The Flying Inn by G. K. Chesterton

Source of book: I own this.

A science fiction novel about prohibition. That is the best way I can find describe this uncannily prophetic and disturbing book.

G. K. Chesterton wrote The Flying Inn in 1914, fully five years before Prohibition in the United States. However, the general movement itself had been in place since the 1840s, and a few members of the British Commonwealth had already taken restrictive measures. (Prince Edward Island and portions of Australia, for example.) However, the book does not limit itself to the prohibition of alcohol as its topic, but takes on a whole host of ills that he felt were related: vegetarianism, higher criticism, and Islam. It is these latter topics that make this book seem to predict current events and currents of thought.

Chesterton has been one of my favorite authors since my teens, when I discovered the Father Brown stories. Like Winston Churchill and Theodore Roosevelt, he has always seemed to me to be one of the truly audacious, larger than life characters that would be great fun to invite to an otherwise boring dinner party, but a bit dangerous to be around in a brawl - or a war. Churchill, of course, was a driving force behind the Allied victory in World War Two, and saw more clearly than anyone else the menace that Communism, and Stalin in particular, would become. Roosevelt had the vision to establish the National Park system, at the time a revolutionary concept of its own. They will both be remembered for generations. Chesterton, alas, seems to be largely forgotten. Perhaps it is because his writing is unusual. Perhaps it is because he never wielded political power. Perhaps it is because the discussion of great ideas has taken the back seat to the discussion of reality television. Whatever the case is, I find that there are few of my acquaintance who even recognize his name.

There are two phrases that I believe exemplify Chesterton’s impact. Oddly, I heard them both in the context of music, spoken by two different conductors regarding completely different musical works.

For his tendency to come up with outrageous paradoxes, out-of-left-field spins on each issue, and a general bombastic and unpredictable realness, I cannot but think of the description of a big, red, rotten tomato thrown up onto the stage. Mr. K used this to describe a “major-minor” chord in Poulenc’s Gloria.

The second phrase is “a good old fashioned romp,” commonly used by Mr. M to describe the final movement of a typical symphony. Chesterton’s novels have that quality of exuberant, slightly off kilter good spirits. Of good English ale and a song sung at full volume.

The Flying Inn certainly fits both of these descriptions. Phillip Ivywood, a power-hungry aristocrat in Chesterton’s vision of the (not-so-distant) future England, is able to pass a bill effectively prohibiting the sale of alcohol. Well, he doesn’t prohibit it, but he limits it to establishments bearing a proper sign. Which are then prohibited. In this, he is influenced by a Turkish philosopher - or charlatan - who attempts to prove that England was once Muslim, and that everything in existence can be linked to a predecessor in the East.

Humphrey Pump, the owner of a tavern, and Chesterton’s stand-in for the true Englishman becomes reacquainted with his friend Patrick Dalroy, an enormous and fiery Irishman, formerly of the Navy, who tears the sign off of “The Old Ship,” moments before Ivywood is able to confiscate it. Dalroy is essentially Chesterton, except without the self restraint. The two of them set off on the run with a cask of rum and a round of cheese, staying a mere step away from the pursuit.

Along the way, they convert to their cause the poet Dorian Wimpole, Ivywood’s cousin. In true Chesterton fashion, this conversion is accomplished when Pump and Dalroy semi-accidentally steal Wimpole’s car. Eventually, all England rises in revolt against Ivywood, and overwhelms the Islamic army he has raised to subdue England.

Thus, what begins as a farcical romp is transformed into a metaphoric vision at the end. This is true Chesterton, of course. Many of his novels take this turn at the end from a tale that, while fantastic, is at least bound to the earth by a thread; to a completely unexpected, often apocalyptic place, having implications far beyond the bounds of the original story. (The Ball and the Cross, and The Man Who Was Thursday come to mind as other examples.) The rotten tomato is served up, leaving the reader to contemplate exactly what happened, and ponder the implications of Chesterton’s vision.

In order to enjoy Chesterton, one must accept these quirks, and enjoy the ride. Fortunately, great lines abound. Chesterton, despite his seeming randomness, has penetrating insight beyond the surface to the rather unpleasant unacknowledged motives underlying many modern truisms. He reliably goes contrary to the conventional wisdom, completely avoiding the predictable arguments and stalemates. (Chesterton’s takedown of the philosophy of his friend George Bernard Shaw is particularly memorable for making the bold - and true - claim that being “misunderstood” is an advantage, not a disadvantage.)

There are a number of things I took away from this book. First of all, right from the outset, when Chesterton introduces the Turk, Misisra Ammon, he gives a striking example of eisegeses - that is, the process of interpreting a text t in such a way that it introduces one's own presuppositions, agendas, and/or biases into and onto the text. Ammon makes the claim that all familiar tavern names are derived from Muslim influences. Thus, “The Green Dragon” is not from the legend of St. George, but a corruption of “The Agreeing Dragoman.” As one who has heard a number of examples of truly bad preaching, this whole process is far too familiar. (Worst of all time is probably the use of “it came to pass” as a proof text for trouble never lasting.)

In a related section, Chesterton likewise skewers those who attempt to interpret away the meaning of a text by introducing completely irrelevant social and historical theories to render anything - absolutely anything - as meaningless and utter nonsense.

Another great takedown is also far ahead of its time. Again, this was written in 1914, not 1965:

[Dalroy speaking:] “I think modern people have somehow got their minds all wrong about human life. They seem to expect what Nature has never promised; and then try to ruin all that nature has really given. At all those atheist chapels of Ivywood’s they’re always talking of Peace, Perfect Peace, and Utter Peace, and Universal Joy and souls that beat as one. But they don’t look any more cheerful than anyone else; and the next thing they do is to start smashing a thousand good jokes and good stores and good songs and good friendships by pulling down ‘The Old Ship’. Now it seems to me that this is asking for too much and getting too little. I don’t know whether God means a man to have happiness in that All in All and Utterly Utter sense of happiness...I can’t pretend to Peace and Joy, and all the rest of it, particularly in this original briar-patch. I haven’t been happy, Hump, but I have had a jolly time.”

This ties in with several other passages where Chesterton is able to expand on this idea.

Later, after several scenes in which it is revealed that Ivywood is advocating vegetarianism, Dalroy and Pump discuss the poet Wimpole.

“But what’s odd about them is that they try to be simple and never clear away a single thing that’s complicated. If they have to choose between beef and pickles, they always abolish the beef. If they have to choose between a meadow and a motor, they forbid the meadow. Shall I tell you the secret? These men only surrender the things that bind them to other men. Go and dine with a temperance millionaire and you won’t find he’s abolished the hors d’oeuvres or the five courses or even the coffee. What he’s abolished is the port and sherry, because poor men like that as well as rich. Go a step farther, and you won’t find he’s abolished the fine silver forks and spoons, but he’s abolished the meat, because poor men like meat–when they can get it. Go a step farther, and you won’t find he goes without gardens or gorgeous rooms, which poor men can’t enjoy at all. But you will find he boasts of early rising, because sleep is a thing poor men can still enjoy. About the only thing they can still enjoy. Nobody ever heard of a modern philanthropist giving up petrol or typewriting or troops of servants. No, no! What he gives up must be some simple and universal thing. He will give up beef or beer or sleep–because these pleasures remind him that he is only a man.”

At this point, I am risking offending some of my family and friends. So, therefore, I will acknowledge that many have legitimate dietary issues, and note that I generally attempt to work around them.

Chesterton’s point here, however, is spot-on. It is my observation that many, perhaps most, of the current dietary trends are expensive. Furthermore, they tend to preclude eating with ordinary, “lesser” people. For example the “Atkins” diet is high in expensive meats and proteins, and low in inexpensive carbohydrates. You know, the things that have sustained those unable to afford regular meat, for centuries. Likewise, the “only organic, free range, etcetera” has the effect of limiting those one eats with. In my opinion, this is at heart a feature, not a bug. Finally, the most modern obsession, the gluten free lifestyle combines the expense of the Atkins approach with the “we can’t trust anyone else’s food” of the organic only diet. The net result is to cut off the sharing of food - our oldest and most significant source of fellowship with our fellow humans.

But Chesterton doesn’t stop here in his lampooning of health fads. Certainly not! Later, our heroes encounter a utopian community founded on the belief that drinking only “mountain milk” will extend life to extreme old age. This group was founded by a snake oil salesman - who perhaps originally believed his own pitch.

“Then, unfortunately, he came across the institution called Death, and began to argue with it. Not seeing any rational explanation of this custom of dying, so prevalent among his fellow-citizens, he concluded that it was merely traditional (which he thought meant "effete"), and began to think of nothing but ways of evading or delaying it. This had a rather narrowing effect on him, and he lost much of that acrid ardour which had humanised the atheism of his youth, when he would almost have committed suicide for the pleasure of taunting God with not being there. His later idealism grew more and more into materialism and consisted of his changing hypotheses and discoveries about the healthiest foods...It was during his prolonged stay in England that he chanced on the instance of the longevity of milk consumers, and built on it a theory which was, at the beginning at least, sincere. Unfortunately it was also successful: wealth flowed in to the inventor and proprietor of Mountain Milk, and he began to feel a fourth and last enthusiasm, which, also, can come late in life and have a narrowing effect on the mind.”

This, of course, had a result which is all too predictable for those of us who have seen (and tasted) far too many snake oil dietary plans. (See note below.)

“He attracted many pupils and backers among the wealthy and influential; young men who were, so to speak, training for extreme old age, infant old men, embryo nonagenarians. It would be an exaggeration to say that they watched joyfully for the first white hair as Fascination Fledgeby watched for his first whisker; but it is quite true to say that they seemed to have scorned the beauty of woman and the feasting of friends and, above all, the old idea of death with glory; in comparison with this vision of the sports of second childhood.”

Dalroy, after dispensing some of the rum, reveals the doctor as one interested in money, diluting the milk with water to make a greater profit.

“Why should I respect you because you are fastidious about food, that your poor old digestion may outlive the hearts of better men? Why should you be the god of this valley, whose god is your belly, merely because you do not even love your god, but only fear him? Go home to your prayers, old man; for all men shall die.”

This is harsh to be sure. I think it needs to be said in our own age, 100 years later. We fear death, and we wish to elevate ourselves above the “common people.” So we cling to whatever makes us feel better. Our gods are our bellies and our vanity. We wish to ignore that we all shall die. 

I will note as well that, just as in our actual experience with prohibition, Chesterton correctly envisions the exceptions by which the wealthy and privileged are able to obtain alcohol without violating the law. In the actual event, a certain, rather strong (and expensive) Scotch Whisky, Laphroaig, remained legal as a “medicine.” With access to the right doctor, one could obtain a prescription. Chesterton laid the entire scenario out in the book, and correctly observes the rank hypocrisy of the privileged classes.

Again, Chesterton ties all of this together through his use of Ivywood as the instigator and embodiment of the overarching philosophy. Eventually, Ivywood seems to be advocating a return to polygamy and child marriage, claiming that Ammon is correct that women are most free under the laws of Islam.

In the most revealing statement, near the end of the book, Ivywood posits that there is something higher than love, at least the love of the lover or the love of love itself. However, in contrast to the Christian view of the nature of ultimate love being that of the Divine, Ivywood considers the ultimate to be the love of fate. This is the ideal of Nietzche: a delight in destiny is the mark of the hero. This doesn’t exactly work as he tries to woo his woman, but it certainly rings true as the undergirding of much of the evil of the twentieth century, and perhaps of the history of the world.

“I am not ashamed of my laurels, I see no meaning in what these Christians call humility. I will be the greatest man in the world if I can; and I think I can. Therefore, something that is higher than love itself, Fate and what is fitting, make it right that I should wed the most beautiful woman in the world. And she stands among the peacocks and is more beautiful and more proud than they."

And ultimately, this speaks to the urge to “remake the world,” as Ivywood puts it. It is the arrogance that one is above, that one is the “ubermensch,” that one can evade the common fate of man.

Whether you agree with it or not, Chesterton makes a compelling argument that all of these are related. The wish to deny the pleasure of alcohol to the masses, the use of diet to sever the link with “lesser” humanity, and the urge to remake the world. It is the same spirit that says, “I thank God I am not like other men.”

This book is both fun and compelling. It certainly feels predictive of our own time and issues, while remaining firmly rooted in Chesterton’s ideal of the soul of the English people. Agree, disagree, or otherwise, it is a good starting point for further discussion of the nature of the instinct toward prohibition and its common root in snobbery and arrogance.

Note on the musical connections:
Poulenc Gloria (Listen for the chord at 0:43)

 

I always enjoyed the conducting of Mr. M prior to his retirement. Two of my favorite “romps” are the following.

The Finale from Haydn’s final symphony, #104 is a perfect example of fun that is almost, but not quite, out of control. This is probably my favorite Haydn symphony, although it is impossible to decide. This movement is, without a doubt, one of my favorite symphonic moments of all time. 




Bartok’s Divertimento for Strings is one of my favorite chamber works, containing much of the pain of the destruction of Hungary, first by the Nazis and then by the Soviets. Bartok finds release in the final movement. While the pain is still there, there is an ecstasy of joy and love that comes through in this thrilling performance. 



Note on dietary nonsense: I was a sickly child, and my mother tried all kinds of stuff to improve my health. Some of this was beneficial: I still love vegetables, and learned to cook good food from scratch. I also drink water, rarely sugared drinks, and so forth. Other stuff was benign, but a bit unpalatable, such as experiments with carrot and other juices. Some was downright dangerous, such as kombucha tea, which has been linked to neurological damage. 

Again, I acknowledge the good in attempting to have a healthy diet and lifestyle - I certainly make that attempt myself. However, I see an unhealthy distrust of anything mainstream in these movements, a tendency to ascribe everything to a "drug company conspiracy," and the promise that the fad of the day will cure everything. 

The point here is that one tends to ignore facts in the search for health and/or immortality. A quick perusal of the literature in support of these fads quickly reveals a casual disregard for basic facts of chemistry and biology, but it is impossible to argue with the true believer.

The American Way of Eating by Tracie McMillan

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

After reading this book, I have come to the conclusion that every middle-class person would benefit from reading it. Its perspective will be particularly helpful for those of us who grew up in a household with a single wage earner, and who therefore take for granted that there is always adequate time and money available for the preparation of wholesome, fresh food.

McMillan is roughly my age, and worked as a reporter prior to experiences in this book. Over the course of a year, she worked undercover in three areas of the food production chain. She spent time as a farm worker in California, worked in the produce department of a Wal-Mart in Detroit, and prepared food at an Applebee’s in New York. She allowed herself about a month’s expenses to start, but lived off of her earnings during the duration.

While I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the other sections (which I have no reason to doubt), I can confirm that the author’s experience as a farm worker was true to life. I have a few friends and acquaintances, personal and professional, who have worked the fields here in Kern County, and around the state. California’s central valley is one of the most fertile places on the earth, and currently produces a significant portion of the produce consumed in the United States. A mere half of a mile from my house are almond orchards, with fields containing all kinds of annual crops just beyond. It is easy enough to observe the process of growing food. All of these have confirmed to me that McMillan paints an accurate picture of modern farm labor. Certainly it is true that much of the hard work is done by illegal (or undocumented - use your preferred word here) immigrants, and that actual pay is typically far below minimum wage. The author’s description of the use of labor contractors and faked hour counts is all too familiar to those who have worked the fields - and I might add, to those who contract for the labor. It is just the way business is done. I also note that the author gained access to the field labor system through the assistance of California Rural Legal Assistance, a sister organization to my first employer as an attorney. They are on the front lines of poverty and field labor in the central valley, and would be where I would start in a similar endeavor.

The second section, on the retail side of food, is interesting for different reasons. Here, employees tend to be longer term, and typically do make the wages promised. For anyone who is unfamiliar with the incredible logistics necessary to our modern food distribution system, this book will be fascinating. Since food is no longer grown near where it is consumed, the infrastructure needed is amazing. I don’t share the author’s innate distrust of large scale production, so I found all this to be more inspiring than fear-inducing.

I also found it disappointing that the author, like most of those in the press, betrays a visceral dislike of Wal-Mart. While some of this may be related to its size (Wal-Mart is the largest private employer in the United States) or its resistance to labor unions, I think the real reason is one of classism. After all, Costco is largely non-union (a few Price Club stores were unionized before being bought out by Costco), and is similarly ruthless on its suppliers. Apple is a darling of the left, despite having the highest profits of any company in the history of the world. It too is non-union. Whole Foods likewise is aggressively non-union: its CEO is libertarian. And the list goes on. However, Wal-Mart is a lower class establishment, catering to the poor. In fact, complaints about Wal-Mart, in my experience, can be boiled down to a distaste for its clientele. Everything one can say that is bad about Wal-Mart applies equally to any number of other soulless corporations. I am not intending to make a claim that Wal-Mart is marvelous or anything. However, the author does note that it provides jobs which are in huge demand. She even lists some of the benefits her co-workers cite as reasons to prefer their jobs, such as internal promotions and decent benefits.

One conclusion I did draw from this book is that the State of Michigan is completely insane. As of the writing of this book (published just this year), it was still requiring that price stickers be placed on every single item. In addition to being archaic, the extra work is brutal on employees, leading to a high incidence of repetitive stress injuries. One wonders if a price sticker manufacturer made a large campaign contribution.

The final section is likewise fascinating for its inside view of a chain restaurant. Here, as in retail, logistics are everything. Food isn’t so much cooked, as assembled from pre-made ingredients. The supply chain is both inspiring and soulless, and the results somewhat unappetizing. I’m not a fan of Applebee's anyway, and prefer hole-in-the-wall restaurants with possibly questionable health department scores. Also, I am a pretty decent cook, so I sympathize with the line chefs who dream of fresh ingredients chopped in the kitchen.

Running through the book are the collateral experiences of the author as she lives like those she works with. She finds housing, usually with others (minimum wage will not get you a separate apartment), and shares their lives. She acknowledges that she meets a great many decent, kind, and generous people - and makes them come to life with her writing. She also realizes that she lacks the basic skills to cook for herself consistently.

This is really the most crucial part of the book, in my opinion. I tend to take for granted the fact that my wife and I can plan and cook meals with relative ease. We have an income sufficient that we do not have to pinch every food penny, and have a well-stocked pantry. Even more important, however, we grew up knowing how to cook. Unfortunately, this skill has been lost to many. In our own families, this seems to have occurred in the 1950s, when processed food took center stage, and some assumed that we would simply microwave everything in the future. (Not too far from the truth, actually.) While our parents reclaimed this skill, many did not. With less time to learn and teach, the skill has died out - particularly in lower class families where both parents need to work in order to survive. The author points out that it really does not take more time to prepare food from scratch than from processed ingredients, but that it requires knowledge and confidence.

I also thought that the chart the author made showing her total income and the percentage spent on food during each of the three parts was enlightening. Also, her realization that even poor people want good food was both obvious (to those of us who grew up in poor neighborhoods) and revolutionary.

Both liberals and conservatives will disagree with some of the author’s suggestions. Indeed, it is difficult to avoid giving a simplistic answer if one expects to sell one’s book to a publisher. I think the author admits that the answers are not simple, however, and that it will take changes in many interrelated areas of life to improve the American diet. I also felt that, despite some overheated criticism from certain conservatives, McMillan really did her best to keep things objective, and acknowledge her biases. Plus, she actually lived what she wrote about. This wasn’t some ivory tower perspective from someone who never experienced the “real world.” I also appreciated that the author treated all those who she wrote about with respect and humanity. As a good reporter should, she never reduced people to stereotypes and refused to view herself as inherently superior. I would also commend her for excellent writing style, which added to the experience, rather than distracting from the content.


Thus, this book left me with more questions than answers. It is so easy to simply find a scapegoat, whether the lower classes and their “bad taste” or big agriculture for making processed foods a central part of the diet. A real solution would require changes in all these areas, and more.

So read this book. You will probably lose a little middle class smugness, learn a few things about how logistics and infrastructure work, and look at the food on your plate a bit differently.

I love the cover art for this book. 

Learning Outside the Family (Sunday School Edition)

The genesis of this post occurred during a discussion with some friends and acquaintances, primarily raised in homeschool families, like myself. The question involved "family integrated church," which if you have to ask, you probably don't want to know about. (Essentially, the idea that children should not attend any religious - or any other - instruction without the presence and direction of the parents.) For those who have never been involved in the ultraconservative, cult-like subsets of the Christian homeschooling movement, it probably seems a bit odd. However, on further reflection, I was struck by the parallel to what is commonly called "helicopter parenting."

I believe that, at their hearts, both movements reflect a parental anxiety that a child cannot possibly develop properly unless every waking moment is completely controlled by the parent. In the common form of this paranoia, the parent is worried that the child will fail to compete academically without a completely ridged and regimented life. Such parents are obsessed with choosing the school and teacher, the classes, the enrichment from extracurricular activities, the friends, and so on. 

In the religious, homeschool version, the fear is that a child will become a heathen if he or she hears anything but the absolute truth (as determined by the parents), and that therefore, the child must never learn anything in a situation that the parents cannot control. 

Obviously, I am using the most extreme examples on each side, and I do not wish to imply that any of my friends believe this way. I do, however, have acquaintances who fall pretty far along either the helicopter parent or family integrated homeschooler continuums. 

My goal with this particular post is to offer a different, more positive, perspective, and give some overdue appreciation to some people who were a positive influence in my life when I was a child. I am convinced that most of us will, sooner or later, have some conflict with our birth families. No family is perfect, and to be in one is to see all those imperfections up close. Thus, I think that it is important to find positive influences and relationships outside - and completely separate from - one's family. Otherwise, I really believe that it is difficult to separate the idea from the persons with which it is associated. I have known too many who rejected everything because of a bad family relationship. 

The positive perspective that a wish to bring is that those outside relationships, particularly those that felt completely separate from family existence, were beneficial to me, and have remained with me my entire life. I believe that without the friendship, mentoring, and influence I received; my life would be much poorer, more narrow, than it is. This is also not to imply any lack in my parents, who taught me much, and were undoubtedly the most significant influences in my life.

I am intentionally limiting this particular list to those who aided my spiritual journey through church and church related organizations. To list all those who mentored me in other areas - particularly music - would take several additional posts. Perhaps I will do that in the future. So, without further ado, here is the list. These are in roughly chronological order, and represent my childhood and teen years. I probably have forgotten some, and I apologize.

Myrtle: Her passion for the stories of the great missionaries of the past made the stories come alive to a young boy. Also, one of the sweetest old ladies ever.

John Y.: An ex-college-football player who naturally inspired young men. He could control a room full of rowdy boys without ever being authoritarian, and always got the best out of us in every endeavor. He also understood that a sleepover didn't actually need sleep, and coined the more accurate term, "wakeover." 

Vince: Still the best preacher for the young set I have ever heard. He never talked down to anyone, and never dumbed down a concept. And he could lead worship with just a guitar - no microphone.

Oliver: He never let a boring curriculum stand in the way of an interesting class. Those pictures from Israel combined with the detailed matching of picture, place, and story taught me so much that I remember even today.

Kent: I blame you for my love of the twelve string guitar. I also remember those extremely dry jokes and the fact that you too were an introvert. Silence is fellowship too.

Mike: The only person I ever knew who had a conversion experience as a result of seeing Jesus Christ, Superstar. I also remember the experience of tying the musical and the mystical together.

Lorna: How a middle-aged woman managed to corral thirty or so teenagers - and get them to sing in tune - is still a mystery. But we all loved her, and she loved us in return, regardless of our background or abilities.

Jamie: A man who always put his money and his person where his mouth was. He never left anything on the table, and lived what he believed. I remember participating in that Victory Outreach worship service in the armpit of Hollywood with all the down-and-out druggies. I think he scandalized a few parents with that one, but it was profoundly affecting at the time. My frame of reference was forever changed, and I can never look at people the same way after that experience. (I probably need a whole post on this one as well.)

John K.: I attribute much of what I believe about worship and the art of leading it to what I learned from John K. during my junior high and high school years. A friend and mentor in the best sense of the term.

Eden: Not so much a teacher as a mentor. One of those guys that makes everyone feel at ease. He took an awkward, introverted, geeky thirteen year old, and made him part of the group. And it wasn't just me: he was this way to everyone. He also remains a personal example of Mark 6:4. "Jesus said to them, 'Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor.'"

Roland: I'm still saying "Botheration!" - occasionally in a New Zealand accent. Another person who really believed what he said, and lived it. 

Carla: A true friend, with a similarly quirky sense of humor. I learned so much about playing as part of an ensemble from her - musically too - but particularly in the social sense. To bring a diverse group together in worship and harmony is a gift. 

Again, this isn't an exhaustive list, and I know there are many who have given help and companionship to me along the way. These are those that come to mind as those who I remember when I struggle as those, often far outside of my usual frame of reference, who represent the good, and who inspire me to contribute in turn to those who cross my path. 

The Spirit Level by Seamus Heaney

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

One of the books I added to my own shelves this year is Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf. I read a few excerpts, and liked the flow of the poetry and the clarity of style.

My wife, who visits the library with the kids far more often than I do, usually picks up books from my list. Occasionally, however, she brings me something random that struck her fancy. This is one of those books.

Heaney is an Irish poet, currently in his seventies, who has been writing for the better part of the last six decades. (His name is pronounced, “SHAY-mus,” incidentally.) He has consistently insisted on being considered Irish rather than British - a distinction which appears in his writing, particularly in his numerous poems related to the Irish conflict. The Spirit Level was published in 1996, so it is one of the author’s more recent works. (Although he has published several collections since: he is certainly not slowing down.) Heaney won the Nobel Prize for Literature the year prior. This is thus the second Nobel Prize winning poet I have read this year.

The name for this collection comes from a simple tool, the device used to determine whether something is level. The most common form uses a liquid with a bubble, which will be centered in the tube when the tool is parallel to the ground. I have several of these in my garage, made of metal or plastic. I like these old fashioned wood ones, though, even if they are less reliable.

This collection contains poems on a wide variety of themes, mostly in traditional forms. Heaney is particularly fluent in blank verse, and the majority of the poems use iambic pentameter, rhymed or otherwise. Many of the poems that are rhymed use approximate rather than exact rhyme. The author also makes extensive use of the tercet.

This collection has both strengths and weaknesses. Heaney has a bit if a tendency (as do other moderns) to name-check other poets and writers within the community, many of whom are not always familiar to the reader. This also was a problem, for me at least, in the poems about the Irish conflicts. There were individuals and incidents that were probably familiar to Irish readers of the mid nineties, but were meaningless to this American reader. Needless to say, the lack of context diminished the impact of the poems.

On the other hand, Heaney writes beautifully about his friends, living and dead. He is able to use small incidents to great effect, creating an instant kinship with both the author and his friend.

Although there are many others, I particularly liked his tribute to his father-in-law, The Sharpening Stone, which contains this gem:

I thought of us that evening on the logs,

Flat on our backs, the pair of us, parallel,

Supported head to heel, arms straight, eyes front,

Listening to the rain drip off the trees

And saying nothing, braced to the damp bark.

What possessed us? The bare, lopped loveliness

Of those two winter trunks, the way they seemed

A causeway of short fence-posts set like rollers.

Neither of us spoke. The puddles waited.

The workers had gone home, saws fallen silent.

And next thing down we lay, babes in the wood,

Gazing up at the flood-face of the sky

Until it seemed a flood was carrying us

Out of the forest park, feet first, eyes front,

Out of November, out of middle age,

Together, out, across the Sea of Moyle.

Another great line is to be found in the tribute to another Irish poet, Hugh MacDiarmid.

At your wits’ end then, always on the go

To the beach and back, taking heady bearings

Between the horizon and the dictionary,

In many ways, this is my ideal of a life, lived by taking those heady bearings between the horizon and the dictionary. Just a great line and a marvelous word-picture.

I also liked the longer poem, Mycenae Lookout, which offers an interesting take on Aeschylus’ Agamemnon by the night watchman. The poem is in five sections, with each in a different form, from heroic couplets in the first to the stark tercets of the second, which have either three or four syllables. This second section, regarding the captive Cassandra, is a brutal melding of form and language, with a couple of face-slappingly shocking and effective uses of vulgarity. After reading the play earlier this year, I thought that Heaney’s particular musings were an excellent addition to the experience.

As I noted earlier, Heaney has a knack for the small incident. I recognized myself in a couple. In A Sofa, he describes playing “train” with his siblings similarly to how our family did. Likewise, The Flight Path includes a passage where the narrator attempts to find his own house from above as he flies over it. This is absolutely like me - I spend too much time trying to line up what I see with my mental map of wherever we are.

Two more poems stand out to me as excellent. The first is the opening poem in the collection, and probably one of Heaney’s better known works, The Rain Stick. My wife read it before she checked the book out, and decided it was worth a look for this one alone.

Up-end the stick and what happens next

Is a music that you never would have known

To listen for. In a cactus stalk

Downpour, sluice-rush, spillage and backwash

Come flowing through. You stand there like a pipe

Being played by water, you shake it again lightly

And diminuendo runs through all its scales

Like a gutter stopping trickling. And now here comes

A sprinkle of drops out of the freshened leaves,

Then subtle little wets off grass and daisies;

The glitter-drizzle, almost-breaths of air.

Up-end the stick again. What happens next

Is undiminished for having happened once,

Twice, ten, and thousand times before.

Who cares if all the music that transpires

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus?

You are like a rich man entering heaven

Through the ear of a raindrop. Listen now again.

Also a beautiful, and instantly recognizable picture to any musician or music lover.

Perhaps my favorite was this one, entitled Mint. The approximate rhymes, internal rhymes, and the rhythm itself tend to disguise the fact that this is a truly traditional poetic form: a four line stanza rhymed ABAB. Like the above poem, this one is best read aloud, and more than one time.

It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles

Growing wild at the gable of the house

Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:

Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.

But, to be fair, it also spelled promise

And newness in the back yard of our life

As if something callow yet tenacious

Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.

The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday

Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:

My last things will be first things slipping from me.

Yet let all things go free that have survived.

Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless

Like inmates liberated in that yard.

Like the disregarded ones we turned against

Because we’d failed them by our disregard.