for a while. When he finished he took an old waxed jacket and cap from the back of the door and put them on. From the kitchen drawer he took the gun which was wrapped in a duster and an old pair of thin leather gloves. He put the gloves into a side pocket and the  gun into a large poachers pocket behind him in the bottom of the coat.

It was warm in the sun, it was a beautiful Cotswold morning.

 

 The night before he prepared everything.

He was sweating when he came back into the house. He found the shoe cleaning box and put it on newspapers spread out on the table. It was full of old half used polish tins, cotton rags. He found a pair of lint gloves. He poured himself a large single malt put  the gloves on and fetched the gun. It was another thing he had let go, it had not been cleaned in years. He smoked while he worked methodically stripping and cleaning the gun. Reassembled, he tested its weight, it had been a long time since he had held it. He wiped each high pressure cartridge shell clean and loaded them into the magazine, they made the gun more accurate and reliable. He would miss the Luger it had been a good friend. The dead Russian that he had taken it from probably thought the same.

 

He walked the dog every morning before school, down the lane towards the village  into the wood, up the hill, along the top field and back round to the house. Fifteen minutes all round. It was on the walk yesterday that he had seen him. Older, but it was him and in good shape.  He looked like he could still beat a man to death with his bare hands – no matter how long it took. He was a  violent man and he had taken care of his primary asset, his body. He looked hard and lean in the blue tracksuit. Running steadily he was hardly out of breath. He literally looked twenty years younger than he was. The Nazi’s believed a man had to be as swift as a greyhound and as tough as Krupp Steel. He still looked like the Silesian thug he was. Born in a small Slavic village he had grown up watching his tribe being beaten, starved and raped by whichever country had invaded them at the time.  History had made him grow up to be hard and have no particular loyalty. The Poles came and took what they wanted, then the Russians would come and took what they wanted. The Germans came back and took what they said had always been theirs. He was whatever it was in his interest to be Pole, Russian, German. His real name was William Bielschowsky, but in the war he was Hans Bermann, there were advantages to being German. After the war he worked for the Russians because he was good at what he did. Working for Russian intelligence was the same as working for the Nazis. In life there were always problems to be cleared up, people who had to disappear, people who had to be found, people who had to talk, people who had to be quiet, permanently.

 

Inside the wood he let the dog off the lead and quickened his pace. If Bielschowsky  ran at the same time as yesterday morning he would be deeper into the wood, where the footpath took a turn left and back down to the village, but where he turned right on his own unofficial path  up through the trees to the top field. He slowed, put on the gloves and reached round for the gun. From his other pocket he took the suppressor  and attached it to the barrel, while keeping a steady pace. He glanced behind him, nothing. To his right there was  a thicket which would give him good cover. He slowed and turned again. Creatures of habit. Bielschowsky  was coming, relaxed, comfortable. He let himself be seen and made a show of calling the dog before disappearing behind the thicket. He wanted it to look normal, someone taking their dog for an early morning walk. Bielschowsky liked woods, he had lived, fought and killed in them most of his life.

 

He stepped into the path with the gun levelled. Bielschowsky  stopped, opened his mouth as if to speak. There was a sharp snap and a red dot appeared on his forehead, another snap ripped into his chest . He fell dead.

He bent down and grabbed Bielschowsky’s collar and dragged him up into the trees well away from the path. The shallow trench he had dug the night before was waiting. He dropped the gun in and rolled Bielschowsky on top.  He worked quickly covering the body  first with lime to speed decomposition and deter the foxes and badgers. Then  he covered it with earth and leaves.

When he had finished he examined the area, it all looked normal.  Someone would have to be looking very hard to notice any disturbance. It was now a matter of luck. Would anyone bother to come and look for him. Would anyone care.  He stood there and looked down at the ground, it was an old wound that had stayed with him all down the years, he couldn’t say he felt better. He turned, called the dog and walked home.

Fiction - Thriller - Ashes

 Ashes

 

Chapter 1

A noise woke her with a start. She normally slept well but something had disturbed her. The blinds were closed and the room was dark except the dull glow of the bedside alarm clock. She kept still and listened. There was someone in the room, someone searching through the drawers. She was afraid but also angry. Gunther had assured her that this would never happen, she would be safe, there would be people looking out for her. But here was some one going through her possessions. She could tell they were becoming impatient, making a mess throwing her clothes on the floor, some landing on the bed, on her feet. They were moving faster, making more noise.

She knew they wouldn’t find what they were looking for in the drawers. It wasn’t there.

“Right you fat old cow” a man said coming over to the bed. “Where is it?”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Stupid bitch!” He spat and punched her in the head. “Just fucking tell me!” She could taste blood in her mouth, her nose started to run and she could feel tears welling from the stinging blow. He knelt over her on the bed. “Hear this?” There was a metal clicking sound in her ear. “ I’m going to cut off your fingers one at a time till you tell me!”  He grabbed one of her hands.

“No please…. I’ll tell you.” She stammered. “Please…. I’ll tell you.” He got off the bed and she tried to sit up.

“Where? Hurry up.”

“Over there  in the walk-in wardrobe…. There’s a  box on the top shelf…..”

“Where the fuck….” He said turning round and crossing the room.

“That’s it …there is a light switch on the right, ” she encouraged. He groped  in the dark for a few seconds. She heard the door slid open with a bang and then the light came on. She was startled when she saw him, a skinhead, a tall well built neo-Nazi thug, dressed all in black.  He had moved into the wardrobe and she could hear boxes and cases crashing on to the floor. Her anger came back.

There was muffled swearing from inside the wardrobe and then it went quiet. He reappeared in the doorway silhouetted against the light.

“You fucking old….” A bullet ripped into his throat. Another popping sound came from the bed and a second bullet smashed into his head sending him backwards into her clothes where he fell dead.

She lowered the gun and calmed herself before picking up the phone. She dialled a local number and waited until a disgruntled man answered.

“Do you know what time it is? This better be good.”

“There is rubbish on my floor, come and take it away -  now.”

“What?” There was a pause as the person tried to make sense of what they were hearing. “ What are you talking about?”

“I am very angry Gunther. I’m an old woman, you said this would not happen.”

“What has happened?”

“You can see for yourself when you get here,” she said shortly. There was a pause and then he asked.

“Did they get anything?”

“No. I took care of it.” Neither of them spoke for a moment and then she said. “I’m fine, no need to ask how I am.”

“Yes, of course, sorry, how are….”

“…save it Gunther. I hope you will be better organised in cleaning up this mess than you were at preventing it!” There was silence, then she continued. “My God this would never have happened in the old days. People knew how to do their duty, back then there were consequences for people who failed…serious consequences.”

“I’ll be there immediately.”

SEX - writing about it and Lee Child.

SEX  -  writing about it and Lee Child.

 

Our maths teacher told us that there was a formula for everything in life. To make a cross curriculum point he told us there was even a formula for ‘writing’. The average novel, he said, is 50,000 words with 200 words a page which makes 200 pages in total. The sex, he said, now having our complete attention, will be on pages 8, 16, 32, 64, 128 or there abouts! It is done that way to keep your interest. However, he added, you could just hold the book up by its covers and it will fall open at the sex scenes.

 

Publishers have a formula for the costing and production of books, which can be, and often is, done with a cursory glance at the manuscript. After choosing a font, the size of the page and the number of pages a publisher can arrive at a basic unit cost. How much a publisher can reasonably ask for 200 bits of paper and a bit of card depends on several factors. But in truth the value of a novel is a bit like the value of an apple, no matter how hungry you are or how good the apple is, it is only ever going to be worth pence not pounds.

 

A writer greatly interested in sex and writing books to a formula was George Simenon. He was renowned for allegedly having sex with over a thousand women and being able to write a 200 page book in 11 days. He would mark  a calendar with a red cross each day for eight days as he wrote the novel, and then leave himself three days for re-editing. Some of his early novels might be considered ‘pulp fiction’ but the later novels are good if not great literature. The Maigret novels are without doubt some of the best crime fiction ever written. Simenon knew that in writing about sex  -  less was more, and he also avoided the problems of cliché ridden sex scenes. It is almost impossible to imagine the chaste Inspector Maigret indulging in hanky panky with the ever proper Madam Maigret. But he was a Parisian policeman after all, he knew about the ways of the world, even if he was not tempted like his creator. Maigret’s observations about women are often sensual, never crude, just dispassionate and honest, and all the better for it.

 

A lot of authors feel that they ‘have’ to write sex scenes, after all, it is part of the formula of a good book. But as the annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award suggests some authors just can’t do it! Trying to describe the beast with two backs takes a certain amount of flair, avoiding cliché requires talent. Most authors get away with bad sex scenes I suspect, because most readers do not write ‘yours disgruntled’ letters to the press about bad sex.

 

I like Lee Child’s book  - but he broke his formula. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when he and the editor met up to discuss the manuscript for The Affair. Who had the temerity to tinker with the Jack Reacher formula? For years, Child like Simenon, kept the sex in ‘the less is more’ camp, and did well because of it -  no embarrassing or silly sex scenes.  No one reads a Reacher novel for the sex, they read to see what the very smart and very tough guy is up to. Reacher is one of those great literary creations – he is charismatic – free, fair, honest, no weaknesses, no vulnerabilities, you care about him and you would like him as a friend.

 

The Affair was a shock, it had sex – a lot of it – enough to put it in the Bad Sex in Fiction category…. but it still has lots obligatory gratuitious violence, fist fights, shootings and killings. If you have not read the book (Spoiler alert – of a sort – not the plot!), I doubt you would find it difficult to imagine what might happen during the distant rumblings and eventual arrival of the earth shuddering, trembling midnight train!

 

 

Dear Isabelle,

On considering the internet……

Is the internet a concept, or is it reality?

Is the internet that beach at dusk from which we are going to make that journey into the unknown?

Is this Genesis or the second coming?

Are the search engines the new churches where we consider the ‘all knowing’?

Will the ‘all knowing’ become  - God?

Will the internet ‘be’ – will we be able to touch, see, feel he/she/it?

Will the internet be in time, of time, or a creator of time?

Will I need anyone else in my life besides the internet?

Can I tell the internet my inner most thoughts – will it be my right to blog?

Will connection to the internet become a human right?

Is twitter the new market square where we meet, make each other laugh, exchange music, pictures and ideas?

Will the internet console me, feed me, give me work?

Will the internet create?

Will the internet make me in it’s image?

Will the internet be an intelligent designer?

Have we already pushed off from the shore – but we don’t know it……..

http://www.auxbordsdesmondes.fr/ 

We Are All Ubermensch Now!

When considering a problem it is worth asking, in the Wittgensteinian sense, is there really a problem or a self referential word game? For example, to say something is ‘natural’ depends on what is meant by the word natural. Raymond Williams in Key Words listed a number of important words that are used in expressing abstract concepts and ideas, but which are in themselves contentious. An expression like ‘natural social phenomenon’ would prove almost impossible to delineate and means  different things to different people. The question is, are there new or existing problems that need to be considered? The answer is of course yes. I would like to consider the concept of autonomy/ ‘being’ and morality in relation to ‘intelligent design.’

Professor Steve Fuller has, as he says ‘been banging on about God’ for some time, and for very good reason. The words that are used in order to make claims about a God or the concept of God have had profound ramifications upon what has been meant by ‘being’ both for the world and for autonomy. From the ‘enlightenment’ or ‘aufklärung’ science has been perceived as having been tasked with discovering the ‘true nature’ of ‘being’ and ‘intelligent design’. In the process science seems to have created a scepticism which has in-turn become a disproval of a ‘creator’ and/or ‘intelligent design’. It is now trapped, in cultural mythology, as being responsible for all that is ‘rational’, while all that is not ‘scientific’, and thus ‘other’ is irrational and delusional. Science may well have thrown the baby out with the bath water.

If ‘intelligent design’ is not the answer for the existence of mankind and the world – and if, as Spinoza would have it, all that there is to ‘being’ is ‘what there is’  -  and if, as Nietzsche proclaimed ‘God is dead’ -  where is the compulsion or desire to be moral or conform to social values? Is there the cultural trend/belief that a post God ‘utopian’ world would be a better place? There are many problems with this view point.

For Nietzsche, believing ‘God was dead’, autonomy was derived by being Übermensch,  a Super man/woman who creates his/her own values within the moral vacuum of nihilism  - in short ‘to do is to be’. But what is the justification of any act if there is prevailing nihilism? For morality to be meaningful it must be contextualised. For the Ubermensch there is nothing wrong with them following their desires – acting in a moral or immoral, legal or illegal way as they see fit.

It is not clear that Hitler ever read Nietzsche or that his ideas were taken up by him. There is the social myth that the Nazi Party (Nationalsozialistpartei) took up the Ubermensch philosophy of ‘to do is to be’ with the ‘will to power’.

The historian Joachim Fest considers Nazi ideology in his book The Face of the Third Reich

“It [National Socialism] was not a programme exclusively determined by tactical considerations and aiming at success and power, which set itself up as an absolute and used ideological props whenever they served its purpose – as the formula has it, the revolution of nihilism.” p247  Fest

Nazi ideology, even with the gift of hindsight, is by its nature impossible to define. Ian Kershaw in his book Hitler writes that Nazi ideology was

“ an amalgam of prejudices phobias, and utopian social expectations rather than a coherent set of intellectual propositions.” p134 Kershaw

Fest went on to write that Nazism changed over time into Hiterlism which then became  

“A drive for power divorced from any other purpose.” p248  Fest

Many of the terms used in defining Nazi ideology are frighteningly similar to those that would be used in defining present day autonomy. It would seem in the post 60’s therapeutic trend of ‘me’ and ‘you’ that what is actually meant by autonomy/freedom is - do what you want when you want.  This can of course be said to be merely hedonism or utilitarianism – the belief that pleasure is the only good. This is nothing new. Bentham tried calculating the amount of pleasure that an action could give – as long as it was in keeping with the ‘greatest amount of pleasure is derived for the greatest number of people’. This position is of course fraught with contradictions, mainly that an individual might not want the ‘greater good’. There is also the Freudian psychoanalytic concept of the ‘pleasure principle’ in which individuals derive pleasure from actions that satisfy ‘urges’ which are ‘natural’ to them – even if within a society or culture they would be seen as a ‘perversion’. So does the dismissal of the ‘pleasure principal’ and Freud’s socially unfettered ‘urges’ lead the individual back to adopt the ‘rational’ position of Ubermensch?

Is there a restraint to Ubermensch to found in narrative structure? The Bible as a collection of stories was used to instruct and guide communities, and was considered by some to be a ‘literal truth’ and ‘proof’ of a ‘living’ God. The concept of God and the Bible are now thought of by many to be fantasy or something like science fiction.

The irony is that ‘morality’ and ‘moral behaviour’  is depicted and promulgated within the stories of popular culture  - in soaps, films, computer games -  as a means of  giving it ‘validity’.  A non-moral nihilistic vacuum is not good for fiction. As Chaucer pointed out with his ‘shitten Sheppard’ knowing what is moral is not the same as acting in a moral way. An individual might know what morality is but find that their ‘pleasure principal’ or ‘urges’ are frustrated by it. Who would not want the Ring of Gyges – where the invisible individual could act without being caught for doing what they wanted when they wanted? Is this desire for power really ‘human nature’? Is there a common lust for power based on individual recognition?  Worldwide there is a trend for TV ‘talent’ shows on ‘reality TV’ for individuals to seek ‘fame’ - a fame which is power, which allows them to think, and thus others ‘When I am famous I can do what I want when I want.’ This state of power/fame is supposed to bring pleasure. But of course the problem is that not all individuals can have this fame/power.

The modern world likes the ‘absolute certainty of science’, and as morality is meaningless until contextualised so God is meaningless because science can not contextualise ‘it’. Science can not, due it’s very nature, consider the ‘abstracts’ of  ‘being’ or participate in any Wittgensteinian word games. It is impossible for it to consider concepts like ‘guilt’,‘conscience’ or ‘self interest’. It has offered and retracted numerous theories for the ‘creation’ and backed away from any explanation of ‘intelligent design’. It is not good enough for science to say that these issues are not within it’s remit. Science in a pedestrian way wants to offer up an hypothesis to measure and test in an existential world. But if the great scientists had not wandered into the realms of metaphsyical whimsy then great discoveries would never have been made. Philosophy, psychology, theology, epistemology, cultural studies and many more academic studies are the tools for looking - where science can not and will not.

It seems to me that a post ‘God’ utopian world where Ubermensch is preferred will, as Hitlerism proved, end only in further nihilistic wars and meaningless existence – unless existing for power is an end in itself.

A Tale of Two Actors.

Geoffrey Hughes

The Curse of TV

Geoffrey Hughes was one of the greatest British character  actors that the country never got to see. Like many actors who find regular employment and security in a TV soap he was never offered or took the roles in the theatre or cinema that would have shown his great talent. Coronation Street was in its day the queen of the soaps and was truly original and groundbreaking – it brought ‘kitchen-sink drama’ to the small screen and showed who the working class were, giving them a voice. Geoffrey Hughes played a popular charter in the soap for many years, the loveable, big hearted, not overly bright dustbin man Eddie Yeats. He, like many actors of his time was cursed with the ‘is there life after soaps’ syndrome. His soap character  was so strong and so embedded in the TV viewing psyche that directors found it impossible to see or cast him in any other role for some time. The few things that he did do outside of soaps in later life showed that he was an actor of consummate skill. He had done his apprentice in repertory theatre and had taken Shakespearian roles. The pity is that no one wrote or cast Geoffrey in the great parts that he would have done justice to. A great actor that was missing from our screens for a long time.

R.I.P. Geoff and thanks.

Simon Day

Directors wit.

Simon Day might well end up like Geoffrey Hughes not receiving the roles or scripts that his obvious talents deserve. His Wikipedia page states that he a ‘comedian’  when it clear from the many characters he played in The Fast Show that he much more – he is a great character actor. Dan Frazer the actor who played the Captain to Telly Savalas’s Kojak once said it was difficult to work with Savalas because his presence and charisma stole every scene. Simon Day has the same screen presence his charisma is captivating. There should be a leading role waiting for him in the next BBC remake of  a Dickens. He would have been wonderful in so many parts of the recent remake of the Bards history plays. Simon Russell Beale is a wonderful actor but his Sir John Falstaff  lacked that twinkle in the eye – it was a good actor doing a good job -  I wondered what Simon Day would done with the part. When some one writes a new detective series that is not cliché ridden the major role should go to Simon Day he would be a good detective. One of the luvvie directors from the NT or RSC should be banging  his door down to have him in their new plays, but alas they lack the wit. Simon Day needs more serious and challenging parts – it is a crying shame that his talents are going to waste.

Aisling Gheal - the Hollow Crown and Twitter.

The Power of Twitter

Is it possible to mention Ken Tynan and AA Gill in the same breath? When looking for someone with an honest and intelligent appraisal of the modern equivalent of the stage – the television – then yes. Gill would be loved if he were left leaning , but he has been pushed into his idiosyncratic slightly barking British eccentric corner by politically correct alternative comedians (mainly due to his friendship with Jeremy Clarkson) and the chattering classes.

 The point is  -  Gill made some perceptive comments about the new TV adaptation of the Bards History plays  - and what’s more he liked them. But last night a terrible thing happened – it is something I do but keep quiet about. Like all great Shakespearian tragedy the seed of doubt is sewn and we watch it grow – to its conclusion. Aisling Gheal watching the Hollow Crown, Henry V, saw the seed of a bad production which grew in front of her – and she Tweeted her observations – and others saw what she had seen and contributed to the Tweet – feed massacre.

I have to say that I started to do the same last week! That gate is modern! Look at that fire in the middle of the room – it wouldn’t be like that! Where will the smoke go and everything is so clean – unsmoked. Is that the house at Weald and Downland museum?

The point is that ‘doing’ Shakespeare in a  ‘naturalistic’ way is always dangerous. Less is more. ‘Doing’ Shakespeare in a Shakespeare way is always dangerous. Actors seem to become a little more unstable in the presence of the Bards words  - which of course are bettered by their saying of them. Actors must see Will was having quite ago at them in the rehearsal of the mechanicals play in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Actors acting Shakespeare are like a BBC radio policeman – they all sound the same.

Some one Tweeting suggested that the Ken Branagh and Emma Thompson’s film of Henry V could never be bettered.  Ken, now Sir Ken, started his Shakespearian acting by being a very good copy of Olivier  with all the same mannerisms and enunciation. But he grew up and moved on – with Brian Blessed and Judy Dench – to some very odd actor centred productions – which left the Bards words mightily skewed at the expense of a luvvie performance. He then found that the Bards words were in fact quite good and he got a lot of mileage out of whispering his lines. He’s now arrived, as Gill points out in a review of Wallander -  that less means more.

Night

fox
moon
cloud
steals
across
sky
black
shadow
earth

Walking Philosophy and Poetry

Walking Philosophy and Poetry

The Lake District bathed in sun light is a beautiful place, in rain and cloud, full of awe. It certainly is a place to reflect upon the human condition and man’s place in the great scheme of things. I get maudlin in the mist and dwell on Dido’s Lament:

When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble, no trouble in, in thy breast.
When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble, no trouble in, in thy breast.
Remember me, remember me, but ah!
Forget my fate.
Remember me, but ah!
Forget my fate.

Perhaps it is my Welshness or just the nature of mountain people to brood on the harshness of life. So many poems of R.S. Thomas come to mind too in the mountains -  sheep living in a gap in the clouds becomes a reality.

In this mood I always return to my obsession with the state of mind of Wordsworth and Coleridge when they too were in wet white landscapes. Did the mountains really put them in a similar frame of mind – is it where they contemplated life, death, God?  Both of them had tempestuous relationships with friends and family to brood on too, they had complicated and difficult lives. The poetry of the two is evidence that they did consider great ‘ideas’, Coleridge often referred to as philosopher and theologian, while Wordsworth as philosopher is overlooked.

Roger Scuton, in his excellent essay about Spinoza, quotes Wordsworth’s The Prelude as encapsulating Spinoza’s position in many ways:

I felt the sentiment of Being spread

O’er all that moves and all that seemeth still;

O’er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought

And human knowledge, to the human eye

Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;

O’er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,

Or beats the gladsome air; o’er all that glides

Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself,

And mighty depth of waters.

It is a pity that Wordsworth is commonly reduced to one line of poetry, and Coleridge is thought to have been a lonely befuddled drug addict.

Continuing the contemplation of the human condition in Black Sail youth hostel in Ennerdale there is the dedication to Chris Brasher another great thinker. He was famous  for getting things done and planning ‘ on the back of an envelope’.

There is a quote from Browning that goes with the dedication to Brasher

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?

The mounains are where thoughts drift down…….

Reply to http://www.auxbordsdesmondes.fr

Ousios

Today of all days it seems appropriate to talk about the meaning of words. The word of today for theologians will be Ousia. The ‘God particle’ Higgs-boson has been found - the particle that lends mass to matter and holds the universe together. For years theologians have examined and debated the writing of the early Christian fathers about what the trinity and the world was made of or from – what substance/matter. The ancient Greek word for this matter was Ousia often translated into English as ‘substance’. However this is a travesty of the translation - and in the changes in the meaning of the word over hundreds of years. Today theology has been changed there is now a matter/substance that gave form to the world….. Can it be that the Higgs-boson is the matter that God is made of? Have we seen God? No probably not. Theologians will say that the word ‘Ousia’ did not actually state what it was supposed to… it did not get to the ‘essence’ the ‘essential nature’ that is God. The Higgs-boson will not convey the claims made by the early Christian fathers that the God – head (the trinity) is omnipotent, omniscient, all loving etc The particle is still not able to explain God or why evil exists.

Words are such bad purveyors of what they mean!  

Wittgenstein argued that the meaning of words comes from the function they perform within any given ‘language-game’. He rejected language having a direct connection to reality - he argued concepts do not need to be so clearly defined to be meaningful.

Is the Higgs boson real matter or a concept?

Fisherman

he lifts his head

sniffs

sea air

scent of rain

tide turns

stares

beyond

what he knew

is gone

and no one

followed on

The Dark Night of the Soul

German Poetry

Aberystwyth has a wonderful independent book shop -  Ystwyth Books (http://www.ystwythbooks.co.uk/) with the most fantastic range of books. It shamefully panders to the intellect with academic and literary books but it has all the other stuff – crime, thrillers, romance etc. (For some reason, and I have never discovered why - clergy men/persons love a good who done it!) I have not been in such a good book shop for years. The owner Martin Ashby and I remembered the renowned book dealer Alan Hancox of Cheltenham, everyone who dealt in secondhand and antiquarian books knew him. At some point in his life, before becoming a book dealer, Alan had worked in   Cowley Oxford making cars. Someone owes Alan a wikipedia page!

In Ystwyth Books I bought an anthology of German verse which I had been looking for at extremely reasonable price- the version edited by Leonard Forster. There were two poems that I wanted to read in particular, one was Abendphantasie by Holderlin and the other Mignon by Goethe.

 Abendphantasie was reputedly Nietzsche’s favorite poem and influenced his early thought. The poem is a reflection at evening about the nature of life. A ploughman sits down in front of his house and considers his lot. It is almost biblical in that man must earn his living and pay his way by the sweat of his brow. The ploughman thinks that on the whole he has quite a good life - but there is always that ‘thorn’ that goads him – the thought that there might be something better. It is the night and sleep that will now bring him release and joy. Night is also eventually death here.

Abendphantasie

 Vor seiner Hütte ruhig im Schatten sitzt

 Der Pflüger, dem Genügsamen raucht sein Herd.

 Gastfreundlich tönt dem Wanderer im

 Friedlichen Dorfe die Abendglocke.

Wohl kehren itzt die Schiffer zum Hafen auch,

 In fernen Städten, fröhlich verrauscht des Markts

 Geschäftger Lärm; in stiller Laube

 Glänzt das gesellige Mahl den Freunden.

 Wohin denn ich? Es leben die Sterblichen

 Von Lohn und Arbeit; wechselnd in Müh' und Ruh

 Ist alles freudig; warum schläft denn

 Nimmer nur mir in der Brust der Stachel?

 Am Abendhimmel blühet ein Frühling auf;

 Unzählig blühn die Rosen und ruhig scheint

 Die goldne Welt; o dorthin nimmt mich,

 Purpurne Wolken! und möge droben

 In Licht und Luft zerrinnen mir Lieb' und Leid! -

 Doch, wie verscheucht von töriger Bitte, flieht

 Der Zauber; dunkel wirds und einsam

Unter dem Himmel, wie immer, bin ich –

Komm du nun, sanfter Schlummer! zu viel begehrt

Das Herz; doch endlich, Jugend! verglühst du ja,

Du ruhelose, träumerische!

Friedlich und heiter ist dann das Alter

This poem also inspired Edgar Rietz to write the German TV series Heimat. The narrative of the poem is the story of Paul a young man who grows up in a small village in the Hunsruck working with his father- earning his way – keeping his wife and child. But one day the ‘thorn’ goads him and he literally walks away from everything in search of a new life – before the night takes him.

I found seven other poets in this collection with poems about the night as a place to start a journey or find solace – an escape form the world.

Opitz

Lied

Itzund kommt die Nacht herbei

Vieh und Menschen warden frei

Goethe

Willkommen und Abschied

Der Abend wieghte schion die Erde

Und an den Bergen hing die Nacht

Schiller

Der Abend

Senke, strahlender Gott

Holderlin

Sonnenuntergang

Wo bist du? trunken dammert die Seele mir

Novalis 304

Hymnen an die Nacht

Hinhuber wall ich

Unde jede Pein

Wird einst ein Stachel

Der Wollust sein

Brentano

Abendstandchen

Hor, es klagt die Flote wieder

Eichendorff

Der Abend

Schweight der Menshen laute Lust

Mondnacht

Es war, als hatt der Himmel

Die Erde still gekusst

Storm

Zur Nacht

Vorbei der Tag! Nun lass mich unverstellt

Intimacy - Michèle Roberts

Michèle Roberts is a one of the countries most underrated and under read writers. Her books are absorbing explorations of the human condition. Her stature and ability as a writer is comparable to that of Graham Greene and valid for several reasons. Her ‘entertainments’ as Greene dismissively referred to his books, are extremely well written. She has experimented both in form and content over the years and has been original in both. She has been a passionate writer and a crusader of social and political causes, controversial and confrontational. And like Greene, her Catholic education and upbringing informs a lot of her work. She is a writer who seems to have been side-lined in an age of ‘chick lit’ and trendy gender posturing.  

Some years ago she conducted a literary experiment in one of her books which was a direct attack on the reader’s senses. The unforeseen and unexpected sexual assault of a young woman is the catalyst for this experiment. She wanted the reader to experience a ‘rupture’ in the narrative and in the act of reading itself. She also wanted the reader to be shocked into a new and more meaningful relationship with her theme – here, intimacy.  

For thousands of years philosophers and poets have endeavored to express the nature of intimacy. The problem is that intimacy sits astride the psyche and soma and is fully found in both. Aristotle explored intimacy as a pleasurable, useful, virtuous relationship. While accepting this, Sartre would go further and write that it was much more a romantic, passionate and sexual attachment. His philosophy gives precedence to the pleasure of the real and existential sexual act, leaving little or nothing of emotional value post coitus. Joyce, a lapsed Catholic, explored intimacy in stream of consciousness and in his characters intimate personal actions, defecating or masturbating. Unlike Sartre, Joyce frequently returns to themes of transcendence, he acknowledges and explores the abstract metaphysical world. Joyce is willing to consider the notion of intimacy beyond the grave, beyond the real. There are many examples of this in Ulysses and in particular Hamlet’s overriding obsession to revenge his father.

In her literary experiment Michèle Roberts uses the existential definition of intimacy, she uses the sexual act. The sexual act can be the moment of greatest pleasure but it is also the moment when the individual is most exposed and vulnerable to ridicule, rejection, or pain, it is the convergence of the psyche and soma, and it is where intimacy is so often thought to be at its profoundest. When her character is violated by a sexual act the reader is shocked - there is an epistemological crisis for both. The reader is shocked into a reappraisal of intimacy, but only some aspects of it, the existential.

Central to a Catholic way of life is the intimacy of prayer. Greene, a convert to Catholicism, conveys something of this intimacy in The End of the Affaire – when a promise is made in prayer to God for the safe deliverance of a lover. Prayer is also a moment of profound intimacy, intimacy with a deity.  This relationship of course requires a level of faith and an understanding of the given deity. There are many problems here as it is possible for an individual to project emotions of an ‘intimate’ type on to another individual, pet, or inanimate object, in effect, one way or illusory ‘intimacy’. Those Christians that believe that God is not a concept, but a real and living God feel that through prayer they are having an intimate relationship. The theology required here depends on the claims made for the deity. An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God, is all powerful, all knowing and everywhere. So is there free will if God is all knowing? Why is there evil if God is all powerful? The problems here are numerous and complex.

It is perhaps unfair to expect an author to explore both existential and metaphysical aspects of a theme like intimacy from one dramatic event. Michèle Roberts’ literary experiment was indeed arresting and thought provoking; metaphorically it was a dramatic shout rather than a stage whisper. But for all that, her work was worth reading, a valuable, cliché free exploration of the rich nature of intimacy. It is lamentable that a diet of sensationalist TV soaps and ‘chick lit’ have debased an understanding of intimacy. Instant gratification in the immediate, existential sexual act seems now to equate to intimacy.

Artists Materials

between

paint

brushes

rags and oil

light

sea

and in the rocks

the water curls

her tongue

whispers

names

you thought you knew

but never heard

and as she sucks

teases

pebbles turn

tones

phon-emes

what was said

heard

but not known

Ray Bradbury

‘Hey, Ray Bradbury... you left somethin' behind…'

‘Hey, Ray Bradbury... you left somethin' behind…’  This is how Giles Diggle starts his tribute to Ray Bradbury. This is a call from the heart - and it could only come from deep within Bradbury country - where ‘The sound of tennis shoes on gravel remain…’

*

 I have found my few words in praise of Ray Bradbury so difficult to write because he did have such a profound effect upon my life.

 In 1973 during Mr. Heath’s three-day week Jack Eve taught me how to paint. Jack and I worked for Rio Tinto Zinc which paid us a five day week because they got us to paint everything in the factory the other two days of the week. At 18 I was a sheet metal cut-up machine operator, and at 64, Jack was my assistant! He told me stories of his child-hood and about his time as a solider in Berlin after the war. He marveled at just how stupid I was and helped me with the crossword. He was a genuinely good man and a pleasure to work with. He witnessed me reading the books and never belittled my attempts to read.

I cycled 6 or 7 miles to work every day - in boiler suit and donkey jacket – and stopped on the way to buy cigarettes and a paper - the then socialist leaning Daily Mirror - with a reading age of 5. In the political turmoil of the time it was inevitable that the papers would go on strike and so one morning I found myself trying to find a substitute for the crossword.  There was a book stand next to where the papers should have been and on it was a book with a purple cover and a golden image in the middle which caught my eye. I picked it up, flicked through the pages found it had illustrations, and not a lot of text. The publishers blurb said it was science fiction.

 It took me over a week to read this book - mouthing the words and moving my finger along the pages – I was not a natural reader. Having left school with no qualifications I became an unskilled labourer with little future. (On one night shift I discovered that I was the only one in the tea room that had not been in prison.) With one single book Ray Bradbury changed my life. He caught me in his world, caught my imagination. It was like I had made a new friend, one who told me things in a simple way, one who showed me his humanity, integrity and honesty. The book was The Golden Apples of the Sun. It would be many years before I knew that the title of the book came from a Yeats’ poem The Song of Wandering Aengus

The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

I was an intimidating presence in the local book shop one pay day, in boots and work clothes. They were as uncomfortable with me as I was with them. I had never bought books before. I wanted Ray Bradbury books. They checked the publisher’s catalogue and were a little surprised when I ordered everything they could get and paid for it on the spot. The following week I collected eight or nine books which took me months to read - it was a real labour of love. It was here that my obsession with literature and books began. It is an enduring love. I knew there were libraries that books could be borrowed from but they were alien to me. I could not put it into words – there was so much that I could not articulate – but I wanted to keep my books, posses them- they had become like friends in themselves.  I had some new strange relationship with - books. I loved the whole object, the feel, the smell, the size, the colour, the cover.

I stopped going to the pub and clubs, I stayed at home with my new friend and read every word he had ever written and he educated me. He introduced me to Melville, Faulkner, Poe, Twain, Yeats, Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky and many more. I made lists of the authors and their books, and over the years I read them. Bradbury took me into many new worlds but most importantly he started me on the bewildering journey of self-awareness and articulacy. I started to understand my emotions and thoughts, started to talk to myself.

It would be my Open University lecturer Clive Thomas who would finally open the door to traditional academia for me.

It would be plain ignorance and insulting to Bradbury’s memory to consider him as merely a writer of science fiction. In many ways he was anything but a writer of science fiction. His stories and poems were so easy to read that they gave the impression that writing was easy. Many people claim that Bradbury inspired them to write - as he did me. For all the fluency and ease of style Bradbury took writing seriously and he is said to have burned more than a million words because he thought were just not good enough. His writing is genuinely worthy of the title prose-poetry. His poetic, lyrical style brought a poignancy and wistfulness to a wide range of themes. He wrote about childhood, death, fear, small town America, human aspiration. He advised NASA and Disney, he wrote about holograms, 3D TVs, theme parks - the ‘Marionette Company’ that produced ‘puppets’ that were indistinguishable from human beings - long before Asimov. He wrote about ignorance, prejudice, totalitarian régimes and politics. He wrote about the absurdity of racism and the treatment of back American people. He wrote about all the human qualities that are required for new civilizations- either on other planets or on our own in the future. In short, he wrote about the human condition.

He was a kind noble friend and teacher.

I have been fortunate to correspond with or meet writers whom I have admired over the years and I can’t understand why I never contacted Ray Bradbury to tell him how he changed my life. I regret this now. I did wonder if it would be possible to meet him when I was in America…..

Giles went on to write

 ‘Ray Bradbury was an influence and still is. In that sense he is there in my Timeline…’

Me too.

I owe him my life.  I should live it as a testimony to him.

http://gilesdiggle.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/hey-ray-bradbury-you-left-somethin.html?spref=tw

L’ ∞

L’ ∞

mirror mirror

that is the sea

where i reflect

where i find me

mirror mirror

that is the sky

where i reflect

where i ask why

mirror mirror

that is infinity

where is the horizon

that i might be

mirror mirror

what is born

when dusk

meets dawn

Poem

perhaps

i

mein leben

ist

unbekannt

zu mir

mein schicksal

ist

zufällig

auch

vielleicht

ii

ma vie

est

inconnu

moi

inconnu

hasard

j suis

hasard

peut-être

iii

my life

is

unknown

to me

Schicksal

is

hazard

for me

perhaps

Bells Whistles and Streams

Bells Whistles and Streams

Hidden History

Bells

While thundering along country lanes on my bike I am often struck by how the world has changed. Hedgerows and big oak trees are very telling about the past use of the land. On route to Ludlow I passed an old church, and had an odd thought. Bells, whistling and streams, which all played a big part in shaping the landscape.

The history of bells and how important they were to our daily lives is amazing. There was a great pride in a village that owned and rang its own bells. Skirmishes between villages in order to steal bells were not unknown; such was the prestige and practical value of a bell. Before affordable clocks the village bell played several important functions apart from the obvious keeping of the time.

It rang to warn of danger e.g. invasion, fire

In rang at times of celebration

It rang the religious office of the day and called people to prayer

It rang the start of the day sending workers to the fields – and brought them back

It rang when someone died

It rang when there was an excommunication

It rang when there was an exorcism

Bells were used to proclaim, as far as they could be heard, the message of Christianity. Christianity is out of favor and churches are sold, left to fall down or become costly historical artifacts for a community.

Whistles

Harpo Marx communicated by whistling in films, and as funny and as ingenious as it seemed there is in fact a history of countries and peoples that communicated by whistling. It is easy to call to mind shepherds working their dogs over mountain sides and sailors leaping to their stations from a bosun’s whistle, but harder to imagine people having whistled conversations. But people did do just that. In parts of Spain there is a whistled language of several thousands of words still used to communicate over long distances. Many country people would communicate like this, if in only a limited way. There were many countries that used whistling at some time in some form or other to communicate including France (Occitan), Greece, Spain and Turkey.

Streams

The humble stream has played a big part in the history and development of communities.

The history of any hamlet, village, town or city is also the history of its water source. It is no accident that many cities and towns have a river at its heart. The great rivers have watered the great cities as well as provided a means of transport, communication, commerce - and sewers. The Severn, considered to be the last free running river in Europe, starts on Plynlimon in mid Wales and runs down to the Bristol Channel. On its way down stream water is taken by Shrewsbury, Worcester, Cheltenham and Gloucester not to mention Ironbridge, Bridgnorth, Stourport, Tewkesbury and numerous villages that all in turn put their ‘treated water’ back in the Severn. Londoners complain that their water has been through eight sets of kidneys on average! The Romans made good use of the Severn, building bridges along the river where they were absolutely necessary, but mostly using fords. 

Hidden, but still running beneath the streets of some towns and villages are the original water source. Cheltenham has the river Chelt that once ran through the town centre but is now visible in only a few places. It is not far from the alleged original source of Cheltenham’s mineral water Royal Well. Finding mineral water was the making of many towns such as Malvern, Leamington and Bath. The popularity of Spas spread throughout Europe giving the rich chance to ‘cure’ themselves of numerous ‘illnesses’ whilst displaying their wealth and enjoying the ‘entertainments’. It is no surprise that many of these towns have magnificent baths, theatres, concert rooms, parks and gardens.

A good look at a map, or walk round, will show that the development of any community, even one or two cottages, will be due to a water supply near by. It is sure to be a stream, well, spring or pond.

Cheltenham’s mineral water could be said to be an acquired taste. This rhyme is often mentioned in connection with the waters

Here I lie with my three daughters

For having drunk the Cheltenham waters

Wish that I had kept to Epsom salts

And I would not be in these vaults

Cr­épuscule

When I see a twilight sky ….

Crépuscule - a beautiful and poetic word meaning dusk, dark creeper in Latin. Dusk is that moment, that feeling, when the boundary between the existential and metaphysical blurs and a transient moment of nothingness occurs. It is a moment when a feeling of the numinous hangs in the air. It is a moment when the sky reflects a mystery about the journey of our lives into the unknown. Looking up into that sky is like being beckoned … and its literature which prompts me to reflect upon the impossible questions …

In The Darkling Thrush Thomas Hardy writes of dusk as

The weakening eye of day

The weakening eye of day when light goes, the world disappears, darkness grows and sleep creeps towards us. Sleep inexorably bringing its second self – death.

In life there is always death. Et in Arcadia ego - and in Arcadia I (death) am with you.

Eliot considers this relationship repeatedly in The Waste Land:

There is always another one walking beside you.

For him, as for so many poets, dusk is a starting place:

Or your shadow at evening rising up to meet you

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock starts with that giddy moment when dusk swells into evening:

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Beckoned on a journey down streets of ‘insidious intent’ -

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Eliot’s journey into the unknown is to pose and reflect upon the impossible questions and their significance for being. Is there life after death or nothingness?

Another journey into the unknown is found in Sebastien Japrisot’s Un long dimanche de fiançailles. Set in the First World War, a group of men play a game of chance at dusk for their very lives. Having been found guilty of cowardice and sentenced to death, they are forced into no-mans-land from the aptly-named dugout Bingo Crepuscule. Like Eliot, Japrisot uses dusk to make the reader reflect upon the equally random journey of life, and to consider the impossible and perplexing questions …

The opening of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness has Marlow on a dusk-shrouded boat telling of a great and terrible journey:

We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

It is the journey into the very heart of the meaning of being. Like Eliot, Conrad considers what it would mean if there were only nothingness, if there were no God? What would be the point of living? If there is no God would that explain why there is evil in the world? It is the existence of evil that Dostoyevsky explores in The Brothers Karamazov. Dimitri Karamazov renounces God because of the evil in the world and asks the eternal question ‘Why?’

It is Shakespeare’s sonnet LXXIII that so concisely describes the dusk of life and end of life’s journey:  

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

Dusk heightens the mystery and confusion surrounding the notions of existence, being and evil, and as Eliot says leads ‘you to an overwhelming question ...’