Considering Ayn Rand and Motherhood

I have been doing some reading and re-reading on Ayn Rand – reminding myself of the philosophies borne out of books like Atlas Shrugged and Fountainhead. She was a fascinating woman, analytical, forthright, vocal and very, very smart. I still cannot open any one of her works without feeling a little bit intimidated. That said, I always welcome the challenge her ideas invite and the way they turn my sometimes conventional thinking upside down.

Rand was a writer and a playwright whose ideas were borne out of Aerstotilian ethics, the concept that individuals have nobility and they have a duty to realize their potential. Her philosophy she called “objectivism” and she described it as the concept of "man being a “heroic” being with the moral purpose of his life being his own happiness and reason as his only absolute". Central to her ideas were the concepts of selfishness and altruism. Selfishness, she claimed was the ultimate moral act for an individual, that one could not assume responsibility of his or her own happiness without it.

Altruism, on the contrary, was evil. She defined it as “sacrificing of yourself to someone else in such a way that you are placing their interests ahead of your own.” What is wrong with that, I would have liked to ask? “What is wrong with suicide?” she’d say. “What is wrong with giving up life? And why is the happiness of another person important and good but not your own? Why are you the outsider or sacrificial animal? In a good relationship there should be no victims, no sacrifices.”

It’s an odd thing to think about - the evils of altruism – but I decided to explore it a bit, from my own vantage point, as a mother - a great case study, I thought, given there is no competition more obsessed over than the relative martyrdom of mothers. Who has done more, who hasn’t done enough, who gave up their career to care for their children, who built a career to better provide for their children? It’s a circular argument that has gone on for decades, but has been especially vitriolic these last eight neo-con dominated years.

What is interesting is that, while we mothers argue about who has made the greater sacrifice, Ayn Rand tells us we have made no sacrifice at all – that if we love someone, then we get something out of it (children providing love and generational continuity) and that, by definition, is selfish.

A truly altruistic mother would stay at home with or work for someone else’s children but not her own. A truly altruistic wife would pay for cancer treatment for someone else’s spouse but not her own. A martyr, an altruist, does not place their interests above those of others and does not respect their moral obligation to themselves and their own happiness (their loved ones being an adjunct to themselves).

And so, she concludes, we must accept selfishness as a personal responsibility.

It all sounds so callous. I don’t think she ever had children so I can only guess at how her thinking might have evolved. She may have benefited from spending a day with someone like me. I don’t feel particularly good when I’m scolding my girls to practice piano, to finish their homework or clean up their mess - but I can’t decide if I’m being selfish for wanting their success or altruistic for letting them to drive me crazy:)

I do think exploring objectivism against our everyday values is a worthy exercise, to put accepted thinking to the test. It certainly helped me appreciate the hypocrisy of the whole “mothering” argument. But I do believe that mothers feel a sacrifice. I do think that no choice is perfectly selfish or altruistic. There are always regrets and what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. I believe this is what really ignites the “mothering” argument and perhaps what casts a shadow on Rand’s philosophy – that choosing a fork in a road is not so black and white, that even if one acknowledges the merits of a selfish act, acts out in a selfish way, one cannot necessarily conclude that, they had indeed, been selfish.

It’s a complicated argument, a great forum for discussion - I know I’ve only scratched the surface – I’d love to go on but, then with whom? I am reminded of a chapter in Alan Greenspan’s book, Age of Turbulence (great book by the way), where he mentions weekly parlour parties hosted by Ayn Rand with some of the smartest minds in New York, Greenspan among them, sitting around her apartment, smoking, drinking, debating the latest philosophical and political ideas. It would have been the coolest experience, to debate with Ayn Rand. Unfortunately, I won’t benefit from such a connection. But I still have her ideas. And I’ll continue to test them against conventional thinking, just as I did with motherhood. Maybe she’ll surprise me again as she did this time. Indeed, I was only too happy to learn I am no martyr. It was too much of a burden anyway.

Is My Dog Awesome or What?!!!!

Sarah Save Thyself

I am often asked why I never chose to write of Sarah Palin in any of my posts, that her omission seemed a glaring oversight given my obvious love of all things political. Well, my simple answer is that, as a candidate, Sarah Palin never much interested me. Other than initial surprise, she didn't bring anything that could hold my interest, save perhaps her motherhood – but then, I’ve never felt compelled to write about someone just because they’re a mother.

So, I find myself in an awkward position, asked to extend Sarah’s time in the sun, to elongate her campaign for notoriety and media presence, something she seems hell bent on doing till 2012. Quite frankly, I’d rather be the one helping to sunset that fifteen minutes of fame. I see no better way to do that than by simply ignoring her. To remove her from the spotlight is to tell her that time is up; go home and feed the dogs.

Of course, the problem is Sarah won’t go home. She won’t go away. She fights to maintain celebrity-style attention, hoping against hope that she can redeem herself from the embarrassing and sometimes bizarre behaviour she displayed during the election. I’m not sure more time in front of the camera is the answer. It’s a medium that has only served to perpetuate an already established caricature – that she is a politically thirsty neophyte, unworldly in her perspective, uneducated in her views; that she is someone who appears to lack depth on the very issues that, as a leader, she'd be called upon to address. She is someone for whom the Peter Principle crown would be aptly bestowed: “in a hierarchy, every employee rises to his or her level of incompetence”.

If I were Sarah, I’d recognize my shortcomings, then aggressively go about closing that capability gap. I’d read books (and yes, newspapers). I’d sign up for committees - on energy, foreign policy, the economy (and yes, I know she was on an energy committee but she's clearly in need of more education). I’d make friends with knowledgeable people. I’d create relationships with leading businesses - listen to what they need, ask where they want to take America. I’d establish relationships with foreign leaders. I’d visit them, even if it meant an overnight flight! I’d gather information on their successes; I’d learn about their failures; I’d understand their challenges and ask what they needed from America. If I were Palin, I’d use these four years to LEARN. It's the five letter word that should become her mantra and it's the one thing that could reinvent her and make her credible. Times are too stark and too serious for someone lacking intellectual fortitude. If Sarah wants America to take her seriously, it’s high time she did so herself.

Here We Go Again!

I'm looking out my window at yet another snowstorm - apparently fifteen centimeters when all is done this evening. School was cancelled, businesses closed early. This lousy weather is getting to be too much of a habit! I did manage to trek outside for a short time. I thought I'd make it to our head office, normally an hour away from my house but more like an eternity today, I realised it once on the highway. It was a mess, more cars in the ditch than on the road. The snow was thick and slippery, my tires no match for for the frictionless surface built up. So heavy was the accumulation, I could hardly see out my windshield, even as the wipers brushed snow aside. I remember an auto insurance exec once telling me that on these days they all sit in their offices shivering - honestly, the claims they pay out because of peoples' stubbornness! I would have been one of them today - I had an important meeting I should have attended, however a car spiraled out of control in front of me, causing me to fishtail to the side. "Enough driving for one day" I said to myself and I headed to the nearest exit. Once home, I happily set up shop for the rest of the day. My computer on my lap, a hot mug of green tea warming my hands and Nina Simone playing in the background. What could be better on such a lousy day?

Nightly Musings

From a young age, I was a great fan of poetry - I loved the lyrical nature of it, like song. And I analyzed the careful choice of words, visual but succinct, an economy that was (and pretty much remains) foreign to me. As Elizabeth Alexander once said, it is "language distilled".

I am trying to bring poetry to my girls - the two older ones are even starting to write their own!

Every night, we lay on my bed, all three of them sprawled about me as I read one classic book or another (right now it is Anne of Green Gables) but I always end with a poem. I want them to grow up with poetry as much as prose - it does not seem a complete education otherwise.

This was last night's choice. They added their own comentary but I'll keep that between them and I:)

Enjoy!

If
By Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Oh No! Not A Movie Adaptation!!

Oprah Winfrey has teamed up with Tom Hanks to turn her latest Book Club choice into a new movie.

The talk show queen introduced TV viewers to David Wroblewski's The Story of Edgar Sawtelle last year and now she has joined forces with Universal executives and Hanks' Playtone company to produce the movie adaptation.

Winfrey says, "It's something I've never done before out of all the pictures I've ever done, I've always chosen to stay out of the movie making process.

"We will honour the book."

Yikes! My new favourite book is being made into a movie. I'm a little nervous. I am not a big fan of adaptations - well at least not of those books I have fallen in love with. I can think of only two movies adapatations that I truly enjoyed - "The English Patient" and "Narnia (The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe)".

I appreciate a movie can never completely be the book. Thousands of words could never be squeezed into two hours. I also realise the director, not the novelist, has the final say - but I also believe that a director should honour the book's "intent". If he cannot, has he not somehow failed the story? Is he even telling the story? If a director cannot respect the main themes of a given book, why would he bother making a movie of it in the first place?

I am reminded of "A Prayer For Owen Meaney". It's a stellar book and continues to be one of my all time favourites. I will admit, it had it's share of problems, not the least of which was Irving's tendancy to overstuff his tale with as many vignettes and characters and commentaries as possible. With such gluttonous tendancies, Irving could have easily lost his thematic way, but, of course, he's too fine a writer and managed to make everything connect. Owen Meaney is the tale of a boy who came to die for the sins of the Vietnam war. This theme of Jesus reincarnate, the second coming of Christ, the saviour of the Vietnam sinners, carried the book through misadventures and comedy, contrasting everyday laughter with the seriousness and tragedy of the main character's greater life purpose.

Clearly, it's a political book - anti-American in sentiment, critical of Reagan and the Vietnam war. The story also tackles religion and delivers commentary on its relevance, meaning and hypocracy. Politics and religion are the book's raison d'etre.

Director and screenwriter Mark Steven Johnson significantly altered the story when moving it to script. He did not relate to the the larger political and religious themes - offering up in one interview that, he was too young to appreciate the Vietnam war and saw that as justice for eliminating that "part". What did he decide to create instead? A series of cute little vignettes of course! He even changed the caracter of Owen Meaney. Irving made Owen small and almost existential looking for the same reason Jesus was made tall and striking - to stand out in the crowd, to appear different, godly. Johnson ignored this fact, choosing to make his Owen a deformed, physically challenged, sweet little boy.

I was disappointed to see Johnson ignore these major themes. He demonstrated a lack of appreciation and understanding for what Irving created. Seems Irving felt the same way and demanded the movie not carry his book's title. It was, instead, renamed "Simon Birch".

I recall the criticism of Mel Gibson's "The Passion". Many felt Gibson showed a lack of depth in telling the story of Christ; that it appeared he didn't have the intellectual wherewithal to pull it off. I felt the same of Johnson. Where it concerned Owen Meaney, he just didn't "get it" and the result was disappointment on the screen at at the box office. Indeed, Johnson appears to have realised this was not his niche. He went on to direct lighter fare, including Jack Frost, Daredevil, Elecktra and Ghost Rider. Good riddence I say - but then who is going to remake Owen Meaney into the movie it should have been? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's better left untouched.

Good luck Edgar Sawtelle. I hope you fall into good hands...

You're How Old??!!

I have spent years haunted by an odd inability to look my age – this the problem of my ostensibly endless youth. I admit, it’s not all physical – I do give off a school girl vibe, but that’s my personality and I’ll be 65 and be the same. It’s my appearance I find challenging, starting with my height, or lack-there-of. At 5’1”, with a soft voice and no sign of wrinkles, I can be easily mistaken for someone much younger.

Don’t hate me when I tell you this. You may think it all a blessing but when you're trying really hard to be an adult, the perception of youth, and it’s subordinated status, is frustrating. I’ve fallen victim to the condescending smiles of executives who sit idly through my presentations, not hearing a word I say but noticing how “oh so cute” my chiming sounds, I’ve worked through complex contract negotiations only to have my client ask for the decision maker (ouch), I’ve even been the subject of disbelief by neighborhood children who argue vigorously that I’m far too little to be a mommy!

It was no easier being a teenager. Those uneventful years I blame on the limitations of my childlike appearance. I never, EVER got into a bar underage, never dated a guy older than me, if even my own age – never because, with my countenance, it just wasn’t possible. I felt the weight of what seemed an eternal curse - the girl whose mind matures even as she physically remains a child. I remember watching Kirsten Dunst’s character in “Interview With A Vampire” with gross sympathy as the little vampire came to realize that while she could never grow old, she could never grow up either.

I recall one year, my boyfriend (now my husband) and I went on a day long roadtrip from Orlando (where I was stationed for a conference) to Key West. We stopped at a gas station, hubby filled up while I went in to pay. I pulled out my AMEX card at which point a curious cashier asked how old I was. “Twenty seven” I announced uneasily. He pulled back in shock and exclaimed “Why honey, you don’t look a day over twelve!” Twelve?! That hurts.

I remember another time I was leading a large technology based initiative with insurance companies across the country as well as their governing body. The lead consultant to the regulator, upon learning of my appointment said to my boss “Really? You’re giving it to her? Isn’t she, you know, junior?” “Oh no,” my boss replied. “She’s not junior. She’s just little.”

Yes, there are moments I wish I really was a vampire…

I keep telling myself that one day I’ll be happy about all this, that my youth will be my calling card, or at least I’ll hang on to my vitality much longer than some – but I’m not so sure. I do hope I get to be the person I feel I am inside. Mature, complicated, earnest – perhaps a girl, but only in spirit – outside all sophistication and smarts. To be “Madame, Ma’am, Lady or the like. Deep down, all I want is to be a “woman”.

The Wrestler

It was movie night and hubby and I certainly had our choice of the lot – well with not getting out much and then the Oscars looming, there was lots to choose from. We settled on The Wrestler, partly because of curiosity – I hadn’t seen Mickey Rourke in anything since 9 ½ weeks (I told you I don’t get out much!!)- and partly because the timeslot fit – it was neither too early nor too late. The choice thrilled my husband only because he was expecting something else.

The movie was, at times, difficult to watch. Rourke was his Oscar-worthy best - a ragged, aging wrestling star, with his time in the spotlight up but his alternatives grim. His physicality was striking – he was a meaty, bleached blond, SuperTan mess. How he got here would be vague back story, but how he’d now survive was of main concern. Of course, it was impossible to watch the movie without considering the parallels to Rourke’s own infamous personal life: drugs, boxing and irresponsibility all destroying a promising movie career. For that reason, it is inconceivable to imagine anyone else playing the role of Randy "The Ram" Robinson. The movie was all Rourke, stripped entirely of fancy Hollywood-esque accessories. That fact kept it from spiraling into clichés which it certainly had the potential to do - a washed up star and a stripper with a heart of gold – how old is that?! Yes, it could have been a lot less but with the camera fixated on Rourke’s beaten frame, his scarred face and broken eyes, it was hard not to let your heart break.

He reminded me of someone I knew back in my teens – a hotshot tennis player with a fiery game and tons of athletic potential. There were comparisons to Andre Aggasi and everyone predicted fame and fortune. I had a massive crush on him – his rebellious streak being the most attractive feature, although he was also very handsome. I was absolutely convinced he’d get everything he ever wanted in life. But over time it would all unravel – he had neither the maturity nor the role models to keep him on course – and he got into the worst of it – skipping school (a $40,000/year scholarship no less), endless parties, drugs, a bad crowd – all this combined to destroy him. It was sad. I’ve asked about him now and then – and I always hear the same thing - still doing drugs, still dealing them, just trying to get by. His is a life on the edge, just like Rudy the Ram. The parallels are all there. That is what’s so striking about Rourke’s performance – not only is it a corollary of his own life, but it’s also the biography of someone we all once knew, once admired, perhaps loved. To hear of their fall from greatness seems a cruel play on the past. We want to remember them well but the story doesn’t unfold to our liking, only tarnishes our memories black.

Life is not to be taken for granted. It offers up its’ fruits, yes, but they are perishable joys and they will not bear their sweetness if taken too early; they will rot and spoil if held for too long. It’s a life those of “greatness past” fumble through to finally understand; but the lessons are hard. Most of us have neither the courage nor the inclination to test the extremes, but movies like The Wrestler allow us to step in, ever so briefly, to see for ourselves how life can so easily unravel.

In Season: The Birds and the Bees

A couple of weeks ago, I decided that, finally, I was going to tell my 10 year old daughter about about the birds and the bees. I know, I know - I've waited so long. I had been thinking about it for the last year and a half but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. She was comfortable with the c-section story and didn’t appear at all interested in finding out how the baby got into my belly in the first place, so I thought – why shatter innocence?

Then a note came home from school informing me that as part of their “Fully Alive” education this year, they would be learning about SEX!! Well if I needed a catalyst, I guess this was it, so I went to the library to do some research, spent days figuring out how to break the news about Mom and Dad and how she got here. I was really stressed about it. After this she would NEVER look at me the same way again, so approach, sensitivity and timing would all be critical.

I considered using my Gray’s Anatomy book to illustrate but that seemed too clinical. Then I thought about getting a movie to explain – but well, other than “those” kind of movies, I was not sure where I’d find one. After some deliberation I realised I was going to have to do this the old fashioned way and find the right time to have “the talk".

I followed my daughter around for three days looking for that perfect moment. She’d sit down to do her homework, look up and say “wanna help?” and I’d think about how I could weave sex into math. There were some interesting, um, angles but then - nah, I couldn't keep a straight face! And when you're laughing, that's not the best time to talk about sex.

She’d practice piano and ask me to her adjust the metronome, look over her fingering, clap out the timing. It seemed a quiet enough moment but with every beat I'd hear the clock, time ticking away reminding me I was stalling. It was as if I was 10 years old now, my mother watching over me, nagging at my procrastination, the lack of discipline I had in getting things done. And when your mother gets into your head, well, gross, that's not the best time to talk about sex either!

I decided to try another way – this time playing Wii. Her latest favourite is the High School Musical game. The fact it was a somewhat loud and distracting was not lost on me - yah I know, call me chicken - but I thought it would be a great opportunity to use some of my dance moves to blend in or even act out! So, I jumped right in the middle of “Get'cha Head In the Game”, did the funky chicken and yelled, “Guess how babies are made?!”

She smiled and slowed down to which I yelled "No!! Don’t stop! I'm talking to you!"

But then she just started laughing at my moves and well, when your kid starts to laugh at you, that’s not the best time to talk about sex.

I gave up. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t find the moment, couldn’t get over the embarrassment, couldn’t connect with my daughter. Ashamed, I went to my room and opened up my latest novel, Alan Greenspan’s “Age of Turbulence”.

She came upstairs to say sorry she laughed at me and that she didn’t mean to hurt my feelings.

“That’s ok” I said. “I didn’t really want to dance. I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

I explained I got the “Fully Alive” letter and I wanted to tell her about it before the teacher did. I asked her if she knew how babies were made.

“Yah.” she said meekly. “I’ve known for a long time.”

A long time?!!

How do you spell failure? How about W-A-Y T-O-O L-A-T-E!!

Apparently, her BFF’s 17 year old brother told them at a birthday party sleepover! I could just die!! I mean I could just kill him but after that I could just die. This was MY special mother/daughter moment and some pock-faced, four-eyed teenage Dr. Ruth, who I am sure has never, EVER gotten lucky, beat me to it!

After I recovered, I decided I wasn't going to let that sex-ed neophyte ruin my special moment (and duty) so I said “Darling, I’m going to tell you anyway.”

She blushed and yelled NO!! NO!! NO!! - then threw her face into the pillow and wouldn’t look up. I explained all the basics, just as I suspect the teenager did but I added in a bunch of stuff on commitment and love (which I’m sure the teenager didn’t). I stuck to sex ed 101. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about 201 - even though I’ve heard some awful things about Grade 8...

Anyway, we got through it, I said thanks for listening and reminded her if she ever needed to talk, I’d always be there. She just said “can we talk about something else?”

"Sure!" I said. How about Alan Greenspan?

The Inauguration Speech

Because on this day my words could not possibly be a match for his...

A Treasure

When I was a young girl, I would routinely accompany my mother on her favourite weekend excursion, cruising the neighbourhood garage sales. I never understood her fascination with navigating through someone else’s junk - piles of used, rejected goods, none understood to be of any importance until they caught my mother’s fascinated eye. I was a reluctant sidekick and found the Saturday morning ritual a tedious, dragging affair for which noon could never come soon enough. That was the agreed upon marker for which she’d drop everything and take me home for my well earned lunch. And earn it I did. As my mother perused strangers wares, she'd pile, precariously into my arms faded tablecloths and decorative dishes, ill-formed statues and nameless nik-naks, every so often removing an item to replace it with another more treasured find. I’d follow her around impatiently, roll my eyes and implore her to stop, repeating over and over again that we’d found plenty enough.

One particular morning - I think I was about 10 or 11 - I recall it was a very hot day, I was feeling lazy and cantankerous and could not bear the thought of trawling driveways in such heat. My mother would have nothing of my lack of ambition – after all, it was a "moving" garage sale (that's the best kind) and so I went, a long-faced laggard, following far behind. We came upon a small white sided house with a narrow driveway leading to a tiny garage in the back. Dispirited, I sat down on a nearby chair and waited for my mother to complete her regular inspection of goods.

The homeowner was a tiny British woman, a widower I assumed, and she struck a pale white figure against the blinding hot sun – white skin, white hair, white clothes – I had to squint to see her. There was a neatness about her appearance and it reflected in the orderly way she had displayed her goods. I understood from my mother she was closing shop to move somewhere warm - how she could consider that prospect on such a hot day, I did not understand.

The old woman came up to me, announced herself with a little “hello” and seeing my parched figure sprawled across the length of the chair, offered me something to drink - some lemonade perhaps? Of course! It was the best offer I’d had all day. The drink was sweet and cold and I downed it in three short gulps. That made her smile. She then asked if there was anything I wanted to see. I said I wasn't much for garage sales and would prefer to just sit and wait my mother out.

She asked if I liked books. Of course I did - but I guessed there was nothing here for me to enjoy. Come see what I have, she urged. I considered a tepid response but the lemonade treat was still sweet on my tongue and it reminded me of my obligation. Dutifully, I followed her to the garage, passing clothes, records and other household goods. Behind a table of neatly lined china was a large cardboard box of books and magazines. We both bent down and began to rummage through. She purposefully pulled out a small, thin hardcover book, the front plain white save the simple lettering of a curiously alluring title - "I Have A Dream". I was intrigued enough she saw, so she handed me the book. I opened it up and began to read. I was surprised by its unusual structure. There were only a few words per page, an entire oratory delivered in small, individual frames. It was as if the book was instructing the eye to give each word its own importance and weight.

"Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation."

As I traveled from page to page, I sunk deeper into the monologue, compelled to better understand the discrimination so hotly set before me. The anger and frustration was clear but it was balanced by a strong, peaceful defiance – words lifting off the page, calling to people (he must have been talking to people) to stand up to the injustice they wrongfully endured.

And with the turn of another page, the author made a giant leap forward beckoning his followers to band together and seek out the future that belonged to them. The words – oh those incredible words that would make me come to love language and its enviable seductive power - “I have a dream”. Over and over again, “I have a dream”.

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal."

“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

“I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.”

"You can keep it." She startled me and I looked up. "You like it, of course - so you can keep it - for your troubles today."

I thanked her, tucked it under my arm and went back to my mother, no longer apathetic to her cause. I now understood the thrill of the hunt and the spontaneous joy of connecting with something completely unexpected. I had found my own little treasure, a tiny book with words made so powerful, they could open hearts. It was a character changing discovery.

As luck would have it, my mother didn’t burden me with much that day. In one hand I held a small bag of costume jewelry and not much more. This time, she seemed content enough to settle on the surprise of my own enjoyment.

Over the years, most of those garage sale finds lived out a short existence, finding their inevitable way to the garbage can. Others were more lucky and breathed new life when happily passed on to another garage sale junkie. But not the book. It was a keeper. I still have it today and it's in surprisingly good shape, although not for lack of reading. I covered and recovered it many times over the years to protect its original pristine quality. Somehow that preserved neatness reminds me of the woman who gifted it to me in the first place - a bright and sympathetic senior who saw an opportunity to open the mind of a bored young girl. She is a wonderful memory, I'm a lucky lady to have benefited from her generosity and will always, always treasure her gift.

Happy Martin Luther King Day everyone!

__________________________


P.S. In honour of it all, I'll leave you with "the speech".

Best Game Ever

Geez it takes a lot to impress a kid these days...

Miracles Great and Small

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Yes another image of Flight 1549 and it’s now famous landing on the Hudson River (this one a Dateline special). I want to revel in this miracle, cheer it on and hope for more. I know they’re separate forces, but I cannot help but think of this rare landing alongside the inauguration of President Obama – two good omens, side-by-side, if only because they both bring wonder and joy. And yet, I believe they converge for far greater reasons than mere coincidence. They both signal a new hope, another chance…that things will get better. If a miracle can happen on the Hudson, then maybe it can happen in our own lives too.

It’s been a rough ride for me these last couple of years. Work and family issues brought pressures that my body could no longer tolerate - and I fell apart. Then - I don’t know what it was - maybe I felt that good force – but I came out of the cave, I took control and, for the first time in seemingly forever, looked up. Things aren’t perfect – coming back is a process, not an event – but I feel more energy and confidence and hope than I have in a long time. It’s my little miracle and I am most grateful it brought me back.

Some Things Are Best Told In Pictures

But I will add, I'm speechless...

Milton Freidman On Greed

It's a fascinating piece of footage - Milton Friedman, the foremost expert on capitalism and free enterprise - spelling out the virtues of Greed (or a least making a convincing argument that nobody is virtuous, capitalist or not). As a graduate of business school and a 20 year veteran of corporate America, I have a natural inclination toward his arguments. I believe, as Friedman articulated in this 1979 video excerpt, that free enterprise and democracy are the dynamic duo most effective in bringing prosperity to the masses.

But this is not 1979, this is 2009 and with the economic crisis dominating news headlines I cannot help but watch this as a retrospective. Given all that has happened in the financial markets, is greed really good? Given China’s growing economic clout, is democracy the only effective political model for prosperity? And, if Friedman could do it all over again, would he subscribe to all his original theories?

Indeed, other respected men of free enterprise have reacted to the challenges of the current economic crisis with befuddlement and shock. Recall Alan Greenspan's assessment when he took the stand at a recent Congressional session on the economy:

REP. HENRY WAXMAN (D. CA): shock. That sounds like to me you're saying that those who trusted the market to regulate itself, yourself included made a serious mistake.

ALAN GREENSPAN: Well I think that's true of some products, but not all.

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: Then where do you think you made a mistake?

ALAN GREENSPAN: I made a mistake in the presuming that the self interest of organizations specifically banks and others was such that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders...

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: The question I have for you is, you had an ideology, you had a belief that free, competitive -- and this is your statement -- "I do have an ideology. My judgment is that free, competitive markets are by far the unrivaled way to organize economies. We've tried regulation. None meaningfully worked." That was your quote.

You had the authority to prevent irresponsible lending practices that led to the subprime mortgage crisis. You were advised to do so by many others. And now our whole economy is paying its price.

Do you feel that your ideology pushed you to make decisions that you wish you had not made?

ALAN GREENSPAN: Well, remember that what an ideology is, is a conceptual framework with the way people deal with reality. Everyone has one. You have to -- to exist, you need an ideology. The question is whether it is accurate or not.
And what I'm saying to you is, yes, I found a flaw. I don't know how significant or permanent it is, but I've been very distressed by that fact.

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: You found a flaw in the reality...

ALAN GREENSPAN: Flaw in the model that I perceived is the critical functioning structure that defines how the world works, so to speak.

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: In other words, you found that your view of the world, your ideology, was not right, it was not working?

ALAN GREENSPAN: That is -- precisely. No, that's precisely the reason I was shocked, because I had been going for 40 years or more with very considerable evidence that it was working exceptionally well.

There was more to the session, and then another session, but suffice it to say, it was not a good day at the office for Alan Greenspan!

And so, one might wonder, if Greenspan, the most respected capitalist in living America, a man who has a well documented history of support for deregulation and free market economies, can admit to finding a “flaw”, what would Friedman, himself, have said?

Short of getting an Ouiji board out or conducting a Nancy Reagan style séance, I cannot bring the man back to tell me, but I will take a B. Comm (that’s Bachelor of Commerce, not Brothers of Communism – just so you know where I stand…) stab at what he might say.

First - China. That one’s simple. I think he’d say that the success of China is not a validation of communism and socialist policies, but rather it is a validation of the free enterprise model. China could only secure economic successful when it started to open opportunities and resources to its people and to the world. And I think he would add, that now China has merged onto the free enterprise highway, it cannot make a sudden u-turn back. Once it has entered the free market economy, to continue to gain scale and maintain or increase marketshare in an expanding marketplace, it must continue to grow. And if it is to continue to grow it must open its doors even wider. Indeed, we can already see China adopting more of these “open door” policies - more free speech, more entrepreneurialism, more innovation. I don’t know if I will live to see a communist-free China but certainly today, this country has proven that more free enterprise does beget more freedom.

On the economy, well, that's a tougher one. I think he'd maintain that an economy that supports individuals pursuing their self interests is still the best approach for mass prosperity. I think Friedman would have said the primary reason for the economic collapse is that corporations have become too big and too powerful. While some critics of the financial crisis have said this collapse is an “indictment on the ideology of capitalism”, I believe he would have proposed that it was an indictment on the ideology of large corporations. Once corporations become too large, they begin to influence government and they begin to control regulation, which enables them to control the marketplace which, in turn, enables them to exert control on the individuals in that marketplace. Friedman would have argued for more fragmentation in financial services, less centralization and amalgamation of corporations to ensure diffusion of influence, control and risk.

On regulation – we all know he was never a supporter of regulation. He believed that once government erected regulation to protect the consumer, the corporation would have a much stronger interest in controlling government than the individual who was diffuse in the situation (because he had many other things to worry about). The result would be the creation of powerful corporate lobby groups, influencing the government to the detriment of the individual (and guess what they would lobby for – deregulation!). But it is 2009, the economy has failed us, and I think he would have had to concede that some (he would never sign up for “complete”) regulation could have helped prevent this disaster, or at least allowed it to be caught much earlier.

To close, I found the end of the video to be an ironic harbinger of things to come – here Friedman is asking Donahue, “who are these angels that will organize society for us?” In 2009 those virtuous angels are the everyday taxpayers coming to the aid of corporations that became too big and too greedy for their own good.




Oh - and for your added enjoyment, a couple of great cartoons by Bob Lang.

Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt

With the inauguration of America's first black president fast approaching, internet chatter is abuzz with all things Obama (as if it wasn't already!). There has been much made of his experience, his qualifications, personal associations and character over the last couple of years. Those same concerns have bubbled up again for rehashed debate amongst bloggers everywhere. It's the story that won't go away!

I, for one, will be happy when Jan 21st, post-inauguration day rolls around. Perhaps then, Americans and bloggers alike will have come to terms with the fact that, yes, this man is indeed, the President of the United States. Can we all get back to work now?!

Obama often speaks of himself as the "improbable candidate", whose naysayers said his "day would never come", that his "sights were set to high". I am not sure I'd give him that much credit - he had rock star status long before he'd announced his candidacy; and his looks, eloquence, intelligence and charisma were going to take him far whenever he decided to run for the highest office. As history would have it, he decided to run sooner rather than later, and that gave the establishment something to poo about.

Throughout, Obama played the cool cat. He distanced himself from the political fray and the negative tactics that had become business as usual in American politics. He was above pettiness, dirty tricks, and spin. While Obama ran as many negative ads as the next guy he always stuck to the issues, to his key talking points and didn't let his opponents take him off message. By rising above the bashing, he forced his competition into “operation nice” or face the label of being "more of the same". It was a brilliant move and a tired electorate ate it up.

I give the man high marks for this. He ran a remarkable campaign, not just because it was disciplined and focused but simply because he elevated the conversation. He brought respect back to politics. He even claimed he wanted "to make politics cool again". And cool he made it - all the way to the White House.

So what's a disgruntled right-winger to do? I understand the frustration. It's the ultimate high school envy - the guy with the movie star looks and girlfriend to match, whose marks are as high as his perfectly placed free throws, his personality so smooth and engaging that he could probably have his own syndicated talk show. It's enough to make you crazy, but face it, to try and knock the high school star down, well, that's just not cool.

Post election, you still hear much of the envy. It's more subtle now as it has become uncouth to banter about ones associations when a stark economic landscape faces the man in question. Nonetheless, naysayers continue to clog the internet blogs with their little cuts, nicks and back-handed kicks. I am not referring to those obvious and expected critics - the conservative attack dogs, life-long Republicans or Ann Coulter (because she is a category unto herself) – they, we expect to come to the table ready for a fight. And I am not talking about the voters who have opposing views and welcome open debate. They should be heard.

I am talking about people who take their Obama digs with a spoonful of sugar and a sprinkling of doubt; who use geniality and plastic concern to give credibility to half truths and speculation. I am referring to those who strike a little Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt (FUD) to ever-so-subtly put the man down.

FUD is a common tactic used in sales and marketing to thwart the competition's rise in popularity. It is not a frontal attack, rather, it is a subtle, passive-aggressive manipulation of facts and beliefs to convince the buyer, voter, friend, or whoever that a decision in favour of another is a risk. FUD strategies are typically used by those who feel they are losing or are underrepresented, but are afraid to alienate others by stating their real intentions or beliefs. FUDders, as I like to call them (isn't that cute?) use flanking strategies to spin false stories and speculation into general feelings of discomfort. McCain was the victim of FUDders back in 2004 when Bush aids perpetuated stories on the internet about his fathering a black child - and while he vehemently denied the accusations, the damage had been done, the "discomfort" had been established and he went on to lose the nomination.

Today in Obamaland, FUDders clog the internet with more subtle accusations - like "oh, I don't know I'll just have to see – you know a man is known by the company he keeps...", or "geez, I mean I'd like to see a black president just as much as the next Texan but what religion is he again?" or "yes he gives great speeches but if you can talk like that, what are you REALLY saying?" or "I know he's supposed to be smart but I don’t know what’s in his head so I'll have to wait and see..." or my personal favourite "I don't really know anything about him so I'll just have to wait and see...".

Let me address that last one - because I think it's subtlety makes it the most tempting of excuses. Hiding behind the vague notion of familiarity begs for more analysis. You don't really know him? You mean you don't know him like you know George Bush, the guy who you'd like to have a beer with, but let's face it, that's only going to happen in your dreams? Or - you don't really know him because you haven't read his books (which detail his personal history, family, values, views on politics and governing), you haven't seen any one of the thousand or so interviews he's given, you haven't witnessed the near 30 debates in which he participated?

You don't “know" him? The reality is, to say you don't know a public figure when you don't personally know ANY public figures is to hold one candidate to different standard than another. And, let's say you are considering this from a policy perspective, to say you don't know him when you know he has been open on his views on the most important issues demonstrates a lack of interest in honest debate.

Interestingly enough, nobody seemed to feel the need to "know" George Bush when he ran for president. Nobody seemed to miss the fact that there were no books of his to read, no foreign policy positions to understand, no economic credibility to be explored. Voters didn't feel the need to know any of that.

When I hear people say they just don't "know" Obama, my personal red flag goes up. This is not about FUDders’ need to “know” Obama but rather they’re need to "define" him.

Let me explain with an example.

I met someone recently (an American living in Canada) with whom I struck up a conciliatory discussion on politics - but when the topic turned to Obama, there was a shift. He told me he knew someone who knew someone who apparently knows Obama who says he's really ambitious, he's SO ambitious - and by the way he spat out the word "ambitious" I knew he meant it couldn’t be good. He said he was ambitious to the point where he didn't see his family much. I almost started to laugh. Is that the best you can do FUDder?! I mean we've had presidents who engaged in sordid affairs, committed crimes, traded arms with terrorists, worked with the mob, fought illegitimate wars - and all you can give me is "ambitious"? Are you serious?!

Last I checked, America was founded and continues to prosper on ambition. But my point here isn't whether Obama has ambition or not - of course he does and that’s ok, even expected. My point is that this gentleman, who used hearsay and unsubstantiated evidence to paint a picture of a man he didn’t know was not actually making a statement about Obama; rather, he was projecting something about himself onto Obama. And that which he was projecting was fear, and more specifically a fear of the unknown, a fear of the inability to define the man in ways they feel comfortable. This is what most FUDders are really doing when they say they don't "know" Obama.

What kind of "unknown" fear is it? Is it fear of his performance? He has proven to be quite competent so far. Is it fear of his policies? Other than the normal party clash of policies, there is nothing new here. Is it the fear of his newness? The public tends to celebrate the new and fresh rather than fear it. Is it the fear of his experience (or lack of)? Certainly, experience was a popular attack but all the candidates this year had inconsistent records on experience whether it be on the economy or healthcare or foreign relations. Even McCain, who believed his foreign relations knowledge to be a strength didn’t really have the breadth of international experience and exposure he might have led the populace to believe. He mistakenly confused Muslim factions when he said Iran was training Al-Qaeda (Sunni based Muslims) when they were actually training Shiite extremists; and he, several times referenced “Czechoslovakia” instead of the Czech Republic or Slovakia (Czechosolvaia had split into two countries in 1993). Obama, for the most part, stayed clear of such gaffs. So fear of experience isn't a terribly credible argument.

No, their fear is not of performance, ideas or experience but rather it is a fear of the black man. The fear these FUDders project is one of racism.

Eyebrows may raise at this point, but as I analyze and explore, I cannot see my way to another conclusion. What other factors are there? Certainly there is demographics and religious ideology but they only play to the typical conclusions. Time and time again, my analysis has led me back to racism.

When people say they “don’t know him” I think these people, so accustomed to classification, mean they don’t know his "type”. He is not your stereotypical black man. He is not angry black. He is not cool rapper black. He is not super-athlete black. He is a serious, educated, extremely intelligent, eloquent and elegant black. I think for most people, that just doesn’t sound black! THIS is their discomfort. Obama defies their definitions, their intepretations and control. FUDders cannot box him in the easy, stereotypical way they have with other blacks before him. And so, FUDders continue to raid the internet airwaves with their slight-of-hand remarks, painting a shadowy Obama led frontier that asks all of us, do you really want to go where no man has gone before?

I'm is sad to come to this conclusion. I wanted the analysis to go somewhere better. The reality is, if you have issues with Barack Obama but you cannot articulate your concerns concretely and plainly, if you cannot argue on the basis of fact, if you can only be vague in your criticisms and sly in your doubt then you have to ask yourself what your motivation is for knocking the man down. You have to ask yourself are you a racist?

The Faithless Wife

One of the many brilliant poems by Federico Garcia Lorca. When I think of his tortured life, this one most prominently comes to mind. It's full of beauty, wonder, of lust and denial. It is one his best and I think it's one of THE best. I won't say anymore because I've already set your expectations sky-high! Besides, poems are best interpreted personnally rather than by someone else - so, I'll just zip it!

So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.

It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping breasts
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foliage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.

Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver,
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.

As a man, I won’t repeat
the things she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The swords of the lilies
battled with the air.

I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she was a maiden
when I took her to the river.

(translated by Stephen Spencer and J.L. Gili)

She Had Me At Hello

I was navigating cnn.com when this picture (here) jumped through the screen and hit me. A mother, Captain Jennifer Moore, coming home from duty sees her six month old baby, Gabriella, for the first time since October. Both parents were on active duty so care was left to the grandfather, also pictured, holding the baby and overcome with emotion.

This photograph immediately sent me back, almost a decade, to those first days I was faced with ending the bliss of maternity leave to go back to work. I had to do it three heartbreaking times - but it's the second one that left the biggest scar. At that point my girls were babies - one six months and the other 18 months old, the eldest young enough to very much need me and old enough to know it.

Maternity leave had been an incredibly fulfilling time. The joy I felt doing something I loved for someone I cared for - well, I don't have words to describe it. But reality arrived (so fast!) and it was time to go back to work.

That first day, as I was pouring coffee into my travel mug, my toddler sensed something was amiss. She began walking circles around me chanting "Mommy up. Mommy up." - and I did pick her up - maybe a dozen times but certainly not enough. I finally grabbed my computer bag and said good-bye. It was a tiny little word that started a flood of big hot tears. I gave her another hug from which she would not let go; I gently pried her fingers, one at a time, away from my neck and, again said good-bye. I shut the door firmly so as not to go back in but her screaming following me all the way to the car. I did my very best not to look back. I backed out of the driveway, straightened the car, waited, and when I couldn't stand it anymore, looked up. There, through a fogged up window was the face of my inconsolable child, tears streaming down her flushed little cheeks, her sobs trading space with desperate cries of my true identity "Mommy! Mommy! Come back! Mommy!".

This scene would repeat itself many times before my daughter finally settled into the routine of my absence - although I don't believe she ever really got used to it. She worries about me so much. Even today (she is ten) when I leave for business trips, she is incensed at my departure. A bad mood forms an invisible wall around her the night before and I don't get a goodnight kiss. The next day she cries at the airport as I check in, she hugs me without letting go - and I still have to pry those fingers slowly, one-by-one, from my neck. And every time that happens, I go back to that first crushing day - and I want to cry.

When I come home, she is the first to the door, the first with a hug and I hug her too. I kiss her, I lift her up and this time, I'm the one who doesn't let go. She tells me the hundred things I need to know about the last three days and then when we're all tucked into bed, she sneaks into my room and lays down beside me, nestling her head in my neck for the rest of the night - and all feels right again. Due to my travel schedule, I am lucky (or unlucky? - you decide) to repeat this production many times a year.

And so - the picture of Captain Jennifer Moore and the reunion with her baby girl stays with me. It's so arresting a display of love and joy and a little bit of heartbreak. I can relate. It's the hardest thing for a mother leave her child and the greatest joy to see her again. If I know anything, I know that - and so, it appears, does Captain Jennifer Moore.

Introducing My Man

I love with him. He's helpful, he's loyal, he's honest - and he gets me a diet coke from the fridge at the snap of a finger! As you can see in the picture, he's always happy:) He's strong, he's protective, he allows me to sleep at night. He's clean, he's not fussy on dinner and before I go to bed he's completely satisfied with a simpe kiss and a hug. He loves my kids, my kids love him. He growls at mother and my mother-in-law if (I mean WHEN) they complain and he always, ALWAYS takes my side!! This beautiful creature entered my domain two years ago, he's become the love of my life, the sauve in my step, my total pride and joy. I can't imagine what life was like before him - he seems to have been eternally part of me. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a big bow wow to man, Tucker.

It's A Canadian Winter (again)

I have never been much of a fan of winter. The cold - especially the Canadian bone chilling cold - can be unbearable. I try to venture somewhere south for the worst of it but this year I won't be anywhere warm until the end of April - and what good will that do?

Last winter was an absolute saga so I had to take up skiing. I decided it was best I get my lessons at the local ski club near our cottage - fewer people and, therefore, fewer potential embarrassments - but I forgot that while yes, there are fewer people, there are a lot more friends and acquaintances!!!

I can't decide what was my lowest point - lying on top of my ski instructor, my skis, my arms, my legs entangled in his (I know it sounds hot but he was at least 70 years old!); or my daughters trying to carve a path for me down Lovers Lane only to watch in horror as I veered suddenly right - accelerating now - into a tree! All in a days work when you are learning to ski at 40 instead of 4.

The good news is by the end of the winter I was making it down the hill semi-accident free. It wasn't pretty but at least the other skiers could descend with the confidence that I'd keep a safe distance from them - or was it them keeping a safe distance from me? I can't remember. Anway, winter didn't feel any shorter but at least I ventured outside which is more than I can say for my normal pattern this time of year.

I was hoping for another trip to India this month to temper the season but I had an unfortunate cancellation. And to drive the disappointment home - today, another snowstorm - all instigating the now familiar routine of listening to the radio for school bus availability, driving the kids to school, driving them back home (because dah Mom - it's a snow day!) and then finding something to keep them busy so I can work (and WHERE is my nanny?!!! Bedridden, of course!) - agghh! But enough complaining - it will be one of many snowdays this season so I better get used to it.

As an aside, whatever happened to global warming? I should be in a bathing suit right now!

In the meantime, I'll do my best to take in the prettier side of winter - like this scene just outside my doorstep: - a little human intervention on nature but I like it! I think I'll keep my Japanese maple adorned with those Christmas balls for the rest of the season - even if it annoys my annoying neighbour (which it will) - more on her later.

Happy Winter everyone!

How Do You Define Heaven?

How about a grass tennis court in the middle of the desert? This one I snapped at the Marriot Desert Springs Hotel in Palm Desert, CA last April.

Where does a grass court in the middle of the desert get it's water, you may ask? In Palm Desert, from natural groundwater basins that sit underneath the city and are continually replenished by snowcapped mountain ranges. It's a beautfiul piece of luck to live in a place where there are 354 days of sunshine annually and all the water you could want underneath!

Dear God I Discovered Hollister

Just came back from a marathon post-Christmas shopping expedition. I think I more than made up for the lousy Christmas presents I got this year - honey what exactly is a pilates bar?!

As I said in a previous post (here)- I am not a fan of A&F so I stayed far away but after a few of my friends read my ode to Abercrombie post last month, they said I just had to check out Hollister (a subsidiary of A&F, apparently hawking slightly pricier goods). It was against my better judgement, but I ventured in.

I have to say the first thing I did was walk back out to make sure I had walked into the right store. Hollister or A&F? They look exactly the same!!! Oh - and it's exactly the same blinding, suffocating pop/rock retail experience.

Honestly, are these guys serious? They don't even bother to change the wall colours - they just slap on another name, increase the price by 20% and they're done. They must think we're stupid!

I may have to consider an official boycott...

Henri Cartier-Bresson

I was just thinking about him.

My favourite photo of his. He said he took this picture between planks, resting the camera's lens through them. He could not see the picture he was photographing - that's why it's blurry. He could not see the man leaping. An interviewer remarked "that was lucky". Henri replied "It's always luck. It's luck that matters. You have to be receptive, that's all."

I suppose the same can be said of life - can the same be said of writing? Maybe I'm just not very lucky. Not today anyway. Perhaps tomorrow holds more promise.

The Morning After the Night Before: Definition

hang-o-ver [hang'-oh-ver] - noun

1. the disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache or stomach disorder, usually felt several hours after cessation of drinking.
2. something remaining behind from a former period or state of affairs.

Origin:
1890–95, Americanism; n. use of v. phrase hang over

Just In Time For New Year's!

Death At A Funeral - Review

A British black comedy about family's undoing at a funeral. I should have loved this movie - but what started so promising and smart, spiraled into a pathetic gagfest - just one cinematic prank after another. There was ample opportunity to build a richer story - sibling rivalry, a mother's shallowness, a father's secret, the resulting family dynamics - all screaming out for more scrutiny - all sacrified for a laugh. Nothing ventured and therefore, nothing gained. Sigh.

Still, it was time well wasted as it revealed to me much of what was wrong with my own work. My writing suffers from some of the same deficiencies. I tend to be a casual, detached observer with somewhat shallow analysis of my characters and I am over-indulgent with some of the more trivial aspects of my stories.

A story only breathes life when it's characters are real and there is ample friction between them to justify forward motion. Humour is great, but it means nothing without substance - same goes for men:)

I have been told (by my more more observant friends) that I use humour to distance myself emotionally, to hide from controversy or discomfort. I fear my writing suffers from the same inclination. I use humour way too much, dwell on it, perfect it, make it the consumate laugh, all the while running away from the real story.

It sounds so simple, but as "Death At A Funeral" demonstrated, it is all to easy to miss the obvious.

2008 Top 10 Memorable Moments and Stuff

2008 was such a wild and memorable year, I thought I'd honour it with a top 10 memories list, an exercise I know invites criticism, but, as Harold Pinter once said, "I'm the author of this play". If you don't like it, you are welcome to make your own:)

10. Terrorist strikes in India
9. Earthquake in China
8. Beijing Olympics opening ceremonies
7. Yael Naim sings "New Soul"
6. David Wroblewski's "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle"
5. Tina Fey as Sarah Palin
4. The economy
3. Nadal/Federer match (even if Federer lost)
2. Momentous losses - Tim Russert (I cried for 3 days), Paul Newman, Arthur C. Clarke, Harold Pinter, Heath Ledger and Jeff Healey
1. Barack Obama becomes the 44th President of the United States

My hubby thinks The Nadal/Federer match belongs waaaay behind the Earthquake and Terrorist strikes in terms of importance -ok true - but if I were to evaluate on the basis of uniqueness - well I'd say there are earthquakes and terrorist strikes just about every year but when did we last see a duel comparable to Wimbledon this year?!

Tell me your top 10!! I promise I won't shoot.

Harold's Truth

Harold Pinter, playwright, sreenwriter, political activist and 2005 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, died yesterday of throat cancer. He was 78.

I humbly admit, my first introduction to Pinter's work was through a much delayed viewing of "the French Lieutenant's Woman". Perhaps that fact betrays the populist in me, but more accurately (Harold would have loved the bare simplicity of this), I think it reveals my age. Yes, I was a latecomer to the Pinter train but once aboard, I was a passenger for life.

Einstein once said "if you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough". Pinter had a gift for the simplicity and economy of carefully selected words. Whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words never read a Pinter script. I loved his brevity and I enjoyed the breaking delivery he brought to his scripts - it was often fast paced and jagged, but it was always purposeful. I don't know why he chose this approach - some say it was because he preferred the unspoken words of silence to the words in between, that he preferred timing to message but I think it was because he had a hurried desire to get to the truth - however it best revealed itself. "Normal, what's normal?" Pause. A thousands thruths captured in three small words - and one pregnant pause - that's genius.

I loved him most for the honesty in his writing - however ruthless it (or he) could be. I am reminded of a poem he wrote called "Laughter". He wasn't concerned with honest, bottom-of-the-belly laughter. He was more interested in that social laughter that comes from that nervousness of being too close to the truth. The poem went something like this:

Laughter

Laughter dies but is never dead
Laughter lies out of the back of its head
Laughter laughs at what is never said
It trills and squeals and swills in your head
It trills and squeals in the heads of the dead
And so all the lies remain laughingly spread
Sucked in by the laughter of the severed head
Sucked in by the mouths of the laughing dead

With "Laughter" he had Iraq in mind. Pinter was famous for mixing politics and art - and for his full hate-on of the United States. Some of his positions I found truly offensive - his support of Milosovic being one transgression I'll never forgive - but he served us well by highlighting the sometimes unwitting but always destructive effect powerful nations have on the strategic but vulnerable countries of the world. He shunned the West's tendancy to over-reach with agressive diplomancy and military force but he was even more offended by their propensity to spill someone else's blood without the slightest regard for the damage they caused.

Not surprisingly, he was an early and fierce critic of the Iraq war, his attacks most evident in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech (no economy of words here!). It was a blistering critique, yes, but it was also cry for a better, more just world - and for that reason, I thought it was good enough to remember again. I wish Pinter could have lived long enough to (perhaps) see Obama undo some of the worst of what he called American. I think he would have died more pleased.

Harold Pinter – Nobel Prize Lecture: Art, Truth & Politics

In 1958 I wrote the following:

'There are no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false.'

I believe that these assertions still make sense and do still apply to the exploration of reality through art. So as a writer I stand by them but as a citizen I cannot. As a citizen I must ask: What is true? What is false?

Truth in drama is forever elusive. You never quite find it but the search for it is compulsive. The search is clearly what drives the endeavor. The search is your task. More often than not you stumble upon the truth in the dark, colliding with it or just glimpsing an image or a shape which seems to correspond to the truth, often without realizing that you have done so. But the real truth is that there never is any such thing as one truth to be found in dramatic art. There are many. These truths challenge each other, recoil from each other, reflect each other, ignore each other, tease each other, are blind to each other. Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.

I have often been asked how my plays come about. I cannot say. Nor can I ever sum up my plays, except to say that this is what happened. That is what they said. That is what they did.

Most of the plays are engendered by a line, a word or an image. The given word is often shortly followed by the image. I shall give two examples of two lines which came right out of the blue into my head, followed by an image, followed by me.

The plays are The Homecoming and Old Times. The first line of The Homecoming is 'What have you done with the scissors?' The first line of Old Times is 'Dark.'

In each case I had no further information.

In the first case someone was obviously looking for a pair of scissors and was demanding their whereabouts of someone else he suspected had probably stolen them. But I somehow knew that the person addressed didn't give a damn about the scissors or about the questioner either, for that matter.

'Dark' I took to be a description of someone's hair, the hair of a woman, and was the answer to a question. In each case I found myself compelled to pursue the matter. This happened visually, a very slow fade, through shadow into light.

I always start a play by calling the characters A, B and C.

In the play that became The Homecoming I saw a man enter a stark room and ask his question of a younger man sitting on an ugly sofa reading a racing paper. I somehow suspected that A was a father and that B was his son, but I had no proof. This was however confirmed a short time later when B (later to become Lenny) says to A (later to become Max), 'Dad, do you mind if I change the subject? I want to ask you something. The dinner we had before, what was the name of it? What do you call it? Why don't you buy a dog? You're a dog cook. Honest. You think you're cooking for a lot of dogs.' So since B calls A 'Dad' it seemed to me reasonable to assume that they were father and son. A was also clearly the cook and his cooking did not seem to be held in high regard. Did this mean that there was no mother? I didn't know. But, as I told myself at the time, our beginnings never know our ends.

'Dark.' A large window. Evening sky. A man, A (later to become Deeley), and a woman, B (later to become Kate), sitting with drinks. 'Fat or thin?' the man asks. Who are they talking about? But I then see, standing at the window, a woman, C (later to become Anna), in another condition of light, her back to them, her hair dark.

It's a strange moment, the moment of creating characters who up to that moment have had no existence. What follows is fitful, uncertain, even hallucinatory, although sometimes it can be an unstoppable avalanche. The author's position is an odd one. In a sense he is not welcomed by the characters. The characters resist him, they are not easy to live with, they are impossible to define. You certainly can't dictate to them. To a certain extent you play a never-ending game with them, cat and mouse, blind man's buff, hide and seek. But finally you find that you have people of flesh and blood on your hands, people with will and an individual sensibility of their own, made out of component parts you are unable to change, manipulate or distort.

So language in art remains a highly ambiguous transaction, a quicksand, a trampoline, a frozen pool which might give way under you, the author, at any time.

But as I have said, the search for the truth can never stop. It cannot be adjourned, it cannot be postponed. It has to be faced, right there, on the spot.

Political theatre presents an entirely different set of problems. Sermonizing has to be avoided at all cost. Objectivity is essential. The characters must be allowed to breathe their own air. The author cannot confine and constrict them to satisfy his own taste or disposition or prejudice. He must be prepared to approach them from a variety of angles, from a full and uninhibited range of perspectives, take them by surprise, perhaps, occasionally, but nevertheless give them the freedom to go which way they will. This does not always work. And political satire, of course, adheres to none of these precepts, in fact does precisely the opposite, which is its proper function.

In my play The Birthday Party I think I allow a whole range of options to operate in a dense forest of possibility before finally focusing on an act of subjugation.

Mountain Language pretends to no such range of operation. It remains brutal, short and ugly. But the soldiers in the play do get some fun out of it. One sometimes forgets that torturers become easily bored. They need a bit of a laugh to keep their spirits up. This has been confirmed of course by the events at Abu Ghraib in Baghdad. Mountain Language lasts only 20 minutes, but it could go on for hour after hour, on and on and on, the same pattern repeated over and over again, on and on, hour after hour.

Ashes to Ashes, on the other hand, seems to me to be taking place under water. A drowning woman, her hand reaching up through the waves, dropping down out of sight, reaching for others, but finding nobody there, either above or under the water, finding only shadows, reflections, floating; the woman a lost figure in a drowning landscape, a woman unable to escape the doom that seemed to belong only to others.

But as they died, she must die too.

Political language, as used by politicians, does not venture into any of this territory since the majority of politicians, on the evidence available to us, are interested not in truth but in power and in the maintenance of that power. To maintain that power it is essential that people remain in ignorance, that they live in ignorance of the truth, even the truth of their own lives. What surrounds us therefore is a vast tapestry of lies, upon which we feed.

As every single person here knows, the justification for the invasion of Iraq was that Saddam Hussein possessed a highly dangerous body of weapons of mass destruction, some of which could be fired in 45 minutes, bringing about appalling devastation. We were assured that was true. It was not true. We were told that Iraq had a relationship with al Qaeda and shared responsibility for the atrocity in New York of September 11th 2001. We were assured that this was true. It was not true. We were told that Iraq threatened the security of the world. We were assured it was true. It was not true.

The truth is something entirely different. The truth is to do with how the United States understands its role in the world and how it chooses to embody it.

But before I come back to the present I would like to look at the recent past, by which I mean United States foreign policy since the end of the Second World War. I believe it is obligatory upon us to subject this period to at least some kind of even limited scrutiny, which is all that time will allow here.

Everyone knows what happened in the Soviet Union and throughout Eastern Europe during the post-war period: the systematic brutality, the widespread atrocities, the ruthless suppression of independent thought. All this has been fully documented and verified.

But my contention here is that the US crimes in the same period have only been superficially recorded, let alone documented, let alone acknowledged, let alone recognized as crimes at all. I believe this must be addressed and that the truth has considerable bearing on where the world stands now. Although constrained, to a certain extent, by the existence of the Soviet Union, the United States' actions throughout the world made it clear that it had concluded it had carte blanche to do what it liked.

Direct invasion of a sovereign state has never in fact been America's favored method. In the main, it has preferred what it has described as 'low intensity conflict'. Low intensity conflict means that thousands of people die but slower than if you dropped a bomb on them in one fell swoop. It means that you infect the heart of the country, that you establish a malignant growth and watch the gangrene bloom. When the populace has been subdued – or beaten to death – the same thing – and your own friends, the military and the great corporations, sit comfortably in power, you go before the camera and say that democracy has prevailed. This was a commonplace in US foreign policy in the years to which I refer.

The tragedy of Nicaragua was a highly significant case. I choose to offer it here as a potent example of America's view of its role in the world, both then and now.

I was present at a meeting at the US embassy in London in the late 1980s.

The United States Congress was about to decide whether to give more money to the Contras in their campaign against the state of Nicaragua. I was a member of a delegation speaking on behalf of Nicaragua but the most important member of this delegation was a Father John Metcalf. The leader of the US body was Raymond Seitz (then number two to the ambassador, later ambassador himself). Father Metcalf said: 'Sir, I am in charge of a parish in the north of Nicaragua. My parishioners built a school, a health centre, a cultural centre. We have lived in peace. A few months ago a Contra force attacked the parish. They destroyed everything: the school, the health centre, the cultural centre. They raped nurses and teachers, slaughtered doctors, in the most brutal manner. They behaved like savages. Please demand that the US government withdraw its support from this shocking terrorist activity.'

Raymond Seitz had a very good reputation as a rational, responsible and highly sophisticated man. He was greatly respected in diplomatic circles. He listened, paused and then spoke with some gravity. 'Father,' he said, 'let me tell you something. In war, innocent people always suffer.' There was a frozen silence. We stared at him. He did not flinch.

Innocent people, indeed, always suffer.

Finally somebody said: 'But in this case “innocent people” were the victims of a gruesome atrocity subsidized by your government, one among many. If Congress allows the Contras more money further atrocities of this kind will take place. Is this not the case? Is your government not therefore guilty of supporting acts of murder and destruction upon the citizens of a sovereign state?'

Seitz was imperturbable. 'I don't agree that the facts as presented support your assertions,' he said.

As we were leaving the Embassy a US aide told me that he enjoyed my plays. I did not reply.

I should remind you that at the time President Reagan made the following statement: 'The Contras are the moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers.'

The United States supported the brutal Somoza dictatorship in Nicaragua for over 40 years. The Nicaraguan people, led by the Sandinistas, overthrew this regime in 1979, a breathtaking popular revolution.

The Sandinistas weren't perfect. They possessed their fair share of arrogance and their political philosophy contained a number of contradictory elements. But they were intelligent, rational and civilized. They set out to establish a stable, decent, pluralistic society. The death penalty was abolished. Hundreds of thousands of poverty-stricken peasants were brought back from the dead. Over 100,000 families were given title to land. Two thousand schools were built. A quite remarkable literacy campaign reduced illiteracy in the country to less than one seventh. Free education was established and a free health service. Infant mortality was reduced by a third. Polio was eradicated.

The United States denounced these achievements as Marxist/Leninist subversion. In the view of the US government, a dangerous example was being set. If Nicaragua was allowed to establish basic norms of social and economic justice, if it was allowed to raise the standards of health care and education and achieve social unity and national self respect, neighboring countries would ask the same questions and do the same things. There was of course at the time fierce resistance to the status quo in El Salvador.

I spoke earlier about 'a tapestry of lies' which surrounds us. President Reagan commonly described Nicaragua as a 'totalitarian dungeon'. This was taken generally by the media, and certainly by the British government, as accurate and fair comment. But there was in fact no record of death squads under the Sandinista government. There was no record of torture. There was no record of systematic or official military brutality. No priests were ever murdered in Nicaragua. There were in fact three priests in the government, two Jesuits and a Maryknoll missionary. The totalitarian dungeons were actually next door, in El Salvador and Guatemala. The United States had brought down the democratically elected government of Guatemala in 1954 and it is estimated that over 200,000 people had been victims of successive military dictatorships.

Six of the most distinguished Jesuits in the world were viciously murdered at the Central American University in San Salvador in 1989 by a battalion of the Alcatl regiment trained at Fort Benning, Georgia, USA. That extremely brave man Archbishop Romero was assassinated while saying mass. It is estimated that 75,000 people died. Why were they killed? They were killed because they believed a better life was possible and should be achieved. That belief immediately qualified them as communists. They died because they dared to question the status quo, the endless plateau of poverty, disease, degradation and oppression, which had been their birthright.

The United States finally brought down the Sandinista government. It took some years and considerable resistance but relentless economic persecution and 30,000 dead finally undermined the spirit of the Nicaraguan people. They were exhausted and poverty stricken once again. The casinos moved back into the country. Free health and free education were over. Big business returned with a vengeance. 'Democracy' had prevailed.

But this 'policy' was by no means restricted to Central America. It was conducted throughout the world. It was never-ending. And it is as if it never happened.

The United States supported and in many cases engendered every right wing military dictatorship in the world after the end of the Second World War. I refer to Indonesia, Greece, Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Haiti, Turkey, the Philippines, Guatemala, El Salvador, and, of course, Chile. The horror the United States inflicted upon Chile in 1973 can never be purged and can never be forgiven.

Hundreds of thousands of deaths took place throughout these countries. Did they take place? And are they in all cases attributable to US foreign policy? The answer is yes they did take place and they are attributable to American foreign policy. But you wouldn't know it.

It never happened. Nothing ever happened. Even while it was happening it wasn't happening. It didn't matter. It was of no interest. The crimes of the United States have been systematic, constant, vicious, remorseless, but very few people have actually talked about them. You have to hand it to America. It has exercised a quite clinical manipulation of power worldwide while masquerading as a force for universal good. It's a brilliant, even witty, highly successful act of hypnosis.

I put to you that the United States is without doubt the greatest show on the road. Brutal, indifferent, scornful and ruthless it may be but it is also very clever. As a salesman it is out on its own and its most saleable commodity is self love. It's a winner. Listen to all American presidents on television say the words, 'the American people', as in the sentence, 'I say to the American people it is time to pray and to defend the rights of the American people and I ask the American people to trust their president in the action he is about to take on behalf of the American people.'

It's a scintillating stratagem. Language is actually employed to keep thought at bay. The words 'the American people' provide a truly voluptuous cushion of reassurance. You don't need to think. Just lie back on the cushion. The cushion may be suffocating your intelligence and your critical faculties but it's very comfortable. This does not apply of course to the 40 million people living below the poverty line and the 2 million men and women imprisoned in the vast gulag of prisons, which extends across the US.

The United States no longer bothers about low intensity conflict. It no longer sees any point in being reticent or even devious. It puts its cards on the table without fear or favor. It quite simply doesn't give a damn about the United Nations, international law or critical dissent, which it regards as impotent and irrelevant. It also has its own bleating little lamb tagging behind it on a lead, the pathetic and supine Great Britain.

What has happened to our moral sensibility? Did we ever have any? What do these words mean? Do they refer to a term very rarely employed these days – conscience? A conscience to do not only with our own acts but to do with our shared responsibility in the acts of others? Is all this dead? Look at Guantanamo Bay. Hundreds of people detained without charge for over three years, with no legal representation or due process, technically detained forever. This totally illegitimate structure is maintained in defiance of the Geneva Convention. It is not only tolerated but hardly thought about by what's called the 'international community'. This criminal outrage is being committed by a country, which declares itself to be 'the leader of the free world'. Do we think about the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay? What does the media say about them? They pop up occasionally – a small item on page six. They have been consigned to a no man's land from which indeed they may never return. At present many are on hunger strike, being force-fed, including British residents. No niceties in these force-feeding procedures. No sedative or anesthetic. Just a tube stuck up your nose and into your throat. You vomit blood. This is torture. What has the British Foreign Secretary said about this? Nothing. What has the British Prime Minister said about this? Nothing. Why not? Because the United States has said: to criticize our conduct in Guantanamo Bay constitutes an unfriendly act. You're either with us or against us. So Blair shuts up.

The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of international law. The invasion was an arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies upon lies and gross manipulation of the media and therefore of the public; an act intended to consolidate American military and economic control of the Middle East masquerading – as a last resort – all other justifications having failed to justify themselves – as liberation. A formidable assertion of military force responsible for the death and mutilation of thousands and thousands of innocent people.

We have brought torture, cluster bombs, depleted uranium, innumerable acts of random murder, misery, degradation and death to the Iraqi people and call it 'bringing freedom and democracy to the Middle East'.

How many people do you have to kill before you qualify to be described as a mass murderer and a war criminal? One hundred thousand? More than enough, I would have thought. Therefore it is just that Bush and Blair be arraigned before the International Criminal Court of Justice. But Bush has been clever. He has not ratified the International Criminal Court of Justice. Therefore if any American soldier or for that matter politician finds himself in the dock Bush has warned that he will send in the marines. But Tony Blair has ratified the Court and is therefore available for prosecution. We can let the Court have his address if they're interested. It is Number 10, Downing Street, London.

Death in this context is irrelevant. Both Bush and Blair place death well away on the back burner. At least 100,000 Iraqis were killed by American bombs and missiles before the Iraq insurgency began. These people are of no moment. Their deaths don't exist. They are blank. They are not even recorded as being dead. 'We don't do body counts,' said the American general Tommy Franks.

Early in the invasion there was a photograph published on the front page of British newspapers of Tony Blair kissing the cheek of a little Iraqi boy. 'A grateful child,' said the caption. A few days later there was a story and photograph, on an inside page, of another four-year-old boy with no arms. His family had been blown up by a missile. He was the only survivor. 'When do I get my arms back?' he asked. The story was dropped. Well, Tony Blair wasn't holding him in his arms, nor the body of any other mutilated child, nor the body of any bloody corpse. Blood is dirty. It dirties your shirt and tie when you're making a sincere speech on television.

The 2,000 American dead are an embarrassment. They are transported to their graves in the dark. Funerals are unobtrusive, out of harm's way. The mutilated rot in their beds, some for the rest of their lives. So the dead and the mutilated both rot, in different kinds of graves.

Here is an extract from a poem by Pablo Neruda, 'I'm Explaining a Few Things':

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate.

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives.

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land.

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!*

Let me make it quite clear that in quoting from Neruda's poem I am in no way comparing Republican Spain to Saddam Hussein's Iraq. I quote Neruda because nowhere in contemporary poetry have I read such a powerful visceral description of the bombing of civilians.

I have said earlier that the United States is now totally frank about putting its cards on the table. That is the case. Its official declared policy is now defined as 'full spectrum dominance'. That is not my term, it is theirs. 'Full spectrum dominance' means control of land, sea, air and space and all attendant resources.

The United States now occupies 702 military installations throughout the world in 132 countries, with the honorable exception of Sweden, of course. We don't quite know how they got there but they are there all right.

The United States possesses 8,000 active and operational nuclear warheads. Two thousand are on hair trigger alert, ready to be launched with 15 minutes warning. It is developing new systems of nuclear force, known as bunker busters. The British, ever cooperative, are intending to replace their own nuclear missile, Trident. Who, I wonder, are they aiming at? Osama bin Laden? You? Me? Joe Dokes? China? Paris? Who knows? What we do know is that this infantile insanity – the possession and threatened use of nuclear weapons – is at the heart of present American political philosophy. We must remind ourselves that the United States is on a permanent military footing and shows no sign of relaxing it.

Many thousands, if not millions, of people in the United States itself are demonstrably sickened, shamed and angered by their government's actions, but as things stand they are not a coherent political force – yet. But the anxiety, uncertainty and fear which we can see growing daily in the United States is unlikely to diminish.

I know that President Bush has many extremely competent speech writers but I would like to volunteer for the job myself. I propose the following short address which he can make on television to the nation. I see him grave, hair carefully combed, serious, winning, sincere, often beguiling, sometimes employing a wry smile, curiously attractive, a man's man.

'God is good. God is great. God is good. My God is good. Bin Laden's God is bad. His is a bad God. Saddam's God was bad, except he didn't have one. He was a barbarian. We are not barbarians. We don't chop people's heads off. We believe in freedom. So does God. I am not a barbarian. I am the democratically elected leader of a freedom-loving democracy. We are a compassionate society. We give compassionate electrocution and compassionate lethal injection. We are a great nation. I am not a dictator. He is. I am not a barbarian. He is. And he is. They all are. I possess moral authority. You see this fist? This is my moral authority. And don't you forget it.'

A writer's life is a highly vulnerable, almost naked activity. We don't have to weep about that. The writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. You are out on your own, out on a limb. You find no shelter, no protection – unless you lie – in which case of course you have constructed your own protection and, it could be argued, become a politician.

I have referred to death quite a few times this evening. I shall now quote a poem of my own called 'Death'.

Where was the dead body found?
Who found the dead body?
Was the dead body dead when found?
How was the dead body found?

Who was the dead body?

Who was the father or daughter or brother
Or uncle or sister or mother or son
Of the dead and abandoned body?

Was the body dead when abandoned?
Was the body abandoned?
By whom had it been abandoned?

Was the dead body naked or dressed for a journey?

What made you declare the dead body dead?
Did you declare the dead body dead?
How well did you know the dead body?
How did you know the dead body was dead?

Did you wash the dead body
Did you close both its eyes
Did you bury the body
Did you leave it abandoned
Did you kiss the dead body

When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimeter and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never-ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror – for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us.

I believe that despite the enormous odds which exist, unflinching, unswerving, fierce intellectual determination, as citizens, to define the real truth of our lives and our societies is a crucial obligation which devolves upon us all. It is in fact mandatory.

If such a determination is not embodied in our political vision we have no hope of restoring what is so nearly lost to us – the dignity of man.