August

Corpus Aristotlicum

Aristotle was probably in pain when he died, though I hope this was not the case. Of all the people who deserved to have a peaceful end, Aristotle can lay claim to being one of the more deserving.

He died on Euboea, the island that runs parallel to the eastern Athenian peninsula, in the city of Chalcis. Euboea is near the mainland, more than a stone’s throw, but a capable swimmer could make it in favourable conditions. I have not been to the island itself, but I have seen it from the shore. It’s a rugged place, typical of the Greek islands, where the beauty is mainly found in the sea, the sky, and where those two whispering lovers meet. I’m sure Aristotle found great attraction there, and joy, and the relative solitude of the place may have aided in his reflections. I can picture him, walking in that peripatetic manner of his, along the cragged coast, staring down into the Homeric seas, thinking, wondering.

He didn’t write much for us to appreciate. Of course, he did write things, many things, more things than I or most other self-styled writers will ever write, but those writings are in the main lost to history. The works of his that we can now ruminate on are effectively class notes, taken down by his students, undoubtably the types that would leave a shiny red apple on his desk (or other fruit), though I highly doubt Aristotle had anything resemble what we would consider a desk by modern standards. His preferred teacher would have reminded him that the Form of a teacher’s desk can take, rather ironically, many forms.

There are two Aristotle’s we need to consider: the exoteric and the esoteric - the former being intended for public consumption, the latter a collection of works meant for his teaching in the Lyceum, his great Athenian schoolhouse. Due to the scattered nature of his surviving works, and the tale of global survival and rebirth the works had to go through in order to make it to us (as well as the volumes of forgeries and fabrications trying to steal philosophical valour), it can be hard to pin down the exact origins of any of his métier. Some of his stuff was almost certainly lost in one of the burnings of Alexandria’s library. Additionally, some of his work may have been lost when Sulla besieged Athens, though a Roman scholar, one Andronicus of Rhodes, managed to catalogue it on its arrival in the Caput Mundi where it was eventually brought after the conquest of the Greek lands. Accordingly, the journey of the body of his ideas from its home had begun, and this original chronicling forms the basis of what we still use today.

…

I think I came to Aristotle relatively late. Not too late, just late. Nearly twenty years ago now, a lad I lived with - who is still one of my closest friends - had an engorged copy of his complete works. And I mean COMPLETE. Everything was in there, a commodious intro, an historical and biographical overview, and a good third of the groaning pressed paper was dedicated to notes, citations, addendums, further readings (etc). There was even a map or three. Typical Routledge. He gave it to me, and I carried it around that most literary of cities that at the time I called home, from place to place, suitcase to bookshelf to dusty underbed, without ever really cracking it purposefully. Then one day, after many not doings, I did. Beginning with Politics, I was soon hooked. I flew through it too quickly in retrospect, not really in the absorbing manner philosophy should be (read everything at least twice, but as many times as it takes!).

Aristotle is easier to live by, but less fun to think about. He demands less of the overthinking mind, urging his listeners or readers that the essence of life is in the living, not the thinking. In a way it makes him almost unphilosophical or even antiphilosphical (as sacrilegious as that might sound). Of course, that is quite a ludicrous statement for one who I consider the greatest of all philosophers, but what is more philosophical than reminding people the limits of philosophy? In other words, even wisdom itself should be questioned. I would argue, wisdom should be especially questioned, lest the conjoined twin pestilence of sophistry and casuistry fully consume the world.

Poetics is probably the work I have gone back to the most; it has proven to be the most useful to me. I have a slither off an edition, published by Penguin, dedicated to that work in isolation. It’s a handy little resource, as I can quickly find what I need without faffing around with a massive tome. I can, with great ease, check what the man recommended in regard to how to structure this or that, how a character should be approached and developed, how all things must unavoidably end and, most importantly, what not to do. I cannot fathom the existence of fiction or drama without what Aristotle did. Yes, stories pre-existed the fella, and storytelling is one of the things that sets us apart from the animal races, but the structure he gave us, the borders, the definitions, allowed what came afterwards. Anyone who has ever put pen to paper (or any equivalent medium) owes quite literally everything, except for that raw spark of inspiration, to Aristotle, whether they know it or not.

Politics will give the reader a good understanding of how to arrange a sensible, coherent society, one that can regenerate rather than decay. It will inform on the nature of power, but I will say that there have been better studies of power, and how it manifests in the utmost cunning and unpredictable ways, and how it interacts with technology in the most unblessed of dances. Nicolo Machiavelli, James Burnham, George Orwell, Michele Foucault, any book by or about Tony Blair, or any of the historical works by Bill Shakespeare, would give you more insight on this topic.

His physics and metaphysics are intriguing, especially considering the time. Perhaps unsurprisingly to those who know me, the meta version of physics has always interested me more. Probably because I feel as though I can bullshit my way through it with greater ease then I would with something as raw and falsifiable as its nerdy little brother. His concept of telos – the end goal of all living things – has always fascinated me, as it did the great existentialists. It explains why things do what they do, and how behaviour can be observed and predicted according to this principle. Metaphysically, non-contradiction was key to his ontology. If A then not-A is an in possibility. There’s not much point trying to explain that one – its perfection is in its simplicity. Naturally, this axiom of paradox has implications for another one of his core works…

Logic is useful, and I have used it in both an academic and professional capacity in my life. Aristotle’s theory of logic is exhibited in his Organon, and is sometimes known as syllogistic logic, due to its robust use of syllogisms (two premises + conclusion) in its foundations. The word organon translates as tool or device, emphasising how Aristotle saw logic, and how he understood it to be used. I wonder if we had a neo-diluvian event, and all his works were lost, would his logical understanding persist regardless. Logic by its nature is pretty timeless; as long as there are human minds interacting with themselves, each other, and with nature, logic will be a part of us.

Ethics, though, is the rub. Today ethics is considered an institutional code - an internal encryption to ensure fairness and consistency in matters of professional or vocational conduct - whereas historically it was more akin to what we now think of as morality. The concepts are often intermingled and misused (sometimes, I suspect, wittingly) but here there is a distinction with a difference, although not so much in the time of the old Greek heads. Time, the mistress of all that was, is, and will ever be, is the reason for this distinction. Ethics comes from the Greek which roughly translates as the science of morality (anachronistically), whereas morality comes from the Latin for human nature. I have sympathy for linguists and those involved in the history of languages, as the complex matrix they must untangle and make sense of is considerable.

Balance, balance, balance. Or if you prefer, temperance. This is what underpins Aristotle’s ethical thinking. In his Nicomachean Ethics (named after Aristotle’s only known son, Nichomachus, either by the father, by the son himself, or a third interloper – it is unclear). Happiness, virtue, reason – they are all connected, and they all require a movement towards the middle of being. Living on the axis of life, not being enslaved by an extreme, where you lose sight of all other things except your own condition. As with everything Aristotle proposes, it is a practical approach. He was the pragmatist twenty-four hundred years before the school emerged. You can live by his methods, day by day, making small adjustments and tweaks to your routines and habits, and building yourself into a better, more whole, you. It does not require endless, agonising thought, or internal dialectics, or intellectual rhythms that consume its own tail – you just have to live a bit better, and for that reason, his is a philosophy of hope.

I believe that we are in an age where, in raw numbers, more people live today that are acquainted with the works of Aristotle than at any other time in the past two thousand years, and yet, I also believe that we live and organise less by his standards than ever before. One of the many ironies of the schizophrenic modern world, a world that becomes ever more modern with every passing second. Thus, I am of the unbrave and uncontentious opinion that the world could do with more Aristotle these days - and I stand by what I said. Strangely, in our proclaimed democratic and open societies, it is so often that which everyone agrees on that never gets to be. Did I use the word schizophrenia already?

I’m sure a scholar of Aristotle would read these worlds and vomit a little in their moof, but I’m ok with that – I don’t claim expertise in anything but my own subjective experiences, and how I interact with ideas is one such subjective experience.

…

That original book is long gone now. To my shame, I am not sure exactly to where. I hope I gave it to a worthy friend (the only real kind of friend), but it may have just been lost in the unrewarding scramble for life. Thankfully, the preservation of Aristotle’s works does not fall on my deteriorating shoulders, that job was done a long time ago.

Islamic scholars get much of the credit for keeping Aristotle’s works alive, and rightfully so. The translation movement of the Abbasid Caliphate during the Islamic Golden age, which stretched from the 8th to the 13th centuries, was where the majority of this preservation work was achieved, before their reintroduction to Europe. From my understanding, most of these translations were done towards the beginning of this period, mainly around the 8th or 9th centuries. However, Averroes (a man who would found his own controversial school of philosophy based on his readings) was working on his own interpretations as late as the 12th century. Noticing Aristotle roaring back into the peripheral vision of western thought, it was around this time that scholars in occupied Spain began to translate the work from Arabic into Latin in a collaborative scholastic effort which summed up the feat as a whole - a universal struggle of the old world. A seed that, through the efforts of many gardeners, bloomed. (here are others I could mention here – the Carolingians, the Byzantium’s, the Jews, but, as I said, I am no expert, so I will keep it brief and light.)

As any reader of this little blobby of mine will know, or at least suspect, I do enjoy finding an Irish connection to whatever it is I write about. The connection here is much debated. Monastic Irish scholars spread across the European continent in the aftermath of (western) Rome’s exit and - nearly concurrently in historical terms - Christianity’s heavy-footed entrance to the world stage. These men were key in preserving, translating, cataloguing and beautifying many of the philosophical, scientific, political and religious texts that the two great sunsetted European civilizations had wrought. Men like Johannes (Duns, John) Scotus Eriugena and St Columbanus, often working in secluded, hushed, beer-producing monasteries scattered like baby stars across western and central Europe, dedicated their graceful lives to making sure the future could be as bright as the past, working on the righteous belief that the loss of wisdom is one of the greatest tragedies our species can suffer. They, I believe, understood that ideas outlive tissue, but only if they are allowed to.

…

It’s a big topic, the life and works of Aristotle, as well as the life of the works of Aristotle. It’s one of the bigger ones, and my brain ain’t so big, nor is my soul, and a big soul is what you need to really understand philosophy (it’s in the name: love of wisdom).

There’s a lot of talk these days about declining intelligence and the contradicting Flynn effect, as well as pithy online go-to’s of retard or idiot or dumb or some such variation, that never really hit the mark, and appear to be an importation of American High School culture – it’s the wrong approach. Brains are as big as always, with maybe the odd alteration one way or the other here or there (and the occasional golden ages of IQ averages, 5th century Athens being one such candidate, as well as late 18th century – early modern – Britian), but I’m not sure our souls can match up to previous iterations of our bloodline, which is what truly matters, and is the only thing going to get us this the new Dark Age that we most surely stand on the doorstep of.

But it’s not all bad. Thankfully, men such as Aristotle never truly die. He’s peripatetic still, on the eternal path, teaching us forever.

April

I’ve always been a reader. An ex once referred to me as “a good little reader” to a bookstore employee who was scanning the ninth or tenth book of fifteen I had brought to his counter. I’m not boasting. It’s nothing to boast about. It’s just a hobby, no different from painting miniatures, hiking, or abseiling. It can be just as costly as those hobbies, too; over a lifespan, probably more so. I get pleasure from absorbing fact and fiction, and hope that, somewhere in a deep, hardly understood part of myself, they will somehow transmogrify into something approximating wisdom. I’m also not as picky in my choices as some assume I am. There are no genres I would not try at least once.

Here's a few things reading is not: reading is not a personality, nor will it give you one. You’re gonna have to try harder than that, sorry. Reading is not a style, a fashion. It can only compliment such things; it cannot be the essence of it. The more you try to make it so, the less it will have such impact. Reading will not make you smarter. Not when you’re an adult anyhow. Our IQs are pretty set by the time we learn to use the toilet unaided; it’s heavy on the phylogeny, and unfortunately light on the ontogeny. Most studies back this up, even those engaged by people wanting to find the opposite result. Nutrition and abuse will fuck it up, though, significantly so – the drop can be a few standard deviations. So feed your kids the best stuff, and keep unloving hands off them. Having said all that, reading can give you a greater imagination, allow you to conceive of worlds belonging to you and you alone. It can make you more empathetic (especially in the reading of quality fiction, where characters actually act like real human beings). It can also increase your vocabulary if you allow it to. This means really using the words you come across in everyday conversation, and not relying on backslippage to thought-terminating cliché, to the anodyne, the tiresomely predictable. You’ll improve as a converser, as a reader and, if needed, a writer. It may also improve your thinking skills – teach you how to think, not what to think. Additionally, if someone asks what it means, that new word you just vocalised, just tell them. Equally, if someone uses an unfamiliar word in your company, ask them.

…

Milan Kundera wrote The Unbearable Lightness of Being in 1984. I didn’t get around to reading it until 2017. It was the first work of his I read. In literary terms, it was a paradigm shift for me – I moved from world X to world Y. I can’t say which one is better. It’s not a qualitative analysis, it’s a categorical one – they’re just different.

Not everyone is a fan of his. “I don’t get what all the fuss is about”, I’ve been told by an extraordinarily literary and well-read person. That one stuck to my hippocampus like over-chewed bubblegum. But there have been other dissenters too. He’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I suppose and, as is often the case with those who are in any way interesting, the interest in them runs hot or cold, scalding or freezing.

I’ve not read his oeuvre. To be fair, I’m not far off it, but I’ve just not bothered myself to set out and buy the remaining titles, the more recent stuff. I suspect I know why, if you will forgive a moment of introspection: all of the books I’ve read of his, along with many others, I’ve found in charity shops, or second hand bookshops, scattered throughout the worlds I’ve known, under groaning piles of heftier cousins, on take-for-free carts rolled outside shops in the spring and summer months, in the discardings of friends, current and past, fed up with their current life, and looking to a far shore for another one, and wishing to make that journey as lightly as possible. There’s a pot-luck magic to the whole thing. The not knowing what will find its way to your personal collection is a kind of thrill (I’m using “thrill” very loosely here; don’t worry, I’m not so stuffy as to have never felt a real thrill – I can assure you, for my many sins, I have). Will it be a fresh-of-the-press shiny Big 4 publication, or a foxed-up 1960s floppy paperback? A dense hardcover seemingly made of a block of solid oak? Something slightly torn? Repeatedly dog-eared? Coffee stained? Blood stained? Tear stained? Maybe it’s annotated? Dedicated? - A birthday in 1993. Saw this, thought of you – Sally; Christmas 2018, for dad.

I avoid buying my fiction on Amazon. I say avoid, not completely miss. I’ll happily use Amazon and the like for non-fiction or academic work – needs must and all that; can’t be relying on the lottery of chance in those cases. But if my cart fills up with a bunch of non-fictions, as well as the usual household and lifestyle trinkets and baubles, it’s not unusual for a novel or two to sneak their way into the pile before the order is placed.

It all adds to the wonderful, disordered nature of my assortment. I know some people prefer the aesthetic look to their bookshelves. Social media is overflowing with filtered shots of shelves ordered by author, colour, genre. There is a sheen to them, an untouched patina, and there is often a potted plant or a Funko Pop fronting the collection on a seemingly - but in actuality carefully researched and chosen - random shelf. It’s not my style. I like not really knowing what’s hidden under that biography of St Augustine, or that collection of Jack London shorts, or that suspiciously long book of the history of the Swabians. Could it be an Orwell? A Dickens? A Zweig? An assembly of Coleridge’s poetry? A book on pre-Celtic Ireland? Something about the Mongols, the Aztecs, the Sumerians, the makeup of the human brain? I love a good dig, a rummage, both when I’m buying the things, and when they’re already mine.

I tried one of Kundera’s on audiobook – The Joke. As far as I am aware, his first published novel, involving a Czech humourist hounded by the Communist authorities for a private joke made on the back of a postcard at of the regime and a - at the time of writing - long-dead Trotsky. “Optimism is the opium of the people! A healthy atmosphere stinks of stupidity! Long live Trotsky!" I mostly listened to it at the gym back in 2019. It got me through some pretty good sets, and a PB or two, but it didn’t quite hit in the same way. Much was lost. I had the same experience with a few other books I was looking forward to reading and went for the audiobook variation for convenience. Czeslaw Milosz’s (I dare you to pronounce that one unaided) The Captive Mind and The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky most prominent among them. I’ve also come across the concentration/absorption problem when trying to learn an academic topic, such as the Free Course series which Audible offers with membership, ranging across the academic landscape – from history to art, photography to biology, linguistics to astrophysics. They are elu loro, wasted on me.

I can listen to the lighter stuff, the fluff, the sci-fi, the fantasy, the sports biography, the crime - material that is story heavy. I hope you don’t take these as criticisms, because they’re not. It’s merely a recognition of what works for me and, I have no problem believing, me alone.

…

You may have already read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, in which case you will probably find this short review a bit…unbearable.

It involves a love quadrangle between Tomaz, Tereza, Sabina and Franz (and, if you wish, Karenin the dog, who acts as a sort of narrative adhesive, and who has her own story of love with a rural pig named, Mephisto) and is set during the turbulent Czech 60s, most notably around the revolution of 1968, the “Prague Spring”. It asks a simple question: why do some live life so lightly, seemingly unaffected by its vicissitudes? And yet other wear the great coat of life heavily, letting it drag them down, slow their progress, exhaust them? All the characters are going through it in their unique ways, dealing with the inner and outer worlds as best they can. Some examine, others accept, and their ultimate fates seem disconnected from these choices, lending the story a tragic borderland in which everything is framed. The book is a pretty obvious reaction to the world Nietzsche’s oversized mind left us. How does one find meaning when such a thing may not even exist? The author’s success in answering this question, and others, may lay in his observation that human beings have an incredible capacity to realise the unrealizable, imagine the unimaginable. Certainly, it would take an artist to notice such things.

So - if you’ve not read it, read it. If you have, read it again.

There is film adaptation. 1993. Daniel Day Lewis and Juliette Binoche. Much celebrated, sometimes maligned. I consider it charming. It dances around with the source plot a bit, changes up the sequence here and there and, due to natural time constraints (no film studio is going to greenlight a sixteen-hour movie, Jodorowsky style), leaves out more than it includes. My main criticism of the movie would be the over emphasis of the story’s sexual elements, to the detriment of the deeper meaning. But whatever. Sex sells, philosophy doesn’t.

Having an undergrad in the subject, I have read a fair bit of philosophy in my time, particularly in my teens and early twenties. The subject is predictably dry, and needs to be, in a topic where clarity of thought and precision of word are key. But my mind can only take so much of the dry stuff before it dehydrates, desiccates. It needs water. Hydration. It bulks it out and reduces the chance for injury. I suppose you could say that philosophical literature is my mental creatine.

There’s magic realism in Kundera’s writings, in some works more pronounced than in others. I would not put them in that genre per se, but it hints at it. Not least because of the oftentimes settings of his stories. Czechia (at the time Czechoslovakia) (Some of my own ancestors may have drifted westwards from this part of the world when the Celts upped sticks and went on a 500-year walkabout), and especially Prague, lends itself heavily to the magical mind. It’s a city with its own mythology, that is both connected to, and separate to, the surrounding Czech one, as well as the wider Slovak/Slav one. It’s a rich one of considerable depth. There is German influence there (see the above book on the Swabians). Jewish (The Golem of Prague). It’s got its own headless horseman, and a few ghosts of note. The capital city of the Czech race can inspire the creative, inquiring mind even in its static repose. The Soviets, those amalgamators of all things Eastern, left behind an architectural legacy that attempted to murder the previous styles – as all utopians must kill the past - but thankfully in this instance they did not succeed. It’s actually a bit of an architectural wonderland, is Prague. All the major European eras are accounted for; Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo, Cubist, Functionalist, Bauhaus and, one of my ocular preferences, Art Nouveau. The denizens of that city are to that extent blessed, and my appreciation is tinged with envy.

Milan Kundera had a biography as interesting as you would expect from a man writing such things, in such a way. He’s not long dead, and nearly made it to a century of life. The man appeared to have kept a more-or-less full head of hair until the end. He spent most of his professional life in France, often writing in the tongue of his adopted homeland. The Czech ruling party redacted his citizenship in 1979, but the country that embraced him provide a shiny new one in 1981. He never won the Nobel Prize for Literature. In my assessment he may be the no-winner who most deserved to win it. He had some predictable “controversies” (which, as far as I can tell, is an inevitability for anyone who can actually think, and in turn verbalise those thoughts). A modern rumour has it he was a political snitch. I’ve not examined the claims and doubt I would have the ability to do such research if it ever occurred to me. It could be calumny, slander. Maybe he pissed off the “wrong” person. Or it could be completely true. Being a death of the author type, I couldn’t really give a shit, but I will say this much: coming up in an Empire of Lies will make otherwise decent people do indecent things. If you don’t believe me, just take a look around you.

The man was a bit of a recluse. A Thomas Pynchon type. The great writers seem to come in one of two extremes: introverted to the point where their face is not even recognisable to their biggest fans, or extroverted to the extent that half the hotel bars in Europe have had a running tab with their name on it. He gave the occasional interview, though, and often stuck them in the appendices of his books (I say he did, but I know such decisions are usually made by agents, editors and/or publishers).

He was a poet, too. And a playwright. And an essayist. You’re probably not going to find a good writer who doesn’t dabble in crafts beyond strict prose fiction. One of my recent pleasing discoveries, in a world full of displeasing ones, is that many of my preferred authors were poets the whole time. How this glaring fact escaped my attention, I have no idea. All I can do is claim that we all have blindspots. It’s curious to me how something reminiscent of happiness can so often be found in them. D.H. Lawrence, Herman Hesse, Thomas Hardy. Would I put Kundera in that attractive list? Maybe - I am as yet undecided.

…

There is a lot of fuss in life, a lot of noise for the soul. My main takeaway from TULoB is that all we really need is love. That’s how Kundera answers the paradox he proposes in the book - love will give you that meaning – It’ll ground you – but it will also make you feel so light, you will feel as though you can float to the heavens. Love, just and only. That’s it. That’s the whole story. That will get us through life, cradle to grave. Somehow it will. So, find it. And if you can’t find it, make it. The love economy is a big one, with infinite buyers and sellers, and no market caps. No import-export duties. And its only tax is that you may get hurt sometime, or you may have to one day say goodbye forever.

Ok, fine.

But consider this: love someone just right, and your heart may never have to say goodbye again.

…

I’m drinking coffee and listening to E17. One of those conditions is not my fault but can be attributed to the environment I find myself in. I will let you decide which. So far this spring we have had a snow day (literally one day; the rains came by the evening and the next morning was business as usual) and much, much, many, many rain. Indeed, as I write this, some sort of storm is preparing itself outside, brewing up. The waves were big this morning, tall and white tipped, hitting the sand ferociously.

There was a time - not awfully long ago - when I would, upon waking up to tempestuous conditions - the calming delight of heavy rain patter, boughs flirting with a breakup, and howling wind, screaming like dying gods - dash myself out the door, take a quick pace over and through the hills, beat the yawning sunrise and (literally, I suppose) dive headfirst into the foremost wave that barrelled its way towards me with terrible fury. Not today, however. Today I didn’t risk it. I’ve been in enough oceanic spin cycles to keep me going for a while.

Maybe I’m too old now. Maybe I’m too scared now. Or maybe I just don’t want to die as much anymore. On this, I wonder what Kundera would have to say. Perhaps I’ll get to ask him one day.

February (again, again)

Lemme kick this off here with a big fat disclaimer: I have not seen the entirety of Ridley Scott’s 2024 Napoleon biopic. I’ve watched a good chunk of the extended YouTube clips, mostly the battle scenes as that is the only aspect of the film I really cared to see (the Trailer worked to that extent). I’ve also read the Wikipedia entry to get a full scope of the plot. I’m not going to bother deconstructing the numerous factual inaccuracies (lies? Embellishments? Creative licences?); others can and have done that, and the falsehoods are, to be frank, self-evident – Napoleon did not in fact cannonade the Pyramids at Giza; there was no battle on the ice at Austerlitz, no cunning ambush (though it was by every measure one of the greatest achievements of tactics and strategy in military history), no mad retreat and subsequent slaughter, and it lasted a day, not ten minutes (this can always be easily forgiven from a filmmaking POV – it’s a movie about a life, not a battle); the Cossacks harassing the multinational Grande Arméon on the hetmanate steppe were strangely Mongol in appearance and dress; and there is no evidence that Napoleon was a festering simp for the women in his life, most notable Josephine (I too can attest to what Stephen Vizinczey termed “In Praise of Older Women”, but let’s be real here…) - though there is evidence he as a romantic - more on that later - nor a scurrying coward in matters of revolution or coup. Additionally, there was no recorded interaction between Napoleon and his great rival, Wellington, no chit-chat in a ship’s forecabin. Moreover (can’t help but going off on one here – but only a small one), the Corsican, despite the feats of his younger military days, most notably during the Italy campaigns and the Battle of Toulon, would not, after become the boss of France, have led his army into battle, either from the front or the back. Such a manoeuvre would be a boon to his enemies who would target him and, if successful in killing or capturing him, would therefore decapitate an entire empire. The risk of that versus the questionable benefit of a middle-aged artillery officer on horseback, leading from the front is intensely skewed towards the risk. His job was overlooking the battlefield, doing what was best for his men by ensuring victory.

As for the acting? Meh. Joaquin Phoenix sufferers from what a lot of long-toothed actors suffer from – the fact that, through over-exposure, they end up just playing themselves in later roles (see: Pacino, De Niro, Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Jason Statham, Matt Damon, and dozens of others. Even Marlon Brando suffered from this). It’s not really a criticism and it just appears to be the natural way of things. Perhaps we should put our actors out to pasture a bit sooner…

Despite the cringing failures, Scott and his crew did get a few things right: cinematography was on point, as were the costumes and general set-design (however Moscow took some criticism for looking a bit…Ottoman. Though, from my understanding, that would not have been as anachronistic as some believe). But Hollywood has usually been good at those things, it’s the depth and the veracity it increasingly lacks. The Keatsian connection to truth and beauty, the A.J. Ayer allegiance to the whirling dance of Language, Truth and Logic. Scott gave deserved prominence to Marshal Ney, an often-underrated historical figure who, if not in the shadow of a figurative titan, may have gained a bit more attention. One point Scott and his writers did get right was during the fictitious meeting between Napolean and Wellington (in reality it would have been a certain Captain Frederick Maitland) on HMS Bellerophon at Rochefort harbour, about a month after Waterloo, and a few weeks after he had already abdicated, in which Napolean expressed his respect for what he thought of as the bucolic English countryside and the lords and lady’s whose great houses peppered it. In the end he never set foot on English soil. Before setting sail for his prison island, the Royal Navy ship Napolean was interred on anchored itself off Plymouth Harbour, so close to the coast that sightseers would gather on the overlooking cliffs, picnic, and use telescopes and binoculars to watch the man take his daily constitutionals on the deck of Bellerophon. This bizarre display lasted for ten days, before the he was transferred to HMS Northumberland, took final supplies on board, and set sail under heavy escort for a distant southern horizon.

I mostly like Scott as a director. The historical cheese of Gladiator was chef’s kiss perfection for a twelve-year-old boy, and Blade Runner created a small sci-fi obsession in me which has never quite passed. He has also worked with two of the best modern score composers in Vangelis and Hans Zimmer, and that matters – a lot. If you disagree, I implore you to go onto YouTube and watch those videos of movie or TV clips with the music either removed or transformed into something incongruent.

The film’s ending may give a clue as to why Scott and his writers shat-the-bed so severely with this rendition of Napoleon’s character and life: a speculative calculation of the amount of people who died during the era. It has long been my view that every political system, regardless of what it claims to be, draws blood, and lots of it. I invite you to tally up the number of people killed in the name of freedom, liberty, “free markets”, and liberalism since World War Two (and, if you have the resolve, why not chuck in that war, too). You may be unpleasantly surprised. The number would make a havoc-wreaking bloodletter blush. But if you are an enjoyer of this system, tacitly or otherwise. you will have no problem justifying every single one of those deaths. Every system kills, so killing in and of itself is no measure of validity – how and why they killed is probably a better line of inquiry to take.

Herein my lay the problem. I believe that in order to write compellingly about a person, you must appreciate them on some level. The same applies to parody. If you have ill-feelings towards the person you wish to make your subject, you will invariably fall into cringe, artistic gluttony, and pastiche, and you will only satiate your own nastiness – nothing of worth will have been created or gained. Have some respect and don’t waste the time of your reader or viewer. Timestealers are the worst of thieves – for they steal the one thing we can never get back. This does not mean you must adore, admire or love your subject - be as irreverent as you can be, rage against the historical moment - just that you must understand them for what they were on a fundamental level – a human, with all the associated personal background, historical context, motivations, hopes and fears.

…

I’ve not been to St Helena. Very few people, alive or dead, have. I’m sure I’ll never make it there, bar the happening of an unusual set of circumstances and coincidences. But I’ve read about it, seen many a YouTube video and Google image to coalesce a decent image in my mind of what life would be like in such a place. To my knowledge. it’s not the remotest inhabited part of the globe, or even of the defunct British Empire. Flecther Christian’s descendants, despite their failings, still cling to Pitcairn under the supervision of Australia’s Federal Police, and the hardy folk of Tristan da Cunha make their home on a lopsided rock that looks as though it were lifted from a Scottish glen with a significantly oversized ice cream scoop.

Napoleon’s original grave can still be seen today. In the Valley of the Willows – which, for obvious reasons, became known as the Valley of the Tomb - a small stone marks the spot. St Helena is a small place, ten miles by five, whose population went from zero at the time of its discovery by the Portuguese, to barely 4,000 today, most of them nestled in a long gorge town – Jamestown - that runs from the islands port to the foothills beyond. It was a volcano one upon a time, many millions of years ago. Being uninhabited for all of that time gave the place a Galapagos feel, and it’s home to all sorts of unique flora and fauna. One of its more interesting human features is the 699 step Jacob’s Ladder, which vertiginously rises 600 feet above Jamestown. There’s a story behind it relating to Helana of Rome, Jesus and ascending to heaven. I’ll let you put he pieces together.

In some ways the mild, tropical climate, with lots of warm sea breezes in the cheerful months, and the rugged ashen hills, may have reminded Napoleon of Corsica. But he would not have been able to enjoy walking around it as he would have his home during his childhood. The island was not the totality of his prison, though, just a wrung of it – he and his entourage of loyalist who accompanied him to the island, were mostly confined to Longwood House (which still stands today), for the six years of his stay. As far as I could surmise, he mostly read and wrote during this time, as well as pottered about in the garden offered to him around the house. But Longwood House was on a remote part of a remote place, and was allegedly filled with damp, which could not have helped with his decaying health. He would have also been lonely, one of the loneliest people on Earth - of this I am sure.

There is an Irish connection to all of this. There always is an Irish connection. I don’t mean the low-hanging fruit of Arthur Wellsley who, though born in Dublin, was as Irish as a jacaranda tree. No, Napoleon’s personal physicians on St Helena were all Irishmen, five in total: Walter Henry, George Rutledge, Barry O’Meara, James Verling and, the man who was there at the end, and signed the death certificate, Francis Burton. Burton (who, incidentally, was the uncle of the explorer, Richard Burton) also fashioned Napoleon’s death mask, though there is some controversy around this point with some claiming a French doctor, and fellow Corsica, François Carlo Antommarchi was the man who fashioned it. Antonmarchi’s plaster, after travelling extensively about the globe, finally found its resting place in Paris’ Musée de l’Armée, in Les Invalides, near to where Napoleon himself in now interned, where it can still be viewed today. Why exactly near- all of Napoleon’s island physicians were Irish, I do not know. My readings have not led me to any revelation. It could just be a coincidence, though the odds seem slim. I do however know that a large minority of the Napoleonic era Royal Navy was Irish, often pressganged, so the presence of Irishmen in and of itself would not be unusual. But five…

I’m picking my way through a book written by one of those physicians, a Royal Navy man, Barry O’Meara. Napoleon in Exile, 1832. As it is written in the epistolary form, it is an easy book to pick up and drift your attention through like a light, curious wind, landing on whichever date takes your fancy. It’s doubtlessly sympathetic to its subject, and takes his side in the heavy beef he had with the at-time governor, Sir Hudson Lowe, a man who would have been a good candidate for warden of Papillion. It also hints at British collusion in ensuring Napoleons’ early death was a sure thing.

It cost O’Meara. The authorities did not take kindly to his account of his time on St Helena. He died a few years after the book’s publication (at fifty, just shy of Napoleon’s fifty-one), after being kicked out of the navy, and by all accounts his final years were tough, professionally, personally, and financially. Another victim of the empire on which the sun never set, and the blood never dried.

…

I once read somewhere that there were 250,000 (for a bit of context, this number would far exceed the approximately 200,000 men who fought at Waterloo) works written on Napoleon and the Napoleonic era. I’m not sure how reliable that number is, and I would never be able to find the source of that number again, but it would not surprise me if it was true. It would make him one of the most discussed figures in history, probably only superseded by Jesus Christ and Adolf Hitler.

One of my preferred history podcasts is an in-depth look at the man’s life, as well as the world about him, The Age of Napoleon, by the delightfully named Everett Rummage. Needless to say, I recommend. I only started listening to it at the conclusion of last year, so I’m only catching up to his hundred plus episodes. At the pace I am proceeding, Napoleon will once again be dead by the time I do gain parity with the latest episode. Each episode is a generous hour-od in length, and goes into excellent detail on any given topic, covering the context Napoleon found himself in, and the people around him, at any given time

Non-fiction wise, a Waterloo Battlefield Companion (written by soldierboy Mark Adkin, 2001) happens to be a have a place on my bookshelf. It tells me all I need to know about the most historical of days (a D-day, avant la lettre), where are the key players were located at all times, the sequences and swings of the battle, where Mashall Blücher arrived from (the northeast, Ridley, the fucking northeast), the befores, the afters. So, if you’re curious about the age, I recommend getting a copy.

Additionally, for a bit of conspiratorial fun, I recommend a book comparing the lives of Napoleon and Wellington in Napoleon and Wellington, by Andrew Roberts (2001). It details a long list of coincidences and overlapping’s in the two men’s fates, including shared lovers.

In the spirit of recommendation, here is a list of movies, shows and novels on the period, and the characters who peopled it, real or imagined, that I have enjoyed through the years: Bernard Cornwall’s Sharpe (the ITV adaptation is charming, aided in part by its low budget and comically small battle recreations, and Sean Bean was so good as Sharpe that Cornwall retroactively changed his main characters origins from a cockney scoundrel to a Yorkshire lad). C.S Forester’s Hornblower (the superego of the British Empire. The inspiration for Captain Kirk ((“Hornblower in space”)). Also a half-decent small screen adaptation, if you like lots of rigging and sails, and the associated lingo). George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman (they would not dare converting this for the screen). I may as well stick in Tolstoy’s War and Peace (the 1965 Soviet adaptation puts the E in epic), Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, and Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma. I would only embarrass myself trying to sum them up, so I won’t.

On the silver screen we have influential 1927 silent film, Napoléon, by Able Gance. The temper of the piece is expectantly moody and the only thing darker than the shadows are the eyes of the cast. What interest me most about this version is that it was created barely one hundred years after its subject’s death – a blink of an eye in historical terms, and many living souls would have known people who personally met the man. There is something shuddering about this thought.

Moving on to 1954, we have Henry Koster’s Désirée, with the aforementioned Marlon Brando bringing a robustness to the role of Napoleon that actually works really well. It’s basically a romance and involves a period in Napoleon’s younger days where he was womanizing the daughters of Europe’s minor aristocracy, which a young rebel, with all the associated and timeless cache, can always be relied on to do.

Sergey Bondarchuk’s (see above: War and Peace)1970’s Waterloo is the best of the lot in my estimation. Not a controversial call. Rod Steiger is Napoleon, and the scene where he confronts his former and future army after escaping his Elba exile is one of my darlings in cinema history. ABBA released their Waterloo a few years after the film’s release and subsequent success. Take from that what you will.

Finally, as a curveball, don’t be afraid to check out Irwin Allen’s 1957 The Story of Mankind, in which Napoleon, portrayed by Dennis Hopper (ikr) is, along with other historical figures, (Lincoln, Shakespeare, Joan of Arc, et al) put on trial by what I suppose are angels. It’s high concept at its finest.

…

I’m in the unforgiving jaws of a long afternoon, and it has put me in a sharing mood. In my life I have had two ideas for stories revolving around Napoleon. I feel like I should have written them already, and that because I let the initial spark of creativity burn itself out unfulfilled, the time to do the stories justice may have passed (those who have undertaken creative projects will understand this, and know it to not just be artistic posturing or self-indulgence; if an idea is left to ripen too long, it eventually rots on the vine – it must be picked at just the right moment).

The first involved a bit of historical speculation and the use of counterfactuals. A big “what if”. I imagined a reality in which Napoleon had escaped the blockade of Rochefort and had his asylum accepted by the nascent American government. In my conception, he settled, along with his brother, Joseph, who had lived in America for years at that point, into the French communities of Louisiana, and, though initially accepted and praised by the Washington and Philadelphia elites, was soon cast aside with mockery and scorn when boredom and the death of novelty announced itself. Napoleon, embittered and still filled with militaristic passion and state crafting instincts, raises an army of American Frenchmen, Cajuns, and black freedmen slaves (maybe Quebec was involved, I had not gotten that far) and marches his way to D.C.. I never decided on the ending, so the story ticks away like the hands of a watch on the wrist of a dead man (as was said by Jean Cocteau about Marcel Proust’s unfinished works). I saw it as a dark tragicomedy, heavy on the bathos, maybe more fit for the stage than a full novel or even screenplay, with most of the dialogue coming from those around the central character. Also, the stomach cancer that eventually finished him off in our long-suffering timeline, would have never materialized; perhaps due to his food not being prepared by British military cooks…

The second idea happened more-or-less in line with real historical events, with only a few liberties taken on my part. It revolved around the relationship Napoleon developed with the daughter of the an East India merchant who was posted to the island, Betsy Balcombe. She was a child of 14 and by all accounts precocious (in my narrative, she was half that age) I foresaw the story as a slow-burn consideration of the man at the end of his days. The jarring contrast of his previous life with the one that was walking him out the door. It was light on action and heavy on introspection, which was delivered through the lens of the tale’s main character, Betsy, from who’s POV we visit the story. This one I envisioned as a screenplay with a good soundtrack. Filmed on location (check me out - moneybags), with time taken over sunsets ands sunrises, long walks sans dialogue, and of course, a recreation of Francois-Joseph Sandmann’s painting (which, interestingly enough, was painted before the death of Napoleon).

Biographically, Betsy left St Helena when her father was recommissioned to Australia. This happened as a consequence of his family growing too close to France’s last emperor, becoming too friendly, and therefore ill-fitted to the cause of jailer-till-death, Hudson. In my rendition, I imagined the little girl, slightly grown, now hearing of the news on the edge of a vast, continent-spanning desert. Later on, when she is an old lady, her life coming to a close as the modern world birthed itself in bloody glory, I imagine her grandchildren telling her of Napoleon’s reinternment in Paris (here I took perhaps too much licence – setting his reinternment sixty or so years after the event. I would probably not do this now) and her reminiscing with them of the time she knew the man she had known simply as “Boney”, and her stuttering attempts to teach him English. This would loop back to the opening scene of the film where the old woman begins her tale (much like how Titanic executed its narrative – seemed to work out for James Cameron).

It’s unlikely someone reading this will steal away with either or both ideas. Ideas are the easy part; execution is where the difficulties arise. But, if you are so inclined, you are welcome to them – just make sure you do them the justice I never could.

One final thing. Napoleon’s alleged last words spoke to his nature: “For Josephine, for my Armée, for France”.

See – he was a romantic after all.

(If you require sources for any of the information provided - or claims made - in this piece, or have any factchecks, please contact me)

February (again)

Amor fati. To love that which the fates bestow. To love what life offers, whether good, bad or, as is normally the case, indifferent. The only thing worse than my Latin is my Greek, so I rely on my trusted little dictionary of the language of the Eternal City. It’s pretty beaten up and unhelpfully annotated - not by me but by a previous owner. If I was so inclined, I would chuck it and buy myself a shiny new one, but my needs for such a resource are modest and intermittent, so priorities bury it under an ever-growing hill.

It’s a tough ask, to expect us to just accept whatever life dishes up, hot or cold. We feel compelled – justified, even – in registering our protest to the tireless waiter who always displays perfect recall. But how does it choose to respond to this churlish whine?

With frosty contempt? Maybe…though there is something rather off-putting and unbelievable about an everliving being with such a crabby attitude; nevertheless, I suppose that falls under a different debate - one as to whether or not times passing hardens us, or softens. Perhaps the waiter takes the dish from you and promises to have a word with its architect, apologising and saying the chef is new on the job, and his English isn’t great? Wouldn’t that be something – but how long do we then have to wait for something more palatable? A refund perhaps? Or for the never-seen head chef to come out from the kitchen, a carving knife in each hand, baying for their own form of cookhouse justice?

Better eat up, otherwise hunger waits.

So, we eat. Some of us grateful, others under protest. But we all do eat.

I’m partial to the view that the waiter would simply smile a genuine smile, a Duchenne smile, and wish us a lovely meal. He may even top up our wine before he leaves.

Albert Camus probably summed the whole thing up at the end of his essay, Sisyphus, when he empowered us to imagine the titular brawny bulldozer as, despite his endless toils, happy. The pied-noir master of alienation understood the fearful innards better than most. He got the absurd nature of it all – the grind, the repetition, the endless crashing of our wants, expectations and desires against the jagged coastline of life. But what else is there? What else is being offered? This is not a current we can swim against, and we can only exhaust ourselves if we try. Best to save such energies for the bracing, and perhaps find a bit of meaning in the affair – if we are so lucky.

But what about a thing called hope? Where does that fit into the sapient superstructure of our world. No need for the Latin dictionary here. We must go north and then cut hard to the east, cross the great fetch of cold sea the Goths bested and those straight beaches ceaselessly reaching out to the Slavic horizon. Somewhere in this land the word begins. Hopian is the earliest root we have. Something Germanic and yearning for a better time. Maybe in this life, maybe in the next. I can picture those people, in their great wooden witenagemots, arguing, agreeing, an iron spirit from knowing their ancestors, and their ancestors alone, stopped the great march of history and Varus’ tired legions under the primeval canopy of the Teutoburg Forest. A people with such a mighty spirit would understandably be the same sort to verbalise a wanting for a better world. We get the word through their offshoots who settled on misty Britannia and joined the great envelopment of languages that the island became famous for. It survived migration and war. It survived invasion and linguistic churning. It’s all rather charming really, that a word like hope should live up to its reputation like that.

Hope does not offer much by way of synonyms. It’s the ultimate subjunctive mood. By itself, out there on the border, keeping the ruthless barbarian hordes of despair at bay. It’s in a lonely place linguistically. But that solitude only makes it wiser, more aware of itself, more appreciative of its role. This lonesome reality marvels me. A quick check in my thesaurus offers me: (noun) aim, desire, aspire, wish, dream; and (verb) expect, want, anticipate. Dream ain’t bad, but dream is its own thing, it’s only moonlighting here to help fill the lacuna – it’s not as Hegel said, the ding an sich. The other options plod, sit heavy in the mouth and even heavier on the soul. They seem material, bound to this earth with great chains, concerning themselves with the primitive needs, the animal wants. Skin-crawlingly needy or diabetically saccharine. Hope on the other hand is a revolutionary word. A word for the poetic heart. It’s a word that shifts the mind from the gutter to the heavens, swings the mundane to the extraordinary, the despair to the belief - the knowing - that things will get better. It is a word hated by jailers and kritarchs, resented by the prosaic bureaucrats and functionaries, feared by the imperious, the small-souled.

Of course, it’s not a wholly unique idea to the Germanic peoples; other cultures have had an equivalent word for the concept. My aforementioned dictionary tells me the Latin is spes. Dum Spiro Spero is the state motto for South Carolina – As Long as I Breathe, I Hope. It’s one helluva sentiment. Camus would have been impressed. I know from my own dealings with Southerners that such mottoes sit well on their shoulders. Spes contra spem comes to us from Paul of Tarsus, meaning to hope against all hope. The 16th century pedagogue Sir Thomas de Boteler gave us Deus spes nostra – God is our hope. I suspect he brought brightness to the lives of his students.

Sanskrit gives us the mellifluous asha (आशा) which sounds like the given name of a child of people who have coffee table books (unbroken spine, natch) of New Yorker cartoons, and who wonder if oat milk could power their Hybrid.

My preferred variation is probably the Old Greek word, elpis (ἐλπίς). Perhaps it’s the way it runs off my untrained tongue, or maybe it’s the connotations it renders in my mind’s eye: full moons above the Acropolis; handsome warriors being carried home on their shields; love being born in olive groves.

I wonder: what did Achilles hope for, when his Myrmidon-filled trireme lurched from the surf and pierced the gold-washed sands of Ilion? Duty, honour, faith, vanity (let’s be real…), and a bit of good old-fashioned bloodlust drove through him, we know this much. But what, if anything, else? How about Theseus, the father of the Mycenaeans? Or the true matador, Perseus? Jason, unknowingly saying goodbye to his children forever, and not because he would never return home? Noisy Orpheus? Prometheus with his liver troubles? Leonidas and his bodyguard? They were not just trying to impress their gods, or their loves, but were seeking the transcendental, the belief that their actions would echo, would result in a good changing – what is that but hope?

A bit closer to home, in Ireland, we have tú dóchas, or just dóchas. Pronounced (at least in its Munster variation) doak-has. I can attest to the reality that the Irish are a hopeful bunch. From our Gort Mór exiles, those black years when (my own kin among them) near-endless streams of hungering bodies set off across the world’s seas, determined to find a better life, and if one could not be found, to build one, to our 90s belief that our football team could indeed conquer the world. Such instincts have not, to my eyes at any rate, diminished. Ireland will one day be united; our rugby team will eventually win a World Cup (or at least penetrate into the semi-finals, ffs); we will inevitably dominate Eurovision once more; and, I do believe, we will bring the Nobel Prize for Literature home. Hope seems to be an aspect of our collective unconsciousness. I’ve also read that, while not directly associated with hope, our goddess Brighid (Brigid, Brigit, Brig), of the Tuatha Dé Dannan - our Jungian variation on the Gods of Olympus - in all her protean glory, could be argued to rouse the emotion, being the lady of inspiration and creativity, among other things; and it appears some people thought of her as such, though my sources are imprecise and could doubtlessly be torn apart by an expert.

…

The Fates – the Moirai - were (are?) an interesting lot. Brought to our understanding by Hesiod. Three stern-faced sisters, from the Titan family tree, the daughters of Night Herself: Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos. Clotho’s job came first – to spin the thread of life and to pass it to her sister, Lachesis, who would then determine the length of the thread we got to live. Finally, Atropos would emerge from the gloom, great shears in steady hands, and she would cut the thread at the moment of our death, bringing an abrupt close to the whole affair, and passing the responsibility and judgement of our souls over to Hades’ judges (incidentally also three in number – funny how that number just cannot stop recurring in metaphysical matters).

I consider the Fate girls overgods, as their powers of determination extended to the gods themselves. The immortal beings were as tied to the prescriptions of the Fates as any mud-scrabbling mortal. Those gals weren’t playing. Even Zeus himself is rumoured to have feared them.

So we have fate, and so we have hope. We have both. All the time and everywhere. These are contradictions, in a sense, but, as Aristotle pointed out, our minds can live with contradictions, and as Michel Houellebecq added as a footnote to the great man, contradictions may not be contradictions after all – they may just be the creep of false consciousness.

It’s gonna be okay – much like determinism and free will can live peacefully within the thinking mind, fate and hope can equally live inside the feeling heart. Hope is our tool for telling the three sisters that yes, we happily accept what is given, but we still save a piece of our heart just for ourselves, for the knowing, for the wanting.

So, smile back at the waiter, thank him, and tell him you can’t wait for dessert - cause I guess hope is all we got.

February

I’m sitting in an unfamiliar coffee shop, listening to Cher shuffle onto their house radio (not the dubiously coined “classic” stuff; the cheesy autotuned 90s revival vintage). I am two creamy cappuccinos, doused with more chocolate than a box of Milk Tray, down and about to order a third for my many sins – finding that sweet spot between the extinction of my natural shakes, and the emergence of the caffeinated variety.

I have recently developed a new custom – every night before sleep and I find each other across the void, normally without fail, I read poetry. Out loud, always. It’s becoming a ritual. Where the dotted or continuous line between ritual and habit (and, I suppose, “thing I do”) is exactly found is not know to me or probably most people. Borders have fuzzy lines, the liminal is an entire universe unto itself.

But that’s not important (to me). What is important (to me) is what it does (to me). I’m not writing anything new here (a bad habit of mine I’m trying to kick), or doing anything but pointing out what has been obvious to what is suspect is the plurality of people for the greater part of our civilisational run.

Poetry, it’s my melatonin. Strong stuff. It changes my blood sugar. It changes how my atoms are arranged, and how they interact with each other. It changes my discernment. Makes the beautiful things in life radiate with greater intensity, and the ugly things seem dimmer, gloomier, more pathetic. It’s a deep belly breath for a lungless part of me.

I travel. There is no frigate like a book, as Emily Dickinson said. In an instant I am transported to a distant place, a far-flung time, through a paper stargate. And then to another. And then another. Long-dead souls, and long-dried ink influencing me across the Big Gap in a roughly spiritual way. No, certainly a spiritual way. I’ll claim that, as undefinable and unfalsifiable as it may be to the exclusively positivist-minded sorts that lurk among us, furtively darting from tangible doorway to experimental shadow.

I stand on the edge of the great dark North American forests, full of ghosts and things Lovecraft hinted at. There’s a buckle in my hat and my clothes itch me.

I’m stepping over a fetid pool of stagnant water and human waste under the shadow of the City of London’s walls. In the middle distance, a new story is born.

I am standing – hunching – in a Passchendaele backfield watching a young Irish socialist with a big heart wipe the hard-earned sweat from his brow, look up into the dawning sky, look up at his end.

I’m trapped in a snowdrift. Light is short, and heat is shorter. I feel little outside; I feel everything inside.

I am the Lord of the red sands. Everything beneath the teardrop skies is mine. The sands shift, and I am lost.

I am a thousand fathoms below the earth, searching, digging, on hands and knees, so that rich men get ever richer, and I may be able to put bread in my children’s hungry bellies.

I’m getting drunk on blended Irish whisky and Pepsi on summer grass with my best friend, the girl I will one day marry. Nether of us know it yet, so we are released from such pressures. We simply enjoy each other.

I’m learning that I do not just love her, but she is what love is to me. The air is clear at last. The Urals watch over us.

I’m in a time that has not happened, and probably never will. Men of steel and iron rule our lives through their biddable servitude, slackening us, tethering us to need, to want, to ease.

I am fifty lifetimes between worlds. I never knew the one behind, and will never know the one in front. All I have is time. I write.

I watch as a great romantic limps across a room, on his way to say goodbye to his best friend, unafraid of his febrile bite.

I’m in a Latin city which churns with the intoxication of revolution. Beneath a pockmarked wall a young man pushes his glasses up his nose and dings his typewriter.

I am standing by the blustery entrance to a cave. The wind comes from inside. Somewhere above and beyond, an owl hoots. A man passes, stopping only to take a deep breath, determined, speaking to shadows, promising to bring her home.

A holy woman falls to her knees. It’s marble. It hurts. But she does not flinch. Her god has just saved her.

A man inside a cell inside a cell inside a cell. A panopticon watches. He picks up a pencil. He has never felt so free.

I have a decent collection of poetry books. It’s not voluminous, and is in desperate need of agitating and addition, but it’s serviceable for my current needs and my limited space. The majority of the books are from my family’s collection, going back six decades to the oldest (a book of Herman Hesse’s metaphysical verse, German and English sharing a split page, given to Mum by Grandad as a birthday present). The most useful are the collections, typically published by that megalith of the printed word, Penguin: longer verse, English verse, pocket book of English verse, treasury of American verse, Poets of Munster, of Ulster, of Leinster, of Connacht. Poets of Ireland. They often come with brief but commodious intros for each poet, putting them in place and time. I don’t suppose it is the same for everyone, many people can just enjoy a thing as is, without need for context, but I find my enjoyment increase with such knowledge, it adds shape and depth, and always give the fleeting chance of finding an Easteregg or two.

My darlings have emerged in time, ringing a bell, insisting upon themselves: Aleander Pope, the previously mentioned Herman Hesse, James Welsh, Dylan Thomas, Yeats (I know, right), and, much to my surprise, Robert Louis Stevenson. I couldn’t even begin to try and objectify the subjective nature of taste or preference, but some writers just stand out more for me. For Pope it is the perfect meter and the timeless humour. Hesse says much with little, and makes me want to look at stars and think about Her. Welsh rages with noble dignity earned at the coalface. Thomas made a new language, and in doing so made a new world, full of new things, new feelings. And Yeats…I could only embarrass myself trying to sum himself up, so I will just claim ethnic partiality – his Irish spirit speaks to mine in a way that clarification would diminish. As for Stevenson, the charm of it all is almost too much to bear. if I had children of my own, I would read it to them. My own eyes will have to do for now.

I enjoy my books. Their presence pleases me and when I live in houses or sleep in rooms without them, I do not rest easy. They are both finished articles and tools to be used in furtherance of a task. There is an interesting story in the origin of most books, how they ended up on your bookshelf, or in my case, floorshelf, which proudly exceeds me in height. Where and why they were bought. Where your emotions found themselves on the day. What curious interactions preceded and superseded their acquisition. Many, or most, of the purchases in the post-Covid era are from Amazon, or its subsidiaries, but in the glorious era that came before, every book was a tale within a tale. One day I will get around to documenting them, maybe for my own sake, maybe to share if anyone is interested. But that day is not this day.

…

I’ve tried it. Creating poetry, I mean. To speak in modest terms, it does not come naturally to me. The tripart nature of the thing. Poetry is where language, music and mathematics overlap and, if done correctly, intermingle, in a majestic blur of sight and sound. I believe I can get the language part more-or-less okay, and the music part by mostly accident (though my natural rhythm is in doubt: despite having a decent slalom in my much younger sporting days, and surprisingly good balance for someone of my size, while attempting to dance I make David Brent look like Rudolf Nureyev…perhaps someone reading this will be able to attest), but the maths part is a bit tougher. My mathematical instincts are – as I believe they are with most people – leaden, weighed down by self-doubt and laziness. I’ve always known enough to calculate incomings and outgoings in my personal finances with practical accuracy, and practiced (see: crammed) enough to pass the obligatory exams of a laboured youth, but my mind never seems to intuit mathematical reasoning.

So, the words I have constructed in a cargo-cult imitation of true poetry wheeze their way out of me with sclerotic urgency. Free verse is, I suppose, the closest approximation. I spill a couple of decent sounding couplets and agrammatical phrases on the page, enjamb according to my own private rhythm (“it just sounds…right”), and leave punctuation mostly up to the reader, choose-your-own-adventure style. The meaning is also up to the reader, how they chose to interpret it means more to me than whatever simple, myopic meaning I can come up with – this author is well and truly dead, and continues to die one thousand times a day.

It is a process in constant flux, a fast-flowing stream of potable, mineral-rich, quenching water. A blending of Heraclitus and the James brother with the superior writing skills. A feel, a mood, a vibe. I’m under no illusions that at best what I am doing is keeping up the writing habit, stopping the muscles from atrophying, keeping language, and the construction thereof, a real and regular part of my day.

Most importantly, I enjoy it. It’s never been a toil or a chore, or a source of anxiety or unhappiness, and I am obligated to myself and myself alone – there are no deadlines, no money on the line. It’s invariably a good time when I decide to sit down and bang something out, often relying on words, phrases or sentences I have previously banked to be used later. Jamming them all together in an unholy union that can still, despite an inauspicious beginning, produce decent offspring. I’m unbothered by my failings in this regard. I will fail until the day I am no longer, but that is what being an artist is – a happy failure, because there is always a better, more beautiful way of saying something, doing something. Being an artist is a journey, not a destination. To that end, whenever I write something and submit it for the judgment of eyes born of different mothers, in the spirit of Beckett, I say to myself: next time I will do better.

What am I trying to say here? Truthfully, I have no idea – perhaps you can figure it out.