Nov 192010

Jimmy Reid was a British trade union activist. He delivered this speech at Glasgow University in 1972.

Alienation is the precise and correctly applied word for describing the major social problem in Britain today. People feel alienated by society. In some intellectual circles it is treated almost as a new phenomenon. It has, however, been with us for years. What I believe is true is that today it is more widespread, more pervasive than ever before. Let me right at the outset define what I mean by alienation. It is the cry of men who feel themselves the victims of blind economic forces beyond their control. It’s the frustration of ordinary people excluded from the processes of decision-making. The feeling of despair and hopelessness that pervades people who feel with justification that they have no real say in shaping or determining their own destinies.

Many may not have rationalised it. May not even understand, may not be able to articulate it. But they feel it. It therefore conditions and colours their social attitudes. Alienation expresses itself in different ways in different people. It is to be found in what our courts often describe as the criminal antisocial behaviour of a section of the community. It is expressed by those young people who want to opt out of society, by drop-outs, the so-called maladjusted, those who seek to escape permanently from the reality of society through intoxicants and narcotics. Of course, it would be wrong to say it was the sole reason for these things. But it is a much greater factor in all of them than is generally recognised.

Society and its prevailing sense of values leads to another form of alienation. It alienates some from humanity. It partially de-humanises some people, makes them insensitive, ruthless in their handling of fellow human beings, self-centred and grasping. The irony is, they are often considered normal and well-adjusted. It is my sincere contention that anyone who can be totally adjusted to our society is in greater need of psychiatric analysis and treatment than anyone else. They remind me of the character in the novel, Catch 22, the father of Major Major. He was a farmer in the American Mid-West. He hated suggestions for things like medi-care, social services, unemployment benefits or civil rights. He was, however, an enthusiast for the agricultural policies that paid farmers for not bringing their fields under cultivation. From the money he got for not growing alfalfa he bought more land in order not to grow alfalfa. He became rich. Pilgrims came from all over the state to sit at his feet and learn how to be a successful non-grower of alfalfa. His philosophy was simple. The poor didn’t work hard enough and so they were poor. He believed that the good Lord gave him two strong hands to grab as much as he could for himself. He is a comic figure. But think – have you not met his like here in Britain? Here in Scotland? I have.

It is easy and tempting to hate such people. However, it is wrong. They are as much products of society, and of a consequence of that society, human alienation, as the poor drop-out. They are losers. They have lost the essential elements of our common humanity. Man is a social being. Real fulfilment for any person lies in service to his fellow men and women. The big challenge to our civilisation is not Oz, a magazine I haven’t seen, let alone read. Nor is it permissiveness, although I agree our society is too permissive. Any society which, for example, permits over one million people to be unemployed is far too permissive for my liking. Nor is it moral laxity in the narrow sense that this word is generally employed – although in a sense here we come nearer to the problem. It does involve morality, ethics, and our concept of human values. The challenge we face is that of rooting out anything and everything that distorts and devalues human relations.

Let me give two examples from contemporary experience to illustrate the point.

Recently on television I saw an advert. The scene is a banquet. A gentleman is on his feet proposing a toast. His speech is full of phrases like “this full-bodied specimen”. Sitting beside him is a young, buxom woman. The image she projects is not pompous but foolish. She is visibly preening herself, believing that she is the object of the bloke’s eulogy. Then he concludes – “and now I give…”, then a brand name of what used to be described as Empire sherry. Then the laughter. Derisive and cruel laughter. The real point, of course, is this. In this charade, the viewers were obviously expected to identify not with the victim but with her tormentors.

The other illustration is the widespread, implicit acceptance of the concept and term “the rat race”. The picture it conjures up is one where we are scurrying around scrambling for position, trampling on others, back-stabbing, all in pursuit of personal success. Even genuinely intended, friendly advice can sometimes take the form of someone saying to you, “Listen, you look after number one.” Or as they say in London, “Bang the bell, Jack, I’m on the bus.”

To the students [of Glasgow University] I address this appeal. Reject these attitudes. Reject the values and false morality that underlie these attitudes. A rat race is for rats. We’re not rats. We’re human beings. Reject the insidious pressures in society that would blunt your critical faculties to all that is happening around you, that would caution silence in the face of injustice lest you jeopardise your chances of promotion and self-advancement. This is how it starts, and before you know where you are, you’re a fully paid-up member of the rat-pack. The price is too high. It entails the loss of your dignity and human spirit. Or as Christ put it, “What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his soul?”

Profit is the sole criterion used by the establishment to evaluate economic activity. From the rat race to lame ducks. The vocabulary in vogue is a give-away. It’s more reminiscent of a human menagerie than human society. The power structures that have inevitably emerged from this approach threaten and undermine our hard-won democratic rights. The whole process is towards the centralisation and concentration of power in fewer and fewer hands. The facts are there for all who want to see. Giant monopoly companies and consortia dominate almost every branch of our economy. The men who wield effective control within these giants exercise a power over their fellow men which is frightening and is a negation of democracy.

Government by the people for the people becomes meaningless unless it includes major economic decision-making by the people for the people. This is not simply an economic matter. In essence it is an ethical and moral question, for whoever takes the important economic decisions in society ipso facto determines the social priorities of that society.

From the Olympian heights of an executive suite, in an atmosphere where your success is judged by the extent to which you can maximise profits, the overwhelming tendency must be to see people as units of production, as indices in your accountants’ books. To appreciate fully the inhumanity of this situation, you have to see the hurt and despair in the eyes of a man suddenly told he is redundant, without provision made for suitable alternative employment, with the prospect in the West of Scotland, if he is in his late forties or fifties, of spending the rest of his life in the Labour Exchange. Someone, somewhere has decided he is unwanted, unneeded, and is to be thrown on the industrial scrap heap. From the very depth of my being, I challenge the right of any man or any group of men, in business or in government, to tell a fellow human being that he or she is expendable.

The concentration of power in the economic field is matched by the centralisation of decision-making in the political institutions of society. The power of Parliament has undoubtedly been eroded over past decades, with more and more authority being invested in the Executive. The power of local authorities has been and is being systematically undermined. The only justification I can see for local government is as a counter- balance to the centralised character of national government.

Local government is to be restructured. What an opportunity, one would think, for de-centralising as much power as possible back to the local communities. Instead, the proposals are for centralising local government. It’s once again a blue-print for bureaucracy, not democracy. If these proposals are implemented, in a few years when asked “Where do you come from?” I can reply: “The Western Region.” It even sounds like a hospital board.

It stretches from Oban to Girvan and eastwards to include most of the Glasgow conurbation. As in other matters, I must ask the politicians who favour these proposals – where and how in your calculations did you quantify the value of a community? Of community life? Of a sense of belonging? Of the feeling of identification? These are rhetorical questions. I know the answer. Such human considerations do not feature in their thought processes.

Everything that is proposed from the establishment seems almost calculated to minimise the role of the people, to miniaturise man. I can understand how attractive this prospect must be to those at the top. Those of us who refuse to be pawns in their power game can be picked up by their bureaucratic tweezers and dropped in a filing cabinet under “M” for malcontent or maladjusted. When you think of some of the high flats around us, it can hardly be an accident that they are as near as one could get to an architectural representation of a filing cabinet.

If modern technology requires greater and larger productive units, let’s make our wealth-producing resources and potential subject to public control and to social accountability. Let’s gear our society to social need, not personal greed. Given such creative re-orientation of society, there is no doubt in my mind that in a few years we could eradicate in our country the scourge of poverty, the underprivileged, slums, and insecurity.

Even this is not enough. To measure social progress purely by material advance is not enough. Our aim must be the enrichment of the whole quality of life. It requires a social and cultural, or if you wish, a spiritual transformation of our country. A necessary part of this must be the restructuring of the institutions of government and, where necessary, the evolution of additional structures so as to involve the people in the decision-making processes of our society. The so-called experts will tell you that this would be cumbersome or marginally inefficient. I am prepared to sacrifice a margin of efficiency for the value of the people’s participation. Anyway, in the longer term, I reject this argument.

To unleash the latent potential of our people requires that we give them responsibility. The untapped resources of the North Sea are as nothing compared to the untapped resources of our people. I am convinced that the great mass of our people go through life without even a glimmer of what they could have contributed to their fellow human beings. This is a personal tragedy. It’s a social crime. The flowering of each individual’s personality and talents is the pre-condition for everyone’s development.

In this context education has a vital role to play. If automation and technology is accompanied as it must be with a full employment, then the leisure time available to man will be enormously increased. If that is so, then our whole concept of education must change. The whole object must be to equip and educate people for life, not solely for work or a profession. The creative use of leisure, in communion with and in service to our fellow human beings, can and must become an important element in self-fulfilment.

Universities must be in the forefront of development, must meet social needs and not lag behind them. It is my earnest desire that this great University of Glasgow should be in the vanguard, initiating changes and setting the example for others to follow. Part of our educational process must be the involvement of all sections of the university on the governing bodies. The case for student representation is unanswerable. It is inevitable.

My conclusion is to re-affirm what I hope and certainly intend to be the spirit permeating this address. It’s an affirmation of faith in humanity. All that is good in man’s heritage involves recognition of our common humanity, an unashamed acknowledgement that man is good by nature. Burns expressed it in a poem that technically was not his best, yet captured the spirit. In “Why should we idly waste our prime…”:

“The golden age, we’ll then revive, each man shall be a brother,

In harmony we all shall live and till the earth together,

In virtue trained, enlightened youth shall move each fellow creature,

And time shall surely prove the truth that man is good by nature.”

It’s my belief that all the factors to make a practical reality of such a world are maturing now. I would like to think that our generation took mankind some way along the road towards this goal. It’s a goal worth fighting for.

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Nov 192010

In memory of Warren Zevon


I want you to tell me if, on Grammy night, you didn’t get one hell of a kick
out of all those bling-it-ons in their bullet-proof broughams,
all those line-managers who couldn’t manage a line of coke,

all those Barmecides offering beakers of barm –
if you didn’t get a kick out of being as incongruous
there as John Donne at a Junior Prom.

Two graves must hide, Warren, thine and mine corse
who, on the day we met, happened
also to meet an individual dragging a full-length cross

along 42nd Street and kept mum, each earning extra Brownie points
for letting that cup pass. The alcoholic
knows that to enter in these bonds

is to be free, yeah right. The young John Donne who sets a Glock
on his dish in the cafeteria
knows that, even as he plots to clean some A&R man’s clock,

his muse on dromedary
trots to the Indias of spice and mine
and the Parsi Towers of Silence, even as he buses his tray

with its half-eaten dish of beef chow mein
to the bus-station, he’s already gone half-way to meet the Space Lab.
The Space Lab (italics mine),

where you worked on how many mint juleps
it takes to make a hangover
while playing piano for all those schlubs you could eclipse

and cloud with a wink. I long to talk to some old lover’s
ghost about the night after night you tipped the scales
for the Everly Brothers,

Frank and Jesse, while learning to inhale
through a French inhaler like a child soldier from the Ivory Coast
learning to parch a locust on a machete, a child soldier who would e-mail

you, at your request,
a copy of “ Death Be Not Proud ”, a child soldier who would hi-lite
a locust with a flame. If your grave be broke up again some second guest

to entertain, let it serve as hallowed
ground where those young shavers
from the Ivory Coast may find their careers, as you found yours, on hold,

where Tim McGraw and OutKast, not to speak of those underachievers
who don a black hat or a goatee
as a computer screen dons a screen-saver

or the Princeton sky its seventeen-year cicadas,
will find themselves on hold. You who went searching for a true, plain heart
as an unreconstructed renegade

must have come to believe, with Frank and Jesse, no hate could hurt
our bodies like our love. Another low-down
dirty shame . . . To wicked spirits horrid

shapes assigned . . . Every nickel nudging the nickelodeon.
O wrangling schools . . . O wrangling schools that search what fire
shall burn this world, had none the wit to smell Izaak Walton

pressing down on Donne’s funeral pyre,
yeah right, to smell the locust parched by that Ivory Coast subaltern,
had none the wit unto this knowledge to aspire,

that this your fever, the fever that still turns
the turntable, might be it? For every turn, like every tuning, is open,
every thorn a durian,

every “bin” a “ben”
on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Warren, barreling down the autobahn

through West Hollywood
in your little black Corvette (part-barge,
part hermaphrodite brig), our eyes set not on the noted weed

but the noted seaweed of Nobu Matsuhisa. Those child soldiers who parch
a locust on a machete while tending a .50 caliber
Browning with a dodgy breech

will know how the blood labors
to beget Matsuhisa-san’s seared toro. At the winter solstice, as I filed
past a band of ticket-scalpers

who would my ruined fortune flout
at Madison Square Garden, I glimpsed a man in a Tibetan
cap, nay-saying a flute,

whom I took at first to be an older Brian Jones, what with his flipping a butane
lighter in my face and saying, “I shall be made thy music . . .”
At that very moment, quite unbidden,

the ghost of Minoru Yamasaki
(who had trailed me from the bar at Nobu) exhorted me to “Turn them speakers
up full blast now Lucies, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks,

is sunk so low as my Twin Towers . . .”. Brian Jones’s patent winkle-pickers
reflected a patent sky. “All strange wonders that befell
me while the rest of them recorded Beggars

Banquet and I was sunk so low in Twickenham, lovers coming with crystal vials
to take my tears . . .”. “I’ll do my crying in the rain
with Don and Phil,”

said Yamasaki-san, “I’ll do my crying with Frank and Jesse waiting for a train . . .
Those lines you wrote about the blood-bath
at my Twin Towers, about the sky being full of carrion,

those were my Twin Towers, right?” Brian, meanwhile, continued to puff
on the flute as if he were indeed corporeal,
as if he were no less substantial than the elder-pith

nay on which he played a hurry home early
version of “Walk Right Back”, the “Walk Right Back”
you yourself had played night after night with Frank and Jesse Everly.


I knelt beside my sister’s bed, Warren, the valleys and the peaks
of the EKGs, the crepusculine X-rays,
the out-of-date blister-packs

discarded by those child soldiers from the Ivory Coast or Zaire,
and couldn’t think that she had sunk so low
she might not make the anniversary

of our mother’s death from this same cancer, this same quick, quick, slow
conversion of manna to gall
from which she died thirty years ago. I knelt and adjusted the sillyhow

of her oxygen mask, its vinyl caul
unlikely now to save Maureen from drowning in her own spit.
I thought of how the wrangling schools

need look no further than her bed
to find what fire shall burn this world – or that heaven
which “is one with” this world – to find how gold to airy thinness beat

may crinkle like cellophane
in a flame, like cellophane or the flimmerings of gauze
by which a needle is held fast in a vein.

So break off, Warren, break off this last lamenting kiss
as Christ broke with Iscariot
and gave himself to those loosey-goosey

Whisky A Go Going mint julep- and margarita-
and gimlet-grinders, those gin fizz-
iognomists. My first guitar, a Cort, and my first amp, a Crate,

I myself had tried to push through a Fuzz Face
or some shit-kicking stomp box
till I blew every fuse

in Central New Jersey. At the autumnal equinox
as on St Lucies when sunbeams in the east are spread
I’d pretend the Crate was a Vox

AC-50 Super Twin. I was playing support
for some star in the unchangeable firmament
in which the flesh, Warren, is merely a bruise on the spirit,

a warm-up for the main event
as the hymnal ushers in the honky-tonk
or the oxygen tent

raises the curtain on the oxygen mask. How well you knew that dank
spot on the outskirts
of Jerusalem where the kids still squeeze between the tanks

to suck the life out of a cigarette,
the maple-bud in spring like something coming to a head,
some pill that can’t be sugared,

another hit
of hooch or horse that double-ties the subtile knot
to which we’ve paid so little heed

all those years of running amuck in Kent.
Go tell court-huntsmen that the oxygen-masked King will ride
ten thousand days and nights

on a stride piano, yeah right,
through the hell in which Ignatius of “Ignatius His Conclave”
was strung out on Mandrax and mandrake root,

ten thousand nights of the “chemical life”
(as Auden styled it, turning the speakers up full blast),
the “chemical life” that gives way to ten thousand days of rehab and golf

in the afternoon, televangelists,
push up and bench press with Buddhist and Parsi,
ten thousand days after which you realized

the flesh is indeed no more than a bruise
on the spirit. The werewolf with the Japanese menu in his hand,
keen as he was to show his prowess

with the chopsticks, realized it ain’t
that pretty, ain’t that pretty at all
to be completely wasted when you’re testing your chops, hint hint,

on a Gibson Les Paul
overdriven through a Fender Vibratone,
ain’t that pretty to crawl

to Ensenada for methadone.
Were we not weaned till then from Mandrax and mandrake
or snorted we in the seven sleepers’ den
a line of coke, or wore long sleeves to cover the wreak
of injecting diacetylmorphine?
I was playing a Fender through a Marshall rig

that was so massively overdriven
I couldn’t hear the phone ring, didn’t hear that excitable boy
extol the virtues of Peruvian

over Bolivian marching powder, that excitable hula-hula boy,
the Jackson Browne sound-alike,
who waited on us in Nobu (Nobu or Koi?)

where the fishionistas (sic) walked the catwalk
for as long as they could manage a line
of coke with their sushi deluxe,

for as long as they were able for the baby abalone
with garlic sauce. We watched those two parascenders parascend
off Malibu like two true, plain

hearts who struggle to fend
off the great crash – two true, plain hearts like yourself and Maureen
who struggled to fend off the great crash that has us end

where we began, all strung out on heroin
on the outskirts of La Caldera,
our last few grains of heroin-ash stashed in a well-wrought urn.


I want you to tell me, Warren, if you didn’t watch those two hang-gliders
and think of the individual we saw drag
his full-length cross through the under-the-counter-culture

of 42nd Street? 42nd or Canal? A certain individual, whatreck,
who might easily have taken in a 4 a.m. show at the Clark and got to grips
with the usherette’s leg in the dark,

who might have recognized the usherette for a certain demirep
who’d registered her domain
in the Adelphi, having already learned the ropes

from the old bluesmen
who played in the Blue Note. That must have been your first brush
with greatness, in Chicago, before the mean

streets of LA where your Moses met the bulrush
of Stravinsky and every chord became a cordon sanitaire
against the bum’s rush

your Russian Jewish father had given you in Culver and Century
Cities, your G major seeing his G major
in gloves-off gambling, and though music did in the center

sit right through that Wanderjahre
with Stravinsky, I’m certain it would also lean and hearken
after the jubilation and the jeers

of the boxing ring in which your father took on some cocksure Puerto Rican,
in which every Baby Grand cried out for a Crybaby
and the Everlasting Life we bargain

for was invented by some record company Pooh-Bah
who has forgotten, in the midst of things,
that every operation’s mom-and-pop,

your Scottish Mormon mother teaching you the right swing
against your father’s left, your common
G on the Chickering

sounding against the G-men
who plagued him about that pyramid scheme he set up in the Faeroes
with Mr Cambio and Mr Gombeen.

I want you to tell me if grief, brought to numbers, cannot be so fierce,
pace Donne’s sales pitch,
for he tames, that fetters it in verse,
throwing up a last ditch
against the mounted sorrows, for I have more, Warren, I have more,
more as an even flame two hearts did touch

and left us mere
philosophers whose blood still labors to beget
child-soldiers toasting locust S’mores,

the A&R men lining their pockets
while Roland battled the Bantu to their knees,
the Bantu who boogie-woogied

with Saint Ignatius
through their post traumatic stress disorder,
the Les Paul pushed through a Pignose

like a, yeah right, Rotorooter
through a sewage line, the A&R men taking the mazuma
and crossing the border

to load up on sashimi
with Yamasaki-san, a headless Childe Roland
coming to his dark twin Towers of Silence, zoom zoom,

those Towers the Parsis still delineate
as scaffolds for sky-burial, a quorum
of vultures letting their time-chastened lant

fall to their knees as they hold on like grim
death to the bellied-up Brian Jones, their office indulgently to fit
actives to passives in the doldrums

of the swimming-pool, the fishionistas (qv) with their food fads
having nothing on these rare
birds that divide

the spoils, Warren, these rare
birds that divide the spoils
with the gasbag, gobshite, gumptionless A&R

men who couldn’t tell a hollow-body Les Paul with double-coil
pickups pushed through a Princeton Reverb
from a slab of London broil

an excitable boy might rub
all over his chest, the vultures working piecemeal
at his chest like the chest on which a Russian Jewish cardsharp

and a Scottish Mormon broke the seal
as surely as one VIP opening her bosom made one Viper Room
an everywhere, every Glock sighing for a glockenspiel,

every frame a freeze-frame
of two alcoholics barreling down to Ensenada
in a little black Corvette, vroom vroom,

for Diet, yeah right, Diet Mountain Dew,
that individual carrying his cross knowing the flesh is a callus
on the spirit as surely as you knew the mesotheliomata

on both lungs meant the situation was lose-lose,
every full-length cross-carrier almost certainly up to some sort of high jinks
else a great Prince in prison lies,

lies belly-up on a Space Lab scaffold where the turkey buzzards pink
Matsuhisa-san’s seared toro,
turkey buzzards waiting for you to eclipse and cloud them with a wink

as they hold out their wings and of the sun his working vigor borrow
before they parascend through the Viper Room or the Whiskey A Go Go,
each within its own “cleansing breeze”, its own cathartes aura.

[Published in The Times Literary Supplement, June 2, 2006.]

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Nov 192010

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel
Red mouth like a venomous flower;
When these are gone by with their glories,
What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain?

Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;
But thy sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,
And then they would haunt thee in heaven:
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
And the loves that complete and control
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
That wear out the soul.

O garment not golden but gilded,
O garden where all men may dwell,
O tower not of ivory, but builded
By hands that reach heaven from hell;
O mystical rose of the mire,
O house not of gold but of gain,
O house of unquenchable fire,
Our Lady of Pain!

O lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn.

In yesterday’s reach and to-morrow’s,
Out of sight though they lie of to-day,
There have been and there yet shall be sorrows
That smite not and bite not in play.
The life and the love thou despisest,
These hurt us indeed, and in vain,
O wise among women, and wisest,
Our Lady of Pain.

Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories
That stung thee, what visions that smote?
Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores,
When desire took thee first by the throat?
What bud was the shell of the blossom
That all men may smell to and pluck?
What milk fed thee first at what bosom?
What sins gave thee suck?

We shift and bedeck and bedrape us,
Thou art noble and nude and antique;
Libitina thy mother, Priapus
Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek.
We play with light loves in the portal,
And wince and relent and refrain;
Loves die, and we know thee immortal,
Our Lady of Pain.

Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;
Thou art fed with perpetual breath,
And alive after infinite changes,
And fresh from the kisses of death;
Of languours rekindled and rallied,
Of barren delights and unclean,
Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid
And poisonous queen.

Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?
Men touch them, and change in a trice
The lilies and languours of virtue
For the raptures and roses of vice;
Those lie where thy foot on the floor is,
These crown and caress thee and chain,
O splendid and sterile Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

There are sins it may be to discover,
There are deeds it may be to delight.
What new work wilt thou find for thy lover,
What new passions for daytime or night?
What spells that they know not a word of
Whose lives are as leaves overblown?
What tortures undreamt of, unheard of,
Unwritten, unknown?

Ah beautiful passionate body
That never has ached with a heart!
On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody,
Though they sting till it shudder and smart,
More kind than the love we adore is,
They hurt not the heart or the brain,
O bitter and tender Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

As our kisses relax and redouble,
From the lips and the foam and the fangs
Shall no new sin be born for men’s trouble,
No dream of impossible pangs?
With the sweet of the sins of old ages
Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore?
Too sweet is the rind, say the sages,
Too bitter the core.

Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time,
And bared all thy beauties to one?
Ah, where shall we go then for pastime,
If the worst that can be has been done?
But sweet as the rind was the core is;
We are fain of thee still, we are fain,
O sanguine and subtle Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

By the hunger of change and emotion
By the thirst of unbearable things,
By despair, the twin-born of devotion
By the pleasure that winces and stings,
The delight that consumes the desire,
The desire that outruns the delight,
By the cruelty deaf as a fire
And blind as the night,

By the ravenous teeth that have smitten
Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.

Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining
The light fire in the veins of a boy?
But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,
Who has wearied of sorrow and joy;
Less careful of labour and glory
Than the elders whose hair has uncurled;
And young, but with fancies as hoary
And grey as the world.

I have passed from the outermost portal
To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;
What care though the service be mortal?
O our Lady of Torture, what care?
All thine the last wine that I pour is,
The last in the chalice we drain,
O fierce and luxurious Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

All thine the new wine of desire,
The fruit of four lips as they clung
Till the hair and the eyelids took fire,
The foam of a serpentine tongue,
The froth of the serpents of pleasure,
More salt than the foam of the sea,
Now felt as a flame, now at leisure
As wine shed for me.

Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen,
Marked cross from the womb and perverse!
They have found out the secret to cozen
The gods that constrain us and curse;
They alone, they are wise, and no other;
Give me place, even me, in their train,
O my sister, my spouse, and my mother,
Our Lady of Pain.

For the crown of our life as it closes
Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust;
No thorns go as deep as a rose’s,
And love is more cruel than lust.
Time turns the old days to derision,
Our loves into corpses or wives;
And marriage and death and division
Make barren our lives.

And pale from the past we draw nigh thee,
And satiate with comfortless hours;
And we know thee, how all men belie thee,
And we gather the fruit of thy flowers;
The passion that slays and recovers,
The pangs and the kisses that rain
On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers,
Our Lady of Pain.

The desire of thy furious embraces
Is more than the wisdom of years,
On the blossom though blood lie in traces,
Though the foliage be sodden with tears.
For the lords in whose keeping the door is
That opens to all who draw breath
Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores,
The myrtle to death.

And they laughed, changing hands in the measure,
And they mixed and made peace after strife;
Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure;
Death mingled with blood, and was life.
Like lovers they melted and tingled,
In the dusk of thine innermost fane;
In the darkness they murmured and mingled,
Our Lady of Pain.

In a twilight where virtues are vices,
In thy chapels, unknown of the sun,
To a tune that enthralls and entices,
They were wed, and the twain were as one.
For the tune from thine altar hath sounded
Since God bade the world’s work begin,
And the fume of thine incense abounded,
To sweeten the sin.

Love listens, and paler than ashes,
Through his curls as the crown on them slips,
Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,
And laughs with insatiable lips.
Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses,
With music that scares the profane;
Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses,
Our Lady of Pain.

Thou shalt bind his bright eyes though he wrestle,
Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;
In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,
In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.
In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,
In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache;
Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him
Asleep and awake.

Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses
With juice not of fruit nor of bud;
When the sense in the spirit reposes,
Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood.
Thine, thine the one grace we implore is,
Who would live and not languish or feign,
O sleepless and deadly Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain.

Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber,
In a lull of the fires of thy life,
Of the days without name, without number,
When thy will stung the world into strife;
When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion
Smote kings as they revelled in Rome;
And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian,
Foam-white, from the foam?

When thy lips had such lovers to flatter;
When the city lay red from thy rods,
And thine hands were as arrows to scatter
The children of change and their gods;
When the blood of thy foemen made fervent
A sand never moist from the main,
As one smote thm, their lord and thy servant,
Our Lady of Pain.

On sands by the storm never shaken,
Nor wet from the washing of tides;
Nor by foam of the waves overtaken,
Nor winds that the thunder bestrides;
But red from the print of thy paces,
Made smooth for the world and its lords,
Ringed round with a flame of fair faces,
And splendid with swords.

There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,
Drew bitter and perilous breath;
There torments laid hold on the treasure
Of limbs too delicious for death;
When the gardens were lit with live torches;
When the world was a steed for thy rein;
When the nations lay prone in thy porches,
Our Lady of Pain.

When, with flame all around him aspirant,
Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands,
The implacable beautiful tyrant,
Rose-crowned, having death in his hands;
And a sound as the sound of loud water
Smote far through the flight of the fires,
And mixed with the lightning of slaughter
A thunder of lyres.

Dost thou dream of what was and no more is,
The old kingdoms of earth and the kings?
Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores,
For these, in a new world of things?
But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate,
No hunger compel to complain
Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate,
Our Lady of Pain.

As of old when the world’s heart was lighter,
Through thy garments the grace of thee glows,
The white wealth of thy body made whiter
By the blushes of amorous blows,
And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,
And branded by kisses that bruise;
When all shall be gone that now lingers,
Ah, what shall we lose?

Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion,
And thy limbs are as melodies yet,
And move to the music of passion,
With lithe and lascivious regret.
What ailed us, O gods, to desert you
For creeds that refuse and restrain?
Come down and redeem us from virtue,
Our Lady of Pain.

All shrines that were Vestal are flameless,
But the flame has not fallen from this;
Though obscure be the god, and though nameless
The eyes and the hair that wqe kiss;
Low fires that love sits by and forges
Fresh heads for his arrows and thine;
Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies
With kisses and wine.

Thy skin changes country and colour,
And shrivels or swells to a snake’s.
Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller,
We know it, the flames and the flakes,
Red brands on it smitten and bitten,
Round skies where a star is a stain,
And the leaves with thy litanies written,
Our Lady of Pain.

On thy bosom though many a kiss be,
There are none such as knew it of old.
Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe,
Male ringlets or feminine gold,
That thy lips met with under the statue,
Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves
From the eyes of the garden-god at you
Across the fig-leaves?

Then still, through dry seasons and moister,
One god had a wreath to his shrine;
Then love was the pearl of his oyster,
And Venus rose red out of wine,
We have all done amiss, choosing rather
Such loves as the wise gods disdain;
Intercede for us thou with thy father,
Our Lady of Pain.

In spring he had crowns of his garden,
Red corn in the heat of the year,
Then hoary green olives that harden
When the grape-blossom freezes with fear;
And milk-budded myrtles with Venus
And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod;
And ye said, “We have seen, he hath seen us,
A visible God.”

What broke off the garlands that girt you?
What sundered you spirit and clay?
Weak sins yet alive are as virtue
To the strength of the sins of that day.
For dried is the blood of thy lover,
Ipsithilla, contracted the vein;
Cry aloud, “Will he rise and recover,
Our Lady of Pain?”

Cry aloud; for the old world is broken;
Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest,
And rears not the bountiful token
And spreads not the fatherly feast.
From the midmost of Ida, from shady
Recesses that murmur at morn,
They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady,
A goddess new-born.

And the chaplets of old are above us,
And the oyster-bed teems out of reach;
Old poets outsing and outlove us,
And Catullus makes mouths at our speech.
Who shall kiss, in thy father’s own city,
With such lips as he sang with, again?
Intercede for us all of thy pity,
Our Lady of Pain.

Out of Dindymus heavily laden
Her lions draw bound and unfed
A mother, a mortal, a maiden,
A queen over death and the dead.
She is cold, and her habit is lowly,
Her temple of branches and sods;
Most fruitful and virginal, holy,
A mother of gods.

She hath wasted with fire thine high places,
She hath hidden and marred and made sad
The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces
Of gods that were goodly and glad.
She slays, and her hands are not bloody;
She moves as a moon in the wane,
White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,
Our Lady of Pain.

They shall pass and their places be taken,
The gods and the priests that are pure,
They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken?
They shall perish, and shalt thou endure?
Death laughs, breathing close and relentless
In the nostrils and eyelids of lust,
With a pinch in his fingers of scentless
And delicate dust.

But the worm shall revive thee with kisses;
Thou shalt change and transmute as a god,
As the rod to a serpent that hisses,
As the serpent again to a rod.
Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;
Thou shalt live until evil be slain,
And the good shall die first, said thy prophet,
Our Lady of Pain.

Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it,
Now he lies out of reach, out of breath,
Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet,
Sin’s child by incestuous Death?
Did he find out in fire at his waking,
Or discern as his eyelids lost light,
When the bands of his body were breaking
And all came in sight?

Who has known all the evil before us,
Or the tyrannous secrets of time?
Though we match not the dead men that bore us
At a song, at a kiss, at a crime –
Though the heathen outface and outlive us,
And our lives and our longings are twain –
Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,
Our Lady of Pain.

Who are we that embalm and embrace thee
With spices and savours of song?
What is time, that his children should face thee?
What am I, that my lips do thee wrong?
I could hurt thee – but pain would delight thee;
Or caress thee – but love would repel;
And the lovers whose lips would excite thee
Are serpents in hell.

Who now shall content thee as they did,
Thy lovers, when temples were built
And the hair of the sacrifice braided
And the blood of the sacrifice spilt,
In Lampsacus fervent with faces,
In Aphaca red from thy reign,
Who embraced thee with awful embraces,
Our Lady of Pain?

Where are they, Cotytto or Venus,
Astarte or Ashtaroth, where?
Do their hands as we touch come between us?
Is the breath of them hot in thy hair?
From their lips have thy lips taken fever,
With the blood of their bodies grown red?
Hast thou left upon earth a believer
If these men are dead?

They were purple of raiment and golden,
Filled full of thee, fiery with wine,
Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden,
In marvellous chambers of thine.
They are fled, and their footprints escape us,
Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain,
O daughter of Death and Priapus,
Our Lady of Pain.

What ails us to fear overmeasure,
To praise thee with timorous breath,
O mistress and mother of pleasure,
The one thing as certain as death?
We shall change as the things that we cherish,
Shall fade as they faded before,
As foam upon water shall perish,
As sand upon shore.

We shall know what the darkness discovers,
If the grave-pit be shallow or deep;
And our fathers of old, and our lovers,
We shall know if they sleep not or sleep.
We shall see whether hell be not heaven,
Find out whether tares be not grain,
And the joys of the seventy times seven,
Our Lady of Pain.

 Comments Off on Algernon Swinburne – Dolores
Nov 192010

Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language—so the argument runs—must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes.

Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes: it is not due simply to the bad influence of this or that individual writer. But an effect can become a cause, reinforcing the original cause and producing the same effect in an intensified form, and so on indefinitely. A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible. Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step toward political regeneration: so that the fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers. I will come back to this presently, and I hope that by that time the meaning of what I have said here will have become clearer. Meanwhile, here are five specimens of the English language as it is now habitually written.

These five passages have not been picked out because they are especially bad—I could have quoted far worse if I had chosen—but because they illustrate various of the mental vices from which we now suffer. They are a little below the average, but are fairly representative examples. I number them so that I can refer back to them when necessary:

1. I am not, indeed, sure whether it is not true to say that the Milton who once seemed not unlike a seventeenth-century Shelley had not become, out of an experience ever more bitter in each year, more alien [sic] to the founder of that Jesuit sect which nothing could induce him to tolerate. Professor Harold Laski. (Essay in Freedom of Expression )

2. Above all, we cannot play ducks and drakes with a native battery of idioms which prescribes egregious collocations of vocables as the Basic put up with for tolerate , or put at a loss for bewilder. Professor Lancelot Hogben. (Interglossia )

3. On the one side we have the free personality: by definition it is not neurotic, for it has neither conflict nor dream. Its desires, such as they are, are transparent, for they are just what institutional approval keeps in the forefront of consciousness; another institutional pattern would alter their number and intensity; there is little in them that is natural, irreducible, or culturally dangerous. But on the other side ,the social bond itself is nothing but the mutual reflection of these self-secure integrities. Recall the definition of love. Is not this the very picture of a small academic? Where is there a place in this hall of mirrors for either personality or fraternity? Essay on psychology in Politics (New York )

4. All the “best people” from the gentlemen’s clubs, and all the frantic fascist captains, united in common hatred of Socialism and bestial horror at the rising tide of the mass revolutionary movement, have turned to acts of provocation, to foul incendiarism, to medieval legends of poisoned wells, to legalize their own destruction of proletarian organizations, and rouse the agitated petty-bourgeoise to chauvinistic fervor on behalf of the fight against the revolutionary way out of the crisis. Communist pamphlet

5. If a new spirit is to be infused into this old country, there is one thorny and contentious reform which must be tackled, and that is the humanization and galvanization of the B.B.C. Timidity here will bespeak canker and atrophy of the soul. The heart of Britain may be sound and of strong beat, for instance, but the British lion’s roar at present is like that of Bottom in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—as gentle as any sucking dove. A virile new Britain cannot continue indefinitely to be traduced in the eyes or rather ears, of the world by the effete languors of Langham Place, brazenly masquerading as “standard English.” When the Voice of Britain is heard at nine o’clock, better far and infinitely less ludicrous to hear aitches honestly dropped than the present priggish, inflated, inhibited, school-ma’amish arch braying of blameless bashful mewing maidens! Letter in Tribune

Each of these passages has faults of its own, but, quite apart from avoidable ugliness, two qualities are common to all of them. The first is staleness of imagery; the other is lack of precision. The writer either has a meaning and cannot express it, or he inadvertently says something else, or he is almost indifferent as to whether his words mean anything or not. This mixture of vagueness and sheer incompetence is the most marked characteristic of modern English prose, and especially of any kind of political writing. As soon as certain topics are raised, the concrete melts into the abstract and no one seems able to think of turns of speech that are not hackneyed: prose consists less and less of words chosen for the sake of their meaning, and more and more of phrases tacked together like the sections of a prefabricated henhouse. I list below, with notes and examples, various of the tricks by means of which the work of prose construction is habitually dodged:

Dying metaphors. A newly invented metaphor assists thought by evoking a visual image, while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically “dead” (e.g. iron resolution ) has in effect reverted to being an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes there is a huge dump of worn-out metaphors which have lost all evocative power and are merely used because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves. Examples are: Ring the changes on, take up the cudgel for, toe the line, ride roughshod over, stand shoulder to shoulder with, play into the hands of, no axe to grind, grist to the mill, fishing in troubled waters, on the order of the day, Achilles’ heel, swan song, hotbed. Many of these are used without knowledge of their meaning (what is a “rift,” for instance?), and incompatible metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the writer is not interested in what he is saying. Some metaphors now current have been twisted out of their original meaning withouth those who use them even being aware of the fact. For example, toe the line is sometimes written as tow the line . Another example is the hammer and the anvil, now always used with the implication that the anvil gets the worst of it. In real life it is always the anvil that breaks the hammer, never the other way about: a writer who stopped to think what he was saying would avoid perverting the original phrase.

Operators or verbal false limbs. These save the trouble of picking out appropriate verbs and nouns, and at the same time pad each sentence with extra syllables which give it an appearance of symmetry. Characteristic phrases are render inoperative, militate against, make contact with, be subjected to, give rise to, give grounds for, have the effect of, play a leading part (role) in, make itself felt, take effect, exhibit a tendency to, serve the purpose of, etc.,etc . The keynote is the elimination of simple verbs. Instead of being a single word, such as break, stop, spoil, mend, kill , a verb becomes a phrase , made up of a noun or adjective tacked on to some general-purpose verb such as prove, serve, form, play, render . In addition, the passive voice is wherever possible used in preference to the active, and noun constructions are used instead of gerunds (by examination of instead of by examining ). The range of verbs is further cut down by means of the -ize and de- formations, and the banal statements are given an appearance of profundity by means of the not un- formation. Simple conjunctions and prepositions are replaced by such phrases as with respect to, having regard to, the fact that, by dint of, in view of, in the interests of, on the hypothesis that ; and the ends of sentences are saved by anticlimax by such resounding commonplaces as greatly to be desired, cannot be left out of account, a development to be expected in the near future, deserving of serious consideration, brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and so on and so forth.

Pretentious diction. Words like phenomenon, element, individual (as noun), objective, categorical, effective, virtual, basic, primary, promote, constitute, exhibit, exploit, utilize, eliminate, liquidate , are used to dress up a simple statement and give an aire of scientific impartiality to biased judgements. Adjectives like epoch-making, epic, historic, unforgettable, triumphant, age-old, inevitable, inexorable, veritable , are used to dignify the sordid process of international politics, while writing that aims at glorifying war usually takes on an archaic color, its characteristic words being: realm, throne, chariot, mailed fist, trident, sword, shield, buckler, banner, jackboot, clarion . Foreign words and expressions such as cul de sac, ancien r&eacutgime, deus ex machina, mutatis mutandis, status quo, gleichschaltung, weltanschauung , are used to give an air of culture and elegance. Except for the useful abbreviations i.e., e.g. , and etc., there is no real need for any of the hundreds of foreign phrases now current in the English language. Bad writers, and especially scientific, political, and sociological writers, are nearly always haunted by the notion that Latin or Greek words are grander than Saxon ones, and unnecessary words like expedite, ameliorate, predict, extraneous, deracinated, clandestine, subaqueous , and hundreds of others constantly gain ground from their Anglo-Saxon numbers. The jargon peculiar to Marxist writing (hyena, hangman, cannibal, petty bourgeois, these gentry, lackey, flunkey, mad dog, White Guard , etc.) consists largely of words translated from Russian, German, or French; but the normal way of coining a new word is to use Latin or Greek root with the appropriate affix and, where necessary, the size formation. It is often easier to make up words of this kind (deregionalize, impermissible, extramarital, non-fragmentary and so forth) than to think up the English words that will cover one’s meaning. The result, in general, is an increase in slovenliness and vagueness.

Meaningless words. In certain kinds of writing, particularly in art criticism and literary criticism, it is normal to come across long passages which are almost completely lacking in meaning. Words like romantic, plastic, values, human, dead, sentimental, natural, vitality , as used in art criticism, are strictly meaningless, in the sense that they not only do not point to any discoverable object, but are hardly ever expected to do so by the reader. When one critic writes, “The outstanding feature of Mr. X’s work is its living quality,” while another writes, “The immediately striking thing about Mr. X’s work is its peculiar deadness,” the reader accepts this as a simple difference opinion. If words like black and white were involved, instead of the jargon words dead and living, he would see at once that language was being used in an improper way. Many political words are similarly abused. The word Fascism has now no meaning except in so far as it signifies “something not desirable.” The words democracy, socialism, freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice have each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with one another. In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when we call a country democratic we are praising it: consequently the defenders of every kind of regime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using that word if it were tied down to any one meaning. Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way. That is, the person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something quite different. Statements like Marshal Petain was a true patriot, The Soviet press is the freest in the world, The Catholic Church is opposed to persecution, are almost always made with intent to deceive. Other words used in variable meanings, in most cases more or less dishonestly, are: class, totalitarian, science, progressive, reactionary, bourgeois, equality. Now that I have made this catalogue of swindles and perversions, let me give another example of the kind of writing that they lead to. This time it must of its nature be an imaginary one. I am going to translate a passage of good English into modern English of the worst sort. Here is a well-known verse from Ecclesiastes:

I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

Here it is in modern English:

Objective considerations of contemporary phenomena compel the conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account.

This is a parody, but not a very gross one. Exhibit (3) above, for instance, contains several patches of the same kind of English. It will be seen that I have not made a full translation. The beginning and ending of the sentence follow the original meaning fairly closely, but in the middle the concrete illustrations — race, battle, bread—dissolve into the vague phrases “success or failure in competitive activities.” This had to be so, because no modern writer of the kind I am discussing—no one capable of using phrases like “objective considerations of contemporary phenomena”—would ever tabulate his thoughts in that precise and detailed way. The whole tendency of modern prose is away from concreteness. Now analyze these two sentences a little more closely. The first contains forty-nine words but only sixty syllables, and all its words are those of everyday life. The second contains thirty-eight words of ninety syllables: eighteen of those words are from Latin roots, and one from Greek. The first sentence contains six vivid images, and only one phrase (“time and chance”) that could be called vague. The second contains not a single fresh, arresting phrase, and in spite of its ninety syllables it gives only a shortened version of the meaning contained in the first. Yet without a doubt it is the second kind of sentence that is gaining ground in modern English. I do not want to exaggerate. This kind of writing is not yet universal, and outcrops of simplicity will occur here and there in the worst-written page. Still, if you or I were told to write a few lines on the uncertainty of human fortunes, we should probably come much nearer to my imaginary sentence than to the one from Ecclesiastes. As I have tried to show, modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug. The attraction of this way of writing is that it is easy. It is easier—even quicker, once you have the habit—to say In my opinion it is not an unjustifiable assumption that than to say I think. If you use ready-made phrases, you not only don’t have to hunt about for the words; you also don’t have to bother with the rhythms of your sentences since these phrases are generally so arranged as to be more or less euphonious. When you are composing in a hurry—when you are dictating to a stenographer, for instance, or making a public speech—it is natural to fall into a pretentious, Latinized style. Tags like a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind or a conclusion to which all of us would readily assent will save many a sentence from coming down with a bump. By using stale metaphors, similes, and idioms, you save much mental effort, at the cost of leaving your meaning vague, not only for your reader but for yourself. This is the significance of mixed metaphors. The sole aim of a metaphor is to call up a visual image. When these images clash — as in The Fascist octopus has sung its swan song, the jackboot is thrown into the melting pot—it can be taken as certain that the writer is not seeing a mental image of the objects he is naming; in other words he is not really thinking. Look again at the examples I gave at the beginning of this essay. Professor Laski (1) uses five negatives in fifty three words. One of these is superfluous, making nonsense of the whole passage, and in addition there is the slip—alien for akin—making further nonsense, and several avoidable pieces of clumsiness which increase the general vagueness. Professor Hogben (2) plays ducks and drakes with a battery which is able to write prescriptions, and, while disapproving of the everyday phrase put up with, is unwilling to look egregious up in the dictionary and see what it means; (3), if one takes an uncharitable attitude towards it, is simply meaningless: probably one could work out its intended meaning by reading the whole of the article in which it occurs. In (4), the writer knows more or less what he wants to say, but an accumulation of stale phrases chokes him like tea leaves blocking a sink. In (5), words and meaning have almost parted company. People who write in this manner usually have a general emotional meaning—they dislike one thing and want to express solidarity with another—but they are not interested in the detail of what they are saying. A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus:

  1. What am I trying to say?
  2. What words will express it?
  3. What image or idiom will make it clearer?
  4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?

And he will probably ask himself two more:

  1. Could I put it more shortly?
  2. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly?

But you are not obliged to go to all this trouble. You can shirk it by simply throwing your mind open and letting the ready-made phrases come crowding in. The will construct your sentences for you—even think your thoughts for you, to a certain extent—and at need they will perform the important service of partially concealing your meaning even from yourself. It is at this point that the special connection between politics and the debasement of language becomes clear.

In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions and not a “party line.” Orthodoxy, of whatever color, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be found in pamphlets, leading articles, manifestoes, White papers and the speeches of undersecretaries do, of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never finds in them a fresh, vivid, homemade turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases — bestial, atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder—one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker’s spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favorable to political conformity.

In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of the political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism., question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenseless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine-gunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification. Millions of peasants are robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called transfer of population or rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of unreliable elements. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, “I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so.” Probably, therefore, he will say something like this:

While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be inclined to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable concomitant of transitional periods, and that the rigors which the Russian people have been called upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of concrete achievement.

The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism. A mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering up all the details. The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one’s real and one’s declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink. In our age there is no such thing as “keeping out of politics.” All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia. When the general atmosphere is bad, language must suffer. I should expect to find—this is a guess which I have not sufficient knowledge to verify — that the German, Russian and Italian languages have all deteriorated in the last ten or fifteen years, as a result of dictatorship.

But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought. A bad usage can spread by tradition and imitation even among people who should and do know better. The debased language that I have been discussing is in some ways very convenient. Phrases like a not unjustifiable assumption, leaves much to be desired, would serve no good purpose, a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind, are a continuous temptation, a packet of aspirins always at one’s elbow. Look back through this essay, and for certain you will find that I have again and again committed the very faults I am protesting against. By this morning’s post I have received a pamphlet dealing with conditions in Germany. The author tells me that he “felt impelled” to write it. I open it at random, and here is almost the first sentence I see: “[The Allies] have an opportunity not only of achieving a radical transformation of Germany’s social and political structure in such a way as to avoid a nationalistic reaction in Germany itself, but at the same time of laying the foundations of a co-operative and unified Europe.” You see, he “feels impelled” to write—feels, presumably, that he has something new to say—and yet his words, like cavalry horses answering the bugle, group themselves automatically into the familiar dreary pattern. This invasion of one’s mind by ready-made phrases ( lay the foundations, achieve a radical transformation ) can only be prevented if one is constantly on guard against them, and every such phrase anaesthetizes a portion of one’s brain.

I said earlier that the decadence of our language is probably curable. Those who deny this would argue, if they produced an argument at all, that language merely reflects existing social conditions, and that we cannot influence its development by any direct tinkering with words and constructions. So far as the general tone or spirit of a language goes, this may be true, but it is not true in detail. Silly words and expressions have often disappeared, not through any evolutionary process but owing to the conscious action of a minority. Two recent examples were explore every avenue and leave no stone unturned , which were killed by the jeers of a few journalists. There is a long list of flyblown metaphors which could similarly be got rid of if enough people would interest themselves in the job; and it should also be possible to laugh the not un- formation out of existence, to reduce the amount of Latin and Greek in the average sentence, to drive out foreign phrases and strayed scientific words, and, in general, to make pretentiousness unfashionable. But all these are minor points. The defense of the English language implies more than this, and perhaps it is best to start by saying what it does not imply.

To begin with it has nothing to do with archaism, with the salvaging of obsolete words and turns of speech, or with the setting up of a “standard English” which must never be departed from. On the contrary, it is especially concerned with the scrapping of every word or idiom which has outworn its usefulness. It has nothing to do with correct grammar and syntax, which are of no importance so long as one makes one’s meaning clear, or with the avoidance of Americanisms, or with having what is called a “good prose style.” On the other hand, it is not concerned with fake simplicity and the attempt to make written English colloquial. Nor does it even imply in every case preferring the Saxon word to the Latin one, though it does imply using the fewest and shortest words that will cover one’s meaning. What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way around. In prose, the worst thing one can do with words is surrender to them. When you think of a concrete object, you think wordlessly, and then, if you want to describe the thing you have been visualizing you probably hunt about until you find the exact words that seem to fit it. When you think of something abstract you are more inclined to use words from the start, and unless you make a conscious effort to prevent it, the existing dialect will come rushing in and do the job for you, at the expense of blurring or even changing your meaning. Probably it is better to put off using words as long as possible and get one’s meaning as clear as one can through pictures and sensations. Afterward one can choose—not simply accept—the phrases that will best cover the meaning, and then switch round and decide what impressions one’s words are likely to make on another person. This last effort of the mind cuts out all stale or mixed images, all prefabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and humbug and vagueness generally. But one can often be in doubt about the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on when instinct fails. I think the following rules will cover most cases:

  1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
  2. Never us a long word where a short one will do.
  3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
  4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
  5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
  6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

These rules sound elementary, and so they are, but they demand a deep change of attitude in anyone who has grown used to writing in the style now fashionable. One could keep all of them and still write bad English, but one could not write the kind of stuff that I quoted in those five specimens at the beginning of this article.

I have not here been considering the literary use of language, but merely language as an instrument for expressing and not for concealing or preventing thought. Stuart Chase and others have come near to claiming that all abstract words are meaningless, and have used this as a pretext for advocating a kind of political quietism. Since you don’t know what Fascism is, how can you struggle against Fascism? One need not swallow such absurdities as this, but one ought to recognize that the present political chaos is connected with the decay of language, and that one can probably bring about some improvement by starting at the verbal end. If you simplify your English, you are freed from the worst follies of orthodoxy. You cannot speak any of the necessary dialects, and when you make a stupid remark its stupidity will be obvious, even to yourself. Political language—and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists—is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind. One cannot change this all in a moment, but one can at least change one’s own habits, and from time to time one can even, if one jeers loudly enough, send some worn-out and useless phrase—some jackboot, Achilles’ heel, hotbed, melting pot, acid test, veritable inferno, or other lump of verbal refuse—into the dustbin, where it belongs.

 Comments Off on George Orwell – Politics and the English Language (1946)
Nov 192010

Times Literary Supplement, 2005.08.19-26: 14-17.

The Book of Revelation, or Apocalypse, has been controversial ever since it was first included in the Bible. It has been given a thousand and more readings, and divined to promise a thousand and more Jerusalems on earth (including the Third Reich, unfortunately). Exegesis has endowed it with mystical depths of great historical importance. English literature would be the poorer without its figures and tropes, and the cadences of the Authorized Version; metaphorical phrases too numerous to recount have passed into common speech. Its riddling story, hiding its subjects under cipher, prosopopeia, anathemata and other linguistic devices, ensured it was and has remained ambiguous, as well as controversial. But all the hermeneutics have clouded the literal story the book tells, and it is from this perspective that it becomes acutely troubling in modern times. This inaugural document of hallucinated triumphalism, with its vision of righteous war, now informs world leaders’ outlook and strategy.

Revelation solicits its audience to identify with the blessed ones, and does not show much pity, or invite us to feel it either, for those cast into outer darkness. It excites us into a storm of hope; in the words of Bernard McGinn, the leading scholar of the book, it “offers the prospect of a fresh start, for a remnant”. Its present, disturbing prominence beyond the pulpit has a new, unexamined moral force of redundant nastiness – of the kind that the thinking of many centuries on the subject of justice and humanity has striven to put aside. But we can no longer mock it out of meaning, as George Bernard Shaw did in The Adventures of the Black Girl in her Search for God (1932), describing it as “a curious record of the visions of a drug addict which was absurdly admitted to the canon under the title of Revelation”.

Shaw rightly draws attention to the title, for the Greek word “apocalypse” (to unveil) does not make quite the same claim to a true vision as the less frenzied and less triumphant “Revelation” of the King James translation of the Bible and other subsequent versions of the Reformed tradition. While “apocalypse” promises violence in the act of disclosure, “revelation” conveys a calm and cogent realization of something true. The political uses of the book today have shifted from personal illumination to religious “revelation” as a warranty for violence, and a remodeled concept of retributive justice. Apocalyptic visions of the End tear aside the veil on a vision of a new beginning. The final book of the Bible does not end like the Oedipus trilogy, with recognition and the chastening of the hero by his terrible fate, or like Hamlet or Macbeth, with almost everyone, including the heroes, dead on the stage. It is, if you like, Hamlet retold from the point of view of Fortinbras, and that is not the tragedy of the Prince of Denmark.

If tragedy is written in the historic present of existential intelligence (such things happen); if the preferred tense of psychoanalysis is the poignant future perfect (the paths that might have opened, the way not taken); then apocalypse takes place in the wishful mood, the imperative: so be it, that this may happen, let it happen, to them, not to us, not to me. Prophecy is in this sense performative: it presents desiderata as acts; the words have meaning as allegory, as oracle, an enigmatic tissue of symbols.

The author of the Book of Revelation gives his name at the beginning as John, and he was identified fairly soon with the Beloved Disciple, and with the author of the Gospel of St John. These overlapping personae halo the author of Revelation with lustre, and added considerable weight to the book’s claims to truth-telling. But set aside the appealing image of St John the Divine, and Apocalypse then resembles many minor works of frenzied numerological and visionary invective produced in the turmoil of the Judaeo-Hellenistic world. Put it on the same table as dream almanacs, grimoires or books of spells, esoterica deemed apocryphal such as the Book of Enoch, and apocryphal apocalyptic visions of the afterlife sometimes ascribed to Mary, sometimes to Paul or other apostles. This type of communication from the future flourished in the Mediterranean basin and Near East in the first and second centuries; they share a similar taste for magic and miracles, charged with a will to power, a belief in curses, a drive for mastery and a thirst for revenge. Of all the material in the New Testament, Revelation most resembles the Old, resonating with “little apocalypses” from the Book of Daniel, the vision of Ezekiel, and other passages in which railing, burning, smiting fill all the business of heaven.

Structured as in a tree-like stemma, branching into clusters of seven letters, seven trumpets, seven vials, and so forth, the episodes fork furiously, drawing power from magical practices used in oral performance such as chanting, repetition and accumulation. The book possesses a kind of self-pleasuring thrust and vehemence and rhythm; its harsh music makes itself heard down the centuries in works as diverse as those of John Bunyan and Andrea Dworkin, Toni Morrison and Stephen King. In the Authorized Version, the English punches out the curses, moving to the rhythm of a heavyweight placing blows: “hate the whore … eat her flesh burn her with fire …”. No one who reads it soon forgets its famous visions: of the Lamb of God, the book with seven seals, and the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, including Death on a pale horse; of the great falling star, “Wormwood”; the woman clothed with the sun who is attacked “by a great red dragon” so huge that it sweeps down the third part of the stars of heaven with its tail, who is “called the devil and Satan”; of an avenging angel who harvests the wrongdoers and throws them into the winepress of the wrath of God, “until the blood… was up to the horses’ bridles as far away as sixteen hundred furlongs”; of the plain of Armageddon which sees the outpouring of the last of the seven vials of God’s wrath, accompanied by a great voice announcing “It is done”; of the Whore of Babylon; of the New Jerusalem in bridal array; and of the wedding feast of the Lamb (where the guests will “eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men”).

At last, the dragon is chained for ten thousand years, and the last chapter promises “a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal there shall be no night there … where] they shall reign for ever and ever”. In the closing verses, which undoubtedly cast a serene spell of hope, the godhead repeats the promise, “I come quickly”: the pact for the elect will culminate in the parousia, otherwise called, especially in evangelical circles, “The Rapture”.

So, after punishment has been meted out to the errant churches, and the seals have been opened and the trumpets sounded, after the loosing on earth of plagues, fire and brimstone, floods, earthquakes, locusts, stinging and lashing monsters, after multitudinous angels and engines have blasted the sinful world and another angel has loudly cried “Woe”, and horsemen have ridden down the sky, thousands of them in monstrous armour, the book’s violence at last winds down, and it ends with a vision of victory for a few, the remnant, the chosen survivors. Nevertheless, the last verses before the final greetings and blessings – in effect the closing thoughts of the entire Christian Bible are: “For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie”.

Armageddon does not engulf us all in this book: it holds out the hope that it will engulf all of them – Satan, the Beast, the Dragon, the Whore of Babylon, the unchaste and the luke-warm, dogs and sorcerers, and all those other famous antagonists and embodiments of evil; these will be swept away while we will survive. The language of denunciation, ostracism, anathema on the enemy amounts to this: a spell of exclusion. But who are the others? And who are we? Who is speaking?

Apocalypse has invited unnumbered interpretations, but each one allows another to grow, as is characteristic of magic babel. Metaphor and meaning jostle in the listener’s or reader’s mind, fomenting one referent, then another, and bubbling up with now this perception, then that, in an overstimulated superfluity of effects. Allegory and figures of speech struggle to compose coherent pictures, though we today are undoubtedly helped by artists such as Durer and Blake, and in the cinema, Ingmar Bergman (and blockbuster epics such as Apocalypse Now and The Lord of the Rings). Movies, above all, have found in the Book of Revelation a quasi-organic iconology for their own kind of storytelling, not in content only, but in the very nature of Apocalypse’s cast of characters: monsters and war, angels and engines populate any number of visions of the end of days, and the theme has become the staple popular spectaculars.

But at the same time, the very persuasiveness and cogency bequeathed to the visions by some of the art they have inspired (the movies’ simulated realities above all) conceal the incommensurable and irrational core of the apocalyptic narrative: the huge disjunctions of scale, the arbitrary numbers, both too neat and too huge, the demented and skewed relationships between all the narrative elements – the duration, the characters, the impact of the violence: an audience feels what is happening with fear and trembling indeed, but it is a fundamental misconception to receive it as something that is taking place, or could do so, even in the perspective of eternity. The poor fit of drama and meaning, in respect of a dead lamb opening a very large book, and later marrying 144,000 virgins, boggles the logic of the imaginary – with incongruities Dante and Milton dazzlingly avoid.

This might seem far too literal a reading of a mystical text central to the Christian doctrine of redemption, but forcing the mind to think about the cogency of narrative is useful, because the surface meanings are so confused: hence the many codebreakers, the many messages found in it, the stream of prophecies that fail and fail again. Believers don’t lose confidence: they simply return to the task of finding another secret message, which this time they will grasp. The rebarbative incongruities of the patent narrative, the abundance of unstable and efflorescing latent messages, have a parallel in the incoherence and excess of simulation in contemporary culture. But this very difficulty can illuminate an ethical aspect missing in experience today.

The Book of Revelation was written rather late – around 95 CE or even later – and only included in the canon after fierce debate: it was the last text to be admitted into the Bible, after a struggles with another contender, The Shepherd of Hermas. The Shepherd is the first Christian allegory, and was written, by Hermas, in the first century CE, soon after the Apostolic era. It opens with a scene between the visionary and his muse, a woman called Rhoda, to whom, Hermas writes, he was sold as a slave. In its intense illumination, this relationship announces Dante’s initiation through his adored, stringent Beatrice. Hermas’s eyes opened, he sees the Church personified as an old woman, whom at first he takes to be the pagan Sibyl; the female – and old at that – does not here signify lechery, corruption, or helplessness. She issues ten commandments and some penalties for failing to keep them, but her general outlook is lenient, so much so that her laxity in connection to fidelity in marriage caused outrage, and helped block Hermas’s way into the canon. The vision continues with thoughts on angels – also heretical, it was later decided – and some very fine symbolic passages using allegorical motifs, such as the Shepherd himself, which strongly recall Jesus’s most bucolic and homely parables. Some of the episodes might lack colour and drama, compared to the sound and fury of Revelation, but they certainly express a different psychology in handling hostility. The approach could he seen as preeminently Christian, according to at least one strand in the religion.

Indeed, until the fifth century, the churches of Syria, Cappadocia and even Palestine did not accept Revelation. Luther considered removing it from his translation of the Bible, as, he wrote, “Christ is not taught or known in it”. Its subsequent history has made it even more inflammatory than it was when, in the aftermath of the destruction of the Temple, it first denounced the Roman empire as the work of the devil. The final solution it evokes, those smitten, smoking, charred victims, summon up uneasily the work of a more recent creed.

From the 1960s into the 1970s, influential studies of apocalyptic thought by the historians Christopher Hill, E. P. Thompson and Norman Cohn (Pursuit of the Millennium, 1970; Europe’s Inner Demons, 1975) focused on radical millenarianists who had invoked the persecuted, heroic survivors of Revelation. These analyses looked to the seventeenth-century revolutionaries, to Blake and to Abolitionist religious zeal in both America and England, and conjured the impassioned resistance of world turned-upside-down movements. Inspired by a desire to lift the dead weight of history and tradition from postwar society, these historians looked to the eternal horizon of Apocalypse, where the past is abolished and the future has become the longed-for present. In doing so, they showed little interest in the often deep connection of apocalypticism with authority.

Bernard McGinn, who has revised those postwar historians, reminds us that the book’s influence originated with “the well-educated and well-situated clerical intelligentsia… potent political figures”. He goes on to declare that apocalypticism was adduced “in support of the political and social order” both retrospectively by reviewing the past in its light – and prospectively, by prophesying conflict to come. The last book of the Bible may have blazed in the Diggers’ and Levellers’ minds, lit up Blake’s imagination, and lived in the pockets of the ragged-trousered philanthropists who after him, but it also stood open on the docks at clerks and scholars who worked for the interests of reigning authorities, who in the past (when Dante was descending into Hell to mete out justice on his foes, and Milton was revisiting the Fall) were emperors and kings and sometimes, queens. Something of this still resounds in the characterization of acts of war in the present time, in the jeremiads of George W. Bush and Tony Blair against their opponents, their passionate self-justifications, and their rationale for their new concepts of just war and terror.

The strands of the Book of Revelation that are still alive in the contemporary imaginary are bound by memories of both world wars, but the lessons of the Nazis uses have not been absorbed. Rather the contrary. In a speech made in March last year, Blair invoked Armageddon by name, and cast his decision to go to war in Iraq in visionary terms:

September 11 was for me a revelation [sic]. The purpose was to cause such hatred between Muslims and the west that religious jihad became reality, and the world engulfed by it. The global threat to our security was clear. So was our duty: to act to eliminate it. Here is where I feel so passionately that we are in mortal danger of mistaking the nature of the new world. If the twentieth century scripted our conventional say of thinking, the twenty-first century is unconventional in almost every – respect … it was defined by September 11.

Prophecies of retributive justice also strike again and again in the US administration’s proclamations, most notoriously in the Axis of Evil speech of January 2), in which Bush tellingly phrased his apocalypticism in semi-archaisms that move from ordinary American speech to a portentous use of full auxiliary verbs: “We’ll be deliberate, yet time is not on our side. I will not wait on events, while dangers gather. I will not stand by, as peril draws closer and closer…. Our war on terror is well begun, but it is only begun. This campaign may not be finished on our watch – yet it must be and it will be waged on our watch”.

The Book of Revelation exhorts, “Be watchful”; and constantly warns that the unwary will be taken by the enemy. The writer of this speech disclosed in his memoirs that Bible study classes are held in the White House which speechwriters and aides are expected to attend.

The apocalyptic perspective permeates political consciousness much further afield than the While Houses inner council chambers, quite independently of the government. Congregations of evangelical Christians everywhere read the Bible as docu-drama, with literal application to world affairs and in North America, more millions – some of them the same people, but not all – have also declared that they believe in angels. As Bernard McGinn commented, in 1987: “Millions of Christian fundamentalist read Revelation in a highly literal way as a blue print for coming crisis”.

Glorious Appearing: The end of days, the eleventh of the mega-selling Left Behind books, continues to unfold a present-day apocalyptic final battle. The series’s authors are Tim LaHaye, an evangelical pastor, and Jerry B. Jenkins, a professional ghostwriter for celebrities (including Billy Graham). Armageddon, tenth in the series, was the first to appear on the New York Times bestseller list, in April 2003, the month after the war in Iraq began. In an essay in the New York Review of Books, Joan Didion describes how it opens with the sudden, “enraptured” disappearance of God’s chosen and the struggles of those remaining during the times of Tribulation (the seven years that follow), against international conspiracies of all kinds, financial, military, religious, terrorist, led by the Antichrist who, as in the Apocalypse, will promise peace. “I fear it may he very soon”, warns the Pastor; “We need to watch for the new world leader” – who will have to follow the fate prophesied. The vengeful rhetoric of Christian fundamentalism makes common cause with hard-line Zionism, while Islamic calls for jihad use apocalyptic language too, interplaying the one another in a mirror image effect of emulation: Hamas prophesies rivers of blood, Ariel Sharon announces retaliation no less bloodthirstily.

The Book of Revelation has indeed been prophetic, and not only historically. It also anticipates modern genres: the monster comic, the horror video and the sci-fi fantasy. I am not by any means the first to see an affinity between angels and engines: the philosopher Michel Serres, in his book on angels, included jumbo jets in his survey, and his study was published before September 11, 2001. H. C. Wells imagined the angels of Revelation as engines from Mars, describing in The War of the Worlds, written at the end of the nineteenth century, before the use of gas in the trenches of the First World War, before the Second World War the atom bomb, and before the latest generation of WMD, death on a huge scale visited on the inhabitants of pretty suburban Surrey and central London, with heat ray guns and chemical miasma taking the place of the angels of the seven vials in the Apocalypse. J. R. R. Tolkien dramatized an epic struggle to cast out evil, while J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter faces another Sauron in the guise of Lord Voldemort, whose name parses as Wish for Death. These wars are not easy to keep apart in the mind’s eye from the conflicts conducted in reality and on news channels, and this is not just because Star Wars or the Narnia books are modern allegories. A recent poll found that a terrifying number of people in Britain thought Hitler was a figment and believed that the Orcs’ defeat at Helms Deep in The Lord of the Rings actually took place.

Tolkien’s fantasy epic was written during the same postwar decades as the utopian histories of E. P. Thompson and Christopher Hill, and it too conjures a myth of struggle and deliverance, revolutionary energy and hope carried by little people against tyrannical might and unharnessed destruction. The Hobbits from the Shire had first appeared in The Hobbit (1937), which was imbued with the Arcadian and English nostalgia that pervaded that era, culminating in Brideshead Revisited (1945). Tolkien himself had been invalided out of the trenches of the First World War; but he lost his family and most of his friends from his university days in that war, and his experience can be descried in the endless combat of The Lord of the Rings. The book became a secular Bible for the hippy generation, and traces anarchism – individualist, hedonist, pacific, antinomian – linger in the medieval and Celtic nostalgia that envelops the book’s afterlife as a touchstone of the New Age. But its present incarnation, as a film, projects into our here and now a vision of one small, beleaguered tribe and its allies overthrowing a mighty imperium in altogether changed political circumstances, without much thought of transformation, negotiation, organic exchange or development.

Some other filaments of past and present apocalypticism are worth teasing out, in order to grasp why its myth has regained moral force. Anglo-Saxon warrior epics such as Beowulf were established as the Ur-texts of English Literature by Professor Tolkien at Oxford, where Philip Pullman was a student in the 1960s. Pullman read English – unhappily – then started work as a schoolteacher in Oxford during both the first phase of the Tolkien cult and, as he often recalls with some asperity, the popular ascendancy of another Oxford visionary for children, Lewis and his Narnia cycle. Pullman’s highly ambitious trilogy, His Dark Materials, consciously defies both those precursors of his youth: he challenges the archaic savagery and the apocalyptic vision of Tolkien’s invented Englishness, and Lewis’s Anglican piety. He draws on a parallel, dialectical literary tradition, taking on Milton, speaking with Blake (who has, for these purposes, become an angelic presence, constantly there), shadowing Bunyan, and surpassing certainly Milton and even Blake in his defiance of Christian dualism, his rejection of the doctrine of original sin and his championing of women, children and their energies of curiosity, sex and love. He stages several topoi of apocalyptic struggle, but in each case, makes a knight’s move in another direction.

The scandalous, worldly, beautiful Lilith-like anti-heroine, Mrs Coulter, is a wicked mother, but with a difference, and her seductiveness works its spell on the reader as well as on Lyra and many other victims. Pullman’s Satan, the towering explorer and magus Lord Asriel, radiates rebellion in Miltonic fashion, but he too is a complex case, as in pursuit of knowledge he defies the control and interests of the Authority’s prelates, who wish to steal, hoard and pervert any results he obtains. The concept of Dust, which streams through the book, symbolizes the life force of particle physics on the one hand, and on the other, more defiantly, the energy and vitality of carnal knowledge.

Taking a cue from Blake’s Urizen, the divine power who strangles the infant joy in his grip. Pullman performs a supreme act of delinquent, topsy-turvy imagination when the child heroes Lyra and Will meet the Ancient of Days, the Authority himself: “he was so old, and he was terrified, crying like a baby and cowering away into the lowest corner. ‘He must be so old – I’ve never seen anyone suffering like that oh, Will, can’t we let him out?”. The once supreme ruler of heaven and earth, the creator of the world, is lying in a crystal casket, like a victim of Alzheimer’s on the geriatric ward. Moved to pity, they assist the decrepit creature out of his casket:

…it wasn’t hard, for he was light as paper, and he could have followed them anywhere, having will of his own, and responding to simple kindness like a flower in the sun. But in the open air there was nothing to stop the wind from damaging him, and to their dismay his form began to loosen and dissolve. Only a few moments later he had vanished completely…

In this bizarre tableau of the death of God, Pullman inverts the deposition and pieta motifs of Christianity, and has the crumbling, cowardly, abject old man cradled in the arms of two children. He is the power who has visited his harsh justice on the world; they are two rough, ignorant kids applying the different medicine of mercy.

Finally, Lord Asriel and Mrs Coulter sacrifice themselves to bring to an end the rule of the usurping angel Metatron, and to allow Lyra and Will to return to enfleshed, ordinary human existence in time. As Lord Asriel exclaims, angels are jealous of human beings, because “They haven’t got this!” – he pinches the arm of his companion – “They haven’t got flesh”. So His Dark Materials resists apocalypse in favour of what Gerard Manley
Hopkins called haeccitas, the thisness of things, the phenomenon of the here-and-now, the flesh you can pinch and that feels pain, the base and raw material of life. Pullman has in many ways dramatized for children a claim that resounds to Blake’s antinomian axiom, “Everything that Jives is holy”. This is to make large claims for Pullman, but it is important to note his swerves and soarings away from the usual apocalyptic script.

The Italian philosopher and Catholic Gianni Vattimo, in his book After Christianity (2002), offers a similar insight. He too lambasts the Church for dishonestly invoking a concept of nature and natural law in the service of its own violence, against women and homosexuals especially. Nature has been changed into an unassailable grand truth. So sex has to be “natural” (no contraception, and so on). Vattimo is by no means the only prominent Christian to grasp at the Blakean legacy: while the Association for Christian Teachers has denounced the blasphemies of Philip Pullman, and American fundamentalists have anathematized him as well, the Archbishop of Canterbury flabbergasted Guardian readers when he praised the vision of the books and the stage version at the National Theatre. Without addressing apocalypticism directly, Rowan Williams nevertheless issued a challenge which implies a strong critique of it: “[But] what kind of a church is it”, he asked, “that lives in perpetual and murderous anxiety about the fate of its God? What the story makes you see is that if you believe in a mortal God, who can win and lose his power, your religion will be saturated with anxiety – and so with violence”.

In the years of Ban the Bomb, of the Cold War, of the Cuban missile crisis, the first wave of Tolkien-mania and Narnia’s success, Frank Kermode was also thinking about apocalypse. In his influential book The Sense of an Ending (1967), Kermode develops a powerful argument about the differences between myth and fiction through a meditation on the vision of the end of the world in Revelation. Kermode agreed with Roland Barthes’s polemic in Mythologies that myth communicates ideology: static, traditional, conservative, bound to the past, and antithetical to the true enterprise of literature. He distinguished chronos, the flow of time, from kairos, the moment of being; fiction bundles kairoi to form the timeless aeon of redemptive order, saturated with revisionary, not reactionary meaning. Kermode lays great emphasis on the immanent meaning of fiction which, like Apocalypse, imbues the foretime with meaning and endows it with a rationale, to render it bearable: this is the salvific promise of art.

Malcolm Bull, an astute critic of millennial themes, has pointed out that moments of being have purpose, in literature as in life, and that this is not always to be found in their ends: “human time is not made of chronological time but is, as in Ecclesiastes, ‘a time for this, and a time for that'”. We experience time for its significance as it happens, and it swells and subsides according to its import: we do not inhabit endings, and much of the literature of the past hundred years has striven to imitate what Proust called “the intermittences of the heart”. The deep difference between intermittences (processes) and teloi (ultimate ends) illuminates the way apocalypticism in its new historic form endangers democratic negotiation and incremental compromise. Revelation’s vision of future time is predicted on lost time past, on nostalgia for a Golden Age: Alpha is Omega – an ourobouros, not biting, but sucking its own tail in infantile plenitude. Jerusalem is forfeit, but the New Jerusalem will step down from heaven in grace and beauty and pour her blessings on us.

The handling of time in recent films and their cognates (television, computer imaging, digital photography) throws into question the idea of art and literature’s fictive temporal order. Wallace Stevens’s vision of this order of art, from which Kermode draws inspiration, this other space-time of the imagination, has been propelled into the real through current illusionistic techniques, and in being thus propelled has fulfilled aspects of apocalyptic prophecy at its most obscurantist. Ultimately, it is perhaps not the violence in entertainment that does the damage, as much as the promise of possible fulfilment by these means: the performance of an action, projected into an eternal present lasts unchanged, repeated again and again, and so becomes a real event, a real act in actual time

The brilliant illusionism of The Lord of the Rings, as filmed by Peter Jackson and his host of technicians, creates amazement in any audience. Through Computer Generated Imagery and more than 700 different types of special effects (animation, bluescreen, mattes, models, etc), the film summoned realities that are not there. In interviews, the horde of designers all testify to their fidelity to historical methods of forging armour, brewing mead, raising elvish castles in the air, cloning Orcs in mud. But this film refuses those laws of the flesh in which experience is grounded: that carnal condition Blake attempted to proclaim, that praise of dust and of flesh Pullman has sung. Bodies crash to the ground, onto jagged bare splinters of lava, and show a mere charming cosmetic scratch. Nobody ever holds their nose or gags at the reek of corpses, as they do in medieval paintings of the Raising of Lazarus. This film and many others now – Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, Troy – passionately strive for authenticity, verisimilitude, especially where bodily sensations, suffering and pain are concerned. But this extreme kind of realism ever admits the damage that blows or blades really inflict: the consequences of violence. When Frodo, at the end of the trilogy, still feels the wound in his shoulder, it is a genuine and even exceptional moment, which calls for unusual empathy: he has changed, he has suffered, and he has been transformed by the ordeals he has gone through. But much of the time, the person on screen, dematerialized into photons and as ethereal as a shade in Homer’s underworld, necessarily feeds, only an illusion of physicality. Film-makers pile on the carnage and gore, in a way almost analogous to the ghosts needing to drink the sacrificial blood Odysseus gives them before they can connect with him. But unlike the ghosts in Homer’s underworld who can speak with Odysseus after they have drunk the black blood of a sacrificed ox, cinematic spectres simulate but never attain that pinch on real flesh that Lord Asriel tells us angels envy.

More even than the visual sleight of hand, sound effects pack impressions with the force of events taking place for real. The elusiveness of embodiment and material being are drowned out by a quadrophonic sensorama of crashing, roaring, squelching, splitting, slicing, hewing, flogging – the soundscape stands in for the physical horrors depicted and acts directly on the audience’s viscera. So, faced with the awesome illusionistic techniques of film today, the spectator grasps at the reprieve of disbelief, twice over: this is only happening on screen, and it is not happening at all to the actors and participants. Otherwise the scenes of Armageddon on film would he as unbearable as the fighting on the Somme which originally blasted Tolkien’s nerves.

Even in the most stirring scenes of torment and damage, something twists and directs the audience towards unfeeling. The state of over-wrought sensation, comparable to the metaphorical excess in the Book Revelation, demands that the battered spectator either thrills to the bloodshed or resorts to numbness. Imaginary battles become a kind of training in resisting fear, in stopping the springs of empathy. Huge arrays of weapons, soldiery, monstrous animals, siege machinery from every epoch of war-mongering are deployed in vast spectaculars of terrifying mayhem from horizon to horizon, but you are asked to sit tight and watch: a squashed fly in Shakespeare can produce more pity. The hot and unremitting violence of such films even perhaps communicates revolt against the very conditions of disembodiment, of not being involved, for audiences out of the war zones. Smart bombs, robot disposal units, stealth planes, missiles, all the contemporary paraphernalia of intelligence or destruction, disengage attackers from their victims. (Hand-to-hand combat ennobles battle: a cavalry charge into a horde of Orcs is heroic in a way that a radar-controlled missile is not.)

Our present fantasy or magic spectacles may not represent the world as we think it operates – not altogether. That would exceed even today’s state of credulity. But contemporary technologies of weaponry and film-making have altered the nature of the literal, by confusing act with representation, the event as performed with the image as perceived. Leakage between simulated and actual reality is not trapped inside the cinema or the Gameboy. Television news programmes need to label an interview “Live” to inform the viewers that it is really taking place at that moment, and conversely the warning sometimes appears across footage of bombings or other events on American television, “Metaphorical Images” to distinguish these images from “live” ones. Metaphorical – not fictional, not simulated, not untrue: we are being asked to receive them as truthful. No wonder a new generation of video games incorporates documentary footage and mixes it up with virtual scenarios, emptying meaning from the damage caught on film and denaturing responses to its truth. The consequent disengagement grows and spreads by analogy, when fantasy is not the issue.

Plato’s anxiety about the mendacity of verbal and visual representations has attained a new, acute truth value – which we have seen, from many different angles, over the photographs of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib. These came in a variety of simulations, some of them faked in England, some of them staged for the camera as tableaux of punishment, torture and degradation, some of them records of torments actually taking place. The poses accorded with S&M conventions naturalized through pornography, so the history of these images itself reveals the disappearance of a border between act and image; some guards defended themselves by saying they were “Only posing”, not for real. In these trophy pictures, the subject’s existence as a person is denied – his abasement turns into a symbolic ritual to deliver pleasure to the viewer. Happily, the public revulsion revealed that images still have huge power to shock one into thought, however widely they are applied to numb one out of it.

In a sense the apocalyptic condition is this: when the cataclysm is over, the flesh is resurrected not as flesh but as image-flesh, a form of angelic apatheia or nonfeeling, cybermatter which feels nothing and occupies nowhere but the screen, no time except the present of its unfolding through whatever medium of communication it is assuming as its vehicle.

This apocalyptic dimension raises acute questions in relation to current war policy, at home as well as in Iraq and other affected countries. Most urgently, who are the Orcs? Who are these untermenschen who are our enemies? The writer Eduardo Cozarinsky expresses this anxiety well in his novel The Bride from Odessa, when he comments on the “Third Reich’s theatrical passion for creating a real life apocalypse. A sort of Oberammergau passion in reverse…. Were Auschwitz, Maidanek and Treblinka the other side of some shining souvenir medallion from Oberammergau?”

The imagination does not exist in a sealed chamber, and we do not enter it wearing sterile gloves or protective clothing; it is the air we breathe and contemporary powers of illusion, fast increasing in the cinema and virtual technologies have helped enhance fantasy, magic and transformation in culture today in every way. New media wrap us in illusions of monsters and angels, turning myth into history, and vice versa. We do not look at illusions from a high peak: we inhale them, daily.

A storyteller such as Jorge Luis Borges constitutes through “reasoned imagination”- his phrase – a metaphysical and poetic dimension of reality. Many writers in the genres of fantasy – contemporary versions of magic and transformation – project a subjectivity which no longer respects the distinction between lived experience and dreams, between actual and unreal events. The problems arise, as they did in Inquisition trials, when the receivers of the written word forget that stories are made up, take them to be real, and wish to bring everyone else round to believe in them too. That is one way in which fantasy that flaunts itself differs from prophecy. When we lose sight of the inherent unreality of a story conjured by language, and become believers, dangers begin. Tsvetan Todorov expressed this pithily when he wrote, “Trouble starts when the symbol is taken for reality”.

Works of imagination such as the Book of Revelation, of their very nature, seek to persuade, and in order to do so struggle to abolish the presence of language between the events described and the receiver’s faculties: words close the gap between themselves and their audience, that is their work: they have this magical tendency to become flesh – at least in the mind’s eye. When the mass media conjure and transmit images, their intrinsic, spectral character prevents them embodying the smell and touch and temperature of the real thing, its capacity for feeling, physically and psychically. Inside the frame of fantasy, heaping up reality effects only exacerbates the alienation of the image from its subject, as it strives to cancel its own inherent condition of disembodiment. Either we admit artifice, and stage unreality frankly, or we must honour the laws of time and the flesh, and confront the consequences of violence and exclusion, the reality of pain and suffering.

For language and imagination not only govern ways of thinning, but from that work of cognition, follow ways of doing. Today we can include, under the rubric of language, the mass communications media. These new means of representing the world have “realized” things that were not possible before except in fantasies. Beside the spectacular Armageddons of contemporary experience, for real in the case of terrorist attacks and invasions, for fun in the case of special effects cinema entertainment, we must continue to scrutinize the new conditions of reality that have been brought to bear on our lives by the angels and engines of now.

From the last of three Robb Lectures on “Magic and Transformation in Contemporary Literature and Culture”, given in March, 2004 at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. A fuller text will appear in the Fall issue of Raritan in the United States.

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