National Trust, Baddesley Clinton. Saxon Badde's ley, or clearing; upgraded by De Clinton, a Norman Knight. Bill Clinton famously visited his Irish roots when in power. Was he related to the Norman Knights? On the wall in the moated ancient house there is a Victorian etching of a fine 14-15 century castle, looking as complete and proud as Warwick. Indeed it was a Warwickshire castle by the name of Maxstock. I spoke with the guide. She knew of Maxstock, but there was no castle there now. How could that be? Direct hit in the war? Was it a fantasy etching perhaps of the castle in a previous life?
https://goo.gl/images/dji6q8
Well- there it is. Built in the 14th century by William De Clinton. It's 58 minutes drive away near to Coleshill, on the edge of the West Midlands sprawl. A private house, only open on one day of the year, and that is Sunday 10th June 2018. I am busy on that day. Next year?
31 miles from Leicester to Maxstoke. Cycle.
Friday, 30 March 2018
Thursday, 29 March 2018
Anti-plastic
In the days before plastic, littering was recycling,
We opened the window and threw it out.
The only challenge then we faced was that after a number of generation,
the postman, wondering by, could peek through the bedroom window.
I am reminded of how disturbed Margaret and I were on a 48 hour train journey from Hong Kong to Xian, when, with much encouragement from fellow passengers, we threw the polystyrene food containers and empty coke bottles out of the moving train windows. The white cartons could be seen stroon for miles either side of the tracks. The sound of smashing glass punctuated the long hours of the night, like the rhythm of the track.
Driving to visit Marion one day I marvaled at the plastic strewn in the bushes of the country road we followed. I was remained of other famous plastic stroon roads. The main road to Leptis Magna in Lybia. No difference. Then we caught up with the council truck, collecting waste. The back of the truck had a gate. The gate was open, the truck was in the process of recycling plastic.
We opened the window and threw it out.
The only challenge then we faced was that after a number of generation,
the postman, wondering by, could peek through the bedroom window.
I am reminded of how disturbed Margaret and I were on a 48 hour train journey from Hong Kong to Xian, when, with much encouragement from fellow passengers, we threw the polystyrene food containers and empty coke bottles out of the moving train windows. The white cartons could be seen stroon for miles either side of the tracks. The sound of smashing glass punctuated the long hours of the night, like the rhythm of the track.
Driving to visit Marion one day I marvaled at the plastic strewn in the bushes of the country road we followed. I was remained of other famous plastic stroon roads. The main road to Leptis Magna in Lybia. No difference. Then we caught up with the council truck, collecting waste. The back of the truck had a gate. The gate was open, the truck was in the process of recycling plastic.
Chapter One Before Time
Just as taste and sight can be sharper in youth, so also the sense of how things could be, and bearing the disappointment of realising the imperfections accepted by one's elders. Coping with this sense of helplessness is necessary, each experience nurturing a resilience needed for great trials to come.
Do you recall moments when your crystal clear vision of the world was somehow altered, and then diminished? I guess it must be a necessary childhood experience; a groaning readjustment to life's imperfections. Perhaps also it nurtures resilience in the face of helplessness and dependence.
Do you recall moments when your crystal clear vision of the world was somehow altered, and then diminished? I guess it must be a necessary childhood experience; a groaning readjustment to life's imperfections. Perhaps also it nurtures resilience in the face of helplessness and dependence.
My first memories of life in the gorge were the
'Skins' Ceremony. Until that day, I had lived a largely naked life, and felt
that my skin was like that of the wolf, or caribou, our near neighbours. Apart
from the frozen months, when we lived largely in the dark depths of our home,
not doing much, I was not used to any strange things next to my skin. On the
day of the Skins, the children and young people of our community gathered
together. It was a joyful time, and we
all had fun. It started with music and
set dances, initiated by older children, and then copied by the younger
ones. As the dancing progressed, the
older children retired, leaving younger and younger children pumping up dust,
surrounded by the chants and percussive hand clapping of doting parents. Eventually I was left, dancing alone, naked
and insignificant, completely unabashed.
It was then that I realise that that day symbolised change. The whole
community rushed towards me and lifted me high above their heads. They marched around and around with a great
sense of joy. It seemed to go on and on,
as if I were their only focus. When we had all quietened down, time having lost
any significance or hold, Mosako, our spiritual leader, sat calmly on the
meetings stone. He reminded us of our story, a story we all knew well by now,
but a story that seemed to solidify across the years into a sturdy tool, such
as leaning post, or a coat hook. The new
coat or 'skin' was now the focus of attention.
A freshly killed mountain goat, later to become our community meal, had
given up its strong, thick hide for the oldest child of the troop. All the young people were arranged in height
order, girls and boys. The oldest girl,
in a slick move discarded her old skin, and with a modest and experienced move,
put on the new skin, making it transform instantly from wolf kill, into a new
creation. Her long hair seemed to blend
with the shaggy mane of the coat. Her body filling the skin, radiating a
sensuous vision of beauty. I was in love
with my older sister, who was now the head of us children. Despite the lavender oils, impregnated in the
hide, Tilda had also taken on a new and strange pungent smell. Much to my
disgust this was also my fate. As with dominos, the skins of our community all
changed hands down across the spiralling chain of diminishing bodies. Until me,
and I received the smelly tattered remains of my neighbours skin, worn over
many years, soft and snug, but overwhelmingly smelly, and like a mangy dog. It
had not dawned on me when I had tried to eat dinner away from smelly Sidina,
that the following year, I would be taking on her fate. When the spider shed
its skin, it became a tasty snack. But we were hermit crabs, and must
gratefully receive this protective shell.
My kind mother attempting to alleviate the
despondency I now felt, like an animal newly introduced to its tether. She
washed the coat in urine, rinsing it in fresh spring water. At my request, she
applied lavender oil so that I could always feel close to my big sister. It was our tradition to tie the coat tightly
round our bodies, especially in cold weather, with strips of red woven cloth.
These strips were also used to preserve modesty, as loin clothes and breast
straps. The other tribes in our vicinity
named us the Red Belts, which was quite acceptable. They also seemed only to be
interested in the coils of red cloth we were able to trade, and we sometimes
smiled to see what use they put them to.
We noticed them floating from flag posts, or in large hats, and even
strung across village gateways like a garland.
For us this was like seeing your intimate clothing fluttering in the
breeze for all to see, as if dignity didn't exist.
But of course, realising the immutable expectation
of your loving community was one thing; many more challenging adjustments are
always in store for each one of us.
Tuesday, 27 March 2018
Just until Sunday
What a beautiful portrait. From the desert city of Meybod, Iran, the family of potters who create beautiful unique pots. I would like a tandoori oven to cook my bread. The iplayer says it's over on Sunday. Do see this 30 minute masterpiece.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b07blsjw/handmade-on-the-silk-road-3-the-potter
https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b07blsjw/handmade-on-the-silk-road-3-the-potter
Friday, 23 March 2018
Spanish Flu
Most people have heard about the terrible 'Spanish flu' of 1918-19. It is said to have killed more people than the Great War. According to the BBC World Service documentary, it was only called the Spanish Flu because Spain had been neutral during the war. Other western media sources still had tight censors opperating, stopping the truth of the disaster getting out. However the Spanish media covered the situation openly and honestly, so the rest of Europe presumed it must have originated in Spain. The programme goes on to say there are three sources thought to be where the virus may have originated. The first is from trenches on the eastern front, the second is Kansus USA, and the third is in China. The programme also goes on to explain how New Zealand-Samoa suffered from a terrible misjudement when people were allowed to disembark onto the island with the flu, killing a third of the population. In American-Samoa, careful planning meant the opposite. Ships were quarantined and many lives saved.
Wednesday, 21 March 2018
More Great Works from the BBC World Service
The Odyssey of General Anders
This is an extrodinary story told by men and women, now in their ninty's, who have lived in England most of their lives. They were born in Poland, during the second republic, when the country resided further to the east than it does now. On the 17th of September 1939, the Soviet army entered Eastern Poland, two weeks after the German took the West. If you read polish history, this crazy scenario makes more sense. The revitalised Poland, rising from the ashes of the First World War, aspired to recreating it's old empire with Lithuania. This alarmed the Soviets who attacked then Poland in 1920. In a surprise victory, the polish army beat the Soviets at the battle of Warsaw. A pyrrhic victory. Germany and the Soviet Union had a common purpose. This was not the first time they had cooperated to removed Poland from the map. The Prussians and Russians had done it before in 1795. This time they meant business, with both regimes getting straight to work removing anyone who presented as powerful in Polish society. For the Soviets the answer was the gulags. Many Poles were put on cattle trains and sent to places like Uzbekistan. General Anders, a Baltic German by ethnic origin, ended up in the lubyanka prison in Moscow. Then Hitler invaded the Soviet Union instead of Britain. Churchill reminded Stalin that he had thousands of polish soldiers starving in camps doing nothing. The Poles were quickly allowed more food, and assembled into two army's under General Anders. Poles descended on the Iranian Caspian Sea port of Bandar Anzil. Many were too week and died in Iran, and their graveyards can be found today. From Tehran they moved into Iraq, then Palestine, where a certain Jitzhak Rabin remained, latter to become the six prime minister of Israel. The army's most famous moment was the assault of the Monastery of Casino. But so many of the Poles featured in this programme never returned to Poland. Their bit of Poland was never to be Poland again, and the Soviets were the new masters. Having fought under the British, they chose England. There are poles living all over the uk, and tHe origins go back largely to this story. Ander's first name was Wladyslaw (all you Middlemarch fans).
This is an extrodinary story told by men and women, now in their ninty's, who have lived in England most of their lives. They were born in Poland, during the second republic, when the country resided further to the east than it does now. On the 17th of September 1939, the Soviet army entered Eastern Poland, two weeks after the German took the West. If you read polish history, this crazy scenario makes more sense. The revitalised Poland, rising from the ashes of the First World War, aspired to recreating it's old empire with Lithuania. This alarmed the Soviets who attacked then Poland in 1920. In a surprise victory, the polish army beat the Soviets at the battle of Warsaw. A pyrrhic victory. Germany and the Soviet Union had a common purpose. This was not the first time they had cooperated to removed Poland from the map. The Prussians and Russians had done it before in 1795. This time they meant business, with both regimes getting straight to work removing anyone who presented as powerful in Polish society. For the Soviets the answer was the gulags. Many Poles were put on cattle trains and sent to places like Uzbekistan. General Anders, a Baltic German by ethnic origin, ended up in the lubyanka prison in Moscow. Then Hitler invaded the Soviet Union instead of Britain. Churchill reminded Stalin that he had thousands of polish soldiers starving in camps doing nothing. The Poles were quickly allowed more food, and assembled into two army's under General Anders. Poles descended on the Iranian Caspian Sea port of Bandar Anzil. Many were too week and died in Iran, and their graveyards can be found today. From Tehran they moved into Iraq, then Palestine, where a certain Jitzhak Rabin remained, latter to become the six prime minister of Israel. The army's most famous moment was the assault of the Monastery of Casino. But so many of the Poles featured in this programme never returned to Poland. Their bit of Poland was never to be Poland again, and the Soviets were the new masters. Having fought under the British, they chose England. There are poles living all over the uk, and tHe origins go back largely to this story. Ander's first name was Wladyslaw (all you Middlemarch fans).
Sunday, 18 March 2018
Class - Good or Bad?
I am a 'class' observer. Major, Thatcher, great conservative grandees, are famously quoted as saying there is no such thing as 'class'. I think they meant that 'power' no longer resides in class. I disagree. Power is easier to observe looking up than down.
Britain must be the perfect place for observing class, and surely outsiders are best placed to observe. I think of my picture of goldfish debating whether water actually exists. I'm drenched, so all I say is qualified by this.
I wonder at my father, who brought up in an aspiring working class family, showed few signs of his roots. He was not particularly class conscious, but his interests and 'culture' had few connections with his past.
In the past 'class', power and money were bound together. The middle classes developed as a by produced of the industrial revolution, which allowed intelligent and hard working men to make money. They sent their boys to university and their girls to finishing school, like the Vincys in Middle march.
So how do I observe 'class'?
I have selected a number of themes. These are also influenced by age and ethnicity. Some localism may affect priorities. Gender, sexuality and disability also have have a role. What about the urban/rural divide?
My observations are based on:-
1) Recreation, Sport, Social life, TV/films, Holidays.
2) Fashion, decor, art and culture.
3) Geography, employment, housing.
4) Education, politics, money (inheritance) and tradition.
5) Language - accents, vocabulary and dialect.
There are clear ends of the spectrum.
The working men's clubs vs Glynbourne.
Wrestling and boxing vs Polo and 'Rugby Fives'
Blackpool/Benidorm vs Bude/Tuscany
Littlewoods catalogue vs Boden or Joules.
I enjoyed the story told me by a friend and past colleague about his family background. When we met, we discovered that our NHS commissioner had worked in a children's home as my colleague's boss. He reminisced about how my colleague, after a staff party, had insisted the boss dropped him of at a rather insalubrious part of town late at night, and even now he ponder why. "Bob" he said, "that was where I lived." My colleague was the first person in his family to go to university. He went to the local university to be near home. Later he was courious to visit his partner's parents home. They lives in a large mansion, her father being a high court judge. My colleague looked forward to a weekend of luxury. Of course he was bitterly disappointed. The place was massive, and freezing. "Put another jumper on, slap your thighs and be cheary, we are upper class Brits."
Britain must be the perfect place for observing class, and surely outsiders are best placed to observe. I think of my picture of goldfish debating whether water actually exists. I'm drenched, so all I say is qualified by this.
I wonder at my father, who brought up in an aspiring working class family, showed few signs of his roots. He was not particularly class conscious, but his interests and 'culture' had few connections with his past.
In the past 'class', power and money were bound together. The middle classes developed as a by produced of the industrial revolution, which allowed intelligent and hard working men to make money. They sent their boys to university and their girls to finishing school, like the Vincys in Middle march.
So how do I observe 'class'?
I have selected a number of themes. These are also influenced by age and ethnicity. Some localism may affect priorities. Gender, sexuality and disability also have have a role. What about the urban/rural divide?
My observations are based on:-
1) Recreation, Sport, Social life, TV/films, Holidays.
2) Fashion, decor, art and culture.
3) Geography, employment, housing.
4) Education, politics, money (inheritance) and tradition.
5) Language - accents, vocabulary and dialect.
There are clear ends of the spectrum.
The working men's clubs vs Glynbourne.
Wrestling and boxing vs Polo and 'Rugby Fives'
Blackpool/Benidorm vs Bude/Tuscany
Littlewoods catalogue vs Boden or Joules.
I enjoyed the story told me by a friend and past colleague about his family background. When we met, we discovered that our NHS commissioner had worked in a children's home as my colleague's boss. He reminisced about how my colleague, after a staff party, had insisted the boss dropped him of at a rather insalubrious part of town late at night, and even now he ponder why. "Bob" he said, "that was where I lived." My colleague was the first person in his family to go to university. He went to the local university to be near home. Later he was courious to visit his partner's parents home. They lives in a large mansion, her father being a high court judge. My colleague looked forward to a weekend of luxury. Of course he was bitterly disappointed. The place was massive, and freezing. "Put another jumper on, slap your thighs and be cheary, we are upper class Brits."
Saturday, 17 March 2018
The Treasures of the BBC World Service
Return to China
Driving home with tears in my eyes. Somewhat tired, but also moved by Kati's account of meeting her birth parents on the Broken Bridge in a Chinese town. A beautifully balanced story. A white American couple adopt a Chinese baby girl at the height of the 'one child policy'. Kati, the girl in question, is angry with her parents for not telling her that they have always known, that the birth parents, after leaving their baby in the doorway of the Chinese social care services, also left a note attached to her asking her future parents to keep in touch. Why didn't they tell her? They spoke about how they were trying to protect her, and that she hadn't seemed interested. I recall that this was also at a time when transracial adoption was not greatly understood. Nor was there much wish to understand it, (much like our present time.) My thought is that the adoptive parents were probably subconsciously terrified that they would lose their daughter. This is a realistic fear. I recall Marion's friends whose adopted daughter found her birth mother, aged 19, and moved to America to live with her. The piece ends with the simple reflection by Kati's adoptive father, that they had made a mistake. I'm not sure he was aware if this was motivated by fear.
Daphne and the two Maltas
Daphne, known to everyone in Malta as 'that meddling reporter', fearlessly exposes corrunption at the heart of Government. 'Buy a European passport from Malta, have access the whole of the EU (600000 euros).' But I thought all governments did that? The rich normally get what ever they want don't they?
Yes, but it is still wrong, and the Azerbajani energy deals... Daphne was blown up in a car bomb. This exposes the two Maltas. One- "what do you expect if you stand in the middle of the road?" The other -"Malta has a long way to go before the rule of law has any foothold in the political system."
Being a reporter has always been one of the bravest professions about, when it is done well.
The CIA in Laos
A son recalls his father, just before he dies, saying 'what we did in Laos was the proudest thing in my life, apart from you two boys.' Profound words. Was his dad proud of what he did in Laos? Was he proud of his boys, particularly this one, who turned down joining the CIA like his dad, to become a reporter? The son interviews a compatriot of his dad's who was in Laos, organising the Mong guerrillas fighting the North Vietnesse on the Ho Chi Minh trail. Son discovers they were recruiting and training child soldiers. His fathers compatriot breaks down in tears and asks for his tears not to be included in the interview. He is shocked at himself. Later he says 'do what ever you feel is best.' Son knows that all one can do in these situations is cry. It's the only right and proper thing.
Sarah Marquis, Explorer
Sarah, you are amazing. She walked for three days along a river in the Kimberleys, north west Australia, to keep her promise to her grandmother in Switzerland, not to risk swimming in crocodile infested waters. Sarah does survive for three months in the outback, as she points out, just like thousands of other people over many thousands of years. No sweat. Hungry, she sees a tree laden with fruit. It looks good. She presses a ripe fruit to her wrist to see if the thin skin at this point in the body will indicate danger. It looks good, she dives in. The fruit is very bitter. She sits down, and finds she is loosing her sight. Ah, mistake, but luckily it soon comes back.
Driving home with tears in my eyes. Somewhat tired, but also moved by Kati's account of meeting her birth parents on the Broken Bridge in a Chinese town. A beautifully balanced story. A white American couple adopt a Chinese baby girl at the height of the 'one child policy'. Kati, the girl in question, is angry with her parents for not telling her that they have always known, that the birth parents, after leaving their baby in the doorway of the Chinese social care services, also left a note attached to her asking her future parents to keep in touch. Why didn't they tell her? They spoke about how they were trying to protect her, and that she hadn't seemed interested. I recall that this was also at a time when transracial adoption was not greatly understood. Nor was there much wish to understand it, (much like our present time.) My thought is that the adoptive parents were probably subconsciously terrified that they would lose their daughter. This is a realistic fear. I recall Marion's friends whose adopted daughter found her birth mother, aged 19, and moved to America to live with her. The piece ends with the simple reflection by Kati's adoptive father, that they had made a mistake. I'm not sure he was aware if this was motivated by fear.
Daphne and the two Maltas
Daphne, known to everyone in Malta as 'that meddling reporter', fearlessly exposes corrunption at the heart of Government. 'Buy a European passport from Malta, have access the whole of the EU (600000 euros).' But I thought all governments did that? The rich normally get what ever they want don't they?
Yes, but it is still wrong, and the Azerbajani energy deals... Daphne was blown up in a car bomb. This exposes the two Maltas. One- "what do you expect if you stand in the middle of the road?" The other -"Malta has a long way to go before the rule of law has any foothold in the political system."
Being a reporter has always been one of the bravest professions about, when it is done well.
The CIA in Laos
A son recalls his father, just before he dies, saying 'what we did in Laos was the proudest thing in my life, apart from you two boys.' Profound words. Was his dad proud of what he did in Laos? Was he proud of his boys, particularly this one, who turned down joining the CIA like his dad, to become a reporter? The son interviews a compatriot of his dad's who was in Laos, organising the Mong guerrillas fighting the North Vietnesse on the Ho Chi Minh trail. Son discovers they were recruiting and training child soldiers. His fathers compatriot breaks down in tears and asks for his tears not to be included in the interview. He is shocked at himself. Later he says 'do what ever you feel is best.' Son knows that all one can do in these situations is cry. It's the only right and proper thing.
Sarah Marquis, Explorer
Sarah, you are amazing. She walked for three days along a river in the Kimberleys, north west Australia, to keep her promise to her grandmother in Switzerland, not to risk swimming in crocodile infested waters. Sarah does survive for three months in the outback, as she points out, just like thousands of other people over many thousands of years. No sweat. Hungry, she sees a tree laden with fruit. It looks good. She presses a ripe fruit to her wrist to see if the thin skin at this point in the body will indicate danger. It looks good, she dives in. The fruit is very bitter. She sits down, and finds she is loosing her sight. Ah, mistake, but luckily it soon comes back.
Saturday, 10 March 2018
Holy Mother
We cried at my birth, I vomited too,
As the sun arose I saw that the presence was you.
Light increases revealing how much you care,
I'm beginning to see, now they've plaited my hair.
You have been our conductor, balancing safety and risks,
Orchestrating adventures while we perform various tricks.
I'm remembering my school jumper of which I was proud,
And also your exasperation hearing me read aloud!
Many friends were made because of your flexibility,
"Stick another potatoe in the the oven, no let's make it three"
Your most precious gift is providing a secure base,
With Dad at your side you'd win every three-leg'd race.
A mother, reliable, faithful, with whom it's fun to be,
Like the Holy Spirit I ponder, or would that be blasphemy?
As the sun arose I saw that the presence was you.
Light increases revealing how much you care,
I'm beginning to see, now they've plaited my hair.
You have been our conductor, balancing safety and risks,
Orchestrating adventures while we perform various tricks.
I'm remembering my school jumper of which I was proud,
And also your exasperation hearing me read aloud!
Many friends were made because of your flexibility,
"Stick another potatoe in the the oven, no let's make it three"
Your most precious gift is providing a secure base,
With Dad at your side you'd win every three-leg'd race.
A mother, reliable, faithful, with whom it's fun to be,
Like the Holy Spirit I ponder, or would that be blasphemy?
Wednesday, 7 March 2018
A look back on The Cockatoos after 26 year
When Margaret and I where staying with The Brisbane Starrs there was a time when we were looking for work so had time to fill. We went to the library in Indooroopilly and read books. A book I have never forgotten is 'The Cockatoos' by Patrick White, a book of short stories published in 1974.
What I recall from the story entitled 'The Night Prowler' was the passage below:-
Felicity has taken to breaking into neighbouring homes, perhaps just for the thrill. In an apparently derelict house she finds an ancient naked man, lying on a mattress.
He gives her these words of wisdom.
He opened his eyes. "I was thinking of the days when I could still enjoy an easy piss. And stools came easy. That's the two most important things you find out." ....
"Trouble is," he continued, "you find out too late to appreciate the advantage."
Profound stuff I think you must agree. Then I reread the story and marvelled that I had remembered poo and piss over its controversial plot. 'White' a male writer, describes a story where a male intruder climbs into a young woman's bedroom. She is engaged to a fine worthy man called John. Her respectable middle class parents sleep in a room nearby. The next thing they know 'Felicity', with torn nightdress, reports that she has been raped. The police are called but she declines to give evidence. We later learn how in the excitement of the moment, she has had sex with this strange man, he being overwhelmed by her power. Felicity then breaks off her engagement, and set about on a night career of breaking in and snooping on neighbouring homes. She does not steel, but is disrespectful and agressive. She appears to become arroused by the secret lives of these stranger-neighbours. The story ends when she meets an unloved vargrent old man in the squat, who promptly dies in her arms.
The story reminds me of the rotting apples of the Dutch masters, or the hypocritical lives in 'Revolutionary Road, or 'Death of a Salesman'. My assumption when I read this story is that Filicity has been sexually abused, perhaps by her father, but I can see nothing in 'White's' plot to affirm this.
I do not like the implication that this woman enjoys or thrives on this rape. This is not a healthy contention, feeding the rapist's fantasy. We can see and feel the sad emtiness of the meaningless life; John, the parents, the neighbours. That is why I like the old man's wisdom. As with the struggles of our earliest existence, which was all about emptying our bowels successfully, so with old age.
And let's not forget it.
What I recall from the story entitled 'The Night Prowler' was the passage below:-
Felicity has taken to breaking into neighbouring homes, perhaps just for the thrill. In an apparently derelict house she finds an ancient naked man, lying on a mattress.
He gives her these words of wisdom.
He opened his eyes. "I was thinking of the days when I could still enjoy an easy piss. And stools came easy. That's the two most important things you find out." ....
"Trouble is," he continued, "you find out too late to appreciate the advantage."
Profound stuff I think you must agree. Then I reread the story and marvelled that I had remembered poo and piss over its controversial plot. 'White' a male writer, describes a story where a male intruder climbs into a young woman's bedroom. She is engaged to a fine worthy man called John. Her respectable middle class parents sleep in a room nearby. The next thing they know 'Felicity', with torn nightdress, reports that she has been raped. The police are called but she declines to give evidence. We later learn how in the excitement of the moment, she has had sex with this strange man, he being overwhelmed by her power. Felicity then breaks off her engagement, and set about on a night career of breaking in and snooping on neighbouring homes. She does not steel, but is disrespectful and agressive. She appears to become arroused by the secret lives of these stranger-neighbours. The story ends when she meets an unloved vargrent old man in the squat, who promptly dies in her arms.
The story reminds me of the rotting apples of the Dutch masters, or the hypocritical lives in 'Revolutionary Road, or 'Death of a Salesman'. My assumption when I read this story is that Filicity has been sexually abused, perhaps by her father, but I can see nothing in 'White's' plot to affirm this.
I do not like the implication that this woman enjoys or thrives on this rape. This is not a healthy contention, feeding the rapist's fantasy. We can see and feel the sad emtiness of the meaningless life; John, the parents, the neighbours. That is why I like the old man's wisdom. As with the struggles of our earliest existence, which was all about emptying our bowels successfully, so with old age.
And let's not forget it.
Tuesday, 6 March 2018
More on Middlemarch
I listened to the Penguin Book Club talk on Middlemarch. It stimulated more thoughts.
Themes
1) Politics- Eliot present the political scene in Midlands Englandin 1831/1832. The main themes were electrol reform and political stagnation.
2) Marriage - Eliot presents 8 couples.
Rosie and Tertius Lydgate - unhappily married. Tershus wanted a beautiful benign wife, a 'wall flower'. He chose an egotistical, vain, person, who clearly knew the power given to her by her special beauty.
Dorothea and Edward Casaubon - a sterile, unbalanced relationship. Dorothy was marrying her absent father? Edward realised his selfishness in marrying a woman he could never make happy.
Fred and Mary Vincey- young lovers, relationship based on equality, where Mary, described as a plain girl, reveals her inner beauty. I fine marriage built on good role models in the Garth family.
Caleb and Susan Garth - older mature relationship, based on mutual respect and adoration. Mrs Garth saved an enormous amount of money from her tutoring, which she gave to Fred to cover his debts, with great grace.
Harriet and Nicholas Bulstrode - marked by Harriet's selfless devotion to her errant husband. She is fully committed to the road she took when she married him.
Dorothea and Will Ladislaw - Dorothea's second marriage. One marked with passion. A romantic, painful, whirlwind of a relationship. Rosemary Ashton, in her introduction in the Penguin edition, feels that Dorothea makes two bad marriages. I heard the story more favourably on the second time of asking.
Lucy and Walter Vincey - Rosamund and Fred's parents. From humble stock, raised up through the Victorian industrial revolution, simple minded, spooling their children, with hopes of securing a prosperous status quo, but largely vanity.
Ceila and James Chetham - Dorothea's sister marries the titled local land owner. He targets beautiful Dorothea initially but is rebuffed, so settles for the smaller, sillier sister. Even rich land owners cannot have everthing their own way.
3) Medicine - Eliot is able to demonstrate her knowledge of the scientific progress of medicine across the 19th century, as she also demonstrates with her knowledge of land reform.
4) Religion - the clergyman who comes out well in the story is Farebrother, the fly fishing batcholor who has an eye for Mary, but also an honourable soft spot for Fred too. He speaks the truth in love, though perhaps aware that he really should not be a clergyman. Casaubon is a terrible priest, who pays his curate to do his work so that he can write an ever diminishing academic tome. Fred is suggested as a clergyman because he has a degree and therefore is eligible. Mary puts a stop to this saying he will look ridiculous as a fake.
5) Class - here is a book that portrays 'class' as it is, without bias. The Book Club noted that in the very centre of the novel, this is adescribtion of how the mild mannered Mr Brooke, attempts to visit one of his tennents, and is fearously rebuffed.
Mr Brooke went to confront his tennents farmer, Mr Dagley, about his son's theft of leverets.
The reply he got was "No, I woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy to please you or anybody else, not if you was twenty landlords isted o' one, and that a bad un'." Brooke sensibly backs off to try his luck with the sober mother.
Themes
1) Politics- Eliot present the political scene in Midlands Englandin 1831/1832. The main themes were electrol reform and political stagnation.
2) Marriage - Eliot presents 8 couples.
Rosie and Tertius Lydgate - unhappily married. Tershus wanted a beautiful benign wife, a 'wall flower'. He chose an egotistical, vain, person, who clearly knew the power given to her by her special beauty.
Dorothea and Edward Casaubon - a sterile, unbalanced relationship. Dorothy was marrying her absent father? Edward realised his selfishness in marrying a woman he could never make happy.
Fred and Mary Vincey- young lovers, relationship based on equality, where Mary, described as a plain girl, reveals her inner beauty. I fine marriage built on good role models in the Garth family.
Caleb and Susan Garth - older mature relationship, based on mutual respect and adoration. Mrs Garth saved an enormous amount of money from her tutoring, which she gave to Fred to cover his debts, with great grace.
Harriet and Nicholas Bulstrode - marked by Harriet's selfless devotion to her errant husband. She is fully committed to the road she took when she married him.
Dorothea and Will Ladislaw - Dorothea's second marriage. One marked with passion. A romantic, painful, whirlwind of a relationship. Rosemary Ashton, in her introduction in the Penguin edition, feels that Dorothea makes two bad marriages. I heard the story more favourably on the second time of asking.
Lucy and Walter Vincey - Rosamund and Fred's parents. From humble stock, raised up through the Victorian industrial revolution, simple minded, spooling their children, with hopes of securing a prosperous status quo, but largely vanity.
Ceila and James Chetham - Dorothea's sister marries the titled local land owner. He targets beautiful Dorothea initially but is rebuffed, so settles for the smaller, sillier sister. Even rich land owners cannot have everthing their own way.
3) Medicine - Eliot is able to demonstrate her knowledge of the scientific progress of medicine across the 19th century, as she also demonstrates with her knowledge of land reform.
4) Religion - the clergyman who comes out well in the story is Farebrother, the fly fishing batcholor who has an eye for Mary, but also an honourable soft spot for Fred too. He speaks the truth in love, though perhaps aware that he really should not be a clergyman. Casaubon is a terrible priest, who pays his curate to do his work so that he can write an ever diminishing academic tome. Fred is suggested as a clergyman because he has a degree and therefore is eligible. Mary puts a stop to this saying he will look ridiculous as a fake.
5) Class - here is a book that portrays 'class' as it is, without bias. The Book Club noted that in the very centre of the novel, this is adescribtion of how the mild mannered Mr Brooke, attempts to visit one of his tennents, and is fearously rebuffed.
Mr Brooke went to confront his tennents farmer, Mr Dagley, about his son's theft of leverets.
The reply he got was "No, I woon't: I'll be dee'd if I'll leather my boy to please you or anybody else, not if you was twenty landlords isted o' one, and that a bad un'." Brooke sensibly backs off to try his luck with the sober mother.
Sunday, 4 March 2018
Persepolis
In Iran Persepolis is Takht-e-Jamshid. Persepolis in Greek translates as 'Persian City', a typical name invented by foreigners.
Marjane Satrapi's autobiographical graphic novel by that name is to be discussed at our next film club meet. I guess she knows most of her audience will relate better to the bland foreign name, although I know it to be the name of a major Tehran thoroughfare.
Iran, a wonderful ancient country, cursed and blessed with oil. 150 years ago the oil will have meant very little to the world. The cultural norms may also have been very similar to those represented in this story. The message I hear is one of stifling repression. There is a lack of real creative joy. The viewer is left wondering at how parents can leave there child in the care of a heartless relative at such a young age. Was it not bound to fail? A family who are clearly well off; they can provide school fees for a French school in Vienna, have a daughter who goes on to live rough on the streets.
I am reminded of a young Iranian I met in Leicester who talked though his asylum claim with me. He had no physical injuries to show, no police interigations, he just said "I was suffocating, I couldn't breathe, I was dying."
Marjane Satrapi's autobiographical graphic novel by that name is to be discussed at our next film club meet. I guess she knows most of her audience will relate better to the bland foreign name, although I know it to be the name of a major Tehran thoroughfare.
Iran, a wonderful ancient country, cursed and blessed with oil. 150 years ago the oil will have meant very little to the world. The cultural norms may also have been very similar to those represented in this story. The message I hear is one of stifling repression. There is a lack of real creative joy. The viewer is left wondering at how parents can leave there child in the care of a heartless relative at such a young age. Was it not bound to fail? A family who are clearly well off; they can provide school fees for a French school in Vienna, have a daughter who goes on to live rough on the streets.
I am reminded of a young Iranian I met in Leicester who talked though his asylum claim with me. He had no physical injuries to show, no police interigations, he just said "I was suffocating, I couldn't breathe, I was dying."
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