BEST POSTS | Chris Beckett's Fiction

Toughness

I mentioned in my last post that I like talking to fellow passengers on trains. There’s a particular kind of intimacy in conversations with people you’ll never meet again. (I do always make sure I give them a get out if they don’t feel like talking!) In recent weeks, it so happens, I have had two long conversations with young Chinese people, one a young woman graduate with a background in mainland China (this was an extra-long chat because we were in a train that stood in the station for a whole hour waiting for a driver who never showed up, and eventually moved together to another train), the other a young male first-year student with a Hong Kong background. They were both very intelligent, thoughtful people and I liked them very much. Neither of them was a fan of the totalitarian government of the PRC, but both had the same criticism of Western society, as compared to Chinese society. It is too individualistic. Too soft.

The young woman spoke about the rights of individuals being elevated above duties and responsibilities to the family, the community and society. The young man raised the issue in the following interesting way:

‘There is something that troubles me about Western society, but I don’t like to criticise it because it’s basically a nice thing.’

He really was reluctant to even name the thing that bothered him, but, after he’d circled around it a bit, I put it to him that what he meant was that we were too preoccupied in our contemporary culture by people’s feelings and vulnerabilities. Yes, he said, that was roughly what he meant – and then he repeated that he wasn’t saying that being sensitive to people’s vulnerabilities was a bad thing —it obviously wasn’t— but that… he hesitated again and I suggested that, nice thing though it was, an overemphasis on vulnerabilities might place a society at a disadvantage when it came to competing in a tough world. What’s good for individuals in the short run, may not in the long run be best for their society’s long term survival – a certain toughness is necessary for that. He agreed that this was broadly his point.

I’ve heard, or sensed, a similar critique before from other people from developing countries and it connects with the point I made in a recent post about ours being an old society. And I guess I’ve heard it too from people politically on the right when they talk about ‘snowflakes’ and oversensitivity.

A further question is whether actually it is even in the interests of individuals themselves to make too much allowance for their sensitivities. For instance, a teacher wishing to avoid hurting the feelings of students might be overgenerous in praise and sparing in criticism, and award high marks for work that really wasn’t all that good, but would this actually be fair or helpful in the long run for the students themselves? Wouldn’t it actually help them more to give them an honest appraisal, or even a harsh one if their work is poor, even if it does upset them? At least that way they are given the opportunity to learn and grow on the basis of genuine feedback, and can prepare for a world which will want to know their real abilities and won’t, just to be nice, give them jobs they aren’t equipped for.

A long time ago, I wrote a short story called ‘Valour’ (not one of my best to be honest) which described an alien race that saw the world in threes rather than, as we tend to do, in binary opposites (good/bad, right/wrong, left/right etc). These beings had three sexes, their bodies were based on a three-way symmetry, and they had a three-way morality which did not simply involve good versus evil, but had two rival, but equally valid, alternatives to evil – gentleness and valour – meaning that valour, gentleness and evil were three separate poles. To defeat evil, valour and gentleness would need to form some kind of alliance in spite of their incompatibilities, but often valour allied with evil against gentleness, which created heartless, hyper-‘masculine’ militaristic societies, or gentleness allied with evil against valour, which created flabby, overindulgent societies that would ultimately decay and fall apart. The idea wasn’t fully developed, I must admit, but you get the idea.

Old

I will turn 70 in less than 2 months time, which feels to me like quite a big milestone. I’m old enough that people sometimes give up their seat to me. The other day a woman in her thirties or forties even offered to help me carry my case, which was kindly meant no doubt, but not at all pleasing to me. I can still carry a fucking suitcase thank you very much!

Old people often say that they don’t feel old, by which, I take it, we don’t mean that we are unaware of the physical changes taking place inside us – people my age talk about their health a lot – but that the spirit that looks out of our eyes feels like the same spirit it always has been.

I don’t see how we can know this is true, actually, since our memories of being young are filtered through our consciousness as it now exists -maybe it’s only in retrospect that being young isn’t so different from being old? – but anyway, that’s how it feels. Perhaps what we really mean is that, when we were young, old people seemed to us to be a very different kind of being, driven by entirely different needs, but now we are old we see that our needs are essentially the same: love, sex, comfort, stimulation, the esteem of others, a sense of purpose… etc etc

I’m less driven though. Retirement, a pension, society’s expectations of older people – all of these things make it much easier for me to do nothing in particular without feeling bad about it. I hope I have some more books in me, but it doesn’t matter to me so much as it once did. I had an ambition to be a writer when I was young and I am very proud of having achieved it – proud and relieved, because writing, more than almost anything else, has given me a sense of being someone, which I completely lacked as a young man – but I feel I have achieved it and writing now is simply something I like doing.

And I am more interested just in the experience of being alive. I can’t be bothered with bucket lists and cycling up Mount Kilimanjaro and so on – to be frank that all seems a bit desperate to me – but I can happily spend whole mornings just thinking and dreaming. Thus, for instance, I travel on trains frequently but where once I might have used the time to read books or write, what I mostly do these days is listen to music and think or, if the opportunity presents itself, get into a conversation with other travellers. I do love talking with people I meet by chance.

I had the protagonist of my novel Tomorrow say that, if you had the choice between telling a story and being a character in a story, then being a character was the way to go, and I feel that more and more. I guess this is partly because society doesn’t expect me to be productive any more (how great is that!) and partly because I’m conscious that the story of me is now in its third and final act.

I listen to music a lot. As I’ve observed before, I actually think that’s part of the ‘being a character in the story’ thing. A few generations ago, no one would think that listening to music was a thing you did while travelling from A to B, but films and TV have trained us to think of characters in stories having music in the background and, beginning with radios in cars, technology has made this a possibility for all of us, and not just a privilege reserved for fictional beings. I like intense, emotional music, but I’m particularly fond these days of Cuban jazz – sharp, cool, instrumental music with a salsa-esque rhythm – because it makes me want to dance. (If you have Spotify, try keeping still while listening to this.)

I do dance when I get a chance – it’s another way of being a character in a story, I suppose – and will even do a few discreet steps as I wait on station platforms for the trains that take me to my beautiful grandchildren.

At some point, most likely in well under twenty years, I’ll be dead. I’m fine with that, but I’m not looking forward to the decrepit bit that usually comes first.

Theme for Dark Eden

My dear son, Dom, has written a theme for Dark Eden, such as might be used at the beginning of each episode if the book was a series. I really love it. It truly captures for me the combination of beauty, melancholy, alienness and darkness I envisaged for Eden, with that steady deep pulse running through it to evoke the most constant and characteristic sound of the luminous forests of Eden: the hmmph – hmmmph – hmmmph of geothermal ‘trees’ pumping their sap down to the hot rocks below, and pumping it back up again. To get the full effect you need to listen to it loud, with plenty of bass. I absolutely love it.

Dark Eden theme, by Dominic Beckett

Risking Sentimentality

I said in my previous post that you have to risk sentimentality to be real. I’ve been thinking about this in the context of looking after children.

We have lived for so many millenia in cultures dominated by the idea of ‘masculinity’ as the supreme virtue that we have come to value ‘masculine’ qualities much more highly than ‘feminine’ ones: gentle Mother Mary is subordinate to stern God the Father, weak and emotional women who look after children are subordinate to strong and rational men who run things and make war, etc etc etc. (Even women fall into the trap of thinking this way, if they equate liberation with being more like men.) And in such a culture, it’s easy to confuse soft and gentle feelings with weakness and sentimentality for, after all, such feelings are associated with low status work.

Looking after children is for me one of life’s sweetest and most profound pleasures. (Easy to say that as a grandparent, I know, when childcare is not a constant daily task, but I would have said it as a parent too, even though it did often exhaust me). It’s also very hard and difficult work, and one of the most important things that anyone can do. But the pleasures of being with children are hard to write about because you worry about sounding sugary and sentimental.

So when I say that we need to risk sentimentality, what I mean is that we should reclaim the tender feelings we have for children (and for people generally, and for other living things), and be willing to express them even if some people do find it sentimental. Sentimentality is a real thing of course, a form of false feeling, but the fear of seeming ‘sentimental’ often has the effect of shutting down the expression of gentle feelings, so as to bring the subject back to proper important grownup things like war and money and power.

There was a time when gentlemen used to discuss these grownup matters over cigars and port, after the ladies, bless their soft little hearts, had left the room to chatter (at least in the minds of the gentlemen) about children and love and puppies. Obviously women should stay in that room and talk about money and power too (boring topics though they ultimately are, they do need to be talked about), but it would be good if the overall conversation became one in which children, love and tenderness were given the weight they merit. Money and power are, at best, necessary evils, means to an end. Love, like beauty, is an end in itself.

One person who writes very well about his feelings for his children, without a trace of sentimentality, is my own dear son Dom, who is a songwriter. Here is a lovely song of his about watching his children play – specially poignant for me of course because I know and love those children too.

Love and Mercy

Why did God make the radio? The answer, obviously, is so that we could cruise along a coastal road with the windows down and the blue sea in the distance, listening to the sweet harmonies of The Beach Boys singing the music of Brian Wilson.

Which is exactly what I did the day after he died (though it wasn’t strictly a radio). I even shed tears – and I’m the man who didn’t weep for his own mother! Insofar as you can love someone you only know through his work, I loved that guy.

So he wasn’t always very nice in his personal life? I don’t care. So his politics were conservative? I don’t give even a tiny fraction of a shit. This was a very wounded man who had a rotten, abusive childhood and who, instead of making the bitter, angry, miserable music one might expect from someone with that history, chose instead to express the love and mercy that every child from a rotten family longs for.

You might say that I’m being sentimental but I would strongly dispute that. We are so frightened of being sentimental these days that we overemphasize the hard emotions – lust, anger, the will to power – just to show how sophisticated and liberated we are. But that’s all nonsense. Being hard-boiled and cynical is just being sentimental in reverse. Sometimes you have to be prepared to risk sentimentality if you are to be to be real.

In one or other of the tributes to Wilson, someone referred to ‘Good Vibrations’ as a song about lust. But listen to it! It’s a man thinking about a woman who seems to him utterly lovely in every way. And yes, okay, it would be naive to pretend this feeling has nothing to do to do with sex, but to my mind it’s not so very different to other non-sexual kinds of tenderness, such as the way my heart melts when my 6 year old granddaughter comes running cheerfully out of school. To just call it ‘lust’ is ludicrously reductive. Gentle and tender feelings are also real, and they’re what comes pouring out in Brian Wilson’s lovely music.

Here is one more beautiful little fragment.

Palestine

A friend made herself watch footage taken by the Palestinian perpetrators of the massacre that took place on October 17th 2023. I don’t fully understand why she put herself through this, but the scenes she witnessed were absolutely hideous in their savagery.

But if the Israeli government had ever been serious about coming to a peaceful settlement with the Palestinians, it would not have deliberately neutered, humiliated and discredited the Palestinian partner that was available to it to deal with – the Palestinian Authority, a partner which accepts Israel’s existence as a fact – by, among other things, allowing settlements to continue to mushroom all over the West Bank, and by protecting the settlers with soldiers, even when they roam about with guns and terrorise their Palestinian neighbours.

Indeed, as Israeli politicians openly admit (see this article in the Times of Israel), Israel quite deliberately built up Hamas in order to further weaken the Palestinian Authority (thus also helpfully building up a Palestinian enemy too fanatical for people in the West to feel much sympathy for). So Israel’s official justification for destroying Gaza is to eliminate an organisation which Israel itself helped to bring to power.

When Israel became independent, Palestinian Arabs were the majority in the area that is now Israel, Gaza and the West Bank. Palestinians still constitute about half the population of the area. If any of them claim that the whole area belongs to them ‘from the river to the sea’, there are howls of outrage – and yes, whatever the history, it’s not reasonable now to claim more than half of it. Yet many Israelis, including members of the current government, also claim everything from the river to the sea.

What’s worse is that, even when Israeli politicians did pay lip service to a two-state solution, they were in fact making that impossible by colonising the land all the way to the river. They must have known this. It’s been obvious for half a century.

And we’re all complicit because, though we could see perfectly well what was going on- it’s not difficult: you do not colonise territory you intend to give back – we allowed our leaders to pretend not to see it. We are like the man who makes friends with an affable neighbour and pretends, when he calls round to take him to the pub, that he doesn’t notice the bruises on the face of his affable new friend’s wife.

(To continue the analogy, the neighbour has now taken a hammer, smashed all his wife’s things, and is chasing her screaming round the house – and we’re just beginning to mutter embarrassedly, ‘Oh mate! We know she’s a nightmare, but don’t you think you’ve gone a bit far?’)

The Book that Launched a Thousand Fantasy Clichés

I enjoyed the Odyssey – there was a sort of rough naivety about it that was lively, and gave me a sense of human minds looking out at the world at a time when the the Bronze Age was simply the thing you woke up to every morning – but I’m getting bored of the Iliad. I started losing interest during a seemingly endless account of a battle between ‘mighty’ ‘brave’ ‘handsome’ ‘god-like’ kings and princes: Thisos, Son of Thatos, ‘Lord of Horses’, ‘ruler of the fair city of…’ etc etc etc

The aim of it all is to raze to the ground a city, and kill or enslave all its inhabitants, because a prince from that city had the gall to kidnap the pretty wife of Menelaus and won’t give her back. (The besiegers also kidnap princesses and use them for sex, but that’s different, right, because this is war and that was just stealing?) I haven’t reached the end, and I don’t think I will, but I seem to remember from versions I read as a kid that, when Menelaus finally does recover Helen, he is briefly tempted to kill her because of all the trouble she’s ’caused’. But then he sees how pretty she is and changes his mind. Awww!

What tosh it all is, what utter tosh, this stuff we’ve been fed for centuries as something big and uplifting and heroic and important.

Spoils of War

I’ve been listening to the Odyssey and the Iliad, as translated by Emily Wilson and read respectively by Claire Danes and Audra McDonald – they were written to be performed out loud, after all. Wilson has done a great job of stripping away all the pompousness and phoney archaism which (for me at least) is associated with the classics. As she points out in her introduction, it’s nonsense to think that archaic English from two centuries ago is somehow a more authentic representation of Homeric Greek than modern English is: these poems are getting on for three thousand years old!

Having them read by two American women works well for the same reason. When not portentously declaimed by middle-aged men with public school accents (i.e. people who sound a bit like me), these ancient texts no longer smell mustily of Oxbridge lecture theatres, and I felt like I could catch a glimpse, though very dimly and filtered in all kinds of ways, of living human beings going about their lives, all the way back in the Bronze Age. Danes’ youthful, slightly husky, passionate voice worked particularly well, making the rough but vivid storytelling feel alive.

These are evocations of a very strange world. I loved one moment in the Odyssey where a princess sets off to do her washing in a nearby river. The dirty clothes are loaded into a cart on which the princess herself rides while a dozen of her slave girls walk beside her. While the clothes are drying, the princess and her slaves play games together on the bank. How alien this all is to us! She’s a wealthy princess, she owns many slaves, but she still washes her clothes in a river, still goes along herself to do it, and her slave girls are – sort of – also her playmates!

There seems to be a widespread assumption around at the moment that the arts are there to subvert and challenge the established order, but actually, as I’ve observed before, they most often serve the opposite purpose, of bolstering and legitimising privilege. And while these days they often do the latter while pretending to do the former, until recently they made no bones about it. In Celtic Britain, a prince would employ praise poets whose job was to celebrate his achievements. Go back another millenium and Homer is raising to mythical status a class of warlords, who own slaves, go on raiding parties, hobnob with gods, and themselves employ poets to entertain them at their sumptuous dinner parties. We are constantly being told about their wealth and their many beautiful possessions. A sewing basket made of silver stuck in my mind, because the poet made a point of mentioning that it even had wheels.

But what was particularly striking for me is that these poems were written not only for the ruling class, but for the ruling gender. There are many women characters, some of them powerful (notably the goddess Athena), but this is a world in which you raid a city, kill the men and carry off the women as part of the loot – and that apparently is fine. The Iliad famously begins with a quarrel between two men, Achilles and Agamemnon, over a beautiful princess, Briseis, who Achilles has captured and made his sex slave, but who Agamemnon demands for himself, having had to give up his own sex slave for diplomatic reasons. When he loses Briseis, Achilles sulks like a spoiled child and has to be comforted by his goddess mother – but no one considers what Briseis thinks.

The Trojan war itself is fought over another woman, Helen, who a Trojan prince, Paris, has kidnapped from her Greek husband, Menelaus, taking her away also from her daughter and friends. There is an attempt -it doesn’t work out- to avert war by having a duel between these two men, with the agreement that whoever kills the other gets Helen as his wife, plus all the dead man’s wealth, and then the two sides will make peace. Weirdly, Helen is presented in the text as an intelligent human being with feelings of her own, and yet her own preferences regarding these two men are apparently still as irrelevant as the preferences of a herd of does watching two stags fighting for control of them.

Women belong to the men who capture them. Men do as they please, but the slave women in Odysseus’ household who had sex with the suitors who pestered his wife Penelope in his absence, are hanged by our hero on his return. (Neither Odysseus’s son nor Penelope were strong enough to stop these men coming round and eating their food, but apparently their slave women should have stood up to them.)

By the way, I’ve looked into this recently and having sex with women you capture in a war – which to say, in modern parlance, raping them – is permitted both in the Koran and the Bible. Here’s the Koran telling Mohammed it’s okay to have sex with woman prisoners:

Oh prophet! We have made lawful to thee thy wives to whom thou hast paid their dowers, and those whom thy right hand possesses out of the prisoners of war whom Allah has assigned to thee… (Surah 33: 50)*

The Bible, meanwhile, is all heart and allows a captive woman a month to grieve her families before her new owner is permitted to ‘go in unto her’. It even – awww, God, you’re so nice! – forbids him from selling her for money if he decides he doesn’t like her:

10. When thou goest forth to war against thine enemies, and the Lord thy God hath delivered them into thine hands , and thou has taken them captive, 11. And seest among the captives a beautiful woman, and hast a desire unto her, that thou wouldest have her to be thy wife; 12. Then thou shalt bring her home to thine house; and she shall shave her head, and pare her nails; 13. And she shall put the raiment of her captivity from off her, and shall remain in thine house, and bewail her father and mother a full month: and after that thou shalt go in unto her, and be her husband, and she shall be thy wife. 14. And it shall be, if thou hast no delight in her, then thou shalt let her go whither she will; but thou shalt not sell her at all for money, thou shalt not make merchandise of her, because thou has humbled her. (KJV: Deuteronomy, 21: 10-14)

Jeez! What a legacy women are up against!

*My copy of the Koran is published by Amana publications with a commentary by Abdullah Yusuf Ali, and was given to me free at a street stall by the Albirr Foundation UK.

Upon Blackfriars Station, Platform 1

I frequently travel back and forth these days between my home in Cambridge and London, in order to spend time with grandchildren. I rather enjoy being part of that enormous tide of people that flows into London every day, and across it, and then flows back out again every night, train after train from all those mainline stations, each train filling up with people and rushing out into the home counties, only for another another train to arrive and fill up in turn. What a strange thing: all those thousands of human souls on the move, each one an entire universe!

My favourite station is Blackfriars, which (uniquely as far as I know) straddles the Thames on its own bridge. As you emerge from the train on Platform 1, you are faced with a single enormous window, the length and height of the station itself, which takes in, to your left, St Pauls and the prestige office blocks of the City, and to the right, the Tate Modern building in the foreground and the Shard behind it, while between them the wide river, sparkling in the sun, is spanned by a series of bridges, each slightly more hazy than the last, stretching back to Tower Bridge in grey silhouette in the distance. It’s an extraordinary spectacle, and it puts me in mind of a poem by Wordsworth that my father liked to recite, about the morning view from another London bridge:

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty…

* * *

I was talking to a writer friend, Colette, about the Neapolitan Quartet and I said one of the things I felt the lack of when I was reading it was sensory information of any kind. The narrator just talks about relationships and interactions and, if she mentions the material setting at all, does so only minimally, in the way that a dramatist does in stage directions. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a personal choice. What you exclude is as important as what you include in any sort of work of art. Colette likes pared-down writing and, as she says, descriptive passages in books are often boring and can feel quite self-indulgent on the author’s part. But my own personal feeling is that I want a novel to evoke, as far as possible, the full breadth of the feeling of being alive, and experiences such as standing in front of that window, or being part of the flow of people in and out of London, are as much a part of that, as are personal interactions.

It seems to me (and this probably isn’t an original thought) that of all art forms, novels are uniquely well placed to encompass the whole picture: interior and exterior worlds, human relationships and material reality… Other art forms can arguably portray any one of these things better than novels can, but novels (and even short stories for that matter) have a sort of ‘jack of all trades’ quality that means they can bring everything together in a way that no other form quite can.

* * *

The other day on Platform 1 of Blackfriars station, with a few minutes to wait for the train to Peckham, I was standing by the glass taking in the view next to a smartly-dressed woman who was doing the same thing. I made some comment about how beautiful it was and she said ‘You know what? I pass through this station every single day, and I never grow tired of it.’

See also (while on London bridges): Waterloo Sunset

Meritocracy and Its Discontents

In his excellent book, The Tyranny of Merit, Michael Sandel, a Harvard professor of political philosophy, refers to another book, now out of print, published in 1958 by the British sociologist Michael Young. It was called The Rise of the Meritocracy, and took the form of a dystopia.

Writing as if he were a historian looking back from the year 2033, he [Young] described with uncanny clarity the moral logic of the meritocratic society that was beginning to unfold in the postwar Britain of his day. Without defending the class-bound order that was passing, Young suggested that its moral arbitrariness and manifest unfairness at least had this desirable effect: It tempered the self-regard of the upper class and prevented the working class from viewing its subordinate status as personal failure.

As Young’s imaginary historian writes:

Now that people are classified by ability, the gap between the classes has inevitably become wider. The upper classes are… no longer weakened by self-doubt and self-criticism. Today the eminent know that success is just reward for their own capacity, for their own efforts, and for their own undeniable achievement. They deserve to belong to a superior class. They know too that not only are they of higher calibre to start with, but that a first-class education has been built upon their native gifts.

‘Not only did Young anticipate the meritocratic hubris of elites;’ writes Sandel, ‘he glimpsed their affinity for technocratic expertise, their tendency to look down on those who lack their lustrous credentials.’ He quotes Young again (still writing as if a historian in 2033) who suggests that ‘some members of the meritocracy… have become so impressed with their own importance as to lose sympathy with the people whom they govern’. Some of them, indeed, are ‘so tactless that even people of low calibre have been quite unnecessarily offended’. Here Sandel references Hillary Clinton’s famous —and extraordinarily politically inept— remark about half of Trump supporters being ‘a basket of deplorables’. I saw the same kind of contempt over and over again coming from remain voters in the aftermath of the Brexit referendum. Indeed I felt so disgusted by it, as a remain voter myself, that I wished I’d voted leave.

As Sandel notes, in Young’s dystopia, ‘resentment against elites was compounded by the self-doubt that a meritocracy inflicts on those who fail to rise’, for, as Young’s historian wrote, ‘Today all persons, however humble, know they have had every chance.’ Sandel goes on:

Young predicted that this toxic brew of hubris and resentment would fuel a political backlash. He concluded his dystopian tale by predicting that, in 2034, the less-educated classes would rise up in a populist revolt against the meritocratic elites. In 2016, as Britain voted for Brexit and America for Trump, that revolt arrived eighteen years ahead of schedule.
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