For readers and thinkers on whom nothing is lost
For readers and thinkers on whom nothing is lost
Often, I write here about various stories that I have read, and the great minds that penned them onto the page. However, here I would like to take a wider look at the very requirement that we as humans have for narrative, and our innate and unconscious abilities to both shape them and be shaped by them.
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In these heated days of reactionism and political tribalism, I consider whether there is a more measured path to cooperation and communication that we all must take in order to, simply, calm down. Let us open our minds to all possibilities, instead of locking our doors and closing the blinds to shut out the sunlight.
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Watching footage of Freddie Mercury’s live performances, it may be hard to believe that such a force of nature could have ever walked with the steps of man. However, as the recent Sotheby’s exhibition showed, he was very much human— and it may have been precisely his enthusiasm for the human that allowed him to reach such astronomical heights.
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One would be hard-pressed to find a work of literature more harrowing, and yet more compelling, than Albert Camus’ ‘The Plague’. But in the wake of the unending suffering and devastation caused by the illness, there is also the story of a man who struggles to perfect the first sentence of his novel. A reader may wonder why on earth something so trite could be at all important, against the backdrop of a struggle between life and death— but I believe that this seemingly innocuous dilemma hides exactly the point of Camus’ most ingenuous work.
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As the world around us seems more frenzied and cacophonous than ever, I take a brief moment to consider the simple comforts that the silence of reading can offer instead.
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It is rare in modern media to see anyone other than the most theatrical of villains drinking wine from a cup fashioned out of a human skull. But whilst we may shudder at the idea, Lord Byron insists that we should find solace in disregarding the supposed sanctity of our human remains.
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In the censorious grip of Soviet Russia, writing a satire of Stalin’s leadership was asking for trouble. On the other hand, an innocuous fairy tale about witchery, devilish occurrences and mysterious disappearances in Moscow would’ve been entirely harmless, right?
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If one were to try and define true wisdom, they would not struggle to find potential answers offered by all forms of thought and philosophy from all corners of the globe. Here, I ponder the differences but also the overlaps between Western and Eastern answers for this most paramount of questions, and also the transcendental, unifying truths that underly all great works of literature, no matter which culture or race they spring from. Ultimately, I believe that such a search would take us to the very core of civilisation- that is, the root of human narrative.
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There are many unsolved questions surrounding Samuel Beckett’s enigmatic, nebulous masterpiece of a play, Waiting for Godot. But rather than attempt to outline the figure of the mysterious main character, or speak to the significance of the two trampy protagonists, today I would like to turn my attention towards a perhaps even more ambiguous duo; a bullish, tyrannical master, and a slave who is mute but articulate, meek yet explosive, and dignified yet savage.
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Political activism was not rare amongst the Romantic poets, and perhaps burned most strongly in the heart of Percy Shelley. More than any other of his contemporaries, he believed that the poet had a moral duty to share their understanding of beautiful truth with the rest of humanity- an understanding that derived from the spiritual and soaring power of the natural world.
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