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Monday, September 12, 2016

Something Thoughtful


Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree or disagree with him.  

PERVASIVE SENSE OF PLACE

Recently I reviewed on this blog Extraordinary Anywhere, a collection of essays about the sense of specific place in New Zealand. In one way or another, all the contributors were saying that where we are born and grow up exerts a powerful influence upon who we are.

I confirm this in a very personal way.

As I’ve noted before on this blog [see the post Babblingof Green Fields], I spent the first 22 years of my life in the east Auckland suburb of Panmure, right next to the Tamaki Estuary. Over forty years ago, I married and moved to the other side of the city – in fact, to the North Shore, where (apart from some trips and sojourns elsewhere) I have lived ever since. I feel no particular nostalgia for where I grew up, and I do not feel a desire to visit there any more than the calls of friendship require.

But I find this curious phenomenon. On those occasions when I remember my night-time dreams, I find that they take place in the house and neighbourhood where I grew up. Even if I can decode my dreams as referring to events going on in my life now, the imagery is the imagery of my childhood and teenage years. I am no psychologist, but I always interpret this to mean that what is imprinted on our brains in childhood is what stays most powerfully with us and is most often resorted to by the unconscious. It is in childhood that we acquire the symbols of our personal emotional codes – a particular dark night in childhood will always recur as a symbol of fear; the strange sound of trains shunting on the other side of the Panmure Basin will always stand for faraway places or perhaps loneliness; the sound of a neighbouring printing press at work means comfort and security; a ceiling that began to leak in the rain means uncertainty and insecurity; and so on.

Writing poetry in particular, I find childhood still exerts a powerful pull. In my first collection The Little Enemy (2011), I included the following poem in honour of early teenage explorations of the nearby estuary’s attractive mud. I was flattered when a year later the craft-artist Ingrid Anderson chose to turn my images into two matching screen prints, incorporating a plan of the estuary with a crab motif.

The poem goes as follows:



TAMAKI ESTUARY

Walking bare-footed on the estuary

to a sour green river

over mud, sucking heels and toes,

in fear of lost fish-hooks;

crunching fallen insect exo-skeletons

and dead crustacean shells

where live crabs have crawled and blundered, just like me,

sideways and tentative,

under the bare foot’s ball.



Mud. Porous mud. Mud unstable and coaxing.


Mud maternal. Mudbank

mud in slippery life. Mud as dangerous

and giving as the womb.



My soft two-legged track will fill with water,

spread and blur, each large print

the spore of an amphibious yeti.

The soaked land stinks,

the river is a plain,

soup-green, puke-green, snot-green.

I’m upright on an unstable element

heading for water, life,

the relatively clean,



over mud. Squelching mud. Mud under-esteemed.

Mud malleable. Mud

digested in the river’s throat and cast up.

Mud fertile vomit

of the two-way tide.



            The Tamaki Estuary was a couple of hundred yards east of my childhood home. If you looked due west from our front window, you were looking across the Panmure Basin at a very distant view of One Tree Hill. The most spectacular time to look in that direction was sunset (or just after). I am certain that many more large flocks of birds flew over metropolitan Auckland when I was a child than is the case now. City spread means that nesting grounds are further and further from the central city and its suburbs than they were fifty years ago. I have a distinct memory from childhood of large flocks of birds flying towards the setting sun. I hope this is not a trick of memory. Anyway, this fed into the following poem, which I decided not to include in either of my two published collections so far. Maybe it’s too raw a piece of protest. I know that an indigenous tree has now been planted on One Tree Hill and this is taken to be culturally acceptable and we are increasingly encouraged to speak of the hill as Maungakiekie. But I still see the deliberate destruction of the exotic tree that was there as a piece of vandalism. To me, the piece of vandalism says that my associations, as a Pakeha, with this landscape mean nothing.

Here’s the hitherto unpublished poem:




ONE TREE HILL



All childhood, seen through a picture window,

beyond the Panmure Basin and railway,

beyond suburbs, she was an umbrella

to a spike, arm to an upright, shelterer

of birds too distant to see, disruptor

of neat verticals, a swaying wind trap.



For us, sunset was her special time, when

she melted into the unviewable,

a twig in the blinding gold,  or was crowned

by rays from heaven through dramatic clouds.

That was when the birds flew past us to her,

the named One Tree, their day’s end destination.



She grew from the hill and was shaped by wind,

graceful beside the stark stone phallus, part

of the scene like clouds, sheep, birds or sunset,

permanent as God. And now she’s gone, cut

for show, executed as an alien,

the hill reshaped to baldness and a pencil.



This is not your country, says the chainsaw.

You have no right to see, think, dream, be here.



*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

            It is always encouraging to be noticed. This was Siobhan Harvey’s response to my second collection of poems, in the Herald “Weekender” magazine on Saturday 27 August:








Monday, September 5, 2016

Something New


 [NOTICE TO READERS: For five years, Reid's Reader has been presenting an entirely free service to readers with commentary on books new and old. Reid's Reader receives no grants or subsidies and is produced each week in many hours of unpaid work. If you wish to contribute, on an entirely voluntary basis, to the upkeep of this blog, we would be very grateful if you made a donation via the PayPal "DONATE" button that now appears at the top of the index at right. Thank you.]
 
We feature each week Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.

“EXTRAORDINARY ANYWHERE” edited by Ingrid Horrocks and Cherie Lacey  (Victoria University Press, $40)

 

Reviewing a book of essays is as hellish a task as reviewing a volume of poems. Strictly speaking, each essay deserves to be analysed and criticised on its own terms – and preferably at some length. But constraints of space and time make this impossible in a review, and as often as not, one ends up giving general impressions rather than worthwhile analyses.

I’m easing my way as gently as I can into talking about Extraordinary Anywhere. Subtitled “Essays on Place from Aotearoa New Zealand”, this is a collection of 17 essays edited by Ingrid Horrocks and Cherie Lacey. To begin with one interesting bibliographical detail about the publication as artefact: this paperback is surrounded by a full dust-jacket, designed by Jo Bailey and Anna Brown and called a “design colophon”, which orients us to the idea of place as memory and mind-map.

The editors’ introduction (called “Writing Here”) has the drawback of attempting to synopsise briefly every contribution to the volume, but it does note accurately that it is now “impossible to present any one place as a microcosm of the wider nation” (p.11). The type of writing about place with which this book concerns itself is very much part of the general reaction against the myth of a unitary national identity and a “national history” that can encompass us all. The role of individual experiences of particular places is seen, say the editors, in the upsurge of blogging, and the increasing number of New Zealand writers who now turn to personal autobiographical essays to convey the sense of a particular place and environment. (It is notable that some contributors to Extraordinary Anywhere are tutors in non-fiction writing at various tertiary institutions).

The editors then explain that they have divided the essays into three sections. The first deals with the essayists’ encounters with single locations. The second deals with mobility, that is, the essayists’ experiences in moving from place to place.  The third deals with imagined locations; or locations conjured up by technology. While reading my way through the volume, I could see how this functioned theoretically, but the brute fact was that such categories quickly became irrelevant. In each of the three sections, personal experiences and reflections mix with literary references and theory about writing. Regardless of the place they are assigned by the editors, all contributors are in conversation with their own past, with locations and with their reading. The less engaging contributions lean a little too heavily on theory. The most engaging are of course the most confessional.

Take Ashleigh Leigh’s “The Te Kuiti Underground” (the first in the book). It comes closest of all to being pure nostalgia as Young recalls her days as a teenager wanting desperately to know the rock and pop groups of her time, wanting to get away from her small town, and then making the extraordinary and liberating discovery that her father had had exactly the same urges at her age. This is memoir as poetic evocation. [See elsewhere on this blog a –regrettably brief – review of Young’s poetry collection Magnificent Moon.]

Much later in the volume is the similarly autobiographical essay by Harry Ricketts [look up reviews on this blog of various of his works] “Finding the Here in Elsewhere”, basically about Ricketts’ transient life as the son of a British Army officer who was posted from place to place. This becomes a discourse on finding identity in shifting locations; and then an account of a friend who made his ‘home’ in somewhere he largely imagined.

Quite different in tone and intention is Alice Te Punga Somerville’s “Maori Writing in Place; Writing in Maori Place”. Essentially this is a piece of advocacy. Somerville begins by taking the long way around defining what exactly we mean by “place”, moves into (her liveliest section) personal memories of Wellington which in turn become a lament for lost memories of the Maori “imprint” upon Wellington and ends as a protest against the paucity of selections by Maori writers in anthologies.

Then there are those workmanlike (and workwomanlike) essays, which combine sense of place with literary criticism.

As Alex Calder has written extensively on this subject before [see on this blog a short review of his The Settler’s Plot], it is understandable that this is the mode he adopts. Calder’s essay “Where the Road Leads: Place and Melodrama” begins as a personal memoir of sojourning in a rural house that was once used as the set for a not-very-good New Zealand horror (or ghost) film. This leads Calder to consider how melodrama seems to flourish in half-settled societies, like early Pakeha New Zealand, where social conditions are still raw and social distinctions have not yet ossified. In turn, the essay becomes a not-entirely-convincing defence of Dan Davin’s melodramatic Roads from Home, especially its over-the-top conclusion.

On a similarly literary wavelength, Annabel Cooper’s “Childhood Haunts”, while weighted with a somewhat heavy and circumlocutory academic rationale, is essentially a comparison of four memoirs by four different New Zealand writers – Mary Lee, James Cowan, Keith Sinclair and Peter Wells [see books by Wells reviewed on this blog]. Cooper’s simple aim is to show how each writer mythologised, and used as a gauge for self-understanding, the environment in which he or she grew up.

The other most overtly literary excursion is Jack Ross’s “On the Road to Nowhere”, setting a reading of landscape against Samuel Butler’s Erewhon (and labouring long over the question of why Butler kept changing his description of the statues that guard Butler’s imagined land.)

Another category includes essays that ponder on the impact of technology, such as Giovanni Tiso considering how Facebook and Google take over and neutralise (or perhaps neuter) our own memories of holidays and places; and Tim Corballis [see review on this blog of his two novellas RHI] being rather more coldly intellectual as he considers how maps at once confirm and annihilate places.

You will notice that so far I have conscientiously name-checked eight of this book’s 17 contributors.

Time now to man up and say where I felt most and least engaged in these texts.

I confess to finding Lynn Jenner’s “The [taniwha] of Poplar Avenue” a rather confusing contrast of Maori and Pakeha perceptions. I admit I didn’t “get” it. Surprisingly, too, it was the two essays by the editors that seemed most confounded by the need to articulate theory. Cherie Lacey’s “Underwater Beach” has a powerful literalist underpinning in her account of land that was buried and land that was thrust up in the great 1931 Napier earthquake. But it takes some patience to follow her interpretation of Napier as the palimpsest upon which the unconscious mind can be written as if the location were a series of psychoactive signals. Ingrid Horrocks’s “Writing Pukeahu” begins as an exploration of the Wellington that lies closest to Victoria University, focusing on the marae and bicultural interaction. I endorse wholeheartedly some of her judgments, as when she expresses misgiving at the gargantuan Anzac exhibition organised by Peter Jackson “as though history, especially war, is an action flick, a dam-busting event with fantastic landscapes and visitor numbers. And with excellent export options. As though the history we needed to remember now was only a hundred years old.”(p.85) At a certain point, however, Horrocks’s contribution becomes too cautious and academic a project report on compiling an anthology about place.

Time now to list the six essays that most fed my brain, enlightened me and put me in fruitful ways of thinking.

Sally Blundell’s “Reoccupying Christchurch” is unashamedly a piece of high-end journalism, joining what is now a growing corpus of thoughtful writing on the post-earthquake city. [See, on this blog, reviews of Jane Bowron’s newspaper despatches Old Bucky and Me; and Fiona Farrell’s The Broken Book and The Villa at the Edge of the Empire.] Like Farrell in some respects, Sally Blundell is aware of the way commercial imperatives in the rebuilding of the city sometimes override community needs; but she is also aware of the way the community shows signs of asserting itself and modifying the blueprints other people have drawn for them.

To me as an historian, Tony Ballantyne’s “Chop Suey patties and Histories of Place” was the volume’s very best exercise in combining personal observation with historical theory. This is as much as I would expect from the man who wrote Entanglementsof Empire [see review on this blog]. Ballantyne begins his essay somewhat wryly with accounts of his and his family’s encounters with Asian (mainly Chinese) eateries in Dunedin’s old working-class suburb of Caversham – which has of course been the site of intensive and prolonged study by the University of Otago’s History Department. From this, Ballantyne works out into the principles of understanding communities as “process”, not as fixed entities, and of considering communities in detail before making overarching statements about national “identity”.

Lydia Wevers’s curtly-titled “Dirt” is an exercise in demonstrating how physical artefacts can tell us of the nature of a past community. Wevers considered the battered, stained, sometimes physically-dirty books that were part of the Brancepeth library, bequeathed to the Victoria University Library. Brancepeth was a Wairarapa sheep station, the books dated from a century ago and most were part of a lending library available to shearers, farm worker and others. Her examination of the books allow Wevers to adduce what sort of reading these labourers and unskilled workers liked, how and when they read, and what their reading choices said about their dreams and desires – and social status. The community is revisited through what it has left behind.

I loved the freshness in the writing of Tina Makereti, who is more imaginative writer than academic. Her “By Your Place in the World, I Will Know Who You Are” presents the interesting perspective of one who does not trace her origins to one turangawaewae. As she says “there is an expectation that Maori should know where they come from, yet I write as a Maori who doesn’t have grounding in one place, one tribe or one culture, but who is still Maori. I am Pakeha too. I am not part-Maori and Part-Pakeha; I am both Maori an Pakeha.” (pp.169-170) The implications of this are worked out in her literary practice.

Ian Wedde is probably the longest-established literary practitioner represented in this volume. [See on this blog reviews of his Trifecta, The Life Guard, and The Catastrophe]. In his essay “A Real Piece….”, Wedde at first seems to be wandering aimlessly as he describes his daily walk in Ponsonby and his café-visiting way of life there. This seems like the introduction to a tale of being an urban flaneur (not that Wedde ever uses that term). But it segues into thoughts on how he captures experience in his notebooks and hence how self-consciousness and awareness are the keys to autobiographies concerning place. But then the concept of “place” itself is really a construct… whereupon Wedde discourses charmingly on the blurred line between objective and constructed places, exemplified by the advertising campaign surrounding the fictitious-but-real Hobbiton. The essay may amble but it is amiable.

Martin Edmond’s closing “response essay” replies to the whole book, emphasising that the “archive” (objective historical data) and “memory” (human experience) should always be in conversation wen we write of place.

As I warned at the beginning of this notice, reviewing a book of essays is a hellish task, but I’m methodical enough to believe that the right way to go about it is to take note of all the contents, as I have done here. I hope this gives some idea of the collections variety, and of the fact that there is more to savour than regret.


Something Old


 Not everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth reading. "Something old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.

“DOUBLE LIVES – Stalin, Willi Munzenburg and the Seduction of the Intellectuals” by Stephen Koch  (first published in 1994; later updated and revised; also published with the subtitle “Spies and Writers in the Secret Soviet War of Ideas Against the West”)

            It can be chastening to read a book which pulls apart methodically the delusions of an earlier age. It can be especially chastening if some of those delusions are still with us.
            I first read Stephen Koch’s Double Lives a decade ago, and dipped into it again ahead of writing this notice. Stephen Koch is an American academic, critic and novelist attached to Columbia University. He has written books about Andy Warhol and other art icons. He has angered the admirers of Ernest Hemingway by writing a book (The Breaking Point: Hemingway, Dos Passos, and the Murder of Jose Robles) showing how complicit Hemingway was in Stalinist terror during the Spanish Civil War. Most controversially, he has written Double Lives.
Why should this book be controversial? Because it punctures many of the enduring myths of the 1930s.
A widespread myth says that, even if Soviet Communism was flawed, it provided a counter-balance to Fascism and Nazism. The myth says that the Popular Front of the mid-1930s, in which Communists and democratic parties of the Left joined forces for a few years, offered the real possibility of a push-back against Hitler. But, says the myth, such solidarity was scuttled when the duplicitous foreign ministries of Britain and France did a deal with Hitler at Munich in 1938. This left the Soviet Union without allies in a threatened war with Hitler. While the Nazi-Soviet Pact of 1939 may be regretted, the myth says it was an understandable reaction to the Soviet Union’s desertion by the West, also known as the West’s abandonment of “collective security”.
Add to this the contemporaneous Spanish Civil War, with Communist-organised International Brigades fighting against Franco, and the myth comes up with a relatively benign view of the Soviet Union as something on the side of the forces of light.
Stephen Koch will have none of this and, with a wealth of solid research and detailed interviews to support him, sets out to show how easily Western liberal intellectuals were lured into this totally unrealistic reading of events.
Koch’s main purpose is to expose the duplicity of the Soviet Union, its secret services and its sympathisers in the years leading up to the Second World War. It is his main contention that from 1933 onwards, it was always Stalin’s intention to do a deal with Hitler. The “Non-Aggression Pact” (i.e. alliance) of 1939 was simply the culmination of years of practical, covert cooperation between the two regimes. It was not something resorted to after the British and French sell-out of Munich in 1938. Stalin’s aim was always to divert Hitler’s attention west.  Hitler’s aim was to pacify Stalin for as long as it took him to subdue Western Europe. In playing this game, both Stalin and Hitler were aware that much of their mutually-hostile rhetoric was for display and public consumption only. Their secret services exchanged information (and prisoners) well before the open alliance of 1939-41. Stalin saw his main opponents, and the main people to be destroyed, as any non-Communist opponents of Fascism, such as Social Democrats and Labour Parties.
Koch says this mutually beneficial deal between the dictators was struck at the time of the Reichstag Fire trials of 1933. Three Communists (including the Bulgarian Stalinist Georgi Dimitrov, who later ran the Comintern) were put on trial by the Nazi regime but, thanks to the secret Nazi-Soviet deals already being struck, they were acquitted and flown to Moscow. Communist propaganda denounced the Nazi regime, but especially denounced “irresponsible” SA brownshirts and usually held back from criticising Hitler himself. Stalin was quite happy to have Hitler roll up and persecute the German Communist Party, which had the unhealthy habit of showing independence of Stalin. Hitler’s murder of Rohm and the brownshirt leadership was approved by Stalin, and was the direct model for Stalin’s terror directed against the “Old” Bolsheviks in the wake of the murder of Kirov.
Koch argues that the “Popular Front” strategy adopted by Stalin after 1935 was exactly what Dimitrov, said it was – a Trojan Horse designed to destroy any legitimate anti-Nazi activities by non-Communists. It was also an excellent cover for the most intense stages of Stalin’s Terror that were going on at the very time the Popular Front was operative. By having Communists so overtly opposing Hitler and Nazism, left and liberal intellectuals in the West would be deluded into seeing Communism as the noble opponent of tyranny, and would therefore be less inclined to investigate or criticise Stalin’s Terror. The received wisdom became “Any attack on Stalin must be an endorsement of Hitler” and we reach the stage where anybody opposing the Soviet regime was labelled “objectively fascist”.
To a very significant degree, the Popular Front was a propaganda front for the Great Terror. Stalin’s campaign annihilating any vestige of independent political thought inside Soviet Russia coincides precisely with the campaign proclaiming democratic pluralism and openness in the West… The Front and the Purge were prepared simultaneously. The heyday of both was 1936 and especially 1937. By the spring of 1938, with the Moscow murders mainly complete, Stalin began to wash his hands of the propaganda operation. By the summer of 1939 he killed it dead.” (Part One, Chapter 5)
The “Popular Front” also coincided with the Spanish Civil War. In Spain, Communist activity methodically destroyed the non-Communist Left in the Spanish Republic by terror and murder. Hitler and Mussolini extended credit to Franco and their right-wing Spanish allies, but Stalin extended no credit whatsoever to his Spanish allies, even though his advisors told him that the Spanish Republic was being dangerously weakened by the political purges and was becoming less capable of fighting Franco. Essentially, this was because Stalin was not interested in a Spanish Republican victory, and certainly not in one in which Social Democrats or any of the non-Communist left had a say. When and if Franco was defeated, Stalin wanted a purely Communist Spain as a bargaining chip, which might again divert Hitler’s attention west and away from the Soviet Union. In Eastern Europe, the Popular Front served only to weed out and destroy non-Communists (such as a socialists who fought Dollfuss in Vienna) and prepare the way for the Stalinist states that followed the Second World War.
While these are Koch’s essential themes, he is just as concerned to show how Western liberals and intellectuals were seduced either into joining the Communist Party, or into sympathising with and advancing its aims while imagining that they held independent views. Koch is particularly good on what would now be called “spin” – the way apparently non-Communist front organizations and publications (even ones that occasionally offered mild criticism of the Soviet Union) could be relied on to popularise and publicise the Stalinist line in essential matters. In England, France and America, much “radical chic” of this sort reigned at the time of the Popular Front.
A sort of narrative holding this book together concerns the career of the German Communist Willi Munzenberg, companion of Lenin and covert propagandist for the Comintern from the early 1920s to the time when Stalin abandoned the “Popular Front” strategy. Munzenberg’s day was really over by the time of the Spanish Civil War. He died in France in 1940, fleeing from Nazi invasion. There is an outside possibility that he committed suicide, but it is more likely that he was murdered by Stalin’s agents, for in his last year Munzenberg broke with the Party-line and began publishing in the West lists of German Communists who had been destroyed by Stalin’s Terror.
Koch sees Munzenberg as the man who perfected the idea of the “cultural congress” as a vehicle for Soviet propaganda; and the technique of building public outrage at perceived injustices in western democracies as a diversionary tactic so that Western liberals and opinion makers would be less inquisitive about Soviet methods and motives.
Says Koch: “His goal was to create for the right-thinking, non-political West the dominating political prejudice of the era: the belief that any opinion that happened to serve the foreign policy of the Soviet Union was derived from the most essential elements of human decency. He wanted to instil the feeling, like a truth of nature, that seriously to criticise or challenge Soviet policy was the unfailing mark of a bad, bigoted and probably stupid person, while support was equally infallible proof of a forward-looking mind committed to all that was best for humanity and marked by an uplifting refinement of sensibility.” (Part One, Chapter One)
Munzenberg was a master at creating “front” organizations and publications – he had a hand in the creation of the Left Book Club (based on the German Communist Universum Bucherei), Claud Cockburn’s political gossip sheet The Week in London, ”P.M.” magazine in the USA and Ce Soir in France. Koch adds “… certainly most of the people who poured their idealism into the Munzenberg fronts… had no idea that their consciences were being orchestrated by operatives of Stalin’s government.” (Part One, Chapter One)
Munzenberg cut his teeth in organizing outrage at the trial in America of the anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti in 1927, who (as later revelations showed) were probably guilty as charged. There was, of course, a very devious purpose behind this organised outrage. In the 1921 famine in Russia, the overwhelming majority of effective relief had been provided by Hoover’s American Relief Administration and a Western European fund organised by Fridthof Nansen. Very little had come from the Communist Party or its overseas branches. America stood high in general Russian esteem because of this. Says Koch “For the world proletariat of 1925, the leading counter-myth to the myth of revolution was the idea of America.” It was therefore necessary to organise an event, which would present the United States as a land of injustice. The particular hypocrisy of Munzenberg’s campaign was, however, that Sacco and Vanzetti were anarchists, not Communists, and in the Soviet Union anarchists were routinely imprisoned or executed.  
Munzenberg’s lieutenant in Soviet propaganda was Otto Katz, who outlived Munzenberg only to die in the last round of Stalinist purges in the 1950s. It was Katz who rallied the support of the Hollywood left for his “Anti-Nazi League” which suddenly changed its name to the “League for Democratic Action” and began propagandising against a war with Hitler as soon as the Nazi-Soviet pact was signed. Indeed Katz’s apparatus now began denouncing France and Britain as warmongering states which should have reached a wise compact with Hitler the way Stalin had. This was too much for the novelist Thomas Mann who, with his brother Heinrich, had previously been co-opted into many of Katz’s “anti-fascist” activities. Seeing how duplicitous the Katz apparatus now was, Mann burst out “No Nazi – or Stalinist – agent in this country could have sown such evil propaganda against the democracies and the life-and-death struggle they are waging against the German regime as you do.” (Part Two, Chapter 9)
There are some grimly funny – or at least ironical - stories here. One concerns the Russian General Walter Krivitsky, who defected to the USA early in 1939 and immediately made public the fact that Hitler and Stalin were about to do a deal. Propaganda and front organizations went into overdrive, denouncing him as a fraud. Over 400 Hollywood liberals and showbiz radicals signed a public letter of protest (Lillian Hellman, Dashiell Hammett, Clifford Odets, Sinclair Lewis etc. etc.) at Krivitsky’s “lies”. It ran as a paid advertisement in bold type on the back pages of many newspapers. The trouble was, it appeared on the very same day that the front pages of the same newspapers were announcing, with astonishment, the signing of the Hitler-Stalin Pact. This is a classic case of bad timing! (Part Two, Chapter 8)
And yet, dear reader, coming to the end of my summary of this worthwhile book, isn’t at least part of your mind saying that Double Lives must be the work of a right-wing writer who hasn’t understood the nobility of the anti-fascist movement?
The stereotype of an American book written against Communism is that it must be some sort of unreconstructed Cold War tract. Old lefties have become adept at saying that, yes, Stalinism was an evil but it was somehow detachable from the noble ideals of Communism. Anyone who says otherwise must be a crude McCarthyist. And, of course, evocation of the right-wing demagoguery of the McCarthy era is a very good way of making the old Hard Left look good. There is also the obvious fact that many of the diplomatic manoeuvres of the British and French governments in the 1930s really were dodgy, and the Munich agreement is nothing to be proud of. Like Stalin, the French and British governments were seeking to divert Hitler away from their patch. However, unlike Stalin, they never went into alliance with Hitler, collaborated with his terror system or helped him out with war materiel when he launched his first attacks.
If you have any misgivings about Koch’s book, I simply point to the wealth of verifiable research on which it is based and especially the interviews Koch undertook with key informants and witnesses. (One of his main interviewees was Willi Munzenberg’s widow, Babette Gross, a very old lady who had long since abandoned her Stalinism and developed into a devout anti-Communist.)
But how is this relevant to us?
Simple. The gross forms that modern capitalism can take, the widening of the wealth gap and the rise of right-wing demagogues like Donald Trump could be fertile ground for the myth that a decisive, non-democratic Left alternative is possible. I see this in many of the simplistic slogans that flood Facebook and other social media. We are urged to “Smash Capitalism”, but few coherent alternatives are proposed. A replay of the Left Delusion of the 1930s is perfectly feasible. For this reason, careful study of a book like Double Lives is an important political act for our own age.

Something Thoughtful


Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree or disagree with him.

“GOOD BAD” POEMS
This isn’t something I talk about too much, because in this day and age of spontaneity it seems perverse…. But I used to have the habit of learning poems off by heart.
Sometime I will tell you the whole story of my relationship with sonnets. Suffice it to say that one day I woke up and realised that I knew two or three sonnets, by canonical poets, by heart, simply because I had read them so often. And from that point, I decided consciously to add to the library in my head. I had the habit then of taking daily 45-minute walks. So I began to take slim volumes with me on my walks, memorising sonnets one line at a time [one line taking forty or fifty pace or so]. By the end of the daily walk I knew the sonnet by heart.
I did not long persist in this habit (memorising other people’s lines can get in the way of thinking up your own), but I ended up with a mind-library of 25-or-so sonnets. Now sometimes when I take a (bookless) walk, I take them out and polish them in my head. Indeed sometimes I review them when I have to attend a boring talk.
Thus much for the prologue.
Now for the meat of this week’s homily.
You see, while some of the sonnets I memorised were indeed poetic masterpieces, others were of more questionable calibre. And yet for whatever reason I found them memorable.
They were examples of the “good bad poem”.
Take the following effusion. It is by the nineteenth century Irish poet James Clarence
Mangan (1803-1849) – best known for his “translation”, from the Gaelic, of My Dark Rosaleen. Listed in Mangan’s work only as “Sonnet”, it is one of the sonnets that sit in my mind-library:

Bird that discoursest from yon poplar bough, 
Outweeping night, and in thy eloquent tears 
Holding sweet converse with the thousand spheres 
That glow and glisten from night's glorious brow,  
may thy lot be mine! that, lonely now,  
And doomed to mourn the remnant of my years, 
My song may swell to more than mortal ears, 
And sweet as is thy strain be poured my vow.  

Bird of the poets' paradise! by thee  
Taught where the tides of feeling deepest tremble,  
Playful in gloom, like some sequestered sea,  
1 too amidst my anguish would dissemble, 
And tune misfortune to such melody,  
That my despair thy transports should resemble.

            Fairly dreadful, isn’t it? Yes, it follows the good Petrarchan form, with neat octave and sestet but – oh dear! – even by early 19th century standards, that awful la-dee-da vocabulary (“yon”, “discoursest”), that adolescent self-pity (“doomed to mourn”, “my anguish”) and especially that clunking final rhyme (“dissemble…resemble”).
Jimmy, my dear,” I’d say, if I knew him before they tumbled his poor alcoholic corpse into the grave at Glasnevin. “You’ve got talent, boyo, but rewrite it in your own language.” And he would have coughed and ignored me and died at the age of 46 anyway.
But in this poem there was one line that really got me and made me memorise the whole. It’s when he describes feeling as “playful in gloom, like some sequestered sea.” That deep ur-Freudian intuition of the gnawing subconscious, and the idea of an underground (“sequestered”) sea. Definitely a good-bad poem.
It’s a bit of a stretch to go from this to another item in my mind-library. This one I knew before the conscious plan to learn sonnets took hold. It’s because, in mid-teen years, I’d decided that it was an immortal masterpiece and I read and re-read it. It is “La Destruction” by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) who, like James Clarence Mangan, died at the age of 46. (Come to think of it, so did James K. Baxter – it must be the age that dissolute poets decide to go.) Thus goes “La Destruction”:

Sans cesse à mes côtés s'agite le Démon;
II nage autour de moi comme un air impalpable;
Je l'avale et le sens qui brûle mon poumon
Et l'emplit d'un désir éternel et coupable.


Parfois il prend, sachant mon grand amour de l'Art,
La forme de la plus séduisante des femmes,
Et, sous de spécieux prétextes de cafard,
Accoutume ma lèvre à des philtres infâmes.


II me conduit ainsi, loin du regard de Dieu,
Haletant et brisé de fatigue, au milieu
Des plaines de l'Ennui, profondes et désertes,


Et jette dans mes yeux pleins de confusion
Des vêtements souillés, des blessures ouvertes,

Et l'appareil sanglant de la Destruction!


Oh blush, blush! The very qualities that made me admire it at 16 are the very ones that now make me cringe. That overstatement. That self-dramatising as if the poet is a soul in torment. The pretence of a titanic, spiritual struggle, when, dammit, it’s only sex and opium that torment him. If I had met Baudelaire in the flesh, I would have said “Really Charlie. Stop building yourself up so much. Byron is dead, and you don’t have to do this self-dramatising thing anymore. I know you can do better.” And in Baudelaire’s case he did indeed do much, much better. So when I visited his grave in the Montparnasse cemetery last year, I didn’t have to say rude words over his mouldering remains.
And yet “La Destruction” too is a “good bad” poem. It has brio. It drives along. Even if it is melodramatic overstatment it carries you with it. Almost a good bad masterpiece.
And my sermon would end here, except for one afterthought. For years I could not find a decent translation of “La Destruction” (not that poetry can ever really be translated – but that’s another story). In a Penguin anthology Poetry of the ‘Nineties (edited by R.K.R.Thornton) I found a translation by the “decadent” poet Vincent O’Sullivan (1868-1940 – not to be confused with the New Zealand poet of the same name). It was risible. The line “La forme de la plus séduisante des femmes” was ridiculously translated as “The shape of supple girls supremely fair.”  Eventually, the best I found was a pretty good translation by Roy Campbell (1901-57). It is far from perfect, but it goes thus:

Always the Demon fidgets here beside me
And swims around, impalpable as air:
I drink him, feel him burn the lungs inside me
With endless evil longings and despair.


Sometimes, knowing my love of Art, he uses
Seductive forms of women: and has thus,
With specious, hypocritical excuses,
Accustomed me to philtres infamous.


Leading me wayworn into wastes untrod
Of boundless Boredom, out of sight of God,
Using all baits to compass my abduction,


Into my eyes, confused and full of woe,
Soiled clothes and bleeding gashes he will throw
And all the grim regalia of Destruction.