Who owns these scrawny little feet?

 

 

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‘In or around’ writes Rebecca Solnit (LRB Diary 29 August 2013) ‘June 1995 human character changed again.’ Do you even remember the last century? Or do I? It seems rather dream-like to me. Something that the the old people used to talk about. It goes along with the trenches of the First World War or the blitz in the second. Although as I attempt to get a handle on 1995 I’m not sure whether 1995 does not seem further back in the mists of time than the First World War. But nonetheless Solnit goes on blithely as though it’s all crystal clear, no mysteries or legends, no monsters or uncannily beautiful women appearing as if from nowhere; it is merely the intrusion of ever faster techno-developmental planes of engagement that leave us breathlessly engaged with our devices. Are we different as she suggests? I am. I hardly recognise myself but that is more to do with nearly twenty years of deterioration – ageing and the usual sorts of crisis. As though there is a usual sort of crisis.

And I have downloaded Ted Hughes’ Crow on to my kindle. Examination at the Womb-door begins: ‘Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death./Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death./Who owns these still working lungs? Death.’ And so on in his pounding rhythm. I love it. Yeah, let’s put death on the agenda! William H Gass’s character in The Tunnel who is referred to as Mad Meg or Magus Tabor lectures his students on the fantasy of so much history and wants to impress them (it sounds like they come to be entertained – a must-see before you die) with the single fact that history is all about death. So Men beyond 50 (beyond hope, I suppose that might mean) or die-a-log are right on the button – the 60s generation finding themselves up against it: surely we were never going to die. With so much life, so much hope pumping through our bodies we were going to live forever. No? Well, if we have to get old and die we’ll do it better than any previous generation. Ha Ha Ha.

So we have to stick our over fed snouts into the swill of Hughes’ poetry, especially Crow. How did he get there? To that place where he could write this stuff. And I remain rather amazed that I heard about it and bought it. Where I saw a review or who told me about it I have no idea. Though I am grateful for the nudge.

Then I think of walking through rural France for three weeks in 1997 and noticing the crucifixes – many life size – outside of villages and hamlets. Puzzled by the repeated sight of this tortured-to-death man. And it’s not even that with a bit of work we can get grips, come to terms with death.

Although we are such cheats that we will always have a go at pretending that we’ve got that one sorted. Tick that one off Jimmy.


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