Publish and Perish

Je suis Charlie.

First they came for the bad movies ridiculing narcissistic megalomaniac North Korean dictators, and I didn't speak up because I'm not a huge fan of bad movies.  But it sent a chill down more spines than mine.  Maybe it will work out.  Maybe Hollywood will make mocking the Kim regime the recurring joke of the Oscars.  Maybe the entertainment industry will realize the disastrous precedent of appeasing a bully and stand together against cyber-terrorism, although the inital response was not encouraging.

Then, today, they came for the satirical cartoonists.  The cartoons which incited slavering barbarians to take twelve human lives in outrageous violence were tasteless.  That is pretty much how satire rolls.  Some genres of literature, such as pastoral poetry or biographies of medieval saints, do not make room for satire.  Like the character Drax in Guardians of the Galaxy, they may have their straightforward appeal but are rarely the headline attraction. But satire has always had a strong popularity, and has come into increasing influence in the internet age.  Journalists everywhere are shocked by this brutality against some of their own, and rightly so.  But satirical writers are taking it very hard.  The Onion put on deep mourning today, swathing its usually ebullient wit in somber words of inoffensive (at least it is to be hoped) vagueness.  For, all satire aside, if the barbarians succeed in shutting down tasteless tabloids, the most reputable journalistic outlets are not safe from a similar fate.

Now, satire has always been a double-edged sword and a dicy occupation for those called to practice it.  My late mother, from whom I must have inherited my appreciation for the genre, took a class at college called "comparative satire," but she herself was disgusted by some of the content and referred to it as "comparative raunch."  Juvenal, Martial, Rabelais, Swift... down to political cartoons of the last two centuries... none of these have been perfectly appropriate for the finest drawing rooms and salons.  And yet, somehow the ruling classes that were the targets of biting satire adopted an affectionate, mostly tolerant attitude toward the satirists.  True, Juvenal and Martial prospered during the reigns of (mostly) benevolent emperors.  All satirists have to live with the possibility of popular backlash when they "go too far."  But going too far is the very definition and strength of satire.  Without satire speaking the truth to power using biting wit and uncomfortable metaphors, power corrupts much more quickly than it would otherwise.

Sometimes in human development, biological and medical issues arise which the doctors describe as "incompatible with life."  A baby born with certain conditions, tragically, cannot long survive and nothing medical science can do makes any difference. It is a quiet tragedy affecting the immediate families of the afflicted, but usually unnoticed by the rest of the world.

It is becoming ever clearer that there are some cultures that are not compatible with civilization. I'm not talking about modernity -- primitive and tribal cultures can have rich civilizations without being modern.   Unfortunately, when a culture is incompatible with civilization -- that is, barbarian -- the rest of the world cannot remain in blissful ignorance.  The death throes of a culture incompatible with civilization are deadly to anyone else who lives in proximity to them.  And in a global society, that is all of us.

How do you tell if a culture is incompatible with civilization?  Well, a pretty good indicator is its reaction to satire.  What should the response of the civilized world be?  I recommend a greatly increased dose of satirical mockery ... from behind very secure walls, and with strong military backup.

Martial! Thou shouldst be living at this hour.

A Burial

... or rather, a recycling.  The sad truth is that Immortal Poems of the English Language, edited by Oscar Williams, in a cheap paperback edition probably dating from the 1950's when my late mother bought her brother's old textbooks in a bulk lot, was never holding up very well when I knew and loved it back in the 1980's.  I was a romantic teenager then, and I picked it up out of the jumble of other anthologies and history books in the spare room.  "I like poetry... I can even write poetry!"  (I wrote very bad poetry).  So it sat beside my bed for about a year, and every night I would read a few pages.  It changed my life.

It started with the medieval songs and ballads, many of them anonymous, most of them gory and depressing, with the quintessentially British love of the macabre.  Just ask Lord Randal or Tom O'Bedlam.  It seemed to me, as I was working my way through the archaic words, that the medieval world was much more rich and satisfying, albeit dangerous, than the modern one.  Every so often there would be a poem where some even more archaic words were mixed with the medieval ones -- stepping stones from ancient times.  I think this must have been the first time I ever consciously wanted to study Latin, although I'd certainly read Myths of Greece and Rome and loved the stories: but I hadn't yet been captivated by the language itself.

Even the moderns, though I preferred the older writers and could never memorize poetry that had no meter or rhyme, had an inspiring way with words that told me they were kindred spirits.

It took a long time to work my way through the Shakespeare section, but I felt that I had a good handle on the English sonnet form after that.

 

"Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song

...

Weave a circle 'round him thrice

And close your eyes with holy dread:

For he on honeydew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of paradise!"

"The world is charged with the grandeur of God,

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil..."

"Earth, receive an honored guest;

William Yeats is laid to rest:

Let the Irish vessel lie

Emptied of its poetry."

Yes, I'll miss this little volume.  But the poems themselves are, indeed, immortal.