OK, I promise, this is the last in the my favorite authors series I am going to be doing about dead white European males - not that I have exhausted the subject, but I fear I get tiresome on this, and I don't want to start sounding like undergraduate 'Western Civ'. Nevertheless, good writing is good writing, and, more to the point, as this is a progressive site, I think there are things in the canon that every good progressive can take to heart. The issues change less, perhaps, than is obvious.
It is also here that I reiterate my promise and request for all those reading this, if you have a favorite author yourself: The series is really supposed to be collaborative in that I would like my fellow Kossacks on R&BLers to sound off on their own favorites, and why that is so, and what we can learn from them. You might even influence a person or two.
Because I do think, as I believe many others do, that good writing exerts an influence that goes beyond the place and time it is written. Sometimes even bad writing does, if it coherently expresses ideas that a population is ready to hear. And the combination of superb writing and superb ideas, well in a way that is why we have Western Civ in the first place. Or, as Percy Bysshe Shelley said "poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world". Auden, who lived a hundred and fifty years later - and did not agree - did say "Whatever its actual content and overt interest, every poem is rooted in imaginative awe. Poetry can do a hundred and one things, delight, sadden, disturb, instruct--it may express every possible shade of emotion, and describe every conceivable kind of event, but there is only one thing that all poetry must do: It must praise all it can for being and happening."
Which brings us to the poetry of Joseph Rudyard Kipling. Let's indulge in a little verse tonight. It even rhymes.
I have in my hot hands an old paperback "A choice of Kipling's verse" purchased some time ago from the late unlamented Borders bookstore. The book is distinguished by being a sort of 'greatest hits' of Kipling's poems, selected by none other than T.S Eliot, a man of some ability as a poet himself. He wrote a long and generally laudatory essay at the start of this volume, and I would imagine to have one's poetry praised by Eliot is really some grand pumpkins; in the essay - and it is not a page turner; Eliot wasn't exactly an exciting prose stylist - he does make some points here relevant. He starts off by saying that Kipling was both a great storyteller and a great poet, and to understand his poems, it helps to understand his stories and prose, and the understanding of his poems, with their good and bad points helps illustrate the stories.
I can think of no better and maybe more obvious example than the story "Without Benefit of Clergy", a heartbreaking tale - as sad as a previously discussed story, "The Elephant's Child" is funny - about a bachelor civil servant in india, John Holden who lives a double life because he sets up a house on the edge of town with a Muslim girl named Ameera. They do not marry but love each other - Kipling is perfectly clear about that - and have a son. But he dies and then the Cholera strikes, and Ameera dies in Holden's arms. The house is stripped and destroyed by a monsoon, and the landlord declares he will pull it down as if it had never been.
In fact, I'll give a sample, just to show the pathos of this tale:
One hot evening, while he sat on the roof between his father
and mother watching the never- ending warfare of the kites that
the city boys flew, he demanded a kite of his own with Pir Khan
to fly it, because he had a fear of dealing with anything larger than himself, and when Holden called him a "spark," he rose to his feet and answered slowly in defence
of his new-found individuality, "Hutnpark nahin hat. Hum admi hat [I am no spark, but a
man]."
The protest made Holden choke and devote himself very seriously to a consideration of
Tota's future. He need hardly have taken the trouble. The delight of that life was too per-
fect to endure. Therefore it was taken away as many things are
taken away in India — suddenly and without warning. The little
lord of the house, as Pir Khan called him, grew sorrowful and
complained of pains who had never known the meaning of
pain. Ameera, wild with terror, watched him through the night,
and in the dawning of the second day the life was shaken out of
him by fever — the seasonal autumn fever. It seemed alto-
gether impossible that he could die, and neither Ameera nor Holden at first believed the evidence of the little body on the bedstead. Then Ameera beat
her head against the wall and would have flung herself down
the well in the garden had Holden not restrained her by main force.
One mercy only was granted to Holden. He rode to his office
and found waiting him an unusually heavy mail that demanded
concentrated attention and hard work. He was not, however,
alive to this kindness of the gods.
And the poem that leads this sorrowful story off?
Before my Spring I garnered Autumn's
gain,
Out of her time my field was white with
grain,
The year gave up her secrets to my woe.
Forced and deflowered each sick season lay,
In mystery of increase and decay;
I saw the sunset ere men saw the day,
Who am too wise in that I should not know.
-Bitter Waters.
There are personal resonances here, which I don't really want to discuss. Let's just say I can relate to this
* * * * *
So what are the verses Kipling writes, which have relevance here? Well, take "Mesopotamia" written in 1917
They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?
Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide--
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?
Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?
Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
Even while they make a show of fear,
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their
friends,
To conform and re-establish each career?
Their lives cannot repay us--their death could not undo--
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shell we leave it unabated in its place?
Recognize anyone in this?
Or, take the Ballad "Tommy" protesting the way ordinary soldiers are treated during peacetime, and how society turns oh-so-nice to them when a war is on:
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind
I have been in the army and I can attest to this; the unscrupulous who cluster around every miltary base with their bullshit 'easy finance' schemes, and the fact that our troops are young people and will do young people things. Sort of like everyone else.
In the same vein, since we here at Kos have done our own support of families of active duty soldiers (ordered out to the various Middle Eastern follies), I present "The Absent Minded Beggar"
When you’ve shouted “Rule Britannia,” when you’ve sung “God save the Queen,”
When you’ve finished killing Kruger with your mouth,
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
For a gentleman in khaki going South?
He’s an absent-minded beggar, and his weaknesses are great –
But we and Paul must take him as we find him –
He is out on active service, wiping something of a slate –
And he’s left a lot of little things behind him!
Duke’s son – cook’s son – son of a hundred kings –
(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of ‘em doing his country’s work
(and who’s to look after his things?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
and pay – pay – pay!
There are girls he married secret, asking no permission to,
For he knew he wouldn’t get it if he did.
There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due,
And it’s more than rather likely there’s a kid.
There are girls he walked with casual. They’ll be sorry now he’s gone,
For and absent-minded beggar they will find him,
But it ain’t the time for sermons with the winter coming on.
We must help the girl that Tommy’s left behind him!
Cook’s son – Duke’s son – son of a belted Earl –
Son of Lambeth publican – it’s all the same today!
Each of them doing the country’s work
(and who’s to look after the girl?)
Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,
and pay – pay – pay!
They are families by thousands, far too proud to beg or speak,
And they’ll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,
And they’ll live on half o’ nothing, paid ‘em punctual once a week,
‘Cause the man that earns the wage is ordered out.
He’s an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call,
And his reg’ment didn’t need to send to find him!
He chucked his job and joint it – so the job before us all
Is to help the home that Tommy’s left behind him!
Duke’s job – cook’s job – gardener, baronet, groom,
Mew’s or palace or paper-shop, there’s someone gone away!
Each of ‘em doing his country’s work
(and who’s to look after the room?)
Pass the hat and for your credit’s sake,
and pay – pay – pay
To make the topicality clearer, Kruger is Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger (10 October 1825 – 14 July 1904), better known as Paul Kruger and affectionately known as Uncle Paul. He was State President of the South African Republic (Transvaal). He gained international renown as the face of Boer resistance against the British during the South African or Second Boer War (1899–1902). Allow me to point out the obvious: You could just as well substitute 'Saddam' these days for 'Kruger'. And by the way, read Kipling's poem 'Piet' if you want to see someone empathize with their enemy.
I'll finish with an unlikely candidate "The Gods of the Copy-book Headings" which is a very hectoring, moralizing sort of poem, perhaps a bit of a sermon (John Derbyshire, the racist conservative columnist used it approvingly in his novel "Seeing Calvin Coolidge in a Dream, so you know what sort of person it appeals to). But, given the financial goings-on I have seen twice in my lifetime eminating from wall-street, I think the poem has something to say (and for those less than 70 let me explain what a copy-book was: you practiced your handwriting in it by copying out some religious platitude over and over again; and if you think those things are true then they are always true, just as irresponsible financial speculation is always guaranteed to end badly):
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place.
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
and later
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four --
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
So that's my final take on Kipling. Excuse me for going on; as I said in my last diary there is much to criticize about Kipling, and I am still wondering a bit myself how I came to write so extensively about the old imperialist on a progressive site But I will just lay out a little verse that would be Kipling's response I guess that is always relevant:
"When all the world would keep a matter hid,
Since Truth is seldom Friend to any crowd,
Men write in fable, as old Aesop did,
Jesting at that which none will name aloud.
And this they needs must do, or it will fall
Unless they please they are not heard at all.
When desperate Folly daily laboureth
To work confusion upon all we have,
When diligent Sloth demandeth Freedom's death,
And banded Fear commandeth Honour's grave--
Even in that certain hour before the fall,
Unless men please they are not heard at all.
Needs must all please, yet some not all for need,
Needs must all toil, yet some not all for gain,
But that men taking pleasure may take heed.
Whom present toil shall snatch from later pain.
Thus some have toiled, but their reward was small
Since, though they pleased, they were not heard at all".
Peace and love, bothers and sisters. We need it.
Tue May 01, 2012 at 1:06 PM PT: Thank you to all the commenters for some really really good comments. . . the erudition, effort and just general Kossack-ness well repay the work I put into them. I can't resist adding where the line about 'If anyone questions why we died/tell them because our fathers lied" comes from: It is a series of imagined epitaphs on the tombstones of the casualties of world war I, where among others you have the statements of soldiers shot for cowardice and sleeping on sentry duty. the line is powerful enough, but taken collectively the epitaphs form a haunting testament to the destruction of war that is almost as powerful as going to the Vietnam memorial in Washington D.C and reading all those names engraved on it; especially when you go on foggy or rainy days, and the water drips down the dark marble as if the stone itself weeps for the fallen.