Tropic of Cancer - Rancid Ramblings...

I don't know!  Maybe I've been spoilt over the years by the purity and prosody of "real" English Literary classics, or maybe it's because I actually do like to have some kind of plot or storyline in the books I read - and there have been many thousands of those - along with at least one deserving character.  On the other hand, maybe it's because I don't like being taken for a fool by being served - or, in this case, sold - pathetic puerile rubbish!

 

Anyway, whichever it is, I have to say, having just read "one of the greatest American novels of all time", I am left distinctly unimpressed and dissatisfied by the rancid ramblings of a rabid mind that is Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.

 

I find it hard to understand how this work is even considered to be a novel!  I, personally, would classify it as an incoherent collection of variously influenced journal entries, daubed all too frequently with sporadic obscenities purely for the self-gratification of the author, as they provide no gratification, or even entertainment value, to the reader. By "variously influenced", I mean, rantings that are influenced by whatever intoxicating mendicant Miller has been able to extract from his cadre of erstwhile enablers, most of who seem to be in pretty much the same predicament as himself.  Even when he does manage to break into a (short) period of cohesive sequence, it's built on the back of racist and sexist philosophies that both demean the author and, more importantly, provide ample illustration of the propensity for denigration of other cultures and countries that is inherent in humanity, no matter which country it originates in. Of course, one has to wade through almost 70 pages of the incoherent ramblings before one reaches the coherent ones, by which time anyone with a modicum of morality and decency would have given up long ago. In my own defence at having read thus far and further, I was reading with an eye on the overall impression and veracity of the book, so I really had to read it all the way through!

The interesting thing about the book, I find, is Miller's apparent delight in describing the juvenile attitudes and behaviours of himself and his cohort when writing about the various sexual and other nefarious activities they are partaking of. Whether this is an indication of a narrow focus - either deliberate or unintentional - by the author on those specific memes, or, more alarmingly, an indication of the decadence of the society Miller is immersed in at that time, is a matter of much discussion over the years. Of course, the overall and continuing effect of that style has been to incite the interest of notoriety in the book over the years, which, in its turn, has lead to significant sales and subsequent continued fame and infamy. This might have impressed me more if the author was an immature juvenile, but Miller was actually in his 40s when the book was published, so that excuse is, sadly, no excuse at all!

It is argued that the book is significantly surrealist, and I can agree to that. However, the danger with surrealism is - make it too obtuse, and it becomes confusing. Miller borders on that. And then breaking it up into pieces that do not follow a linear chronology, compounds the surrealist confusion until it becomes impossible to follow, and, eventually, actually annoying to the reader.

 

There is, really, no comparison between Tropic of Cancer and its Orwellian equivalent - Down and Out In Paris and London. While both authors have the desire to describe the impacts on their lives from their situations and experiences among the poorest denizens of these cities, Orwell's is a massive triumph of literary skill and genius, while Miller's is... 

Suffice to say, reading Tropic of Cancer has not inspired me to rush out and buy Tropic of Capricorn, its erstwhile sequel, in quite the same way I rush out to buy every new Tolkien book. On the other hand, I would recommend you read Tropic of Cancer for yourself, so that you can get the full impression and effect of what is, after all, one of the greatest American novels of all time!

Aberfan - October 21st, 1966

There are events in everyone's life that stick in the mind.  How often do you hear the question, "Do you know where you were when you heard John F. Kennedy was shot?"  I actually have no answer for that question, but, for me, the date that made such an impression is October 21st, 1966.

 

I never realised at the time, nor for many, many years afterwards, exactly what an impression the events of that day had actually imprinted in my psyche.  I was eight years old, and the grainy black and white television news images of the horrific disaster that occurred in the Welsh village of Aberfan, like most of the "grown up news" at that time, made little impression.  Or so I'd thought.

 

Then, almost 40 years later, I started to feel something strange inside - something that trembled in the depths of my soul - if that's what you'd call it - in a way that seemed to say "This is still there, and needs to be set free."  It's difficult to explain that feeling - it's like something trying to surface in your mind, trying to speak, so disturbing that it takes your attention away from the things you should be doing.  That "thing" that surfaced was a remembrance of those events back in October 1966, and the vision and clarity and emotion that came with the memory were both inspiring, and deeply saddening.

 

The expression of that "thing" - the vision, the clarity, the emotion - is the poem below.  I reproduce it hear, 47 years after the event that has become known by just one word all over the world - Aberfan.

It's now been 60 years since "Aberfan" - but not a lot has changed.

 

ABERFAN – October 21^st, 1966

 

It’s been sixty years since “Aberfan”,

One hundred and sixteen children

Did not live to be woman or man,

Their fragile bodies broken!

 

A village fair is Aberfan,

Hid in the Martyrs vales,

Nestled amidst the green and gold

Of beautiful south Wales

 

But deep beneath her scenery

Lies the diamond black of coal.

To ransom this dark gold they sold

The Merthyr collective soul.

 

They sunk deep pits in Mother Earth

And mined the coal to sell;

But mines spit more than coal and dust,

Slurry they spit as well.

 

The garbage rock and dust and dirt

The does not burn is piled;

A blight on verdant pasture that

Is hideous, reviled.

 

And we all know that slurry moves,

We played on it as kids.

Our fathers' would have tanned our hides

If they'd known what we did!

 

But pile the slurry on a hill

That’s watered by a stream?

The NCB knew this would be,

A nightmare, not a dream.

 

They had been warned and warned again,

Of these they took no heed.

They went on piling up the dirt:

Theirs was an evil deed.

 

Those murdering bastards knew full well

The spring fed from the hill

Would turn the slurry into slime

That, given time, would spill.

 

October dragged Autumnal feet,

With heavy skies and grey;

As if to wash away the dirt

It rained day after day.

 

The men on number 7 tip

Were worried by the storm.

They watched in horror as it swelled;

Could they prevent that harm?

 

In Pantglas Junior school it was

The last day of half-term.

The children sang their harvest hymns

But had no heart to learn.

 

At 9.13 in the morning

Of October Twenty-first,

God blessed the tardy children,

And, those on time, He curs’d.

 

Like some primordial monster

The soakened slurry fell,

Unleashing on the junior school

A blackness dug from Hell!

 

A rumble, growing louder,

‘Till it drowned all with its din.

The slurry crushed the stone-walled school

And buried those within.

 

While some escape, and many try

To save themselves and others,

That awful blackness traps them all;

Whom it doesn’t crush, it smothers.

 

And then – an eerie silence as

The dark void fills each room,

Encasing those dear children and

Their teachers in a tomb.

 

Then, through the silence, people come,

Miners, fathers, mothers.

While there will be relief for some,

There’s mostly grief for others.

 

They sought hard for their children,

Digging through the rock and mire

While deep in their hearts, broken,

Burnt an ever-growing fire.

 

They dug all through the daylight,

They dug through darkest night,

And each pew in Bathania church

Held a devastating sight.

 

The lifeless body of a child,

Each by a blanket hidden,

Was laid to rest in peace when it

Had been pulled from the midden.

 

One hundred and forty-four victims

Died in the Vale that day.

Twenty-eight of them were adults,

The rest, children at play.

 

Lord Robens was too busy to

Attend to Aberfan.

Receiving another honour,

Such an important man!

 

And when he bothered to attend

He lied about the cause.

The NCB were not to blame,

It was hidden springs, of course!

 

But the people of that valley

Were much wiser than him!

They’d played in that stream on the hill

Before it was filled in.

 

And, at the inquest, folk would take

No heed of Coal Board lies.

They knew who’d killed their little ones,

They knew whom to despise.

 

‘This is the truth - these words we want

This inquest to record,

'Asphyxia, no, sir! Buried alive

By the National Coal Board.'’

 

And who would pay the price for this,

The foul neglect and lies?

Why, no one from the NCB!

Spit in Welsh miners’ eyes!

 

“And, if you want those slag-heaps moved,

You’ll have to pay the cost.”

Well, Aberfan has dearly paid

With every life it’s lost!

 

Don’t ask how they recover

In their Welsh idyllic bliss.

Truth is – there’s no recovery

From tragedy like this.

 

It’s been sixty years since “Aberfan”

And not a day goes by

When a young survivor from Pantglas school

Wonders how they did not die.

 

They feel deep sorrow, and a guilt

For being still alive.

When all their friends were lying dead,

God, how did they survive?

 

Many of them that live there still

Take tablets for their pain,

But they don't take those pills, sir, no,

When it begins to rain!

The fear lies deep inside of them:

They won't get caught again!

 

And resentment and bitterness

Have, over the years, grown

‘Tween those who lost their children

And those that had lost none.

 

No, Aberfan will never truly heal

While memory lingers.

There’ll always be some hurt ones there

To wag their tongues and fingers.

 

There’ll always be some nosey fool,

Or morbidly sick tourist

Who wants to visit Aberfan

"To see what they have missed."

 

The folk of Aberfan deserve

Our honour, respect, love;

Not idle stares and curiosity.

Remember, when you’re giving thanks

To Whom you deem above,

“But for the Grace of God, it could be me!”

 

Epitaph

Don’t ask if I believe in God

Or in the good, sweet Lord.

The proof that there is no such thing

Exists in just one word:

“Aberfan”.

 

Copyright © Paul J. Todd, October 21^st, 2006, April 13, 2026.

 

Filey Summers - A Memoir in verse.

I guess, as a self-proclaimed author and poet, I should publish something now and then, while I'm waiting for fickle fame and fortune to strike!  But,  being honest, I wasn't sure whether to post this little poem about one of the great experiences of my childhood, on this blog, or on my Barney Blog, although this is far from a rant, and much more of a reminiscence!

 

Filey Summers

 

How do I spend my daydreams?

Wandering the paths

Of Butlin’s Filey Holiday Camp,

Reliving childhood’s past.

 

Old Sir Billy’s pride and joy,

The biggest Butlin’s ever,

Bringing summer fun to all

Despite the English weather!

 

The night before was sleepless,

Like a Christmas in July,

Our tummies full of butterflies

As hours dragged slowly by.

 

And then the rail or coach trip

With so little else to do

But sit in angst and wonder ‘til

The camp came into view!

 

The rows on rows of chalets;

Red and Yellow, Blue and Green,

And White for the self-catering,

The likes we’d never seen!

 

And over them, the chairlift,

Where we rode high in the sky,

Laughing down at the tiny folk

Below as we pass’d by.

 

 

 

The Indoor Pool was busy

And was always very warm;

A tropical oasis where

We were all safe from harm.

 

The clear and frigid water

Of the giant Outdoor Pool

Had tiered concrete fountains where

My brother sprayed the fools.

 

 

Two sittings in the dining halls

Of Windsor, York and Kent,

And seconds could be had without

More money being spent!

 

The first freshly cooked donut

That I had ever had,

Still hot, and sugar-coated,

Was a taste that drove you mad!

 

 

The Wild Mouse Rollercoaster

And the free Amusement Park

Kept the children entertained

From morning until dark

 

And then the glow of neon lights

Would drive the dark away

And make the camp a fairyland

Of fun and endless play.

 

 

 

Shows in the Gaiety Theatre

Or billiards in the hall,

Or dancing in the discotheque,

While parents had a ball.

 

The Regency, the Viennese,

The French and Oasis bars,

The Sportsman and the Beachcomber

Where dads could have some jars.
 

 

With playing fields and a cinema,

TV rooms and a lake,

With street trains and with endless games

He gave our folks a break

 

From looking after active kids

All day long, and, at night,

The chalet patrol kept careful watch

To make sure we slept tight!

 

So much to do – day in, day out,

No matter what your age;

It’s easy to see why Filey camp

Was all the Butlin rage!

“We know where you’re going! You’re going for a wee wee!”
 

 

Copyright (c) Paul J Todd, 2013.

All rights reserved.

The Songs of Distant Earth - Arthur C Clarke

Arthur C. Clarke is very well known for his two most famous science-fiction novels, 2001: A Space Odyssey and 2010: Odyssey Two, and is considered one of the "Big Three" authors of the genre, along with Isaac Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein. 2001 is considered one of the greatest sci-fi classics of all time, and the film version by Stanley Kubrick has a huge cult following.  That being said, I had always found those stories difficult to access beyond the surface of Kubrick's visual representation.

In the mid-1990's, I bought the album The Songs of Distant Earth by Mike Oldfield.  Having long been an Oldfield fan, I bought the album for the music, and, at the time, did not pay too much attention to the science fiction story it was based on.  What a fool I was! I recently, finally, read the novel, and have to state that The Songs of Distant Earth by Arthur C. Clarke is exactly the kind of science fiction novel we should all be reading! "Why is that?" I hear you ask. (I did, honestly!)  Well, let me tell you...

 

The Songs of Distant Earth is one of those rarities in the science-fiction genre - a truly accessible, BELIEVABLE story, full of romance, strangeness and danger, that doesn't overwhelm its reader with spurious amounts of incomprehensible science, and which tells a good yarn while still delivering that science, along with a excellent moral sub-plot that is highly appropriate to audiences today.  While the main storyline tells of the arrival of the Starship Magellan, with the last remnants of Earth's civilisation, at the new human colony of Thalassa, a beautiful, Earth-like planet, some 400 years after Earth has been destroyed when our Sun went nova, and the interaction between the new humans and the Earth humans.  We are treated to breath-taking descriptions of Thalassa's peaceful beauty, and gently introduced to the quantum physics and the discovery of the neutrino, in understandable terms that don't blind you with science.  

But the real story to The Songs of Distant Earth isn't the love affair between Loren and Marissa, nor the discovery of the Quantum Drive and the subsequent creation of the Starship Magellan, nor even the creation of the new civilisations like Thalassa. The real message Clarke delivers, the real Catch 22 of the novel, is the process of selecting the historical literature and art from Earth's enormous catalogue, so that they could prevent these new civilisations from commiting the same mistakes Mankind had made during their tenure on Earth. As Clarke puts it:

 

"With tears in their eyes, the selection panels had thrown away the Veda, the Bible, the Tripitaka, the Qur’an, and all the immense body of literature— fiction and nonfiction— that was based upon them. Despite all the wealth of beauty and wisdom these works contained, they could not be allowed to reinfect virgin planets with the ancient poisons of religious hatred, belief in the supernatural, and the pious gibberish with which countless billions of men and women had once comforted themselves at the cost of addling their minds."

 

So the message, if not warning, that Clarke delivers is that, given the opportunity to create Mankind anew, in order to avoid the self-destructive society we have today, we would need to keep from these new civilisations the huge amounts of religious texts that have driven our civilisation to the point of continual warfare and enmity. In other words, if we want to have a truly peaceful society, we would need to remove every aspect of religious control and dictates from our entire knowledge base.

Of course, while Clarke proposes this solution as one method of achieving truly peaceful new worlds, there is no guarantee that these societies would not create their own religious myths and beliefs, thereby potentially subverting the planned peaceful process of existence.  After all - isn't that exactly what we have done to this Earth?

The Songs of Distant Earth should be required reading in every high and secondary school on this planet - if we are ever going to save it!
 

The Pending Hobbit - Been There and Back - Again!

It is with a lot of excitement, and a certain amount of trepidation, that I, along with a few million others, anxiously await December 14, and the release of the first part of Peter Jackson's movie interpretation of The Hobbit.

Just so everyone is aware, I am a long-time devotee of all things Tolkien, and have been for a long time.  I first encountered The Hobbit as a child in the mid-60's (Yes - I am THAT old!), and, while the story was enjoyable, it really didn't worm its way into my psyche the way it has until much later.  In fact, in the mid-70's, I was one of those Lord of the Rings super-nerds, who could recite the names of all of the chapters in all 6 books - in reverse!!  (I know, I know!) And greet you in Sindarin, and recite poems to Elbereth, etc, etc, etc.

 

Nowadays, I either entertain, or annoy, my friends and colleagues, by challenging them to name the thirteen dwarves - and, when they cannot, I go on to do so! Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Balin, Dwalin, Kili, Fili, and Thorin Oakenshield.  For extra points - Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror; King Under The Mountain. And I didn't look at the book - honest injun!

 

Inherent in gaining that amount of knowledge was a certain amount of disdain from the folks surrounding me.  The challenge of enjoying "Fairy Stories" undisturbed and uncastegated was an active part of my teenage years.  So now, after the wonderful (but certainly not flawless) work Peter Jackson and his team undertook to produce the immensely successful LOTR movie trilogy, I again find myself wondering how those who remain from that time in my life will view The Hobbit.  Will it open a window into what I was going through so long ago - the creativity, the escapism - or will it be seen as just another waste of time? 

 

For me, as with the LOTR, there is a certain amount of concern in the making of a movie version.  First of all - The Hobbit was not intended for the same audience as LOTR, but a much younger audience.  Will Jackson's work - based, as it must be, in the world-view of the Middle Earth he created - over-power the much gentler environment of The Hobbit?  I suspect so.  Also, will the narrative tone Tolkien used in The Hobbit be captured successfully by Jackson?  That is a greater challenge, especially when viewed from the Adult perspective of LOTR.  Also, like many, I decry the need to expand the film to three episodes, when, in reality, even one might have sufficed.  The book is, after all, not even as long as The Fellowship of the Ring!  On the other hand, the opportunity to see so much Tolkien brought to life thrills me, too!!!  And if they use it to provide a linkage between The Hobbit and LOTR - fill in the gaps - that is fine, as long as they do not take too much poetic license.

 

And what afterwards?  I know that Tolkien's family are against these movie versions, although I do not understand why, and that they have said there would not be a movie version of J.R.R.'s other tales.  As far as The Silmarillion goes, that is understandable - there are many, many tales woven into that work, that one, two, or even three movies would not be able to support the stories.  However, a television series, such as that used for Game of Thrones, would be hugely successful, I am sure. Having done so much work - volume after volume of posthumous publications - I fail to see why Christopher and his brethren would fail to capitalize on such a wonderful opportunity.

 

But, for now, I, like so many millions of others, will, with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye, be content to watch The Hobbit, and partake in movie marathons of all six films - you know it is coming - and even buy the extended, extended, Middle Earth Director's Cut on blu-ray, or whatever technology has replaced it by then - because we are, and always will be, Tolkienites of the First Degree!

 

Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo!