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Life is Cheap

This is a very short story, more of an anecdote, which I wrote back in 2005. The events took place in 1997.

 

Life is Cheap

 

“Life is cheap over there, son.”

It was my father who spoke, on the eve of his departure for Sarajevo. He had been drinking scotch and was pacing up and down his bedroom, throwing things into a suitcase.

“I’m a bit nervous this time. It’s a long time since I’ve been to a place like this. When I went to Beirut and Afghanistan, I couldn’t wait to get in.”

He stood still and shook his head.

“Mate, there’s people over there who’ll rub you out for nothing.”

His nerves were palpable, but then my father had always been overrun with excess energy. How often had my mother told him to stop tapping his knees up and down under the table?

“You’ve been to worse places,” I offered. “You’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, your dad’s an old pro. I know how to look after myself.”

He took a shirt off the hanger and lay it flat on the bed.

“But you know, mate. In some places, there’s nothing you can do. Life is cheap.”

He was on his way to spend a month in the former Yugoslavia to conduct research for a novel he was writing on a fictional war criminal. I too felt nervous because I knew him well enough to know that he would try to get himself into every dodgy situation available in order to get closer to the real story, wherever it happened to lie.

It was, therefore, with not inconsiderable relief that my mother, brother and I greeted his safe return to Sydney. I was living in Glebe at the time and met my father for dinner at our favourite Thai restaurant in Surry Hills, two nights after his return.

He told me of the frustrations he had encountered in trying to get into Serbia, a move eventually blocked by impenetrable bureaucracy. He told me of being flown from one place to the next by the Luftwaffe, of riding on tractors with peasants and of the heavy, rich, Balkan cuisine he had consumed with such guilty passion, washed down with harsh grappa.

“It’s corrupt as buggery,” he said. “The black market is vast and you can get pretty well anything – guns, grenades, drugs – whatever you want.”

“Didn’t some guy try to sell you a tank once in Beirut?”

“Yeah, an old T-34.”

“Any tanks for sale?”

“No, mate,” he laughed. “But everyone kept telling me to change my deutschmark on the black market, so I did, and fuck me, I got burned.”

“How did that happen?”

“It was in Sarajevo – just a kid on the street, in one of the main squares. This kid must have used the most incredible sleight of hand, because I had my eyes on him like a hawk.”

He took a gulp of his wine, the held his hand in my face.

“He held up a roll, like this, right in front of my face, and counted off the notes before my eyes. I saw every note, mate, and they were all good. Somehow, by some miracle of magician’s dexterity, when I handed him the hundred marks and he handed the roll over, he managed to substitute it for a different roll.”

“What was in it?”

“There was one good note on the top, and the rest was paper.”

“What a pisser.”

“By the time I found out, the kid was long gone. I can’t tell you how angry I was. The little rat, I thought – nobody double crosses Phil Cornford. I went straight back to my hotel room and got a good heavy, woolen sock. Then I walked back to the square, and on the way I got half a brick and put it in the sock. I was determined to break both of his fucking legs if I found him again.”

“Bullshit.” I said, though it was as much a question as an expression of disbelief.

“No mate, I was livid. It didn’t matter that it was only a hundred marks – it was the principle. I hung around that square all afternoon, and I went back again the next day to try to find him. I swear to god I was determined to break both his legs if I found him.”

“But you didn’t find him.”

“No, I didn’t. And then I calmed down a bit and I had to leave Sarajevo. I was amazed at myself, and I still don’t know why it made me so angry. It might have been the tension I felt the whole time I was there. I guess I felt scared – maybe I’m getting less reckless as I get older, I value my life more and I don’t want to die. Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have even noticed if I was afraid.”

The words ‘less reckless’ hung across the table, and I wondered whether he’d noticed the contradiction.

“Mate,” he said, “there’s blokes over there who’ll do you over for nothing.”

Yeah, I thought, picturing him hanging around in the middle of Sarajevo with half a brick in a sock, waiting to break some kid’s legs. Life sure is cheap over there.

This is an essay written for my Masters in Creative Writing, c. 2005. It is not particularly well researched, but seems relevant and eloquent enough to warrant posting.

Death in Venice

Death in Venice is a brief, yet complex novel which ought really to be called a novella.[1] Within its eighty-odd pages, Thomas Mann combines psychology, myth and eroticism with questions of the nature and role of the artist and the value of art. It is a metaphorical and allegorical novel which deals with themes common to German Romanticism, namely the proximity of love and death. That all this takes place within the context of a simple and linear story about an ageing writer’s homoerotic obsession with a fourteen year-old Polish boy in Venice makes it all the more remarkable.

Two of the major themes I wish to touch on in this discussion are those of Mann’s understanding of and concern with the role of the artist, and the manner in which he has made use of personal experience in his work. I will also examine the way in which this novella developed from its initial conception as a rather different story altogether.

Thomas Mann’s early work focused almost entirely on the problem of art and the role of the artist. Mann was conflicted between immense distrust of art as a “decadent evasion” and the elevation of art as “a source and medium of the interpretative critique of life.”[2] His thinking was to a great degree informed by the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, yet he was certainly not as strictly Nietzschean as many of his contemporaries. In his 1903 work, Tonio Kröger, Mann explored the impact of a devotion to art and a bohemian lifestyle on the ability to live a normal life and retain a normal range of emotions. The character of Tonio Kröger “suffers from the curse of being the ‘Literat’, the writer who stands fastidiously apart from experience precisely because he has seen through it all. His critical, knowing, sceptical stance conflicts with his craving for ordinary, unproblematic living.”[3]

In a sense Mann established a sort of artistic manifesto through the character of Tonio who concludes that his art must be “an art in which formal control does not become bloodless schematism, but is, rather, able to achieve a lyrical – almost ballad-like – intensity and simplicity; an art which combines a precise sense of mood, of place with passages of reflection and discursive discussion; an art which is both affectionate yet critical, both immediate yet detached, sustained by a creative eros that has the capacity for formal control, for argument in and through the aesthetic structure.”[4]

Though Tonio Kröger predates Death in Venice by almost ten years, many of the conclusions reached in its composition inform the structure and purpose of his later work.

In Death in Venice, Mann once again displays his focus on questions about the nature of the artist and his art. After introducing his character of Gustave von Aschenbach and providing the inspiration behind his trip to Venice, Mann seems impatient to unload as much character detail as possible. He outlines Aschenbach’s career as a writer with both overt and covert cynicism which pinpoints the ironies inherent in his gradual transition from energetic bohemian to clockwork establishment figure. This dense and often turgid biography acts as a sort of premise to a novella that in many ways constitutes a narrative critique of art and artists and the nature of beauty, to name two of its principal themes.

Thomas Mann makes this plain early on in the following passage:

The new type of hero favoured by Aschenbach, and recurring many times in his works, had early been analysed by a shrewd critic: ‘The conception of an intellectual and virginal manliness, which clenches its teeth and stands in modest defiance of the swords and spears that pierce its side.’ That was beautiful, it was spirituel, it was exact, despite the suggestion of too great passivity it held. Forbearance in the face of fate, beauty constant under torture, are not merely passive. They are a positive achievement, an explicit triumph; and the figure of Sebastian is the most beautiful symbol, if not of art as a whole, yet certainly of the art we speak of here. Within that world of Aschenbach’s creation were exhibited many phases of this theme: there was the aristocratic self-command that is eaten out within and for as long as it conceals its biologic decline from the eyes of the world… [5]

It is no accident that the first theme here mentioned should conform so closely to the tale that is to follow. Mann had long been intrigued by the concept of an older man who has given himself single-mindedly to high achievements, only to be seized, late in life, by love of an inappropriate object who will prove his downfall.”[6]

Thomas Mann had never shied away from using his characters and the situations into which he placed them as a forum for self-analysis. As far as he was concerned, “the personal was given its highest value when converted to literature.”[7] This was made nowhere more plain than in his brother, Heinrich’s, play about their sister, Carla’s suicide. Thomas Mann championed the play and ensured it got produced and he and his brother caused a scandal when they stood up and applauded vigorously on the opening night.

Mann was later to write:

“The personal element is all. Raw material is only the personal.”[8]

One of the most interesting aspects of Death in Venice is the degree to which it is based on real events. Within the context of this class, we have already to some degree addressed the question of how much of ourselves we might incorporate into our works; what elements of our personal experience might we deploy within the context of a piece of writing and how might we disguise or manipulate these. Death in Venice is an example both of great skill and great good fortune for almost the entire story derives from real events which are described in minute detail with a desire to be faithful to recollection.

In his memoir entitled, Sketch of my Life, Mann wrote that:

Nothing is invented in Death in Venice. The “pilgrim” at the North Cemetery, the dreary Pola boat, the grey-haired rake, the sinister gondolier, Tadzio and his family, the journey interrupted by a mistake about the luggage, the cholera, the upright clerk at the travel bureau, the rascally ballad singer, all that and anything else you like, they were all there. I had only to arrange them when they showed at once and in the oddest way their capacity as elements of composition. Perhaps it has to do with this: that as I worked on the story – as always it was a long-drawn-out job – I had at moments the clearest feelings of transcendence, a sovereign sense of being borne up such as I had never before experienced.[9]

Mann had indeed travelled with his wife and brother to an Adriatic resort, only to find it dull and oppressive, and had then made the decision to move on to Venice. He bought a ticket as described, saw the old fop on the boat as they were setting out and, upon arrival in Venice, he and his family were then transported to the Lido by an unlicensed Gondolier who dropped them off and fled without paying after unloading their luggage.

The Polish family were also present and are rendered as faithfully as possible. The accuracy of Mann’s descriptions were later attested in anecdotes and photographs provided by Count Wladyslaw Moes, upon whom Tadzio was based and who was tracked down by Mann’s daughter, Erica, in the 1960s. He also acknowledged that the tussle on the beach between Tadzio and Jaschiu had taken place in precisely the way described and even claimed to have been aware of a mysterious man who watched him continually during his stay.[10]

Not only did Mann base the context and characters upon what he witnessed and encountered, but the character of Aschenbach was a combination of himself and Gustave Mahler, who was a close personal friend of Mann and who was, at the time of Mann’s holiday in Venice, on his death-bed. During his stay in Venice, Mann read regular newspaper reports concerning Mahler’s declining health and this seems to have inspired him to borrow Mahler’s age and appearance for the character of Aschenbach.[11]

On the other hand, Aschenbach’s habits and profession are of an accurate autobiographical nature; his three hours of writing every morning, his midday nap, his tea-time and afternoon walks which are taken precisely where Mann took his, his devoting his evenings to writing letters, and his special interest in prepubescent boys.[12]

While very little of the context and events of the story might be invented, it certainly did not present itself to Mann as a whole already plotted. The prevailing themes of art and beauty in Death in Venice were originally earmarked for a different sort of story altogether.

What I originally wanted to deal with was not anything homoerotic at all. It was the story – seen grotesquely – of the aged Goethe and that little girl in Marienbad whom he was absolutely determined to marry, with the acquiescence of her social-climbing mother and despite the outraged horror of his own family, with the girl not wanting it at all – this story with its terribly comic, shameful, awesomely ridiculous situations, the embarrassing, touching, and grandiose story is one which I may someday write after all. What was added to the amalgam at the time was a personal, lyrical travel experience that determined me to carry things to an extreme by introducing the motif of “forbidden” love.[13]

Mann’s great achievement with Death in Venice was to find such strong, if simple, narrative strain within an otherwise non-narrative sequence of events from the basis of a desire to examine a theme.

One of the paradoxes of Mann’s style in Death in Venice lies in the fact that despite its thorough realism, which derives to a very great degree from his detailed description of personal experiences, the story allows myth and legend to have a very palpable existence. In every regard, Death in Venice is a “highly stylised composition characterised by a tense equilibrium of realism and idealisation.”[14] Rich in metaphor, myth and psychology; its very title is unequivocal in establishing the teleological nature of the story.

Nowhere is the palpability of mythical elements more strongly realised than in the figure of the stranger, through whose various manifestations Aschenbach is guided inexorably to his fate. The stranger takes the form of the traveller at the cemetery, the goatee’d captain of the ship from Pola, the Gondolier and finally the musician, all of whom share devilish qualities in their appearance or assume a devilish quality through their actions and context.[15]

The stranger at the cemetery first appears “standing in the portico, above the two apocalyptic beasts.”[16] The ship’s captain makes the simple act of purchasing a ticket take on the trappings of a magic show through his flourishes.

He made some scrawls on the paper, strewed bluish sand on it out of a box, thereafter letting the sand run off into an earthen vessel, folded the paper with bony yellow fingers, and wrote on the outside… … His copious gestures and empty phrases gave the odd impression that he feared the traveller might alter his mind.[17]

The process becomes more akin to the signing of a devil’s contract and once again, Aschenbach is being drawn towards his fate. When the Gondolier rows him across to the Lido, it is as though he is being taken across the Styx by Charon in a coffin. Finally he encounters the musician who reeks of death and who further acts to ensure that Aschenbach is not inclined to leave Venice by maintaining the deception regarding the outbreak of cholera.[18]

Metaphor and suggestion are continually present. The graveyard at the very beginning has a chapel in the Byzantine style – uncommon and therefore distinct in Bavaria – and surely acting as a metaphor for Venice, with its Byzantine cathedral in San Marco, thus creating another link between Venice and death.[19]

Aschenbach’s initial vision of faraway places, a vision of a “tropical marshland beneath a reeking sky, steaming, monstrous rank – a kind of primeval wilderness-world of islands, morasses and alluvial channels,” describes both the point of origin of the Cholera, and the unpleasant aspect which Venice assumes.[20] Indeed the cholera is merely the embodiment of a metaphysical process taking place within Aschenbach.

Nothing is coincidental about the writing in this work, just as the chair in the gondola is “coffin black,” just as the foppish man with the dyed moustache and goatee, with the wig and rouge heralds the fate awaiting Aschenbach.

In Death in Venice Mann uses contrast and counterpoint, combining modernity & myth, realism and fantasy to make an otherwise minimalist and linear plot so engaging.[21]

Metaphorically the story is that of the “tragedy of the creative artist whose destiny is to be betrayed by the values he has worshipped, to be summoned and destroyed by the vengeful deities of Eros, Dionysis and Death.” At a realistic level it is more a sombre parable about the physical and moral degradation of an ageing artist who relaxes his discipline.[22]

Death in Venice also functions as a series of philosophical reflections on the nature of beauty. The descriptions of Tadzio are variations on a sort of formulaic theme – that of him being representative of beauty’s very essence. At first Aschenbach’s obsession is portrayed as a realistic, psychological infatuation just as his fantasies are initially sublimated and artistic; likening Tadzio to works of art. As his fantasies become gradually more erotic, however, the language becomes increasingly baroque and mythological. As Aschenbach’s behaviour becomes increasingly inappropriate in his infatuated pursuit, culminating in his cosmetic attempt to look younger, so the language of his infatuation becomes more fantastical and ludicrous. By the end of the story the language has become as decadent and unrestrained as Aschenbach’s behaviour.[23]

It is made clear at the start that Aschenbach is a writer whose style shows “an almost exaggerated sense of beauty, a lofty purity, symmetry and simplicity” and whose work shows a “stamp of the classical.” Apart from allowing Mann more easily to locate the discussion of beauty and art within the context of Platonic philosophy, it has been argued that through allusions to antiquity and its different moral standards, he was attempting to soften the blow of the prevailing theme of homosexuality.[24]

Tadzio, is initially like one of the many youths for whom the Olympian gods “conceived a fondness” being likened to Ganymede, Hyacinthus, and eventually Eros and Hermes. He is paradoxically the inspiration and challenge to the artist’s creative urge and its nemesis. He combines both Apollonian and Dionysian qualities, an inspiration to work and a lure to dissipation, stupor and the final disintegration of the body and mind.[25] In a work that closely explores the spirit and mentality of the artist, Tadzio embodies everything that threatens to undermine discipline and the sacrifices that are required to produce great work.

With the exception of its rather ponderous beginning, Death in Venice is a masterful combination of fantasy and realism within a novella that at times reads like an essay or philosophical tract. It is a very deliberate work by a writer who felt that art ought to have a purpose even if it was to undermine itself by debunking myths about its necessity and usefulness.

What makes Death in Venice so remarkable is that even with all of this contrivance and artifice, it moves forward with such a meticulously sustained level of psychological realism that its mythical and metaphorical trappings seem rather ideally coincidental more so than they do artificially contrived. Mann achieves this through intensive detail derived from recent and fresh personal experiences and through exploration of the extremities of his own psychological predilections. Keeping the degree of autobiographical material in mind, it is tempting to conclude that Mann has achieved a daring and self-effacing exploration of his innermost feelings within the context of a speculative projection of one of his possible futures. On the other hand it could equally be said that Mann merely used elements of himself to give more truth to a scathing caricature of the German literary establishment. Either way, Death in Venice is an imaginative and intense piece of writing which raises important questions about the nature of beauty and the nature of the artist, and whilst it provides no clear answers, it offers very telling insights.

Bibliography

Mann, Thomas, Der Tod in Wenedig, 1912; trans, H. T. Lowe-Porter, Death in Venice, Penguin, 1928.

_____, Pariser Rechenschaft¸Berlin, 1926.

_____, A Sketch of my Life, New York, 1960.

Feuerlicht, Ignace, Thomas Mann, Twayne Publishers, New York, 1968.

Hollingdale,R. J. Thomas Mann; a Critical Study, Rupert Hart-Davis, London, 1971.

Swales, Martin, Thomas Mann: a Study, Heinemann, London, 1980.

Von Gronicka, André, “Myth plus Psychology: a Stylistic Analysis of Death in Venice,” in Henry Hatfield, ed. Thomas Mann: a Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, New Jersey, 1964, pp. 46-61.

Winston, Richard, Thomas Mann. The Making of an Artist 1875-1911, Constable, London, 1982.


[1] Thomas Mann, Der Tod in Wenedig, 1912. I have used the 1928 translation of H. T. Lowe-Porter, reprinted in Death in Venice, Penguin, 1955.

[2] Martin Swales, Thomas Mann: a Study, Heinemann, London, 1980, p. 29.

[3] Swales, Thomas Mann, pp. 29-33.

[4] Swales, Thomas Mann, p. 33.

[5] Mann, Death in Venice, pp. 11-12.

[6] Richard Winston, Thomas Mann. The Making of an Artist 1875-1911, Constable, London, p. 269.

[7] Winston, Thomas Mann, p. 276

[8] Mann, Pariser Rechenschaft¸Berlin, 1926, p. 119; André Von Gronicka, “Myth plus Psychology: a Stylistic Analysis of Death in Venice,” in Henry Hatfield, ed. Thomas Mann: a Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, New Jersey, 1964, pp. 46-61; p. 49.

[9] Thomas Mann, Sketch of my Life, New York, 1960.

[10] Winston, Thomas Mann, pp. 267-70.

[11] Winston, Thomas Mann, pp. 267-8.

[12] Winston, Thomas Mann, pp. 268-9.

[13] Mann, Sketch of my Life; Winston, Thomas Mann, pp. 269-70.

[14] Von Gronicka, “Myth plus Psychology,” pp. 50-3.

[15] Swales, Thomas Mann, pp. 38-39.

[16] Mann, Death in Venice, p. 4.

[17] Mann, Death in Venice, p. 17.

[18] Von Gronicka, “Myth plus Psychology,” pp. 53-5; Ignace Feuerlicht, Thomas Mann, Twayne Publishers, New York, 1968, pp. 121-4.

[19] Mann, Death in Venice, p. 4.

[20] Mann, Death in Venice, pp. 5-6.

[21] Von Gronicka, “Myth plus Psychology,” p. 51.

[22] Swales, Thomas Mann, p. 41.

[23] Von Gronicka, “Myth plus Psychology,” pp. 51-3.

[24] Feuerlicht, Thomas Mann, pp. 118-24.

[25] Von Gronicka, “Myth plus Psychology,” p. 55.

The following is an essay written in 2008 during my Masters in Creative Writing at The University of Technology, Sydney. It marks the opening of a new category, On Writing, which I hope expand in future.

Writers on Writing

Is what writers write about writing merely a reflection of their own approaches and sensibilities? To what degree is a particular style or sensibility dependent upon an author’s circumstance? Can other writers still benefit from what they have to say?

If one conducts a search on the web with the keywords, “writers on writing”, it is immediately apparent that there is a vast and diverse range of information available, ranging from simple practical, methodological advice to more elaborately theoretical, philosophical, and even ideological approaches to composition. Currently top of the list is a database from the New York Times with articles by such figures as Annie Proulx, Saul Bellow, E. L. Doctorow, David Mamet, Barbara Kingsolver, and John Updike, to name a few. Most of the articles are of an anecdotal nature, within which context the authors indicate their preferences, elements of their routines, the ways in which they seek inspiration. Some are more meditative and intellectualising, whilst others are directly prescriptive.

One such article, Elmore Leonard’s famous Ten Rules of Writing, now available in a bloated, illustrated edition, has in itself generated a lot of discussion, most immediately evident on internet forums and bulletin boards.[1] His simple advice on things such as the attribution of lines of dialogue, use of exclamation marks and adverbs, the avoidance of prologues and not commencing a novel with a description of the weather, is generally accepted as sound. Yet, it has the force of a stern caveat capable of leaving less confident writers sufficiently shaken to begin jettisoning their own nascent style and attempting to emulate his. Whether or not this is a positive thing remains to be seen. As many contributors to the internet discussions surrounding Leonard’s ten rules have said, any such rules are by no means hard and fast. One might even go on to say that rules are made to be broken, though it has also been said that it is best to learn them first. Perhaps the real question is, whose rules? Whose advice?

The available online resources pale in comparison to what might be found on the shelves of any good academic library. Here the subject is covered much more comprehensively, through the various vehicles of criticism, theory, and the simple “How-to” texts containing suggested techniques both for writing and how best to negotiate the industry. Historically writers have written both on theory and practice – take for instance Henry James, E. M. Forster and Vladimir Nabokov – though increasingly theory has become the realm not of writers, but of “experts”: critics and academics.[2] Whilst no clear demarcation exists between theoretical and practical approaches, any broad survey of the literature suggests that the bulk of writers on writing tend to focus more upon process and technique than theory and criticism, perhaps through a sort of natural selection.[3]

This is by no means always the case, and it is the purpose of this essay to consider two texts, both by notable authors, Italo Calvino’s chapter on “Lightness” from his posthumously published volume of lectures entitled Six Memos for the Next Millenium, and Milan Kundera’s “Dialogue on the Art of the Novel,” from his 1988 book The Art of the Novel.[4] What makes these two texts most interesting is that they come from authors who might also be described as intellectual heavyweights. In these texts they attempt to explain the theoretical, practical and philosophical principles that underlie their method and technique, and the means by which one determines what is necessary in selecting the tone and the process by which characters reveal themselves.

There is also a convenient link between the two pieces, the idea of “lightness”. Early on in his chapter entitled “Lightness,” Calvino makes mention of Milan Kundera’s novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the first section of which is titled “Lightness and Weight.” He writes:

It is hard for a novelist to give examples of his idea of lightness from everyday life, without making them the unattainable object of an endless quête. This is what Milan Kundera has done with great clarity and immediacy. His novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, is in reality a bitter confirmation of the Ineluctable Weight of Living… For Kundera the weight of living consists chiefly in constriction, in the dense net of public and private constrictions that enfolds us more and more closely. His novel shows us how everything we choose and value in life for its lightness soon reveals its true, unbearable weight.”[5]

In his opening sentence, Calvino makes plain his desire to examine the opposition between light and weight, and to “uphold the values of lightness.”[6] In seeking to arrive at an overall definition of his method, he suggests that it “has more often than not involved the subtraction of weight… sometimes from people , sometimes from heavenly bodies, sometimes from cities; above all I have tried to remove weight from the structure of stories and from language.”[7] Kundera too confirms this as one of his underlying principles when, in his “Dialogue on the Art of Composition,” he speaks of the “will to divest”, a process of ridding the novel of “technique”; such as the clutter of unnecessary transitions.[8]

Calvino takes a while to express his definition of lightness, which initially seems diaphanous, as airy and ungraspable as one might expect lightness to be. This is largely because he fails to outline exactly what he means when he speaks of “weight”. Unless we are to assume that he is in complete agreement with his aforementioned summary of Kundera’s definition of the weight of living as a form of constriction, we are left to determine what he means more through the shape of absence, like those ancient Chinese dictionaries that defined things by what they are not, or the people-shaped holes left in the Pompeian ash. In attempting to determine the opposite of what he defines as lightness, one can infer that by “weight” he means the whole gamut of human burdens; misfortune, worry, heartbreak, oppression, catastrophe, and even demons.

So how does Calvino define lightness? He commences with the myth of Perseus and Medusa. Medusa, whose gaze turned people to stone, is hunted by Perseus, who arrives at her lair supported on the winds and clouds. Perseus, aware of the risk of meeting her gaze, cleverly watches her reflection in his bronze shield as he approaches to strike. Calvino states that he is “immediately tempted to see this myth as an allegory on the poet’s relationship to the world, a lesson in the method to follow when writing.”[9] He clarifies this by stating later that “Perseus’ strength always lies in a refusal to look directly, but not in a refusal of the reality in which he is fated to live; he carries the reality with him and accepts it as his particular burden.”[10] Perseus treats his burden lightly.

So what does this mean for the writer? If this is a lesson in method, then what is its practical application? How does one take this metaphor of viewing the world indirectly and employ it? Perhaps more importantly, why is he recommending viewing the world in this manner? Calvino himself seems to be grasping for a clearer definition and turns to the modern Italian poet Eugenio Montale, with particular reference to his Piccolo Testamente. According to Calvino, rather than foregrounding catastrophe in his poetry when dealing with weighty subjects, Montale instead professes “faith in the persistence of what is most fated to perish, in the moral values invested in the most tenuous traces.”[11] He writes of the delicate things that are threatened by the weight of events, by approaching catastrophe or apocalypse, rather than the catastrophe or apocalypse itself. The writing thus attains a lightness, a fragility, making its point more effectively without the bludgeon of weightiness one might associate with darker imagery.

Calvino locates the roots of his idea of lightness in an ancient philosophical and scientific view of the world. For the Roman poets, Lucretius and Ovid, lightness was central to their way of looking at the world, derived from the philosophy of Epicurus and Pythagoras.[12] Both of these philosophers accepted the theory of Atomism, first espoused by the pre-Socratic philosopher Democritus (c.460 BC), that all things were composed of thousands of individual atoms whose nature remained unchanged, but whose combinations could produce infinite complexity, (with numerous variations on the same theme). Calvino argues that this facilitated a perception of mutability, of metamorphosis, of the lightness of the component parts of all things.[13]

Many other examples of lightness in the authors cited by Calvino seem to have their roots in a philosophical or scientific understanding of the world. The fourteenth-century Tuscan poet Cavalcanti claimed that he was an Epicurean, though his beliefs are more akin to Averroism, whilst Dante “gives solidity even to the most abstract intellectual speculation.” Boccaccio was a noted Italian humanist who studied classical literature and philosophy and championed obscure forms of ancient poetry. In the dream of Queen Mab in a speech by Mercutio in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, her coach is drawn by “little atomies”; a dream, Calvino notes, which combines Lucretian atomism, Renaissance neoplatonism and Celtic folklore.[14] Calvino also notes Cyrano de Bergerac’s fascination with getting to the moon. Calvino further links atomism with the signs or letters used in writing. Just as words are constructed of particles, so is the world they describe.[15]

One is left wondering whether or not lightness can only be achieved through philosophy or a basic understanding of Atomism and its later theoretical elaborations such as Newtonian physics. Is the capacity for lightness dependent upon a certain intellectual tradition or sensibility? As if to counter this, Calvino writes that “lightness is also something arising from the writing itself, from the poet’s own linguistic power, quite independent of whatever philosophic doctrine the poet claims to be following.”[16]

If the lightness does come from the “writing itself, from the poet’s own linguistic power,” one must also raise the question as to whether this power exists verbally or semantically? In words or meaning? To what degree, for instance, does lightness depend upon the words themselves? Can it survive translation? Is such lightness contained within the lyricism of the language itself, assisted by alliteration and other devices and contrivances, or does what is being signified have a universality, not governed by the signifier? Is this lightness equally accessible in English as it is in Latin or, in the case of Cavalcanti, the Tuscan vernacular?

It seems most likely that Calvino identifies lightness within that which is being signified rather than the words themselves. Perhaps the realm of lightness, wind, clouds, sky, wings, feathers, birds, leaves, flowers, scent, and other such airy things, invoked in any language, is universal, irrespective of the actual words employed. Seeking to achieve lightness, ought not, however, result in frivolity, which Calvino cautions against. He recommends a “lightness of thoughtfulness,” which can “make frivolity seem dull and heavy.”[17] He ssociates lightness with “precision and determination,” as opposed to “vagueness and the haphazard.” He quotes Paul Valery who wrote that “One should be light like a bird and not like a feather.”[18] In other words, light and strong, light and skillful, not merely weightless. We appreciate the lightness of the language, because we know that it has weight to it.[19]

We must bear in mind that original purpose of the lecture series that forms Calvino’s Six Memos was speculate on what might be the direction of literature in the next millennium, now upon us. It would be naïve to assume that what Calvino wrote was designed to be merely prescriptive, but it is worth taking note of his more prescriptive musings.

Describing a scene in the Decameron in which Boccaccio represents the poet Cavalcanti fleeing, with a sprightly leap, the taunts of a group of youths, Calvino writes:

“Were I to choose an auspicious image for the new millennium, I would choose that one: the sudden leap of the poet philosopher who raises himself above the weight of the world, showing that with all his gravity he has the secret of lightness, and that what many consider to be the vitality of the times – noisy, aggressive, revving and roaring – belongs to the realm of death, like a cemetery for rusty old cars.”[20]

It is a fine image, but it seems to highlight more than ever the degree to which Calvino’s idea of lightness is really just an expression of a particular sensibility. It is a tone and mood that reflects aspects of his own style, and perhaps that of Milan Kundera’s style as well, which, when employed to best effect, is extremely engaging. Yet it is by no means the only method of approaching weighty subjects, as the work of Emile Zola or Alexander Solzhenitsyn will testify.

In his review of Calvino’s Six Memos, Robert Coover wrote:

“It’s an old truth that writers, theorizing on the state of their form, tend to talk mainly about or to themselves.”[21]

This certainly seems to be the case with Calvino, though this by no means invalidates or makes redundant the ideas and themes he expresses. Consider his rhetorical question, “is it legitimate to turn to scientific discourse to find an image of the world that suits my view?” His is a theory to which the evidence has been selected and fitted, and a writer might equally ask if it is legitimate turning to Calvino’s view in the hope of finding an image that best suits them.

Bearing in mind the idea of “sensibility”, we can return to the question of whether a writer’s observations about writing can have a universal application, or whether or not they merely constitute an expression of their own idiosyncratic view of the world and their work.

As was noted above, Italo Calvino celebrated Milan Kundera’s ability to achieve lightness as a means of expressing the weight of living. He attributes it to the “liveliness and mobility” of Kundera’s intelligence, qualities, he suggests, “which belong to a world quite different from the one we live in.”[22] Where then, do these qualities come from? Is Calvino suggesting they are a consequence of Kundera’s Czechoslovakian experience, or that they have their origins in the realm of lightness he describes?

Paul Theroux, reviewing Kundera’s novel, Life is Elsewhere, wrote:

“Kundera’s humor is impossible elsewhere. One can’t imagine his particular situations growing out of anything but a combined anger and fascination with the cut-price Stalinists who have the whip- hand in Prague.”[23]

David Lodge argues that the magical realist elements in Kundera’s work, which might be said to constitute his lightest touches, are the result of “having lived through great historical convulsions and wrenching personal upheavals”, which “cannot be adequately represented in a discourse of undisturbed realism.”[24]

Is Kundera’s lightness something unique, something only possible after enduring a particular level of constrictive oppression? Is his irony and satire something pressed into being by constriction, like a diamond from coal? Can one create this balance of light and weight outside such a context, wherein one has seen both the idiocy, the “kitsch”, the vanity and brutality of oppression, an oppression beyond the weightiness of everyday concerns?

Kundera himself sees it differently, so far as he is willing to admit. In his “Dialogue on the Art of the Novel,” he does not single himself out as someone who occupies unique circumstances, who thus has access to a unique sense of “lightness”, rather he locates his aesthetic in an attempt to render the existential problems of the self.[25] In this light it is perhaps inevitable that Kundera should not attribute his aesthetic to his circumstances, for he argues that history itself ought to be understood primarily as an existential situation.[26] Kundera’s great literary heroes, Witold Gombrowicz and Franz Kafka, did not share his circumstances, and what he claims to admire in them primarily is their attempts to come to grips with existential problems.

So far as Kundera is concerned, historical circumstances are purely incidental and are worth foregrounding when they are relevant to the existential concerns of the characters.[27] With Kafka’s The Trial, for instance, the Joseph K. has no physical or psychological history, we know nothing of his past or his predilections, and the only time we have access to his thoughts is when Kafka reveals his means of grappling with the present. Joseph K.’s dilemma is a essentially an existential one.

Perhaps this existential focus is the key to Kundera’s “lightness”. By focussing on the characters’ existential dilemmas, he avoids the weight of their history and psychology. Perhaps, as readers, we experience the lightness owing to our being more at home with the personal than the political. We can grasp the ironies and complexities of human problems with much greater immediacy than we can those of historical or political circumstances, though, as Kundera himself points out, often history itself is an existential problem and is duly brought to the foreground.

Essentially, Kundera tells us, he is not as interested in history as he is in existence. He sees the principal function of the novel as being to examine the nature of existence, as opposed to reality.

“…existence is not what has occurred, existence is the realm of human possibilities, everything that man can become, everything he’s capable of. Novelists draw up the map of existence by discovering this or that human possibility. But again, to exist means: being in the world. Thus both the character and his world must be understood as possibilities. In Kafka, all that is clear: the Kafkan world does not resemble any known reality, it is an extreme and unrealised possibility of the human world.”[28]

This statement is fundamental to Kundera’s approach to his work. With its authorial intrusions and structural contrivances, one might say the same of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, as Kundera does of Kafka’s work, that it is about human possibility. Whilst Kafka’s work might constitute a significant twist of the kaleidoscope, in the case of Kundera the twist is much more slight. In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, we are continually reminded that it is in effect a work of fiction, yet the characters stand out as starkly real because of the skill with which Kundera presents their existential situations. They are a clever and precise musing on the possible, both personal and historical.

The ultimate purpose of Kundera’s existential focus lies in an attempt to define the self. It is here that he locates his aesthetic. In his “Dialogue on the Art of the Novel,” Kundera’s first and recurrent assertion is that “all novels, of every age, deal with the enigma of the self. As soon as you create an imaginary being, a character, you are automatically confronted by the question: What is the self? How can the self be grasped?”[29]

More often than not attempts to come to grips with the nature of the self have been rooted in the psychological; stream of consciousness, interior monologue and so on. Kundera, however, takes pain to locate his work outside the realm of the psychological novel, whilst asserting that he does not wish to deprive his characters of an inner life. Rather than displaying the thoughts and internal processes of his characters, he instead uses frequent authorial intrusions into the text. As he explains in the case of Jaromil from Life is Elsewhere, it is the workings of his own mind that he displays to the reader, as opposed to the mind of Jaromil.[30]

In order to reveal the inner life of his characters, Kundera outlines an existential code for each; a sort of DNA comprised of a number of keywords.[31] As each character has a different code, so what is required for them to reveal themselves will differ. In some instances it might be necessary to explain aspects of their background or appearance, while in other cases characters merely reveal themselves through action, which, being a response to their existential problems, reveals their inner life. Thus, in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the upbringing of Teresa, whose fundamental existential problem is being an extension of her mother, is described in detail, whilst we learn next to nothing of Tomas’ past. It is a uniform logic of selective uniformity; a formula requiring the application of different formulas. On the whole, however, Kundera prefers to have his characters reveal themselves through action, even if, or perhaps especially if, the consequences are paradoxical. He quotes Dante’s statement that “In any act, the primary intention of him who acts is to reveal his own image.”[32] Action thus becomes a self-portrait of the actor, often resulting in paradox where the intentions of a character’s actions fail to be realised in the outcomes, or result in entirely unexpected outcomes.[33] The existential problem of the individual remains, for Kundera, of much greater interest than the question of their psychological motives.

There are identifiable similarities between Kundera’s focus on the existential and Calvino’s idea, expressed through the example of Montale, of only foregrounding the fragile things, the things which are threatened.[34] Rather than lengthy descriptions of the history and nature of oppression in Czechoslovakia, Kundera only mentions the context when it directly and with immediacy impacts upon the existential dilemma of his characters. It is a means of achieving lightness through economy, or perhaps a means of achieving economy through lightness. Either way, his novels are ultimately more readable as a consequence of this lightness and economy.

We might return at this point to a reiteration of the definition of lightness as an absence of weight. Both Calvino and Kundera indicate their tendency towards reduction, towards stripping back, or simple omission of what might be conventional but unnecessary. While achieving their goal through slightly different methods, they both indicate a preference for avoiding the expression of misfortune through the heaviness of history, vocabulary, internal dialogues of despair. It seems that they are counselling against employing the weight of circumstances as a bludgeon, that rather one achieves a more poignant result with a lighter touch. Is this because our sentiments are better engaged through beauty, or through delicacy, as opposed to the more openly manipulative register of sorrows? Perhaps we might draw one last comparison and liken it to Ghandi’s advocating non-violent protest, which was, arguably, more admirable and effective than the violent upheavals that so commonly characterise resistance to oppression.

To conclude we must begin by acknowledging the difficulty of determining, in any quantitative or qualitative manner, whether a particular style or sensibility derives from a particular set of circumstances. In the case of Milan Kundera, it could certainly said that some of the paradoxes of his novels might not exist without his experience of life in Czechoslovakia, though his settings do, quite often, bear an uncanny resemblance to what authors such as Kafka imagined – existence under a brutally logical bureaucracy. Whilst there might be logical and cognitive connections between the style and circumstance, to suggest that lightness as a response to heaviness is a facility only properly available to those who have experienced true heaviness would be to deny the flexibility of imagination. Perhaps it is true that Italo Calvino and Milan Kundera derive their capacity for lightness from their experience of heaviness, but that need not make such conditions an exclusive pre-requisite. Heaviness, whilst perhaps better or more quickly understood if experienced directly, can also be imagined.

So far as the corpus of work by writers on writing goes, these are not overly prescriptive texts, though they do at times hold strong opinions. Even were it the case that these authors were expressing a unique sensibility, this would not, by any means, make these texts redundant. What they offer is an alternative point of view, and a number of powerful triggers for consideration of what, why and how to treat certain subjects. As is the case with more directly prescriptive texts, one must be cautious, particularly in the case of new writers, to avoid feeling oppressed by the weight of the opinions put forth. No espousal of style or method, despite the authority of the source, is the final word on the matter.

Bibliography

Calvino, Italo, Six Memos for the Next Millennium, trans. Patrick Creagh, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass. 1988

Coover, Robert, “The Promised Land of Literature”, The New York Times, March 20, 1988.

Forster, E. M. Aspects of the Novel, Edward Arnold, London, 1949.

Hawthorn, Jeremy, Studying the Novel, 3rd ed. Hodder Arnold, London, 1997

Hodgkins, Jack, A Passion for Narrative: a guide for Writing Fiction, McLelland and Stewart, Toronto, 1993.

James, Henry, The Art of the Novel: Critical Prefaces, ed. Richard Blackmur, C. Scribners, New York, 1962.

_____, Notes on Novelists, J. M. Dent, London, 1914.

Kundera, Milan, The Art of the Novel, trans. Linda Asher, Faber and Faber, London, 2005.

_____, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, trans. Michael Henry Heim, Faber and Faber, London, 1984.

Leonard, Elmore, “Ten Rules of Writing,” The New York Times, July 16, 2001.

_____, Elmore Leonard’s Ten Rules of Writing, Harper Collins, New York, 2007.

Lodge, David, The Art of Fiction, Penguin, London, 1992.

Nabokov, Vladimir, Lectures on Literature, Harvest Book, New York, 1982.

Pack, Robert & Parini, Jay (eds), Writers on Writing, Hanover, University Press of New England, 1991.

Theroux, Paul, “Small Novel, Large Stories,” The New York Times, July 28, 1974.


[1] Elmore Leonard, “Ten Rules of Writing,” The New York Times, July 16, 2001; Leonard, Elmore Leonard’s Ten Rules of Writing, Harper Collins, New York, 2007.

[2] E. M. Forster. Aspects of the Novel, Edward Arnold, London, 1949; Henry James, The Art of the Novel: Critical Prefaces, ed. Richard Blackmur, C. Scribners, New York, 1962; James, Notes on Novelists, Notes on Novelists, J. M. Dent, London, 1914. Robert Pack & Jay Parini (eds), Writers on Writing, Hanover, University Press of New England, 1991, p. vii.

[3] “The language of criticism has become so technical, even jargon-ridden, that writers of poetry and fiction often can’t or, more usually, won’t stoop to conquer.” Pack & Parini, Writers on Writing, p. vii.

[4] Italo Calvino, Six Memos for the Next Millennium, trans. Patrick Creagh, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Mass. 1988. Before dying suddenly of a stroke in 1985, Calvino had completed five of the six lectures that comprise his Six Memos. These bear the titles of “Lightness,” “Quickness,” “Exactitude,” “Visibility” and “Multiplicity.” Ironically, the final lecture was to be on “Consistency.” Milan Kundera, The Art of the Novel, trans. Linda Asher, Faber and Faber, London, 2005.

[5] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 7.

[6] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 3.

[7] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 3. Perhaps an even more succinct way of putting it can be found in the famous quote of Antoine de Saint-Exupery: “Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”

[8] Milan Kundera, The Art of the Novel, pp. 72-3.

[9] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 4.

[10] Calvino, Six Memos, pp. 4, 5

[11] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 6.

[12] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 10.

[13] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 8.

[14] Calvino, Six Memos, pp 16-18.

[15] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 26.

[16] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 10.

[17] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 10.

[18] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 16.

[19] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 15.

[20] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 12.

[21] Robert Coover, “The Promised Land of Literature”, The New York Times, March 20, 1988.

[22] Calvino, Six Memos, p. 7.

[23] Paul Theroux, “Small Novel, Large Stories,” The New York Times, July 28, 1974.

[24] David Lodge, The Art of Fiction, Penguin, London, 1992, p. 114.

[25] See below, pp. 7-8. Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 23.

[26] Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 38.

[27] “The novelist is neither historian nor prophet: he is an explorer of existence.” Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 44.

[28] Kundera, Art of the Novel, pp. 42-3.

[29] Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 23.

[30] Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 30.

[31] Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 29.

[32] Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 23.

[33] Kundera, Art of the Novel, p. 24.

[34] See above, p. 3.

We look at the abolition of slavery in the West as one of our greatest moral achievements. The abhorrence of a system that classified a certain part of humanity as sub-human and subject to the whims of superior races and powers was recognised and legislated against almost two centuries ago. Subsequent battles for the granting of equal rights to coloured people in the United States, citizenship for Australian aborigines in 1967, and the abolition of Apartheid in South Africa in 1994 have been ongoing, if all too long overdue, successes in granting equality to the segregated and oppressed. This equality before the law is now something we not so much as take for granted, but consider absolutely fundamental to a modern, liberal society. Jean Jacques Rousseau, the Enlightenment philosopher, famously said that “Man was born free, yet is everywhere in chains.” And whilst in many places around the world man is still in chains, so to speak, the situation is generally worse for women.

In the West, women’s rights were slow in coming, but advanced rapidly throughout the twentieth century with a rolling introduction of universal adult suffrage across Europe, the United States and many former colonial territories, equal opportunities in education and employment, much greater flexibility in laws governing marriage and divorce, the criminalisation of spousal rape, increased state support for single mothers and, more recently, the introduction of paid maternity leave in many countries. There are still battles being fought over unequal salaries, glass-ceilings, workplace discrimination, trial and punishment of sexual offenders, objectification and chauvinism, yet these remaining battles, many of which are the result of entrenched prejudices in traditionally masculine cliques, which are, if slowly, being eroded, as opposed to laws deliberately limiting a woman’s rights, can be fought now by women empowered with rights, education and employment who are free to vote and air their grievances. Sadly, however, this is rarely the case across the Middle East.

In the Middle East women’s rights are in some cases so limited as to constitute a second-class citizenship that is no less marginalising than slavery. There have certainly been advances in granting freedoms and rights to women in the letter of the law, particularly in countries such as Tunisia, Egypt, Jordan and Kuwait, but discrimination is so culturally entrenched that custom often overrules this. The situation of women varies dramatically across the region according not only to country, but to class, economic status, tribal and familial ties, marital status, education and political orientation. It is foolhardy to make sweeping generalisations when one considers just how great the contrasts can be. It is also worth considering that western perceptions of Middle Eastern women are deeply flawed, where an obsession with the restrictive dress-codes imposed in many countries leads to the presumption that such women are incapable of outspoken political and social activism or feminism for that matter. This myth has recently been exploded by the thousands of women protesters seen in demonstrations across the Middle East, fully veiled or otherwise. Women across the region have long been involved in labour organisations, union movements, and other types of grass-roots political activism. In some cases they have brought about important victories in securing improvements to their situation. The fact remains, however, that the situation of women right across the Middle East is, broadly speaking, one dogged by discrimination, marginalisation, segregation, and in some cases, outright slavery.

The recent uprisings, rebellions and two successful revolutions that have occurred across the region give new hope for an acceleration of the process of improving women’s rights. It is a tenuous situation, for there is as much to lose as there is to gain. Will the women who have come forward to protest in such great numbers be heard? Will constitutional reforms result in significant changes to their legal, social, economic and political situation? Will they gain or lose rights in the process? It is difficult to be certain, but one thing is clear, they are voicing their concerns on a scale not seen before in the region, empowered by new technologies to organise and share ideas and information. It will be very difficult for anyone to ignore their concerns in future.

So what is the situation of women in the Middle East? As noted above, their circumstances vary just as significantly as their attitude to their circumstances. It is worthwhile taking a look at the current state of affairs.

Egypt, Tunisia and Libya

First, to Egypt and Tunisia, the two countries who so recently deposed their leaders through popular revolution, in favour of a new, democratic constitutional process. In both countries women have a considerable number of freedoms enviable in other parts of the region, particularly in Tunisia. Tunisian women were the first to receive the vote, not long after independence in 1956. In Tunisia, Polygamy is banned and marriage is conditional on the woman’s consent. Women have the right to have abortions and are well educated, with the highest levels of literacy in North Africa. Indeed, women outnumber men as University graduates and have been filling the ranks of the medical and legal professions. They have equal rights to hold office and have impressive levels of representation.

Fatma Bouvet de la Maisonneuve, a Tunisian psychiatrist who lives in Paris states:

“It’s no coincidence that the revolution first started in Tunisia, where we have a high level of education, a sizeable middle class and a greater degree of gender equality,” she said. “We had all the ingredients of democracy but not democracy itself. That just couldn’t last.”

In Egypt, women can drive, go to college and dress in Western clothing, yet they experience discrimination in the workplace, are subject to domestic violence, and have traditionally had next to no say in the leadership of the country. Sexual harassment in Egypt is also rife. Women often avoid public places and crowds as they will almost certainly be subject to groping, propositions, solicitations, or simply cat calls. A survey in 2008 by the Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights found that 98% of foreign women and 83% of Egyptian women in the country had been sexually harassed.

Doaa Abdelaal, a member of the organisation Women Living Under Muslim Law, suggests a more open society will lead to a significant reduction in sexual harassment.

“In an oppressive society, people oppress each other,” she said. “It’s a justification for everyone to be unjust. Under a more open society these things can be discussed, I think changes will happen.”

Despite marginalisation from politics, women have long been active at a grass-roots level. Many if not most of the strikes in the labour movement have been started by women. Whenever violence erupts, it is often the women who come forward to challenge the police, being beaten no less for their trouble.

In Tahrir Square, there was a new dynamic between men and women. Women fought alongside men in the frontline and, with the absolute need for unity and solidarity, a change of perception appears to have taken place. Women earned a long-overdue respect for their strength and determination. Viewed at last as equal partners in a shared cause, women in Egypt can only hope that the spirit of unity during the days of the revolution can be sustained and bring about both legal and societal change. There is great momentum among women’s movements to step up their campaigns for equality. Young women in their thousands, from all classes of society, have already been stepping forward to take an active part in women’s organisations promoting equality, democracy and non-discrimination. There has been an explosion of activity on the internet, on Facebook and Twitter in particular.

Sadly, however, this has not so far translated into practice. The new constitutional committee in Egypt has NO female members and one wonders whether women’s rights will be adequately enshrined in the new constitution and laws that may emerge. We can at the very least hope that their situation does not go backwards, but one thing is certain – that Egyptian women and their counterparts in Tunisia will not back down from voicing their concerns and raising their issues in the future. They have broken the fear barrier, mobilised en masse, and they will continue to press their case. They must do so, for the sake of Egypt and Tunisia, and also for the sake of the region.

Staying in North Africa, Libya, for all its flaws, imbalances and human rights abuses, has long had a relatively liberal attitude to women’s rights and social position. Partly through revolutionary ideals and a need for labour in a country with a population of only six million, Libya has given women access to many of the same rights and privileges enjoyed by men. Women have had the right to vote and to participate in politics; they can drive, travel freely, work without consent from a male and spend time with whoever they wish. Women have also been encouraged to serve in the armed forces, to the point that all girls in secondary school have been conscripted for military training since 1984.

With Libya currently in the middle of a rebellion that is rapidly turning to civil war, the situation is very uncertain. It seems unlikely that Colonel Gaddafi, who has ruled Libya now since 1969, can retain power for much longer, especially now that the international community has roundly condemned him. Some form of constitutional change is likely in the not-too-distant future, and hopefully this will further empower women with the right to participate in a genuine, open and accountable democratic process. The rebels, who have taken control of the east of the country and large parts of the west have organised themselves into broadly representative collectives calling for a democratic constitution. In a country not known for Islamic conservatism which is very used to women not only dressing in western-style clothing, but being very active and visible in the workplace, one can only hope that things do not change for the worse so far as women’s rights and freedoms are concerned.

Saudi Arabia, Yemen and Iran

Saudi Arabia is the most obvious example of the gulf between men and women’s rights in the region. In Saudi Arabia, where the law prohibits women from driving or voting, women’s rights are defined by a strict Sunni interpretation of Sharia known as Salafi or Wahhabi. These laws, being largely unwritten, are essentially discretionary. In practice, however, they mean that women require the permission of a male guardian to seek education or employment, open a bank account, have elective surgery and to marry or divorce. Women are only allowed to travel within registered countries, and, if not accompanied by a male, then with an identity card registered to a male guardian. The peculiarities of the guardianship system mean that, in some circumstances, women may have to get the permission of their sons to remarry. To buy or sell property a woman requires two male witnesses to confirm her identity, and four further witnesses to confirm the integrity of the two male witnesses.

Forced marriage was banned in 2005, however women do not have any practical involvement in arranging their own marriages. Marriage is a contract between husband and father of the bride. Polygamy remains legal and Saudi men may have as many as four wives. The practice is widespread throughout the country. There is no official law setting minimum age for marriage. Religious authorities have allowed girls as young as 9 and boys as young as 15 to marry. In reality, however, there is no official barrier to a father marrying off his daughter at any age so long as sexual intercourse is prevented until puberty. Again, however, there is no real scope for enforcement of such a guideline.

Written law does not specifically criminalise rape or prescribe punishment. The victim is often punished as well, usually for dressing immoderately and being in the company of men in the first place, and there is no law against rape by a spouse. Migrant women, especially domestic workers, are particularly vulnerable; their circumstances are often much like those of slaves, including physical abuse and rape.

In the courts, one man’s testimony is considered the equal of that of two women. Only men over the age of 30 may serve as lawmakers and women are generally excluded from holding high office.

Women are discouraged from using public transport and many of the major bus companies will not allow women passengers. Their only option is to use taxis or private drivers, which, ironically, is technically forbidden as it requires mixing with strange men, but is largely unenforced on account of there being next to no other option. When women are allowed to use trains or buses, they must enter via a separate entrance and sit in a different section. Most buildings throughout the country have separate entrances for men and women, restaurants have separate dining areas.

Consequently, women in Saudi Arabia make up between 5% and 15% of the workforce, whereas female employment averages 40% in other Muslim nations. Literacy is lower amongst women, though those who do make it into the workplace are far more likely to have secondary and tertiary education than men.

Certainly a broad spectrum of Saudi women support traditional gender roles. Surveys repeatedly show this, with widespread concern for the erosion of Islamic society and cultural traditions. One wonders, however, whether these attitudes would prevail if the Saudi education system was not designed to indoctrinate women into conservative Saudi values. Official policy states that: “The purpose of educating a girl is to bring her up in a proper Islamic way so as to perform her duty in life, be an ideal and successful housewife and a good mother, ready to do things which suit her nature such as teaching, nursing and medical treatment.” In school girls are taught that their primary role is to raise children and take care of the household. A woman’s place is at home, whilst a man’s place is in the workforce. The standard of teaching for women is generally lower and less professional.

And what of women who do want more rights and desire to live a more open life? Many find solace in online networking, living more a virtual life than a real life. Online they can express their feelings, protest about their situation and maintain social connections with friends they cannot otherwise see in public. Facebook is the principal vehicle for such social networking, though even this freedom is under threat of being curtailed. In 2007, a young woman was murdered by her father for chatting with a man on Facebook. The conservative response was not to punish the father, but to call for the banning of Facebook! One cleric called it a “door to lust” and cause of “social strife”.

Saudi Arabia has the advantage of being a very wealthy country. Whilst women are segregated, their standard of living is relatively high compared to much of the rest of the region. King Abdullah has made some effort to advance women’s freedoms, opening the first co-educational university in the country and publicly stating that women should have the right to drive, and, ultimately, to vote. Yet squeamishness about the impact of this on conservative Islamic values, the opposition and often violent rhetoric of conservative clergy has retarded this process significantly.

What culture is so weak that it must force people to adhere to its norms for fear of change? Why not merely place a glass case over the country and label it a museum exhibit, or preserve the entire nation in aspic? Culture has always been a dynamic, fluid thing, subject to internal and external influences. It is, in effect, the sum of collective behaviours. If women do wish to maintain the status quo, then they should be allowed to choose to do so, not forced to do so. If they do not wish to do so, then the country must respect that this is the choice of its people, rather than enforce the choice of a small clique who have, very arrogantly, arrogated to themselves responsibility for the opinion of others. Whatever free people choose to do has as much validity as “culture” as what has come before.

Change will come very slowly to Saudi Arabia, whose society is as much a product of traditional Saudi culture as it is of Islam. Saudi Arabia has long been exporting its cultural and religious values, using its money and influence in neighbouring countries. It will likely remain the Alamo of the region, a last hold-out for what is perceived as conservative Islam. One can only hope, for the sake of women across the region, that this process will now switch into reverse. If the ultimate, long-term outcome of the revolutions and uprisings in the region is that the country becomes increasingly surrounded by more open, liberal democracies with vocal female democrats, this may well bring change to the status of women in Saudi Arabia.

The situation in Yemen is still worse, prompting Rachel Cooke of The Observer to ask the question, “Is this the worst place on earth to be a woman?”

In Yemen, sexual segregation is in full force and, as is often the case in Saudi Arabia, the areas reserved for women are of a lower standard than those reserved for men. This situation is greatly exacerbated by Yemen’s dire poverty. In Yemen, women have no citizenship rights, they are largely uneducated, more likely than not to be married before puberty, cannot marry without permission of a male relative, and have a 1 in 39 chance of dying during childbirth. In Yemen, almost all doctors are men, which means women almost invariably go untreated, as showing any part of their body to a man would be considered shameful. With so few midwives, it is understandable why birth-related mortality is so high.

In Yemen women cannot leave the house unaccompanied by a male, or without male permission, and even in the latter case, they are subject to arbitrary arrest simply for being outside the home. Strict dress-codes prevail in this very religious society and whilst most women would choose to cover themselves completely out of respect for tradition, the risks of not doing so are far too great to exercise choice in this matter. Anyone with any sort of uniform, or without, for that matter, can stop a woman and arrest her on suspicion of just about anything, usually some very loose interpretation of adultery, prostitution or indecency, which could be as little as being in the proximity of an unrelated male. In some cases men solicit women, and, when rejected, seek revenge by denouncing the woman as a prostitute to local authorities. Arrested women are regularly beaten in prison until forced to confess to a crime they did not commit. The prisons are full of young women, often with babies, who not only have little idea why they are there, as charges are not often clear, but also have no set trial date.

Yemen ranks 149th out of 177 countries on the Human Development Index. Only a third of the population has access to safe drinking water and most people are poor. Literacy amongst women is a shocking 29%, whilst for men it is more than double at 69% There is one female MP amongst 301 total members. The People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen, which was unified with the northern Yemen Arab Republic in 1990 – a bitter process that led to civil war in 1994 – was previously a Marxist state with a comparatively feminist constitution. Those rights have vanished over the last twenty years with the enforcement of Saudi-style Wahhabism. On the plus side, women are allowed to drive – hardly much of a sell, given the rest of the circumstances.

Despite much work being done on the ground by various NGOs and aid agencies, Yemen’s culture of public and private discrimination is so entrenched that one wonders how it could ever shift. Even women who have experienced childhood marriage and been forced to have sex from as young as eleven or twelve, and who have subsequently admitted to the horror they experienced, have said that they would not prevent their daughters marrying early. To those of us used to living in a largely free, equal and liberal society, this is all rather hard to stomach. It takes a certain measure of arrogance and boldness to suggest that these attitudes would change with education, development and an increased freedom of choice backed by legal rights, but surely it is so. To change the culture, you first have to change the law. Culture will always drag its heels, but with legal protection, education, access to information, the vote, property rights and increasingly backed by their own finances, women could ultimately be empowered to challenge mistreatment by men. This is unlikely to happen in a hurry, without a radical shift in the political paradigm, in other words, a revolution. Even then, there is little guarantee women’s rights will improve.

Despite Saudi Arabia and Yemen’s more restrictive laws for women, Iran draws more international ire due to its perceived strategic intentions in the region, it’s nuclear program, the recent lethal post-electoral crackdown on protestors, and its awful practice of stoning women, among other execrable capital and corporal punishments.

The situation of women in Iran has deteriorated significantly since the Islamic Revolution of 1979. Female government workers were forced to wear Islamic dress, women were banned from becoming judges, the legal age of marriage was reduced to 13, all aspects of public life were segregated and women were barred from attending regular schools. Exposure of any part of the body except for the hands and face is punishable by up to 70 lashes or 60 days imprisonment.

From the start of the Islamic Revolution women have been active in trying to bring about reform. The election of the reformist cleric Mohammad Khatami in 1997 brought hope for significant change. The eleven women in the 270 seat Majlis tried to bring change to some of the most conservative laws, but during the next parliamentary elections they were all banned from running for office. The small gains they had made were all reversed during the following parliament.

Despite their marginalisation in elementary and secondary education, women in Iran are generally well-educated and the country boasts high literacy rates for the region at 70% for women and 83.5% for men. Many women pursue tertiary education, despite the government’s attempts to restrict their numbers in particular professions, including, surprisingly, gynaecology. Almost 60% of university students in Iran are women.

Whilst all freedom of expression is limited and subject to censorship in Iran, the situation is worse for women. In January 2008, Zanan, the only women’s magazine to be published in Iran was closed down as a “threat to the psychological security of the society”. The magazine had dealt with topics such as domestic abuse, sex, political reform, was critical of the Islamic legal code and had argued that gender equality was Islamic, but that religious literature had been misinterpreted and hi-jacked by misogynists. The One Million Signatures campaign, launched in 2006 to secure an end to legal discrimination against women in matters such as adult legal responsibility (9 years for girls), legal testimony (valued lower than a man’s) and damages payments (half that of men), includes many Iranian and external women’s rights campaigners, including Noble Laureates. During the campaign to collect signatures, women have been attacked and arrested, and four prominent members of the campaign have been jailed for contributing to banned websites.

The current regime remains strongly resistant to accepting women’s request for reform and equality. The protests which erupted over the rigged elections in 2009 made it clear how much discontent there is in Iran over the current political and social situation, particularly among young people. There will be further pressure both inside and outside of the country for reform in the wake of the uprisings across the region. Whether this can translate into regime change or significant reform is uncertain, yet the strength of Iran’s security forces will make any such uprising or revolution extremely difficult. Without major defections by the army, prominent ministers or members of the security forces themselves, there seems little hope of garnering sufficient momentum for internal regime change. Women in Iran will continue to seek reform, as they have for many years, and one can only hope that the increasingly fluid political situation in the region and the increasingly open discussion and process of constitutional reform will have an impact in Iran.

Kuwait, Jordan and Syria

So far as legal, social and political equality is concerned, Kuwait has made the most significant advances in women’s rights in the region. In Kuwait, women can drive, travel and work without male permission. In 2005 they were granted the right to vote and stand for election, and in 2009 they were granted the right to obtain passports without the consent of their father or husband. There are still many issues where women are discriminated against – in the religious family courts the testimony of a woman is worth half that of a man. Inheritance is governed by Islamic law and thus differs for women of Sunni or Shiite extraction. Yet, the fact that women can now take part in the political process and are not restricted from holding high office, places them in an excellent position to challenge these remaining prejudices, should they so wish.

The Kingdom of Jordan has made significant advances in granting greater rights and freedom to women, though there are still many social and legal restrictions in place. Jordan first gave women the right to vote as early as 1974 and to run for election, and women have made significant inroads so far as political representation is concerned, though their numbers are limited by a quota system. In the elections in November 2010, for which the quota was doubled, female representation in parliament leapt from 6 to 13 seats, including one victory outside of those seats allocated by the quota system. Still, however, they make up merely 10.8% of the legislature. The candidates campaigned on a broad range of issues, including ending corruption, creating jobs, increased accountability, economic and political change as well as improving women’s rights and political participation. Their numbers remain small, yet there is now considerable momentum in giving women access to political decision-making in the kingdom and in hearing their concerns and opinions.

There have also been rapid advances in female participation in important professions in Jordan, particularly in the legal profession. In 1996 there was only one female judge in the kingdom, compared to 48 at present. A majority of legal students in the country are now women, almost 60 percent. Women have legal protection from unfair dismissal in the case of pregnancy and are granted ten weeks paid maternity leave. Despite such advances, domestic violence and spousal rape remain widespread. As is the case in Tunisia, Jordan has legislated against honour killings of women, though this practice does still occur on rare occasions. Discrimination is still widespread on a day-to-day basis, but observers have reported a gradual shift in the attitudes towards women, largely due to their increased visibility in positions of authority.

Sadly, however, Syria has made considerably less progress in improving the rights of its people, particularly its women. This is hardly surprising considering that in Syria, Decree 121 bans organisations from working for women’s rights. As is the case right across the region, there are many women activists, but fear of legal persecution makes it difficult for them to organise. Women activists seeking reform have been denounced by clerics as atheists, traitors and blasphemers.

Women in Syria do have access to higher education and enjoy relatively high rates of employment. They make up a low, but regionally significant twelve percent of parliamentary seats and are prominent in the workforce, including constituting roughly 15% of employers.

However, women primarily face discrimination in personal matters, particularly with regard to property, marriage and divorce. There are also some glaringly discriminatory laws regarding criminal punishment for crimes against women. In Syria, if a man rapes a woman, he can avoid punishment by choosing to marry her, irrespective of whether or not she wishes to marry him.

Syria has a dreadful history of honour killings of women. The recent repeal of article 548 on the penal code, which allowed for this practice, is clearly a step forward, though men convicted of such a crime receive far lighter sentences than those convicted of other murders, hardly sending the right signals. Previous estimates suggest between 200 and 300 women were killed each year in this fashion, and legislation has not stopped the practice.

Syria, like many countries in the region, suffers from a general lack of human rights and protections in many spheres of society. There is little freedom of expression and police corruption and abuse are widespread. High levels of youth unemployment and the increasing cost of food make it rife for protest and rebellion, as was the case with Egypt, though this has not yet translated into full-scale popular protest. Whether this happens in the future or not depends on how the government of President Bashar-Al-Assad treads in the near future. Rapid change might fuel protests and add momentum, just as no change or very slow change might also increase frustration.

Conclusions

This discussion was not intended to be comprehensive, nor was it intended to explore in detail the entire region and its many complex problems. Discussion of Iraq, Algeria, Oman, the U.A.E. and Bahrain is notable by its absence. The principal intention here was to highlight broadly the different political, legal, economic and social status of women across the region to show just how much need there is for reform. I am happy to concede that I come at this issue as an outsider, an atheist, a feminist and a westerner, yet most if not all of the problems I have highlighted above are in clear contravention of internationally recognised conventions on human rights. Women in North Africa and the Middle East rarely have the same legal rights and protections enjoyed by men; they are denied equal economic opportunities, full political rights, freedom of expression, the right to choose their own partners, to travel freely, the right to express their chosen sexual orientation, the right to abortion, or the right to marry or divorce, and even, in some extreme cases, the right to drive. They can be corporally or capitally punished for acts as simple as communicating with an unrelated male. These simple everyday acts are designated “crimes” by men or male religious authorities, with little or no hope to prove otherwise or change the law. Where women have greater levels of freedom, they are discriminated against on account of their gender – bullied, sexually harassed, excluded, marginalised and disrespected as disrespectful for having the strength to protest against their oppression.

The international community helped force an end to Apartheid in South Africa on account of its laws segregating “Coloureds” and “Blacks”, yet Saudi women are denied many of the same rights. Why should women, according to their birthplace, have fewer basic rights than women in other countries? This is not a question of culture, it is not a question of tradition, it is, pure and simple, a question of discrimination and, in some cases, enslavement. I refuse to accept any form of discrimination or oppression under the guise of culture and would argue that western society, for all its flaws, is quite purely and simply better. Why? Because to a very great degree it allows freedom of expression, its judicial process seeks to enforce equality before the law, and its institutions are based on secular ideals, not an antiquated patriarchal moral code designed to control women’s bodies, gleaned from so-called holy books.

So, what hope is there for change across North Africa and the Middle East? Any significant change will require a major effort and the breaking of taboos. It will not be easy to achieve and may take a very long time. But when one considers the number of women who have been vocal in the protest movements across the region during the last two months, when one considers the scale of the youth cohort in any regional census, there is plenty of scope for more radical initiatives to be placed on the agenda. Alongside freedom of information, freedom of association and electoral freedom, the freedom of women to go where they please, study what they please, work where and when they please, have abortions if they please, marry and divorce who they please, talk with whom they please, drive if they please, and to have sexual relations with whom they please must also be considered. It took an extraordinarily long time for women to achieve these basic rights in the West, and it will not happen overnight, but with such a large youth population, the so-called Facebook generation, this is the best opportunity yet for a flowering of a broader liberalism in the Middle East. If the states of North Africa and the Middle East hope to realise the full potential of their polity, then they must accept that women be equal partners and players in the process and its continuity.

Bilby 2.0

I have always had a fondness for soft toys. As a child I had many soft toys and slept with no less than twenty on my bed every night. Mostly I was into tortoises and from the age of four used to carry a very large quilted tortoise around with me everywhere I went. It was at least two and a half feet long and a foot and a half wide, and thus spent much of its time misshapen as I squashed it under my arm. Papa Tort, as he was known, was later joined by the very thoroughly stuffed, bright red Mama Tort, who begat Tootaloo and Uncle Tort and so on… My soft toys were collectively known as The Favourites and, not only were they a great comfort to me as a child, they were also good conversationalists.

The Favourites still reside at the family home, known to us as the Workers’ Socialist Democratic Republic Paradise of # Furber Rd. Sadly, however, they have suffered the rather ignominious fate of being stuffed into garbage bags and buried deep in the cupboard.

My fondness for soft toys remained undiminished into adulthood. All too often I have rescued soft toys from the street and taken them in. One hot night in Alexandria, in the summer of 1992, my friend Simon and I were wandering the streets on some rather intense, highly hallucinatory acid, when we stumbled upon a large hippopotamus abandoned on top of an old oil heater. The poor Hippo had a badly wounded leg and was in dire need of medical attention, so we took him home and got our housemate Zola to bandage him up. We dressed him up in a waistcoat and tie and Hippo soon became our mascot. He lived a royal life in that house and later moved with me to Erskineville and Glebe.

Around the same time as I found Hippo, I also found Bünchen, a small white rabbit discarded from an Easter display at David Jones. I was working in the food-hall at the time and found poor Bünchen lying, dirty and neglected beside one of the bins in the back docks. Little did she know what a glorious future awaited her!

When I left to do my PhD at Cambridge in 1999, Bünchen accompanied me, along with a more recent soft toy acquisition – the indomitable Platypus, known broadly as Platty. Bünchen and Platty made a terrific team and found their way into my now legendary travel bag on many occasions. The two of them travelled to New York, Paris, Strasbourg, Budapest, Istanbul, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Venice, Verona and Rome just to name a few places. I was especially fond of them and often used them as photographic subjects. It was my then girlfriend Liz, a scholar of German history, who gave Bünchen her name – a sort of comedy German diminutive for “Bunny.”

When I lived in Rome in 2003, Platty and Bünchen became quite famous amongst the other inhabitants of the British School. They had their photos taken in a number of archaeological sites and other such desirable locations. They returned to Australia with me in 2003 and then returned with me to England in 2006. Again, during the following two years, they travelled with me to many different places.

One day in 2008, I was coming down the stairs of Kogarah railway station in Sydney when I spotted a soft toy lying on the stairs. The poor fellow had obviously been dropped by some child on the way, but as there were no children about, I figured he might well have lain there for some time. I was uncertain as to what he was, looking rather like a large-eared, pointy-nosed mouse, but I picked him up all the same and took him into my care. I soon discovered from his label not only that he was a bilby, but he was a McDonalds happy meal toy.

Ah, Bilby! I was instantly very fond of him and placed him inside my manbag. He seemed so at home in there that I took him with me everywhere, everyday. When I travelled to Singapore, Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Macao and Hong Kong in 2009, it was Bilby who accompanied me. Despite the humidity, he thoroughly enjoyed himself and returned safely, a wiser and better travelled Bilby.

When I left for India for two months in March 2010, it was only natural that Bilby accompany me. He found his way once more into the legendary travel bag which has done no less than 50-odd foreign trips since 2000. It was an incredible and at times harrowing trip, but I made a particular point of keeping Bilby safe the whole time. Indeed, I didn’t lose a single thing and was careful with all my possessions, but Bilby earned special “Bilby checks” to make sure I hadn’t forgotten him or that he hadn’t somehow fallen from my bag. He was as important to me as my passport.

When I returned from India, Bilby returned to my manbag. Whilst, like me, he suffered from terrible wanderlust and incurable restlessness, he was good enough to be patient, to a point. Then, sadly, tragedy struck. Early in January of 2011, I was reaching into my manbag to get something and realised I couldn’t feel Bilby in there. I had a closer look, upended the bag and emptied its contents, but there was no Bilby to be seen. I immediately feared the worst and looked everywhere for him. He was nowhere to be found at home, at work, and, well, I could hardly search every bus, train, street and stormwater drain in Sydney for my poor little friend. I soon came to the conclusion that he had most likely fallen out, or, indeed, run away, at some point during New Year’s Eve, when, high as a kite, and cycling around town, I regularly reached into my bag to pull things out.

I was devastated, and when it dawned on me that there was no hope left of him turning up somewhere, I turned my thoughts to replacing him. My first port of call was McDonalds, to see if they had a direct merchandising section on their website, where past Happy Meal toys could be purchased. They did not – at least, not beyond the current and previous offer. I turned to Ebay, finding to my surprise a vast array of Happy Meal toys for sale – almost twelve hundred hits – but not a single Bilby.

It was at this point that my despair reached a new peak, so I returned to McDonalds and wrote the following e-mail to them.

Dear McDonalds,

My query is regarding a happy meal toy, more specifically, the Endangered Species series you had on offer about two years ago. I have recently been devastated by the loss of my Bilby. He and I travelled through the whole of South East Asia and India over the last two years and I was especially fond of him as a good luck charm and photographic subject when nothing else would do. I would dearly like to replace him, despite him not being the original, intrepid and well-travelled Bilby who was so loyal to me through so many difficult situations. Is there anyway I can get hold of a replacement Bilby? I cannot find a direct merchandising website for McDonalds and nor can I find a Bilby amongst the many thousands of McDonalds happy toys being sold on E-Bay. If you could help me in any way, I’d be very grateful.

Yours,

Dr Benjamin Cornford.

I sent the e-mail with more hope than expectation and when, after a couple of weeks, I hadn’t heard back from them, I was ready to give up and was close to getting over the loss of Bilby. Imagine my surprise when one morning, three weeks after sending the e-mail, just as I was leaving for work, I received a phone call from a girl at McDonalds. “We’ve spoken to our distributors and they’ve managed to find you a bilby,” she said. I was overjoyed and thanked her profusely.

“Just put some money in the Ronald McDonald House charity box next time you’re in McDonalds,” she said, which I did, next time I passed.

Two days later, a brand-new, cherry-ripe Bilby arrived in the post. It was a wonderful moment and I held him close; a powerful symbol of sentiment, loss and recovery. I don’t have much money and there are few possessions I hold dear, but the Favourites have always been special to me. I love them as much as pets.

As I write, Bilby 2.0 sits beside me on my desk. After his arrival, I carried him in my bag for three weeks to make him look a little more travelled, and despite the fact that he is not the original and the best, he looks identical and that’s good enough for me. I never thought I’d say this, but, Thankyou McDonalds. Their customer service dedication deserves high praise, though I’m sure they just thought I was some troubled person with an autistic spectrum disorder.

Long live Bilby! And all the many Favourites, for that matter.

This is a very exciting time to be alive. I imagine all times are exciting to be alive in their own way, but the events that are unfolding in the Middle East are a rare happening. Not since the fall of communism in Eastern Europe has anything on this scale, and with such a potentially positive outcome taken place. Of course, far too many people have already died in the protests and revolutions sweeping across north Africa and into the heart of the Middle East, and any number of deaths, especially of peaceful protesters, is unacceptable. However, what is wonderful is that this time the people look like succeeding in bringing down the old regimes and taking their destiny into their hands.

For far too long much of the Middle East has been economically stagnant, socially backward and technologically retarded. Outside of the high-flying, modernised economies of the oil rich and less populous UAE, Kuwait, Bahrain, Qatar and Saudi Arabia, the bulk of the people in Egypt, Yemen, Oman, Syria, Jordan, Libya, Iran, Tunisia and Algeria have been denied development opportunities. In all but a few states they have also been denied access to information, freedom of expression and the right to elect their own leaders under a system of universal suffrage. In fact, the Economist Intelligence Unit’s Democracy Index 2010 lists ZERO full democracies in the region. It’s a disgrace. Badly led by dictators or sham “democracies”, dominated by narrow political and religious ideologies, strategic pawns of the West, the status quo has been tolerated to varying degrees in accordance with their stance on Israel and Palestine, Iran, Iraq and WMD. These people deserve to have the chance to modernise, to read what they like, to say what they like, to do and to go where they like and to give a shit about what they like – simple freedoms we take for granted in the West. That they may at last take these things for themselves is nothing short of magnificent.

Yes, revolutions are violent and destabilising, yes they can have negative consequences, yes they don’t always succeed, but the fact that the people, en masse, have risen up to express themselves and show their contempt for the way they have been for so long mistreated fills me with hope that at last the long-awaited seismic shift the Middle East needed so badly has happened. It seems now to be inexorable. From the western perspective, the principal concerns have not been freedom and democracy, nor human rights, but merely the ability of these states to contain the spread of terrorism, islamic extremism, WMD and to agree to non-aggression with Israel. It is a disgrace how long this situation has been allowed to continue under the guise of stability. When the vast bulk of Egypt’s 80 million people are dirt poor and ruled by a military dictatorship, that is not stability, it is slavery. Democracy has its own problems and is no stranger to corruption, but for Egypt to move forward it must now take its chances with popularly elected governments.

Right now, the situation in Libya is extremely tense. As I write this, reports are coming in of the airforce being used to bomb protesters. Alongside this are reports of pilots and diplomats defecting, of army commanders siding with the people, of mercenaries using mortars and other heavy weapons on protesters, of buildings burning in Tripoli, of the people celebrating driving the mercenaries out of Bhengazi and the defection of  a crack military division, of the borders being abandoned and opened and Egyptian medical aid waiting to enter. It is a confused and confusing situation, with few journalists on the ground to report and lines of communication cut. Nonetheless the reports all point in one direction: The downfall of Gaddafi’s regime. It couldn’t come a moment too soon.

First Tunisia, then Egypt, now, fingers crossed, Libya. Rarely has such regional change been witnessed outside of a more widespread conflict such as the world wars. The collapse of communism across Eastern Europe is the closest parallel, yet that was facilitated by the withdrawal of the Soviet armies and a significant change in policy and outlook at the heart of the Soviet Empire. Here, in the Middle East, the process has gotten underway with nothing more than the utter despair and frustration of people kept back and held down for so long.

Perhaps, if this tidal wave of democracy succeeds and sweeps on through Yemen, Oman, Jordan and Syria, then the Middle East, once one of the leading lights of the world technologically and intellectually, will have a chance to move forward and be great again. Seeing the determination of the people – not led by religion or factionalism, but simply crying out in the loudest, the bravest voices for freedom and dignity – I feel great confidence that they can succeed. This is not a time for the West to intervene, but the West must take a role in helping these countries to construct their democracies when the time is right. There is much advice and technical assistance that they will require, and the developed world must do everything to help these people take and shape their destiny, in a non-exploitative manner. This is not a time for cutting business deals, it is a time for altruism.

*************

The dazzling skyline of Dubai is a powerful symbol of modernity. It is vibrant, first class hub of investment, trade and development. The United Arab Emirates boasts an economy which has sensibly avoided being a one-trick pony; recognising the long-term, strategic limitations of its energy resources, it has invested massively in its construction and financial sectors. The UAE has spared little in creating a positive environment to attract skilled workers, including strong investment in its domestic tertiary education sector.

However, when it comes to the clearest indicator of real innovation – patent filings – Israel is the only state in the region keeping pace with the front-runners of the developed world. The Middle East is far behind the pace. The 2008 report of the World Intellectual Property Organisation (WIPO), based on 2006 statistics – the only currently available figures from this body, show an alarmingly low number of patent filings across the region.

In 2006, no less than 408, 674 patents were filed through patent offices in Japan, and just over 400,000 in South Korea. During the same period the total number of patents filed by Middle Eastern economies, including Bahrain, Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Jordan, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Syria and the UAE, but not including Israel, amounted to just over 2000; 1377 of which came from Egypt alone. Israel managed an impressive 7496 applications, almost all of which came from Israeli residents. Of these applications, the total number of patents granted in Israel in the year 2006 exceeds the total number of applications for the eleven other economies listed above.

Clearly, there are other factors that must be taken into account: –  the devastation of the Iraqi economy after long years of sanctions and war; the political isolation of Iran; the political turmoil in Lebanon and so on. Yet, irrespective of this, low levels of investment in the tertiary education sector and a lack of co-ordination between institutional research and industry, have resulted in what can only be described as a woeful record of technological innovation.

Take Syria, for example. The nation has a solid educational base – its primary and secondary system is based on the French model and, though monitored ideologically by the Baath Party, it’s tertiary sector is not exactly substandard. In 2006, however, on a per capita basis, Syria filed a mere 6 patents for every million citizens, whilst South Korea filed no less than 2591. It goes without saying that one cannot reasonably compare these two economies, but the gap is so vast as to be breath-taking.

In Egypt there are sound institutions and a swag of universities, yet they are overcrowded and underfunded. The real problem, however, and this is something that could be said to apply across the region, is that they do not foster an environment conducive to new research or innovation. Research is conducted primarily as a prerequisite to an academic career and posting. After this, however, the research output of Egyptian universities, and regional universities in general, is very poor in relation to faculty staff numbers. This shortfall in new ideas is then compounded by the absence of strong links between innovation and industry. Egypt’s innovators need an environment that offers them more incentives for new research and innovation, and which links these new ideas with industrial entrepreneurs.

Aside from the economic advantages of encouraging home-grown innovation, an expansion of the range of brands and products emerging from the Middle East can only help to improve perceptions of the region globally. Currently, aside from assorted financial services and highly reputable airlines, very few products and services that are notably Middle Eastern in origin are available in the West. The advantages in terms of positive reception and increased understanding can be seen by changing attitudes towards China, India and Korea, though positive gains can also be tempered by resentment. Clearly such a scale of output is unthinkable for most Middle Eastern economies. Yet if they can’t punch far above their weight, they must aim at least to punch according to their weight. R & D is languishing across most of the region and those with ideas and talent are looking elsewhere to get their ideas off the ground.

Egypt in particular has an impressive manpower resource which could be harnessed to more innovative local industries. Across the entire region there is a strong, intellectual tradition which, as has been proven in all successful developing countries, significantly shortens the journey towards prosperity. Of course, it goes without saying that responsible, green development is the better path to take, but this is by no means a barrier to more rapid development. Either way, the Middle East needs to learn not so much to work harder, but to work considerably smarter.

Travelling Light

Finally got around to editing and posting this. It was written in the last weeks of my travels, in Varanasi, around the 7th of May 2010. I had sunk into a deep melancholy and disciplinary dissolution in woebegone anticipation of my epic journey’s drawing to a close and sought solace in reflection and hashish.

 

Travelling Light

For seven weeks now I’ve been on the road in India, and the only luggage I have with me is a shoulder bag. A large, deep and wide shoulder bag, little more than a voluminous day pack. I would hasten to dismiss your fears for me having made terrible sacrifices, and be quick to add that on only a very few occasions have I found myself wanting. Very few.

One great advantage of having very few things is that there is less to be lost, and less to worry about. I can unpack my bag every time I enter a new hotel room and fit everything on a chair or small table. It is far easier to find things and keep track of them. I haven’t managed to lose anything yet and I certainly hope not to do so in my final weeks. Packing is also very quick. I have done it so many times I’m like an assassin stripping a gun blindfolded. I can be ready in a very short time, unencumbered because everything is on my back in an unobtrusive, ten kilogram bundle, though I usually choose to carry my camera.

Travelling light is an interesting experience, philosophically; a situation that demands contemplation of one’s relationship with one’s possessions. How much do you actually need on a day-to-day basis? How many clothes do you really need? How many pairs of shoes? How many gadgets? These are fundamental questions we often fail to ask ourselves. Why do we really buy things? What are we trying to fulfill? Is it purely acquisitiveness? If so, is that a desire we ought really to satisfy?

The love of possessing things also faces practical obstacles whilst on the road. If one has no space in which to carry anything, can one really afford to buy something, on account of the inconvenience? If you travel with the idea firmly in mind that you will buy nothing whatsoever, then you will feel less troubled about refusing offers and missing opportunities to buy souvenirs. I tell everyone that I will buy nothing and I mean it, so I am not troubled by desire. I must appear sincere because they rarely press the case very far at all. I don’t really feel I’m missing out at all, and anyway, is not a collection of photographs sufficient?

Not only is the absence of things beneficial to understanding that they are not necessary, but also the presence of certain possessions establishes very special relationships with them. The things that you shepherd with you everyday; the things you must look out for every time you pack your bag; the things you must remember having and must occasionally check upon; the things you have with you always, for security; the things you use all day; the things that are of most importance – the passport; the whereabouts of which you must always be aware of. These are rare relationships with things, capable of breeding great sentimentality and care.

If one combines the respect for and appreciation of one’s useful belongings with awareness of the minimalism with which one is able to live happily and comfortably, then we would have a much more environmentally friendly planet, inhabited by people with a natural distaste for greed and excess.

When you consider how many clothes you have in your closet and how many of them are actually worn, then consider the energy, water, labour and resulting pollution that went into their manufacture and distribution, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see that if everyone in the world bought half as many clothes, it would make a very significant impact on the environmental consequences of our overconsumption. I have very few clothes compared to most people I know, yet even still that extends to something like ten pairs of trousers and jeans combined, thirty-odd tee-shirts, twenty-odd collared shirts, perhaps ten pairs of shoes. Do I really, honestly, need that much? Most weeks I wear about three or four combinations at best, totalling around 12 staple items. Sure, keep something for a special occasion, but is the rest really necessary?

No one wants to live in a world, as predicted by so many awful old science fiction movies, where everyone wears the same type of robe. Yet we can still retain some individualism, look cool and own half as many clothes. The problem is that there is no sensible understanding of quotas or limits. How would one determine where to draw the line? I guess a simple rule of don’t buy it unless you actually need it might be a good starting point.

I have come to take great pride in all my possessions and look out for them at all times. The trusty notebook PC, the ever-reliable camcorder, the digital SLR, the clothes, the diary, the toothbrush, the guidebook, the heavy, A4 day-to-a-page diary. Some of these things I have come to know so intimately they have nicknames. My five tee-shirts have already been dubbed “The heroes” for enduring so many long, sweaty wears and being misshapen by my backpack. Two pairs of my already fatigued boxer shorts lost their elasticity, so I finally had the chance to make use of my miniature sewing kit. I folded the elasticated waist into a pleat and triple-stitched it to ensure it was sturdy. They have thus found a second life and I have obviated the need for replacing something on the road. A needless expense, and also, a needless early disposal of something still perfectly useful.

I know that travelling light is not everyone’s cup of tea. It’s certainly easier in hotter climates. I have one pair of shoes – a cheap pair of durable, Chinese flip-flops. I have one pair of long, light cotton pants and a short-sleeved collared shirt in case I have to look at least slightly less ragged. I can’t really hit the high end of town, but then, I didn’t come here for that and couldn’t afford it anyway. Whilst in the mountains, in Darjeeling, McLeod Ganj and Manali, I did at times feel cold and long for a warmer top – still, I was able to avoid discomfort by wearing three tee-shirts. Layers are the next best thing, but of course this wouldn’t suffice in wintry conditions.

Still, in any climate, I highly recommend travelling with as little as possible. I took the very same bag on many trips around Europe in winter, with an equally small number of possessions. Only once when a freak cold spell caught me in Belgium, did I suffer for lack of a sturdier coat. Even then, however, buying a new coat did not require changing the size or portability of my luggage. If everything can be fit into a carry-on sized bag, especially one you can carry on your back, then there are significant advantages. It never needs to be checked for flights and thus is never lost – you can march straight out of the airport and be on your way. It never needs to go in the belly of the bus, thus alleviating anxiety over its being stolen by another passenger when the bus unloads somewhere along the route. You can move unencumbered. You can walk all day with your baggage with relatively little discomfort. You can take your baggage to the bathroom if you are travelling alone and never need to leave it anywhere – on a train; in a restaurant; in a bar – it will always be with you, and, wherever you are, you will always be ready to get back on the road, where you belong.

The following is another chapter from volume 1 of my autobiography entitled Sex With a Sunburnt Penis. Written on the crest of a wave of binge-drinking, it was a process of autobiography as therapy conducted between July and November of 1997. The title, Sex With a Sunburnt Penis (hereafter SWASP) is a metaphor highlighting the consequences of mounting pleasure upon pleasure. It posited that, in a country as wealthy as Australia, those born without any significant disadvantage are so well placed in life that it is really up to them to screw it up. I did so, royally, on many occasions, but regret is a wasted, pointless, indulgent emotion unless it fuels change and action. We must get back up on the bicycle so to speak, or otherwise, seek Rough Solace, a character who appears in the story as a personification of the frank good advice we can give ourselves if any wisdom dwells within. SWASP was initially intended as a one-off, but a couple of years after having written it, I envisaged a trilogy to complete the picture. Volume 2, still in the pipeline and sketched to some degree, bears the working title Loitering with Scholastic Intent. My good friend Chris recommended the title A Blow Job too Far for volume 3, though, whilst it sounds magnificent, I’m not entirely sure it will turn out to be appropriate.

The following passage, entitled Entropy, contains in its entirety my first attempt at writing a short film script. It is hopelessly inept, incongruous and contradictory, but we were very happy with it at the time and that’s good enough for me.  Too many cones indeed, and apologies for the formatting. WordPress does not seem to accommodate pre-formatted screenplays when cutting and pasting, unless I am missing something. Enjoy it, ja!

Entropy

I met Tyrone Books early in 1992 at my friend Mike’s place. As Tyrone had a certain suave, philosophical nonchalance about him and a much-coveted girlfriend, it was my plan to appear formidably impressive during our initial encounter. He found me with a bong in one hand, a glass of wine in the other and about three litres of cardboard Claret already in my stomach. When, after a good hour’s conversation about the influence of jazz and classical on certain Scandinavian metal bands, I looked down to find my No-Names bolognaise floating in a sea of wine on Mike’s polished-cork kitchen floor, I thought I had blown it. It so happened, however, that this was a defining moment of a different kind. For, as he was to confess many years later, what impressed Tyrone most of all was my insistence on continuing the conversation between apologies, cleaning, and further evacuations into the kitchen sink.

While the Barcelona Olympics were on, my old friend Gustav and I were given the opportunity to house-sit in a bungalow in Newtown. It seemed short-sighted to waste the opportunity of living in such a marvellous house by going to lectures, so instead I spent every last penny on weed, speed and acid and holed up for the games. During the second week of events I invited Books to visit one evening. We smoked hashish on hot knives, fashioned a bong out of a pen and shampoo bottle, then hosed the back yard and sat listening to it drip for a good hour.

“Gustav and I listen to the garden every night,” I explained. “The sound of the dripping is hypnotic, I highly recommend that you get right into it.”

“It’s pretty good, man,” said Books. I could tell that he was impressed.

Our conversation stretched well into the wee hours and Books finally departed as I began my shift at the Olympics. The following night he got in touch and came around for more of the same. By the end of the week we were best friends.

Books, who had just moved into Arundel Street in Glebe, soon found himself in the difficult situation of having to find new housemates. Within three weeks of moving into the house, through no fault of his own, all the other tenants moved out. He was fortunate in finding three replacements with extraordinary speed, one of whom was an enthusiastic wannabe film maker and communications student by the name of Saul Godly. Keen to get away from home and hang out with my new friend, I began to use Books’ house as an outpost at which to base myself after a long day dodging lectures. Soon Tyrone, Saul and I were as thick as thieves, and it was only natural that such a blessed triumvirate should be granted ambitious revelations.

One evening the three of us dropped acid and walked from Paddington to Glebe on an all-night epic. During that journey we declaimed, with great affectation, our dreams and visions for the future.

“I’m going to make it rich as a psychologist,” said Books, “then spend my money making movies. I’m going to be a director and an inventor, but most of all, I’m going to be a scientist and computer expert like Avon in Blake’s 7, or Davros in the Genesis of the Daleks.”

“I’m going to make films too,” said Saul. “But I don’t just want to be behind the camera, I want to be in front of it as well. Plus, I’m gonna write the damned things. I’m going to be an artiste, an auteur, an actor!”

“And I’m going to be a writer!” I shouted, beating my fist into the copy of Clive Barker’s Weaveworld, which I happened to be carrying. “I’m gunna write novels like a demon – novels, films, plays, short stories, poems – the lot. I’m going to be a writer!”

After some lines of speed at Arundel street, we spent the morning photographing each other in front of the railway viaduct at Glebe Point. It was a day to remember, and we wanted to preserve that glow of determined youth for eternity. Saul and I went further and made a pact. Within a year we were to produce a major work. He would write a film script, and I would write a book – either a novel or collection of short stories. At last I felt I had found a definite direction in which to steer myself.

Four months later, I hadn’t written a thing. I had, at least, begun to teach myself to touch type, but in a world without e-mail or the internet, and too lazy even to write my essays, let alone type them, it was difficult to motivate myself to stay in front of a keyboard. University was sliding away from me again. My absenteeism in first semester had ruled out any chance of passing in Fine Arts and Linguistics and now, having moved deep into second semester, I faced the prospect of failing the lot. Hanging thus by a thread, I could not justify such slackness unless I began to produce extra-curricular results. If I was going to be a writer, I had better start soon.

It was, therefore, without a moment’s hesitation that I accepted my first commission. As Saul was nearing the end of his first year, the deadline for his short film project was approaching. He had already signed Books up to the task but they had, as yet, failed to come up with any script ideas. So it was that Saul asked me, “the writer”, if I would be willing to help him out.

“For fucking sure, Saul,” I said. “That’d be untold!”

This was it. This was the chance. We were going to make a film!

It was a great excuse to get drunk and stoned, take some speed and drop a trip, and we did so by way of a script moot. The following morning found us drawing and painting on the walls of Tyrone’s bedroom and it was when I asked Tyrone what he was going to say to his landlord that the story finally took shape. It would be about an artist, played by Saul, painting his walls in praise of the sun and not caring for the concerns of the Proprietor, whom he considered an obstacle to art. The painter would live with a writer, (myself) and both of these characters would be plagued by the naggings of Books, the Joker.

“The story is about the tension between chaos, anarchy, vandalism,” said Books, “and order, society and structure. The proprietor is Society incarnate and his interest is to keep the walls white, for this is tradition. The proprietor wants to maintain conservative values, while the painter and writer want to express their subversive ideas in their pictures and writing. It’s about the problem of being forced to be a part of the society into which you are born.”

“Like wanting to be a hermit,” said Saul, “but needing to work to live.”

“Exactly,” said Books, “or sort of, at least. Now, the position we wish to support in the play is that the expression of individuality and the freedom of that expression is good and should not be hindered by conservatism, but that one needs to respect society and its component structures.”

“Okay,” I said, impressed by the perspicacity of Books’ reasoning. “So what is the Joker’s role?”

“Ah,” said Books, “the Joker symbolises anarchy – he is diametrically opposed to the proprietor, yet he cannot escape from the room – society – and he has no power over him. Why? Because he is not real but ethereal; not a person, but a concept – an energy, something which can be activated and used, as both the Writer and Painter do in their art. In the end the Painter uses the Joker’s energy to kill the Proprietor. The painter, you see, is the simple idealist – he is all passion, and refuses to be a sheep, helplessly passing his time in the grasslands away.”

“Nice quote.”

“I thought you’d like it. So the story ends with the death of the Proprietor and the walls painted – the Painter triumphant, but a murderer. The Joker is free, and so, in a sense is the Writer – yet the writer now wonders whether or not he will miss the Proprietor, with whom he occasionally liked to converse, being more able to walk the median strip of life. The final scene ought to take place in a field, outside of the room. For with the Proprietor dead, society is gone, and society was, after all, the room. In effect, this film is about the end of society.”

“Bravo.”

Over the next two weeks I struggled with pen and paper, having next to no knowledge of how to write a screenplay. My only experience on this front was a script written in my first year of high school as an English project called A hand for the Chopper, which was shot in exactly forty-three minutes one Thursday lunch break. My father had written film scripts and done a lot of writing for television, but rather than consulting him, I figured I could just wing it. I was sure of myself. I had talent, didn’t I? All my University friends and Newtown acquaintances thought of me as an ideas man, a creative conversationalist, someone with the gift of the gab. All I had to do was put a little of that into the project and we’d be right as rain.

Inspiration struck one Tuesday night with nothing much to do. I got stoned and went up to the Courthouse Hotel with an exercise book in which to begin my scribbling. I was soon on a roll. I poured schooners down my neck and stabbed away at the paper, hoping girls would notice me being so obviously bohemian. The few girls present ignored me completely, so I just kept writing and writing, unwilling to abandon hope. After about two hours, I put down my pen, smoked my twentieth cigarette and felt proud. I had written a masterpiece. This, I knew, would one day be remembered as the moment that Benjamin David Philip Cornford first thrust himself onto the scene as a writer.

FADE IN:

INT. TERRACE BEDROOM WITH BALCONY
Sun streams through open French doors onto a white stretch of wall. Standing, studying the wall is the PAINTER. A WRITER sits at his desk, writing with a pencil. PAINTER approaches wall and runs hands over it, scratches his chin, steps back, kneels, frames scene between joined hands.

PAINTER

I can see it all in my wall. Should my hands confess in paint the sights they wish to shape? Such bland boundaries, faded but never kissed by the light. Reduced by a sun intolerant of their lack of welcome. I must impress with colour that yellow god and look back so he knows I admire his daily ablutions.

We close to the WRITER, who leers up from his work. Music softly sounds his theme intuitive.

PAINTER

An eye. Am eye to watch the sun and not squint, but occasionally wink in friendly approval. What colours should I use?

PAINTER begins to sharpen his pencil with a knife and begins to draw on wall.

PAINTER
This is my wall, I’ll do as I will. As I must. For it is my wall.

Enter JOKER, grinning, from the doorway. WRITER watches him but says nothing as JOKER sneaks up from behind and takes the knife from the PAINTER. PAINTER backs away, disarmed, frightened, apprehensive.

JOKER
In praise of a fool you would commit this sin? For surely the sun is a fool. Your talent is a lie, your art a falsity. Dear painter, bathe yourself in guilty blood for the works you have made incite the punishment of the lawful. Does the sun care for your work? Is he not truly beautiful? Your work is a mockery of his golden pain, your guilt and your pain are as one with his, his sins are far greater. So burn in the heart you feel is true, end this childish game. Look painter, but not to the sun.

PAINTER
But, but you see (plaintive) I must paint. I must, I, I…

JOKER
So many I’s in so short a space makes for a rather egotistical young fool. The sun’s eyes bleed, he cannot see past his face. He grumbles that fools like you live and revel in his painful light.

JOKER approaches WRITER who instantly takes the knife from his hand and begins to clean his nails. The JOKER smiles at the WRITER’s wit.

JOKER
Aha!, you play well, writer, and yet do you write well? Is not the painter a fool, is not the painter going to pay for his indulgence? But you know of his kind, free with his art, licensed to vandalise and insult.

WRITER
Is his art a sin? Do you label and lay claim to his heart? What price do you place on his defence? If his belief is true, you won’t stay his hand. His work is good, it is no stain.

JOKER
And yet you write words by the thousand – his art is slow. His pictures tell a thousand words, but is this evidence of a quick mind or that of a simpleton challenged to form sentences in description of his own ridiculous plight!

WRITER
My work is long

JOKER
You work well, while he lays his foundations.

WRITER
Slash his wrist and he’ll paint till the blood runs free. I’d write his epitaph, but fill it full of praise.

JOKER
And I’d paint his headstone in praise of the sun. Cajole and provoke, but I wouldn’t take his life. See how he frustrates at his wall.

WRITER
He frustrates for he is like the sun trapped within his youthful form. His blazing light runs rivulets through his limbs, coursing through his torso, abdomen, head. Yet he cannot burn now to let it all out at once in a flash. Can one convict him of a sin when he has no choice?

JOKER
Yet in time his spirit will change. Better he realise now than when red-faced and fifty. He’ll live for twenty years and die for fifty more, die now or become now what no illusions can prevent him from being.

Cut to the PAINTER whose thoughts we hear as voice-over while he paints.

PAINTER
How will he know? How should he find my work? Soon I’ll be away and leave my work behind. Yet it will then be elsewhere. Cannot he see that it beautifies the room? Why does my very conscience nag me so? Why should I not do what is right to be done? I’ll paint, damn it. That eye will have sight and that fool’s attempt to subvert my goal – damn him, he won’t sway me.

JOKER moves back over to PAINTER and prods him with his finger.

JOKER
Ahh, I see it’s the sort of stain that spreads. And what will you do when he sees it? Shall you apologise, try to explain? The writer asks what price your defence. I’d place the price high for the work would be hard, and of course, unfulfilling, for how can you expect a pardon? Don’t you know you cannot win? Yet, I tire of this provocation.

PAINTER
Then obstruct me no more!

JOKER
Why should I indulge myself, your mind is so full of obstacles. Look at the writer, he pauses, thinks, his hand is smooth. Stop-start it is with that dirty brush – you have no style, no flow, you silly orang-utan. I see only one fully evolved individual in this room – he reads what is written and writes what is not.

PAINTER
Confound it! I cannot concentrate.

JOKER
You never concentrate, have you tried? You stare but your drive is anger – are your emotions so malformed? You’re worried and aware of the consequences of your desecration. Have some regard. Play not games with life, when your soul is unfit for competition!

PAINTER
But it bothers me not what is in the mind of the Proprietor. How painful can his punishment be? As painful as a life without freedom? Should he stand in my way I’ll sweep him aside as in a brush stroke and paint him with blood. Better than to burn slowly to death. Now leave me, I must work!

JOKER
I haven’t quite finished. Ignore me and I expect I’ll go away, but oh, you’ll listen now that slaying is on your mind. Do you think I don’t want the both of you dead? Your youthful fire extinguished, to hear the sun laugh to win in your game and to laugh at the sins on that fool’s wall?

PAINTER
Leave me!

JOKER
I shall.

JOKER steps back and stands by himself. We close in on the WRITER who sits and thinks.

WRITER
(Voice over)
I wonder how great his anger will be, how furious that landlord. Now the Painter’s veins run with anger. Is the need so great that no compromise is reached? Should not one live in cohesion with others. It is the painter’s will that the world will bend to his ways. He does not wish to rule, but to run free – push through every blockade – ignore all orders to halt or slow. It shall be his undoing. We shall soon see what the sun thinks.

The WRITER continues to write. The JOKER comes over to the WRITER’s table and picks up the knife. He crosses to the PAINTER and hands the knife to him.

JOKER
I believe you need this to sharpen your pencils, or perhaps your will. See if I care where you stick it!

PAINTER
I’ll stick you with it if you aren’t careful! Why this constant harassment? Can’t you see I want to be left alone? I’m too busy to have time for your trouble-making. Now leave me!

There is a knock at the door. Close up of PAINTER. The JOKER smiles as he opens the door to admit the PROPRIETOR.

I never made it any further. My hand was spent, my lungs were heavy, my eyes were reeling drunk. Yet, I was terrifically excited. Coming close to finishing anything was an achievement in itself. I took myself off home and passed out in a stupor. The next morning I gave the beer-stained, dog-eared script to Saul on my way to university, before lying on the grass of campus to rest my weary, hung-over mind. The shoot was to take place the following night in the colon of the University of Technology. I would need to gather my strength. Things were moving forward apace!

When I arrived at UTS the next evening, Tyrone and Saul were overrun with excitement.

“Cornford, this is classic,” said Tyrone.

“It’s a gem,” said Saul, “just what I was after.”

“It’s so incongruous,” continued Tyrone, “and there’s a lot of it we can’t even read, let alone fathom, but there are some great lines in here. We’ve decided to call it Entropy.”

Saul had enlisted the assistance of two stunning women whom I failed utterly to impress, but who did an admirable, if unsubtle job of making me look older and uglier. Since there was no time for rehearsals, the Painter and Joker had prepared a series of idiot boards, leaving frequent gaps where my handwriting proved impenetrable. I enlightened them where possible and we got stuck straight into the shoot. It was finished in about four hours, with only one or two takes for most scenes. The studio was hot and bright, the girls lounged about languidly. I could see they had no confidence in me – I was far too overexcited to appear at all cool. My make-up ran in the heat, and my powdered brow glistened in dabs and clumps.

When it was all over we felt triumphant. I returned home buzzing with a sense of achievement I’d not felt in years. At last my life seemed to have obtained some momentum. If only I could sustain it! I lay in bed, closed my eyes, and remembered the English essay I’d forgotten to write.

Saul and Tyrone took care of finishing and editing the film. The Proprietor, ably played by their other housemate, Jen-Ming, wound up with a knife in his back on the grass of Glebe Point and with him died society. A week later, Saul submitted his work and a screening of the class’s films soon followed.

On the night of the screening Tyrone and Saul sat on the steps in the tiny cinema to play guitar and bass for the soundtrack. I lay back in my chair like a lord, ready to sip away at glory, enjoying the other projects. When Entropy finally began to roll my heart was thrust into my throat. Here we were on the big screen – all ladies present please take note!

Unfortunately, despite the quality of Tyrone and Saul’s light, funky riffing, nothing could disguise the sheer incongruity of the script, nor the abundant continuity errors. The Joker’s coat was on and off like a strobe in a melange of leering close-ups, and the words that had made so much sense to me whilst drunk and stoned at the Courthouse now seemed confusing and contradictory. To begin with the audience had no idea what to make of it, but after a couple of minutes, they decided it was a comedy and laughed along with the more amusing facial expressions. Ours was one of the last films shown, and when it was over, another rolled straight on in. Entropy passed by like a ship in the night in a thick fog on the sullen expanse of a dark, moonless ocean, and with it went all hope of having anything to be proud of. Two weeks later I passed the point of no return and my second first year at university became an unmitigated failure. I was close to passing one subject, but when I turned up for my English exam, I discovered I had gotten the date wrong. I shrugged, turned away and went to get stoned again.

Nineteen ninety-two was a complete and utter flop.

Like many other observers, I have been mesmerised by the events unfolding in Tunisia, Egypt and beyond. As a strong advocate of accountable, liberal democracy, it is especially gratifying to see the grass-roots nature of the unrest that has emerged so suddenly, and, it would seem, to the surprise of many. These revolutions and protests are neither politically nor religiously driven, but are rather the spontaneous response of a broad spectrum of the population expressing their discontent. What has made such a popular upwelling of outspokenness possible, in a region where politics have been dominated for so long by religious or political cliques?

These recent events themselves may seem sudden, yet the causes are firmly rooted in the longue durée. The discontent itself is nothing new; what is new is its widespread and open expression. There are several important factors in all this: access to information, the price and availability of food, low wages and unemployment. The impact of improved access to information cannot be underestimated via Mobile phones, Satellite TV, The Internet, Al-Jazeera, Facebook and Twitter in particular. As the spread of technology has progressed in the region, so has public awareness of the geopolitical context in which the Middle Eastern states have been so narrowly aligned. The people of the region have become cognisant of the complexities of global politics, their relative backwardness economically and socially, the scale of their problems compared to those in developed countries, their lack of political freedom, and also the misleadingly narrow nature of their own leaders’ rhetoric. Greater understanding of their internal situation has emerged in parallel with a more sophisticated understanding of life outside the region.

Al-Jazeera has arguably had the biggest impact in all this. An Arab voice and thus a trusted voice, the news network has been operating since 1996, providing a service that was practically non-existent in the region; open discussion of Middle Eastern affairs and politics. For a region dominated by monarchies, dictatorships and oligarchies, in which little real political debate has been allowed to take place, the cumulative effect of witnessing such open discussion from different political perspectives is only now coming to fruition.

We cannot underestimate the power of such a thing. During the June 2009 Iranian elections, televised debates were allowed between the presidential candidates, with each candidate facing the others once. The surprising openness of the political discussion has been cited as pivotal in mobilising the public’s willingness to take to the streets when it became clear in the aftermath of the election that there were many inconsistencies; that the elections had, in effect, been rigged. The open and often very frank, even libellous statements made during the debates inspired thousands of Iranians to discuss their situation more openly on social networks such as Facebook and Twitter.

Socrates famously said that true wisdom is knowing you know nothing. In the Middle East now people at least know how much they don’t know. As they learn more and more about the reality of their situation, economically and politically, they will come increasingly to resent what has been held back from them for so long: the truth. This growing anger at having been duped for so long has now reached a tipping point. It is a remarkable tipping point; a 100% bona fide popular revolution over simple, basic everyday grievances; freedom, food and inequality.

Whilst access to information has spread awareness and discontent, and fuelled a great desire for change and reform, there is little question that the most important mobilising factor is food. The price of food globally has risen dramatically in the last five years. From 2006 onwards there has been a sharp spike in the cost of cereals in particular, driven by droughts and poor harvests in Canada, Australia and other significant grain-producers, and the increased demand for food from the growing Asian middle class. Another important factor has been the use of food-producing land for biofuels and other cash crops. The political consequences have been widespread. There have been riots in Bangladesh, Brazil, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, Côte d’Ivoire, Haiti, India, Indonesia, Senegal, and Yemen to name a few. Many other countries have been forced to ban or reduce exports, and protests have been widespread, even in developed economies such as Italy where strikes and protests followed a 40% increase in the price of pasta in 2007.

The situation in Egypt was particularly dire. The riots in Mahalla in 2008 occurred after the price of food soared by 40%. The government was forced to hand out bonuses to workers, also protesting their low wages, and to massively subsidise the price of wheat, in effect, creating a sort of bread dole. The long queues to collect this vital ration often result in scuffles and occasional violence. The problem is further compounded when we consider the Egyptian dependence on bread. The country is the largest per capita consumer of bread in the world, largely owing to an inability to access or afford alternative foodstuffs. Each Egyptian consumes on average 400 grams of bread per day, which is nearly triple that of some developed nations, for example, France, which consumes on average 130g per day.

It has been said that any society is only three meals from revolution and anxiety over food is perhaps the most potent form of anxiety. The Middle East is a net importer of food and is not currently, nor will it be able to produce enough food to feed its populations. Eighteen out of twenty-two Arab states are classified as water poor by the United Nations. The population of the region is set to double by 2030. Where is the food going to come from? What will the consequences be when drought inevitably returns to Australia, when Canada’s harvest fails again, when a burning Russia again ceases all exports? What will happen when China and India have tapped the last of their aquifers? Even now China is gripped with a terrible drought – the impending need to import food will ensure further spikes in the price of food in the very near future. There is immense potential for further development of agricultural land in Africa, and improved agricultural methods, particularly water retention and the use of drought resistant, GM seeds will take up some of the slack in the future. But while food availability and affordability remain uncertain across the Middle East, no political or religious ideology, no secret police, no martial law will trump the popular demand for bread.

In the longer term there is little certainty that democracy will improve the lives of people in countries like Egypt, beyond giving them a better chance to make the bed they lie in. If a more open consumerist economy emerges, replete with a new middle class, this may only lead to further price increases and the more extreme marginalisation of the poor. One can only hope that, in a best case scenario, wealth distribution is conducted on a far more even footing than it has been in recent decades.

Another significant long term factor in the Middle East is unemployment, and especially youth unemployment. Throughout Africa and the Middle East, unemployment amongst 15-24 year olds averages 25%. In Egypt the figure is 34% whilst it Tunisia it is 31%. These are significant statistics in themselves, but when you consider that across the Middle East two thirds of the population is below the age of 25, the vast scale of the problem becomes truly apparent. In parallel with this development, educational opportunities have expanded significantly; tertiary enrolments in Egypt have double from 14% to 28% in the last twenty years. This means, in effect, that there is a huge cohort of young people, right across the Middle East, many of whom have university educations, but remain unemployed, whilst being aware of and connected to the sort employment and income opportunities throughout the developed world.

Rarely has there been a situation more ripe for potent popular revolution, and there isn’t much that can stop the process now it is underway. It will be several years before the full impact of the Tunisian and Egyptian revolutions are seen, but as protests increase in Iran, Bahrain, Libya, Yemen, Syria and Jordan, there is little question that popular political expression has gained an inexorable momentum. There will be pauses, disappointments and no doubt many tragic incidents, but right across the Middle East the people have at last begun to empower themselves. They know more than ever now, that for too long they have been held hostage by bullies. For too long they have been pawns in a game that positioned them on account of their attitude to Israel. Does a hungry Egyptian really care whether his government is for or against peace with Israel? For or against an independent Palestinian state? In many cases yes, but they have far more pressing priorities and these must be dealt with first. Their personal needs are far more urgent than the ideological, religious, strategic, or tactical prerogatives of their non-representative governments. The people are speaking and they will continue to speak and nothing and no one is going to stop them now.

Long live the revolution! Long live the people!

Oft Rejected Poems

These are poems I have no intention of shopping further to lit mags. I agree with those who rejected them that they are flawed, though let’s face it, there’s some pretty second-rate poetry out there which does get published. They do display a tendency towards a baroque melancholy and a somewhat self-indulgent, at times too exclamatory, melodramatic self-abnegation and analysis, but there you go. Sometimes you just have to hold forth in such a fashion. Oh, and yes, I really did see the Sistine Chapel on ecstasy…

 

To the Sistine Chapel on ecstasy with Beethoven

 

Joy, fair light of the Gods,

daughter of Elysium,

drunk on your fire, goddess,

we enter your shrine!

– Schiller, recitative, Beethoven’ s Symphony # 9 in D minor, Op. 125.

 

Three of us had come to see,

though two of us had taken E

and popped a second pill in case

the miracles were hard to trace.

I wondered if they knew the look,

yet who would ever think we’d dare

to reach such heights in Christ’s own lair?

Nervously, we shuffled into bliss.

 

I thought I had seen everything

in those museums; treasures

of Etruria, Egypt, Persia;

Rameses’ throne, the Lacoön,

a room of beasts in creamy stone,

a gallery of emperors struck

with frozen, clement gestures.

Helmets, tridents, golden spears,

torsos pecked by savage years,

such rooms, such rooms, so on it went

and all but an aperitif.

 

Through passages adorned with maps

of harbour, hill and river towns

from both sides of the Apennines,

we came upon a hundred yards

of tapestries to cheer us through

a high, overhanging loggia.

 

An allegory now caught my eyes

a ceiling, stark and glaring with

the aspect of an ancient chamber

(mosaic floor and marble bold)

where, on an anvil plinth, a strident cross

replaced the shattered breast

of ancient pride in bodies blest,

then Justin pressed a hand to mine

and said, “therein’s the paradigm.”

 

Before the Milvian Bridge I sat

upon a hard, historic bench

to drink the frescoed slaughter spiked

with hot and bloody battle’s sweep

with surging, stabbing man and beast

and in my kettle stomach felt

anew the rush of singing blood

leaping in all streams from out

my thumping summer heart.

 

My mouth was dry, my eyes were wide,

my pupils wider still!

my feet swam in my socks below

my groin’s delighted thrill!

We pressed ahead with gaping jaws;

geared for love and geared for war.

About us people thronged and gasped

and, as my comrades hands I clasped,

they pitched us down the corridor

straight through the Sistine Chapel’s door.

 

At first I saw the crowd alone,

not looking yet above my brows,

but then I turned behind to see

the Judgement that had made popes weep.

There, swollen in the cobalt blue,

the Eschaton before me grew

from instant recognition’s spark

into a rampant, blazing thing.

 

Christ loomed, well-muscled,

no more at the reckoning

was he the pain-wracked, horrid corpse hanging.

Enthroned, emboldened, granted

all the power of his sacrifice

he dished out fate with one hand raised,

and sent me down below.

 

Yuki squeezed my trembling hand

and Justin, seeing I was scared,

gave me music of a kind

to set my mood anew at once.

So, steering me away from Christ,

(Christ, that oh-so muscly Christ!)

they pointed to the heights and said

“Now this is what we came here for.”

 

Only then did I look to the ceiling above

to run like a fountain with waters of love:

first Cosmos, Creation, then Eden, then Adam,

then woman, then wisdom, then exile encumbered

with guilt that would taint all the centuries thereafter

– how pithy these myths and how bright were the colours!

 

I followed the panels, then reversed the order,

and went back and forth through the Testament hoping

to lend my belief to the love flushing through me,

to see something truthful beyond Michelangelo.

Beethoven urged me to fall deep within this,

to swim in the gaudiness blooming above me,

to drown in the firmament, give myself wholly,

as song sent me on into joy everlasting.

 

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium

wir betreten feuertrunken

himmlische, dein Heiligthum!


And yet, still fearful of the Judge,

my eyes locked to the first idea,

through tears that sluiced my cheeks and blurred

creation spread pristine above,

I, but a seed that floated on

an ocean lapping shores untrod,

the current flooded me away

and, safe upon its gentle lull,

it beached me with a heart that sang

upon the birth of the world.

 

 

Dwindling

 

Since the accident I’ve not

been able to stay

on the one thing for long,

let alone two things, nor any

of the things that I did so well:

those lists of daily tasks

and chores and even now

I’m slipping into distraction.

Here, writing, first time

for days and not committed;

sloping somehow,

dwindling and forgetting

to believe and losing

the sharpness of a heart

once fuelled with passion.

So, rather,

it is as though

it is

as though that rogue, Fischerle,

false friend of a hunchback

were selling all my books.

 

 

Brothers of bluff

 

It was almost time for me to leave.

We flicked through channels

like letters of resignation; poised, defensive

with looks of expectation.

My brother, as always, with faraway precision

stocking supplies for divisions

drawn up against nurture.

By nature, the stoic one; he was dour tonight;

raised on as many squabbles as love,

shouting inside to be only the warmth,

fighting to shake off the need

of bravado and distance,

while being, with eyes ever elsewhere

halfway to the moon.

 

A storm would

have sorted us out that night,

yet we had instead to discharge the friction

ourselves in hardy love;

brothers of bluff, men unwilling

to admit to their obvious sadness.

I could not stay, did not want to stay,

but I did not want to go

unless to a limbo spread either side

of this present. I burned

for a once when my brother and I

lived in the same house, free to kill

time without remorse

for the steel press of adult life.

We drove to get some pizza and hire

a film we did not watch,

and I did not talk about Europe

because I was going and he was not.

 

 

The obsolescence of things

 

All things find their place within an age

and lend themselves into another soon;

so swiftly goes the passage of its use,

an object’s fellows dwindle out of view

until once common things are reckoned rare

and seen as quaint for tasks no longer there.

 

In photographs the “modern” distant grows;

the buildings, vehicles, businesses and clothes.

Where are those artefacts once starkly new?

Interred beneath the futures we accrue.

These worlds whose innovation caused a fuss

now seem just far-off habitats of dust.

 

 

The lake

 

Night portents

have silenced this sunset lake;

set loose the threads of lapping,

unfurled in the chiming moon.

 

 

Be with me…

 

Be with me now when you can,

you songs, you singers;

be with me now as I push

up this hill that won’t shy

in the glut of despair.

Be with me now, you words

you springs, you heroes;

be with me now as I fuel this journey

on which I’m ashamed again

to be lost.

Be with me now, you scourge,

you nine-tails, be with me now

as I face what dawns I have left,

one eye on the ones that I missed,

on those nights when my failure was urgent.