Showing posts with label Blackboard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blackboard. Show all posts

Saturday, 15 October 2022

Repentance, Rebellion, Resignation, Reincarnation



“….now I have been discussing four fundamental attitudes that are found in the various religions of the world towards the human predicament and as you see still on the blackboard they are given to be four hours instead of the three hours repentance opposite rebellion and resignation opposite reincarnation — the latter word being used in a special sense not in the ordinary sense of ‘rebirth’ but of an affirmation of the humanistic iment of getting with Life —

And this morning I discussed the attitude of repentance — The frame of mind in which it is felt that there is something profoundly wrong about being a self-conscious isolated individual Human Being and I try to show that when this attitude is carried to an extreme point, it results in your discovering that you are a total phony.

And I said that the difficulty of The Repentance Attitude is that people don't carry it through — with each screen part and they use the attitude of repentance and the indulgence in punishment for whatever they think is wrong about themselves as a kind of lifestyle — which assures you that You're in The Right.


they carve you her and because you insist that you're wrong sometimes suggested that this statement I am a sinner is logically equivalent to the statement quote this statement is false unquote because you see if that is a true statement it's a false statement and if it's a false statement at the true state and go on forever and to say I am a sinner is really the same thing because it implies that the statement itself since it is the statement on earth inner is the sinful statement and it could attract called a double by and so I thought often quitted my clergy friends about this and to their great amusement because the clergy are as bad as you might think least that many of them they have trouble in making it with their congregations and they clicked that their congregations will want the good old religion our wallowing in sin because come many congregations I found out love to be scolded and if you make everybody feel temporarily guilty but also make each individual feel assured that everybody else was more guilty than years this is an extremely much sought after emotional experience but the point that I was making was that if you pursue this idea of being sinful of being phony of being insincere to its ultimate point where you discover that all you do and all you are is a big act then this raises the question of what is reality what lies behind phone and so then and there you have an initiating experience because it leads in the discovery the fuel Connie shot called tatsumaki that about that the real you is not the isolated conscious ego that is only again being played all over the place by what there is not there and what there is is coextensive with the whole cosmos and is the imperishable reality and everyone is that but the game since era we started on the premise that existence is a game the game is hide-and-seek the gain is pretending that is not So we then move on you see to another possible response, not repentance, but that of resignation "I quit The Game, I won't play it." There are all sorts of ways of doing this but basically this is an aristocratic posture, "You ordinary mortals with all your Desires, and all your Involvements are deluded - You Get attached to Things. But there are a certain minority of Us, Who are above it all. And since We've resigned We're not going to follow This now. " This as I say is an artistocratic, [be aware] that it may be aristocratic in two ways There's the aristocracy of the Hindu Sannyasi the people outside and above caste and there's also the aristocracy of the actual aristocrat - I get so mixed up with my British and American pronunciation on this - but The Aristocrat who comes on with the position of always being bored, who has complete hogwash who is imperturbable Kaiser Ling's study of this mentality is marvelous in his book of Europe the essay on Hungary portrays the rightly he calls the grand signeur. He always identified himself as a type disrobe the grand familia cannot be saved, who could always be always rise to the occasion under any social circumstances whatsoever, without trying to do so or without apparently trying to do so. In other words if he goes to the Opera wearing blue jeans he will somehow make it apparent that everybody else is improperly dressed. This is a very interesting type of person you know there was an essay written by someone whose name I can't remember in the Centennial Review which contrasted the Attitude to Time of the aristocracy the bourgeoisie and the proletariat; It said The Aristocrat lives in The Past because his ancient forbears have achieved everything and his very by the fact of his birth in his existence he has nothing to strive for and he somehow I never need overdo it - he's always cool. The Bourgeois on the other hand feels that it's necessary to arrive and he's always striving for The Future Whereas the aristocrat lives in the past, on the other hand, the proletarian lives in the present because he doesn't care about his reputation and he just lives, and so of the two the bourgeois of the three the bourgeois is the sucker because the formula is always cheated because well it's going to come someday see you're going to get it even your money when you pull it out of your pocket, there says on it "Promise to Pay" - watch out for that! It's poverty and the bourgeoisie use the news on from the whole the whole economy is the United States being the great bourgeois country is in a state of expectancy of feeling happy, not on what you have but on what is going to come The Aristocrat is happy on what has happened, these great achievements of the past mean there's nothing left to do except sort of glory in it. The Proletarian wants it right now, see and they often get it; About the poor bourgeois, my uncle once said The Poor have it given them The Rich have it anyway so The Middle Classes do without So both the aristocrats and the sannyasi have resigned. Now, the more interesting of the two types is Acosta Sonia who resigns from The World Game, let me review for you the role of the sannyasin in Indian culture you know there are four castes because the priests or Brahmins the caste of warriors and rulers called Kshatriya the caste of merchants called Vasia and the caste of workers called Shudra And to belong to a caste means that you are in the state called grihastha, which is householder that is to say you are One Who is Involved in The World, you are engaged in what is called loca Sandra and loca means The Well, Sandra, upholding, upholding the going on of The Great Illusion and so you are playing for money for position for status, for success and hoping above all that you could win - You can beat The Game. But it's supposed in the same culture that every man who attains the age of or so, who has now a grown son to take over his work, will quit the game, will resign and so, when you come to be at age you're supposed to move from the state of grihastha, householder to vanaprastha which means forest dweller. You give away all your possessions to your son, you change your name, you take off your clothes and go more or less naked, because you have abandoned status. So in spite of the fact that he has no status, he is however respected in the culture for being an upper outcast, whereas the Aborigines of the Indian Peninsula are Untouchables the lower outcast and the upper outcast always mimics the lower for example Buddha had his disciple wear ochre robes because ochre robes were worn by convicts. So in the same way if today, in San Quentin, they all wear blue jeans with special kind pants and a kind of a blue denim jacket and this could well become the uniform of a new kind of sannyasi in the Western world and to some extent this is happening. So this guy says "The Game is not worth the cap, the richer I get the more miserable I get" You know how this is, you think that your problems may be monitored and you get more money. What do you do then we've got enough money, you start worrying about your health and you can never never stop worrying about that Or if you're not worried about your health you worry about politics, if somebody's going to take your money away from you, worried about taxes, about Who's Cheating You. And so a person who goes through all that he's finally "I don't think The Game's worth it, I'm going to resign." And so resignation or renunciation the difference from repentance it hasn't it hasn't got the same kind of passion in the resolve that the repentant person feels he's wrong who made a mistake has committed sin and wants to get better about the renounce first didn't concerns of that country he knows that better progress whether moral or material is an illusion and you have to understand this when you approach for example the study of Buddhism I think one of the most withering remarks I ever heard, from an oriental, he was Japanese he said once he was "Never forget that whereas Jesus was the Son of a Carpenter, Buddha was the son of a King" You know Wow! Take that! And it's choose it is something always about about that this is not the this is ead to see which Christianity historically was the protest of the slave class again if the Roman, establishment Buddhism was different it was the abandonment of position by an aristocracy - That We've done it We've seen it all we've had it so now we check out and we will be therefore we will resign from all games and if you follow this attitude to an extreme you're going to make because it all goes to the center the same discovery that is made by the person who follows repentance to an extreme. Just as The Repentant person discovers that his contrition is phony the person who tries to resign will discover that he can't, that there is no way of not playing games Let's go a little bit then into this Game Theory there are a lot of games that we play and not only the game of Can I get One Up on The Universe, of Pretending That I'm me This Ego, With Its Name and Its Role, The Man, but also we have what I call meta-games, for example the game My Games Better Than Your Game, or the game "I Won't Play With You Because Your Game is Vulgar, Stupid, Banal, Inferior or Whatever." One of the most, therefore, effective games in saying My Game is Better Than Your Game is that I'm Not Playing Games At All You are now at the lowest level we find that in the form of You're Not Sincere, I am sincere You are Fooling, I'm not Fooling You and Being Honest with You Now, that's a great game and of resignation is a form of it as to say you are children claim with toys and you haven't ever really woken up to the important concerns of life you haven't reached the dimension of ultimate sincerity all, that is to say Ultimate Reality, and in order to reach it you have to resign from distractions You hear a great deal in the literature about meditation of getting rid of distractions wandering for well I you might ask when you think about all that what are wandering for what are wrong for what shouldn't I be doing with my mind, well they all say actually every day you think about this and then you think about that in your thoughts run on in an undisciplined way from one association to another and you can't keep your mind fully on the job or whatever so you see, you're supposed to announce that because that's True Reality all those wandering thoughts they're not about the importance now what's important what should you keep your mind on well, something just as long as you keep your mind on. In an instruction one of the Buddhist scriptures says about concentration, when they concentrate on a yellow square on the ground, on the burning tip of an incense stick, on your navel, on the tip of your nose on the, center between the eyes, or anything. And then the footnote the commentator adds "But not on any wicked thing." As you know that commentators the world over, they never have any [sense of humour]. So anything will do just so long as you keep your mind on it, and don't wander, stick to it, so wandering is involvement in games, by this kind of definition, so then you try to get out can you now get out can you stop competing with other human beings In ancient Greek society there was a place in the center of the community called the argon AG om and this was a place for contests where they had wrestling matches and other athletic events because all the men were constantly trying to show who was the better and from this were the agonyax which means these the contest itself held in the argon we get our word agony, the struggle and striving to be superior and a lot of people that you meet among you, you will recognize this among your friends all the time are not happy unless they are involved in the contest it doesn't matter what it is, so long as they're trying to beat something they're happy And you may say over everything "You know can't we just sit around and talk instead of having to play a game, or bet or do something to prove who's the stronger...?" I was married to a girl who never was happy unless she was engaged in some kind of combat, when of course I had a game, it didn't look like one, and so it was a very superior game just because it didn't look like one, but it was a form of the game, my games that renews so you can't really not-play, you may go through the motions of not playing, but you still are. And one of the most marvelous examples of this is the Buddhist Sangha The Sangha means the order of Buddhist monks, or - monks isn't quite the right word because the basis of Buddhist monk-hood is a little different than Christian but I don't want to go into that technicality here are these people living in say Burma, Cylon, Thailand and so on who go around in yellow robes and never announce The World, but of course they've become as a community very prosperous empower and everybody you know makes the patients a month and feeds them and they don't they don't feed just on the rice gruel important monks get called into the houses of wealthy layer it and get given a fine dinners because the layman feels he's acquiring merit by being so generous to the month and you should see the scene in Japan although today the monks have lost their power to a large extent you can see the traces of the power they want hat in the Kyodo the Buddhist orders then Tendai and they especially shinshu sect have the best part of town if you stay a night in a Zen monastery as a guest go into one of the rooms there you are not in any hobble during the palace you live differently from the way we are customed - but you're liable to get shown into a room where the walls are entirely covered in gold leaf and painted by the greatest masters of Japan will say sit down to sleep by a car no motor no blue screen and the landscape around you the garden the views are gorgeous beyond belief this is the life of residence now it's true I know most about then monks rather than the other orders Zen monks live a pretty rough life but it's extremely Tony it's healthy it's it's absolutely non masochistic they have studied the art of enjoying poverty now this is a terribly important thing in the understanding of Far Eastern culture when a man in Japan diseases sort of inherits an old fashioned tradition makes a killing in business he doesn't go around showing off how much he does it he goes around showing off how little he possess even though he may drive to his office in a Mercedes or a Rolls Royce his house is relatively barren and he chooses objects of art and painting that look are extremely simple and he will likely as not have a separate house from his main huge establishment where it's like a Hermitage I mean it's almost as absurd in its own way as Marie Antoinette playing shepherdess after reading losses and having a little cottage rustic cottage the grounds of Zarephath but it's not quite as absurd as that because even the main house has an austerity about and they learn you see to love that offset to then it has the feeling of great comfort now you see what happened is this that long ago the best part of Kyoto the hill that ring the north side and each of the cities being so beautiful were owned by a bunch of Britons who were later the noble daimyo Lords of Japan great Google pounds and these people were as tough as all get-out they were always fighting and so the Buddhist monk rule did and decided they would take this property away from the Daniels buy out competing by playing the game our game more interesting than your game so they said to all those ridges so what you've attained all these conquests you have your castles you have your great estate within what it all falls apart you know especially when the brigand is getting a little elderly and has stomach troubles and the dizziness and so on and this month comes along and furthermore the Munsters you can't scare me and the Griffin Show huh and he pulls out his sword much but now the point is he can't kill them up that then and there because if he does that he won't find out whether the month was scared or not and so the month look straight in the eye and nothing happens he doesn't flinch and the brigham has now in a contact think and he puts the sword quite right against his throat well the monk has it right there but you see how in a way easy the game was because the mount knows that he wins his point he W if the brigand killed him before the monk flinches he's obviously cheated now since there is honor among thieves the chances are although that will sometimes be a Brigid will feel put down by this contest that therefore killed among the chances are that he went but look what the monk stands to gain if he wins Brigid Wow would I like to have that courage because if I had that courage I would be that much better a warrior so the monk says our peach and as a result of that the monk Bell teacher he teaches in the practices then zazen meditations and all this kind of thing and puts it through the the work and so he comes to understand what the monk did understand anyway which was that it really doesn't matter if you live or die because the thing goes on it's perfectly indestructible if you happen to die it just goes on in a new way because you are the works so fine but the monk is playing again and so as a result all these then communities got given the old palaces the brigands all moved to Tokyo and set up there in business and all around the great court and the gorgeous temple grounds went to the monks where all those none of them owns anything personally which is a great idea project you don't have any responsibility the community owns it and you don't have to pay any taxes and since you're a nonprofit organization you're not taxable anyway always a great job and they they really did do what they did in effect was the condos brigham out of the best land in Kyoto by resignation pipe laying a higher game but you see anyone who goes through that go through the Buddhist process of resignation will come to a point where he knows that he didn't resign at all and this is what makes the difference between pedestrian Buddhist monks who think they've resigned and I feel a little bit guilty because it's such a prosperous avail to design because you live in the best places and those ones who know who go right to cause to do the small residue of great Buddhist masters who discovered that they can't resign at all let's consider an extreme example of resignation the life of Mohammed Far Eastern literature is full of the idealization of the hermit's life the wonderful idea of an old man somewhere in the mountain far off in part how couid describe such an individual who can't be found nobody knows where he is he leaves no trace and they consider that is admirable to tell him you know which says I asked the boy beneath the pine he says the map has gone alone ferb gathering on the Mount called it whereabouts on them and that idea of the far off man way way there but what does the Hermit is trouble if you try this get as lonely as you can get you become visibly aware which you can't get away from it because when you get very lonely very fast you become extremely thin and everything that goes on is or no ordinarily unnoticed cum spiritum first of all you will find with the community of insects and they are tremendously interested in not necessarily hostile in maybe sometimes but but alone in the forest when you get really quiet you'll notice little creatures will come and inspect you look you all over and they'll go away and tell their friends and they'll come and look to see what it is and you become aware of every single sound and you realize that alone you're in the midst of a vast burning crowd may not be human but it's everything else so that the the point of being honest the discipline leads you to understand that you can't design the lonelier you are the more you're joined together with everything else how do you get more sensitive so then I find then I cannot give up playing League a look at it - from another point of view supposing I say everybody's playing the game me first now I'm going to play the game you first to use the phrase of Bonhoeffer who called Jesus the man for others now let's see if we could play that game instead of me first you first after you see you know you see you know run away this is putting everybody down see I'm the one see who's so generous I'm the one who's so loving so self-effacing and all you in syria brats could go first you could play me so I'll play you I'll try and convince you to play you fur but the success is convincing on that is relatively small and therefore the in-group will always be the people playing useless and therefore they will get the honor so when you think that through and you see I cannot stop playing these up there's no way of not doing it as well now what does it mean when I'm in a trap that I can't get out of there's no way of getting out of this trap well what it means is that you and the trap of the same thing you're not caught because when there's nobody in the trap there's no trap see that as long as you think you're in the trap then the traps got you when you know you as a trap then what is the trap got if you're trying to get out of the game you're trapped no way out but when you have found that you and the game are the same there's no game to get out of there's no one to get out of the game and that's true resignation and then you can take the point of view of the Bodhisattva as distinct from the are half the our heart in Buddhist not only is the person who escapes from the wheel of birth and death the samsara he gets out of the game so he stands here the Bodhisattva is the our house tops is the our house we've done arm to find out that you can't get out of the games all so the Bodhisattvas found over here in other words he goes back into the cycle of reincarnation and that doesn't bother about escaping him so in just the same way as repentance leads to the understanding that you're a phony even in repenting resignation leads to the understanding that even in resigning you can't design it isn't as if someone were saying you must play this game and you felt yourself under some sort of compulsion it's rather discovering that the game is what there is and to if you got out of it would be to be nowhere you don't have to play this is the point I'm going to repeat this because this is crucial it isn't that you have to play because that would make you feel a victim of some process beyond yourself that is compelling it is that the playing is you and nobody is shoving you around because you and the universe which seems to constrain you are not two things if you play the game that you are only here then you'll feel pushed around but when through trying to resign from either pushing around or being pushed around you discover that it can't be done you then become very much aware there is no point getting away from it where is the way so it said a true Zen month has a mountain Hermitage in any place that is down so let's have an admission

Thursday, 2 December 2021

Mouths




If you look at the mature form of The Xenomorph,
it’s ALL MOUTH — even though we are made to understand that it no-longer actually 
Has to Survive by Eating  People.

Geiger was obsessed the image of a mouth,
a mouth with teeth and without eyes, such as are found in the nightmarish hellscapes of Heironymous Bosch —

You see this also in Red Dragon, with Francis Dolarhyde, 
The Tooth Fairy.



A mouth that bites, but cannot see,
that eats, blindly, but cannot speak

In particular, he took direct inspiration from a triptych painted by Francis Bacon in the aftermath of The Imagery of World War II and The Concentration Camp System entitled (and he was an atheist), 
Three Figures Descending 
at The Foot of The Cruxifixction.  



In The Shining, to the best of My Recollection,
Jack Torrance is never shown or seen eating —
Whereas Danny is seen eating a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, and then later some chocolate ice-cream, and
Wendy, Darling is seen to have prepared him a (VERY) late Breakfast of Toast and Eggs (sunny side up), Jack is never shown actually eating them —
Much like Bruce Wayne, 
he forgets to eat all the time, 
and ignores food when in His Cave.

Which really does play into the whole Minotaur angle,
because in that interpretation, if The Overlook is His Labyrinth / Mind, with His Wife and Son unwittingly trapped inside of it, then that would certainly follow, seeing as how that would make the both of them sacrifices sent in by those outside to provide for  him some fresh food.








Wendy, Darling :
Boy — We must really be high up.
The Air feels so different.

Jack :
Mm-hm.

Danny, Champion of The World :
Dad?

Jack :
Yes?

Danny, Champion of The World :
I'm Hungry

Jack :
Well, you should've 
eaten Your Breakfast.

Wendy, Darling :
We'll get you something
as soon as we get to The Hotel.
[ Chocolate Ice Cream. ]


Danny, Champion of The World :
Okay, Mom.

Wendy, Darling :
Wasn't it around here that
The Donner Party got snowbound?

Jack :
…No, I think that was farther West, 
in The Sierras.

Wendy, Darling :
Oh.

Danny, Champion of The World :
What was The Donner party?

Jack :
They were a party of settlers in covered wagon times.
They got snowbound one winter in the mountains.
They had to resort to cannibalism
in order to Stay Alive.

Danny, Champion of The World :
You mean, They ate each other up?

Jack :
They had to — in order To Survive.

Wendy, Darling :

Jack.

Danny, Champion of The World :
Don't worry, Mom.
I know all about Cannibalism. 
I saw it on TV.

Jack :
See, it's okay —
He saw it on The Television.












Jack : 

Slow night, Mr. Torrance.


Not for long, I imagine.


MAN: 

You're a whiskey man, are you not?


I was, most of the time.


Jack : 

On the house.


This was Your Brand.

Jack Daniel's.


I used to see the bottles in our home.

Our real home, before all this.


I smelled one once. It smelled like something on fire, which I suppose it was.


Jack

I'm afraid you've confused me with Someone Else.


It's Lloyd.


Lloyd.


I apologize, Mr. Torrance.


I don't know where everyone is, but it'll pick up.


Oh, I know where they are.


And you're right... it'll pick up.


If you don't mind my saying, Mr. Torrance, you seem... put upon.


Put upon?


Ain't that the way.


Man just living his life, trying to do his work.


He gets put upon.


Pulled into other people's problems.


I see it all the time, if you don't mind my saying.


So we lived in Florida.


I'm sorry?


Mom and I.


I'm afraid I don't know who you mean.


We never wanted to see snow again, so we lived in Florida.


Tiny place, but it was comfortable, and we were happy.


I mean, we were grieving.


We were traumatized, but there was happiness too.


She...


She would look away.


She'd look at me, but she'd always look away after a second or two.


It took me a while to notice it.


But after the Overlook, she wouldn't look me in the eyes, not for long.


Couldn't figure it out.


But it...


It was you.


She saw your eyes in me, and she'd have to look away.


It tortured her to have to do that.


So, I fixed it.


I fixed it for her, and it was the last time I ever used it.


So that she wouldn't see you anymore when she looked at me.


I was 20 when she died.


And back then, I saw when someone was gonna die.


I saw flies. Black flies.


"Death flies," I called them, circling people's faces.


And in those last weeks, she was covered...


Her whole face.


I could barely see her eyes.


And I... I tried to comfort her, but I could hardly look at her.


And she saw that.


She just lay there dying, with her son who couldn't look at her.


Maybe something warm to push away such unpleasantries.


Don't you wanna hear about it? She was your wife.


I think you've mistaken me for someone else.


I'm just a bartender. Oh, yeah?


Just Lloyd The Bartender, pouring joy at the Overlook Hotel.


I'll pour whatever you like, Mr. Torrance.


Oh, Dad.


This drink will cost an awful lot.


Your money is no good here.


Orders from the house.


It'll cost more than money.

It'll cost me eight years.


Eight behind me, 

and who knows how many 

in front of me.


Your Credit is fine, Mr. Torrance.


Man takes A Drink, 

The Drink takes A Drink, and then 

The Drink takes A Man.


Ain't it so, Dad?


Medicine.


Medicine is What It Is.

Bona fide cure-all.

Depression, stress, remorse, failure, wipes it all away.


The Mind is a blackboard.

And this is The Eraser.


A Man tries.

He provides.


But he's surrounded 

by mouths.


That eat, and scream

and cry, and nag.


So, he asks for one thing, 

just one thing for him.


To warm him up... 

to take the sting out of those days of the mouths, eating

and eating, and eating 

everything he makes

everything he has.


And A Family.

A Wife, A Kid.

Those mouths eat Time.


They eat Your Days on Earth.

They just gobble them up.

It's enough to make A Man sick.


And this... is The Medicine.


So, tell me, pup —

Are you gonna take 

Your Medicine?


I'm Not.


(GLASS SHATTERS)


Oh.


Look at that. I'm sorry.


Clumsy old me, Mr. Torrance. Forgive me.


Let's get you cleaned up.


Management is concerned.


Concerned?


It's horrible what she's done to you.


Pulled you into her mess.


A smart man?


He'd let her handle it.


Let things unfold as they're meant to.


Why should you pay her tab, Doc?

And for what?


For this little girl who started all this trouble?


And what would Management have me do about that?


Nothing.

Easiest Thing in The World to Do, Son —

Just bring her inside.


And then, well —

You accept the things 

you cannot change.


ABRA:

Dan! She's here.


DAN: 

Okay.


This place is sick.

Sick like my momo was sick.

It's Cancer, only worse.


(ELECTRICITY HUMMING)


What do we do now?


We head inside. She'll find us.


Monday, 4 January 2021

Percy Shelley is Invisible

"Here we are, talking of changing The World :
George, The Lord Byron and Bysshe Shelley; 
Atheists, Perverts, Radicals. 

A Pale Vegetarian and a Club-Footed Sodomite,

My Verse sells to half-witted women 
and "Byronic" young bloods, 
yours sells NOT AT ALL.

Do you, in all honesty, believe that  we pose any threat to 
The Governors of This World?"


[ Fuck You, Byron. ]

We've never seen The Invisible College from this angle before....



 Quoting Shaw:

“On all sides went up the cry, ‘We want our great Shelley, our darling Shelley, our best, noblest highest of poets. 

We will not have it said that he was a Leveller, an Atheist, a foe to marriage, an advocate of incest. 

He was a little unfortunate in his first marriage; [laughter] and we pity him for it. 

He was a little eccentric in his vegetarianism, but we’re not ashamed of that, we glory in the humanity of it (with morsels of beefsteak fresh from the slaughterhouse, sticking between our teeth) [laughter]. 

We ask the public to be generous—to read his really great works such as the “Ode to a Skylark”and not to gloat over those boyish indiscretions known as Laon and Cynthia, Prometheus Unbound, Rosalind and Helen, The Cenci, The Mask of Anarchy, etc., etc.

Take no notice of the Church papers, for our Shelley was a true Christian at heart. Away with Jeaffreson; for our Shelley was a gentleman if there ever was one.’”

If you doubt it, ask Lady Antonia or Melvin. Or you could ask Edmund Gosse, who was the man who came particularly on that occasion to talk about the Shelley that they were celebrating there. And this was all very odd because in his lifetime, Shelley had been hounded and ignored by all of the literary lords and ladies of his time. 

And in the whole period of his life, he was only 30 when he died, but in the whole of that period, despite  the enormous amount of material that he wrote, practically none of it was published. He made nothing at all. Literally nothing from all of those poems which were celebrated at that Horsham meeting. They made him nothing. All those poems made nothing. He couldn’t find a publisher to distribute his work and little of what he wrote was published at all. He was hounded by the Home Office and spies from the Home Office hounded him out of a number of the places in which he went to live. Everything he wrote was read by spies in the Home Office. When his first wife committed suicide, his children were  denied him by Lord Eldon, because he was an atheist. One of the obituaries that was written about Shelley read like this : 

“Shelley, the writer of some infidel poetry, is dead. 
Now he knows whether there is a God or no.”

That was the attitude of the times in which he lived. 



"Now that’s, that’s one view of Shelley. That is the way in which they managed to censor him. They took the words, the ideas that he had, and simply cut them out. There’s a book here called A Philosophical View of the Reform. It is, I think, the only edition of this book that was ever published. If you look inside, you’ll see the date is 1920, which is a hundred years after it was written. It’s a tremendous polemical pamphlet about the political situation at the time, calling for revolt in all different ways, right through the society. 

Yet it was censored. And not only censored during his life, but when Mary Shelley wanted to include it in her collected works of Shelley after Shelley was dead, she was told by her father-in-law Sir Timothy that  he would no longer support her and her child if she did so. And therefore, for a hundred years, this essay remained unpublished—censored

There’s an introduction to the poem Hellas — it’s all about Greece. All the stuff about Greece was left in Mary's edition, but there is a paragraph in there about Britain. Shelley talks about how the situation in Greece which was being repressed by the Ottoman Empire reflects what’s going on in Britain.

That paragraph, just that one rather nasty little paragraph, was cut out for ninety-six years after the poem was published—just simply censored. 

And therefore, you see, all the way — all the way through the history of Shelley, that Shelley — the Radical Shelley — who was patronized by convention, by the Lords and ladies of literature, that Shelley was censored

If you go to University College, Oxford, and I’m not recommending that anyone should do that [laughter]. And if by any chance, you want to go play football at the University College, Oxford, you’ve got to walk down an alley, and you’ll pass an enormous, huge tomb like operation with a really disgusting white, naked statue of Shelley borne up by the angels of the sea and sea lions, all in this wonderful, emblazoned tomb. 

And there you’ll see a little notice on the side, telling you that Shelley was at University College, Oxford in 1811, and that he is one of the great alumni of that College; one of the people that they look back upon with pride. 

What it doesn’t say is that he wasn’t very long at University College, Oxford [laughter]. He was there for one term and a half — and half way through the second term he was expelled for writing the first document to be published in English which attacked religion: The Necessity of Atheism. 

He distributed it around Oxford; he sent it to The Master of the College, [laughter] and he sent it to the local Bishop [laughter]. 

He sent it to a few people at that time, and asked, “I would like your views on this [laughter]. I’ve thought about the problem, and I’ve come to the view that there is no God. What do you think? I’d like to have little debate about it.” 

He was hauled up before the Master of his college, asked if he had written it, and he was immediately expelled

There’s no reference to that at University College, Oxford! 

If you were to go up to a Don, an old Don who was alive in 1811 (most of them were) [laughter], and you were say to them, 

“Excuse me a moment, what is this about Shelley getting expelled?” 

They’d say, “Oh was he expelled? I’m sorry about that, we’ll have to put that right” 

[laughter]. 

Now that is one version of Shelley and this is The Tradition that’s been passed down through the ages; passed down through the textbooks, particularly in schools and universities. 

Shelley has now been scrubbed off the A-level syllabus, but when he was on the A level syllabus, he was brought to the A level syllabus by books by Richard Hughes, Isabel Quigly, Glover and all the rest of those people. 

They introduced him as someone who was an entirely neutered, lyrical poet. 

Occasionally, I read this about him: 

“Occasionally he was disturbed by a recurring pain in his side, and that  really is the explanation for his argumentative problems; and then there was an unfortunate homosexual experience when he was a boy” [laughter].

That’s really it, isn’t it [laughter]? 

We can dismiss it all : the fellow was odd from time to time. 

The trouble was that he couldn’t really be placed in the  bosom of that Orthodox heterosexuality for which Horsham stands. 

This is the Tradition of Shelley which has come down to us.






WHEN HE DIED, THEY PUT IRON MAN IN THE LAKE —
It was The Only Way he could rest....

“Given the previous evidence already presented, it is worthy of notice that the Preface is written as much in terms of autobiography as by way of exposition concerning the text which is to follow in the novel. 

For instance, notice the wording in the previous paragraph, “the circumstances on which MY story rests …” an obvious, though easy to overlook, association linking the story itself to the author of the Preface; this point will be very important to keep in mind. 

There is also within the third paragraph of the Preface a curious attempt given by the author to distance himself or herself from any moral, immoral, or philosophical doctrines which could be construed to promote behavior or beliefs suggested in the story, noticeably such damnable ideas as: creation without the hand of God; incest between cousins — or brother and sister as Victor and Elizabeth related to one another; bigamy; scientific experimentation usurping the moral limits of society; or even revolution, a dangerous idea that could be easily interpreted by setting the creature’s birth in the city of Ingolstadt, home of the Bavarian Illuminati. 

Such a disclaimer as is made in the third paragraph of the Preface certainly adds intrigue. 

Although the author would have the reader believe that he or she does not promote any philosophy nor is attempting to uphold or cast down any universal virtues, the Preface is actually baiting the reader, implanting ideas, and at the same time trying to deny any intention for such an agenda. 

It is subversive, calculated, misleading, and precisely fitting into the pattern of Percy Bysshe Shelley, who had a long record of writing subversive papers anonymously or with a pseudonym, denying any part in the propagation of the work, and yet clearly using every trick in a secret society playbook to accomplish his purpose while maintaining a covert position. 

Consider as one dot to connect—and a strangely familiar theme touched upon in the novel Frankenstein—that Shelley’s calculated misdirection and use of anonymity was previously used by him to argue for a belief system of human morality without the need of a Creator; and he did so while outwardly denying his real purpose. 

As a student at the University of Oxford, Percy Shelley wrote The Necessity of Atheism (1811), an anonymous tract which he not only distributed to the heads of all Oxford colleges but also sent to all of the bishops and select priests in the Church of England. 

Such intellectual effrontery in executing such a plan while attending an institution—the University of Oxford—which required an oath of faith is evidence of a self-confident covert revolutionary who assumed that he could pull it off and remain unknown as the originator of the tract! 

In addition to writing the tract, he followed it up with more anti-religious writings designed to be even more misleading. 

Shelley could not resist a letter campaign using a pseudonym, attempting to draw Anglican clergymen, in essence baiting them, into discussions concerning the same anonymous tract as if he was the one having a crisis of faith after reading the brilliant tract that HE HIMSELF wrote!

The modus operandi is identical: choose a controversial theme—one of his favorites, atheism; hide behind anonymity; deny responsibility for the work, and if necessary, write letters pointing those who might suspect his hand in the work to the name of another actual person or substituting a false name.

To what purpose? Percy Bysshe Shelley did not seek his name in the spotlight nor expect his fame to come to him with recognition and financial gain; rather he worked from behind the curtain to pull off his intellectual and behavioral revolution. 

Denial of his own work, misdirection, and distancing himself from his own opinions were constants in Shelley’s life. 

This third paragraph of the Preface actually acts as another proof of his work rather than suggest the hand of anyone else. 

He wrote, denied his writings, attributed them to another, and kept his head low when or if the bullets began to fly.


Our Lady : 
What happened to you?

(By the lake on a fine day.)

SHELLEY [OC]: 
I was out walking alone. 
There was a glimmer in the lake. 
Exquisite. Alive. Like quicksilver. 
I fished it out to study it more closely. 

But then it took root within me.

(Silver travelling under his skin. The Doctor breaks contact.)

SHELLEY: 
I returned.

(Walking behind Elise.)

SHELLEY: 
Hello!

(Throws the vase against the wall.)

SHELLEY: 
I was changed.
 No one could see me. 
It hid itself in me, and hid me within the villa.

Our Lady : 
And when it thought it might be discovered, it manipulated all of our perceptions.

SHELLEY: 
Since the quicksilver has taken hold of me, I see symbols. 
Symbols and numbers. 
They will not leave my head, no matter how much I transcribe them.

The Policewoman: 
The symbols were all over his room. 
All over the walls.

SHELLEY: 
The house was like shifting sands. 
I sought solitude here, in The Dark.

The Youth: 
What happened to him?

The Elder: 
I'm going with... alien parasite.

Our Lady : 
Cyber technology. 
The knowledge of the whole Cyber race and AI from the future, containing the knowledge and future history of all Cybermen.

SHELLEY: 
They scorched and split the sky. 
Built the army of all armies. 
Left behind only pain, rage, fear and death.

MARY SHELLEY: 
How is he seeing all this?

Our Lady : 
The Cyberium is burning through his mind. 

It'll destroy him if it stays in him much longer. 

An epic battle. The Cyberium at the heart of it, controlling data, strategy, decision-making. 

Clever! Very clever. SOMEONE took it from the Cybermen, sent it back through time here in an attempt to change The Future.



Paul Foot

 

Shelley:
The Trumpet of a Prophecy

(June 1975)



I have come to Shelley far too late, and for that I blame my accursed education. I still have the small dark blue text book Shelleyby Richard Hughes, which was forced down my throat at school.

There is no suggestion in the volume that Shelley had any ideas whatever. He was interested, apparently, in skylarks, clouds, west winds, Apollo, Pan and Arethusa.

At University College, Oxford, on the way to the football changing rooms, I would pass each week a ridiculous monument to Shelley, a great dome-shaped sepulchre in which lies a smooth-limbed, angelic young man, carried by sea lions. His limbs arc naked, perfect white, his expression is heavenly, and his genitals have been painted out (once, I think, even broken off) by civilised young gentlemen celebrating the rare successes of University College Boat Club. An embarrassed type-written note by the monument states that Shelley was a student of University College in 1810. I recall a senior don telling me at some boring dinner: ‘Shelley, poor fellow. He was drowned while at college.’ In fact, he was expelled in his second term for writing The Necessity of Atheism, the first attack on the Christian religion ever published in English.

In my last year at school, we were obliged to buy the new Penguin edition of Shelley, edited by a Tory lady of letters, Isobel Quigly. Her introduction told us: ‘There was about Shelley a nobility of spirit, a height of purpose, a kind of fine-grainedness that is a quality of birth and cannot be grown to.’ Miss Quigly detected someone from her own class.

She went on:

‘He was in spirit the most essentially romantic of the poets of his age, and his faults were all faults of an overabundant and undisciplined imagination. No poet better repays cutting; no great poet was ever less worth reading in his entirety.’

So Miss Quigly set about cutting with a will. She castrated Shelley far more effectively than did the rowing oafs of University College, Oxford. Every single expression of radical or revolutionary opinion is cut out of the poems which follow. Poems, like Queen Mab, whose main purpose was political, are cut to a couple of ‘lyrical’ stanzas. This censorship has been going on for more than a hundred and thirty years: Every school generation is taught to read Shelley, as Quigly suggested, for his ‘lyric poetry’.

Ever since the 1840s, distinguished bourgeois critics have united in declaring Shelley one of the greatest English lyric poets. They could not ignore his genius, so they claimed his ‘fine-grainedness’ for their class.

In the same breath, they forgot about, distorted or censored his ideas.

These critics were formed not only to re-write Shelley s poetry, but also to forget about what happened to him when he was alive. The endless stream of Shelley biographies written from about 1870 onwards made light of the most significant feature of the poet’s short life: his persecution by the authorities, political, legal and literary. In 1812, when still a lad of 19, he was hounded out of Devon by the Home Office for writing a ‘seditious’ pamphlet about Ireland. Had he not left Devon when he did, he would almost certainly have been prosecuted (as was one man who put up Shelley’s posters – and was sent to prison for six months).

Fleeing from Devon, he settled in Wales, and worked as an agent on a reservoir scheme. This was a time of growing working class agitation, especially in Wales. Despite the Combination Acts of 1799 and 1800, small strikes were constantly breaking out – even on the reservoir. Shelley became so friendly with the workers, and such an ardent advocate of their cause, that the local Tory landowner, Captain Pilfold, hired a gunman to assassinate him. The gunman missed, twice, but Shelley bad to leave home again.

When Shelley’s first wife committed suicide, he was refused custody of his two children by the Lord Chancellor, Eldon, who felt that nice upper class children should not be handed over to a man of Shelley’s ‘dangerous’ political views.

Worst of all, however, was the treatment of his writing. Few of the Shelley worshippers of the last century or this have bothered to explain how it was that the ‘greatest lyric poet in English history’ had the utmost difficulty in getting anything published during his lifetime. Prometheus Unbound sold about 20 copies. The original edition of Queen Mab didn’t sell any. The string of political poems which Shelley wrote about the massacre of trade unionists and their families at Peterloo in 1819 were not published – for fear of prosecution for seditious libel.

During all his life, this ‘greatest of English lyric poets’ made precisely £40 from his writing – and that from a trashy novel he wrote when he was still at school!

In 1818, Shelley’s longest poem, The Revolt of Islam, was reviewed in the High Tory Quarterly by John Coleridge, who had been Shelley’s prefect at Eton.

A section of the review gives a fair picture of what the literary establishment, which later adopted him, thought of Shelley at the time:

‘Mr Shelley would abrogate our laws ... He would abolish the rights of property ... be would overthrow the constitution ... he would pull down our churches, level our Establishment, and burn our bibles. Marriage he cannot endure ... finally as the basis of the whole scheme, he would have us renounce our belief in religion.’

For this, Coleridge hoped, Shelley would sink ‘like lead to the bottom of the ocean’. When Shelley was drowned, in the Gulf of Spezia three years later, the Courier, as respectable in its time as the Daily Telegraph is today, trumpeted: ‘Shelley, the writer of some infidel poetry, has been drowned. Now he knows whether there is a God or no.’

The reviewers hated him because of his political opinions – just as reviewers and English teachers of later years came to adore him in spite of his political opinions. While Shelley was alive, his work was censored in total by the authorities. When he was dead, the censorship persisted, selectively, but no less insidiously.

The only part of the preface to his poem Hellaswhich deals with the prospects for English revolution was cut out in all the editions of his poetry for 71 years. The most comprehensive statement of his political position – a 100-page book entitled The Philosophical View of Reform – was suppressed for 100 years. Even when it was produced – in 1920 – it was circulated privately to devotees of the Shelley Society.
 

Now, at last, a glorious book [1] has been published which tells something like the true story. Shelley, it makes plain, was neither a fiend nor a saint. He was, indeed, perhaps the finest poet ever to write in English. But he was also, inseparably, a relentless enemy of all irresponsible authority, especially the irresponsible authority which derives from wealth and exploitation. he was an atheist and a republican. He sided on every occasion with the masses when they rose against their oppressors: not just when the middle classes rose against feudal monsters in Mexico, Greece or Spain – but also when workers and trade unionists rose against what Shelley called ‘the pelting wretches of the new aristocracy’ – the bourgeoisie. The most casual reading of Shelley makes one thing plain: the genius of his poetry is inextricably entwined with his revolutionary convictions.

When he was 19, Shelley wrote the most overtly revolutionary of all his long poems: Queen Mab. He published 250 copies at his own expense, and circulated about 70. (The Investigator got hold of a copy ten years later and described it, predictably, as ‘an execrable publication’ which would produce ‘unmingled horror and disgust’ among all decent readers.)

In 1821, Shelley s last year, a radical publisher called William Clark started selling pirate editions of Queen Mab on street bookstalls. Clark was duly prosecuted by the Society for the Prosecution of Vice – led by the Mary Whitehouses of that time – and was forced to take the book off the stalls. The courageous publisher, Richard Carlile, immediately published another edition, and another. Three months after Shelley’s death, there were four cheap editions of Queen Mab circulating in the streets of London, Manchester and Birmingham – many of them bought by small working class societies or illegal trade unions, and read out loud at workers’ meetings.

Carlile went on publishing Queen Mab, even when he was sent to prison for ‘sedition’.

Richard Holmes writes: ‘The number is not certain but between 1823 and 1841, it has been reckoned, fourteen or more separate editions were published.’ The effect on the rising trade union movement and especially on the Chartists rebellion was electric. Hundreds of thousands of workers were brought to socialist and radical ideas by this extraordinary poem. In an essay on Shelley, written in 1892, Bernard Shaw rote:

‘Same time ago, Mr. H.S. Salt, in the course of a lecture on Shelley, mentioned, on the authority of Mrs. Marx Aveling, who had it from her father, Karl Marx, that Shelley had inspired a good deal of that huge badly-managed popular effort called the Chartist Movement. An old Chartist who was present and who seemed at first much surprised by this statement rose to confess that now he came to think of it (apparently for the first time) it was through reading Shelley that he got the ideas that led him to join the Chartists.

‘A little further inquiry elicited that Queen Mab was known as the Chartists’ bible, and Mr Buxton Forman’s collection of small, cheap copies, blackened with the finger-marks of many heavy-banded trades, are the proof that Shelley became a power – a power that is still growing.’

What the gentlemen of letters censored was dug out and reprinted by the working class movement

Read Queen Mab and you will see why. Remember that it was written in 1812, in the middle of the Napoleonic wars when the whole British ruling class was terrified by the French revolution. The extent of misery in the growing British working class was indescribable. In order to suppress the trade unions, and to enforce the Combination Acts, the Tory government moved troops into all Britain’s industrial cities. The Luddites, who had organised to protect their jobs by smashing the machinery, were remorselessly butchered on the scaffold. Production and the war were kept going by prolonged and unremitting terror.

In Queen Mab, the spirit of a young girl is wafted into the stratosphere by a Fairy Queen, who shows her the world, distorted and corrupted by wars and exploitation. The Spirit shrinks in horror at the inevitability of it all.

Queen Mab replies:

‘I see thee shrink,
Surpassing spirit – wert thou human else.
I see a shade of doubt and horror fleet
Across thy stainless features: yet fear not;
This is no unconnected misery,
Nor stands uncaused and irretrievable.
Man’s evil nature, that apology,
Which kings who rule and cowards who crouch, set up
For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not the blood
Which desolates the discord-wasted land.
NATURE, No!
Kings, priests and statesmen blast the human flower’

The poem is about those kings, priests and statesmen. Here are the priests:

Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites,
Without a hope, a passion or a love
Who, through a life of luxury and lies,
Have crept by flattery to the seat of power,
Support the system whence their honours flow.
:They have three words, (well tyrants know their use,
Well pay them for the loan, with usury
Torn from a bleeding world) – God, Hell and Heaven.
A vengeful, pitiless and Almighty fiend,
Whose mercy is a nickname for the rage
Of tameless tigers hungering for blood;
Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire,
Where poisonous and undying worms prolong
Eternal misery to those hapless slaves
Whose life has been a penance for its crimes;
Anti Heaven, a meed for those who dare belie
Their human nature, quake, believe and cringe
Before the mockeries of earthly power.

The wealth of kings was not merely horrible in itself. It derived from the poverty of others who did the work. In his notes to Queen Mab, Shelley wrote:

‘The poor are set to labour – for what? Not the food for which they famish; not the blankets for want of which their babes are frozen by the cold of their miserable hovels; not those comforts of civilisation without which civilised man is far more miserable than the meanest savage – no: for the pride of power, for the miserable isolation of pride, for the false pleasures of one hundredth part of society.

‘Employments are lucrative in inverse ratio to their usefulness. The jeweller, the toyman, the actor gains fame and wealth by the exercise of his useless and ridiculous art; whilst the cultivator of the earth, he without whom society must cease to exist, struggles through contempt and penury, anti perishes by that famine which, but for his unceasing exertions, would annihilate the rest of mankind ...’

The law, especially the Conspiracy Law, upholds all this, so the law is wrong. ‘The laws which support this system are the result of a conspiracy of the few against the many – who are obliged to purchase this pre-eminence by the loss of all real comfort.’

Queen Mab, which has been scorned for 150 years, is a marvellous poem for socialists. It is full of hatred for exploitation and exploiters, full of hope and faith in the ability of the exploited to create a new society. How did Shelley, born into the aristocracy and educated at an expensive prep school, at Eton and (briefly) at Oxford come to write it?

Partly through intellectual conversion, through reading the radical literature of the French revolutionary era. Shelley’s favourite author at school was the ageing philosopher, Willia`m Godwin. Many of the ideas in Queen Mab, including the idea that all wealth stems from labour, are taken from Godwin’s book Political Justice, which was published in 1793. It cost three guineas. Asked whether the book should be prosecuted for sedition, the Prime Minister, Pitt, replied: ‘No book can be seditious at three guineas!

Many of the ideas in Political Justice are revolutionary for their time, but Godwin was always careful to insist that any change in society could only come through men and women individually believing in it.

He believed in co-operative ownership in the abstract, on the blackboard. He was particularly keen to discourage any association of men and women who thought as he did. Godwin is the idol of latter-day liberals and anarchists, who thinkabout a new, co-operative society, and do nothing to promote it.

Unlike Godwin, Shelley involved himself with the working people around him. Wherever he lived – in Keswick, Cumberland, in Dublin, in North Devon and on the reservoir in Wales, he moved continuously among the working people, talking to them, learning from their experience and their aspirations. Richard Holmes tells how, in Wales, he would walk out at night and engage in long conversations with the reservoir workers who were forced to grow their own food by moonlight in order to stay alive. In Dublin in 1812, he spent much of his time talking to the workers.

After a few weeks in Dublin, he wrote Proposals For An Association, in which he argued for a political party devoted to catholic emancipation. When William Godwin read the pamphlet, he almost had a fit. He wrote at once to Shelley, ordering him to forget these notions, to beware of violence, to sit back and ‘calmly to await the progress of truth’.

When Shelley wrote back politely refusing to wind up his association, Godwin replied, hysterically: ‘Shelley, you are preparing a scene of blood!’

There is a passage in Queen Mab which shows what Shelley felt about armchair revolutionaries. This is perhaps the only passage in the poem which does not take the lead from Godwin. Indeed, it is partly a satire of Godwin.

The man of ease, who, by his warm fireside,
To deeds of charitable intercourse
And bare fulfilment of the common laws
Of decency and prejudice, confines
The struggling nature of his human heart,
Is duped by their cold sophistry; he sheds
A passing tear purchance upon the wreck
Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling’s door
The frightful waves are driven – when his son
Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion
Drives his wife raving mad. But the poor man,
Whose life is misery, and fear and care;
Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless toil
Who ever hears his famished offspring scream;
Whom their pale mother’s uncomplaining gaze
For ever meets, anti the proud rich man’s eye
Flashing command, and the heartbreaking scene
Of thousands like himself: – he little heeds
The rhetoric of tyranny. His hate
Is quenchless as his wrongs: he laughs to scorn
The vain and bitter mockery of words,
Feeling the horror of the tyrant’s deeds,
And unrestrained but by the arm of power,
That knows and dreads his enmity.

Shelley did not get that from reading Godwin – or from any other books for that matter. He got it from the workers and the starving peasantry of Cumberland, Dublin, Wales and Devon. It is this belief in the unshakeable resolve of the exploited masses which makes Shelley’s political writing far more powerful than anything written by Godwin.
 

Yet the argument with Godwin persists, at different levels, through all Shelley’s political writing. On the one hand there is the understanding tat the engine of tyranny is exploitation; on the other, the fear, deeply-rooted in his class background, that the masses in revolt would generate violence and plunder; and that therefore the best way to proceed was by gradual reform.

It is idle to pretend, like Edward Aveling and Eleanor Marx did in their lecture [2] to the Shelley Society in 1885, that Shelley was the perfect scientific socialist.

There is a lot in Shelley’s political writing, if taken out of contcxt, which puts him to the right of many other radical thinkers of the time. In 1817, for instance, he wrote a pamphlet A Proposal For Putting Reform to a Vote, in which he argued against universal suffrage. In his larger work, A Philosophical View of Reform, he argued again against the suffrage on the grounds that it would deliver up too much too soon:

‘A Republic, however just in its principle, and glorious in its object, would through the violence and sudden change which must attend it, incur a great risk of being as rapid in its decline as in its growth ...

‘It is better that the people should be instructed in the whole truth; that they should see the clear grounds of their rights; the objects to which they ought to tend; and be impressed with the just persuasion that patience and reason and endurance are the means of a calm yet irresistible progress.

This led to his advice to the masses to rely on passive disobedience when the army attacked them; and to resurrect ‘old laws’ to ensure their liberties.

Yet, often even in the same works, Shelley s longing for revolutionary change clashes openly with this condescending caution. Again and again, he calls openly for direct challenges to the law (especially to the law of criminal libel) and for ‘the oppressed to take furious vengeance on the oppressors.’ (Letter in 1812).

All politics in those years were dominated by the French Revolution. Like many other great poets of his time – Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey – Shelley was an enthusiastic supporter of the Revolution. One by one, however, the others abandoned the revolution, and denounced it. Shelley was appalled by the Napoleonic dictatorship – and wrote a poem on Napoleon’s death which started: ‘I hated thee, fallen tyrant’. But he never lost his enthusiasm for the ideas which had given rise to the revolution. His long poem, the Revolt of Islam, though it contains irritatingly few specific ideas about revolutionary politics, is clear on one matter above all else: that in spite of the disease, the terror, the dictatorship, the wars, the poverty and the ruin which followed the revolution the ideas of reason and progress which inspired it will triumph once again. In his preface to the poem he poured scorn on those who gave up their belief in revolutionary ideas because the revolution had been defeated, or had not gone according to plan. The passage could just as well have been written about the generations of disillusioned Communists after the losing of the Russian revolution:

‘On the first reverses of hope in the progress of French liberty, the sanguine eagerness for good overleaped the solution of these questions, and for a time extinguished itself in the unexpectedness of their result. Thus, many of the most ardent and tender-hearted of the worshippers of the public good have been morally ruined by what a partial glimpse of the events they deplored appeared to show as the melancholy desolation of all their cherished hopes. Hence gloom and misanthropy have become the characteristics of the age in which we live, the solace of a disappointment that unconsciously finds relief only in the wilful exaggeration of its own despair. This influence has tainted the literature of the age with the hopelessness of the minds from which it flows. Metaphysics and enquiries into moral and political science, have become little else than vain attempts to revive exploded superstitions or sophisms like those of Mr. Malthus calculated to lull the oppressors of mankind into a security of everlasting triumph. Our works of fiction and poetry have been overshadowed by the same infectious gloom. But mankind appear to me to be emerging front their trance ... In that belief I have composed the following poem.’

And so, even after the most frightful catalogue of post-revolutionary tyranny, torture, famine, and disease, the Revolt of Islam remembers the ideas which started the revolution –

‘And, slowly, shall in memory ever burning
Fill this dark night of things with an eternal morning.’
 

Alone of all the poets of his time, Shelley suppresses his own apprehensions about the French revolution and concentrated instead on the coming triumph of the ideas which had unleashed it.

Soon after the Revolt of Islam was published, Shelley heft England for Itahly, where he spent the last four years of his life. All this time he was absorbed by political developments in Britain. In March 1819 he wrote his greatest poem, Prometheus Unbound, which the latter-day ‘lyricists’ hail as a ‘classical tragic drama’, but which is, in fact, a poem about the English Revolution.

The Greek legend of Prometheus was taught to us budding Greek scholars (as I behieve it is still taught today) as a moral tale about what happens to subversives when they dare to challenge the authority of God (or the headmaster, or the managing director). Prometheus dared to steal fire from the sun and to bring the benefits of science to mankind. This was intolerable to the King of the Gods, Jupiter, for whom science was something from which only he (and other Gods) should benefit.

So Prometheus was chained to a rock, tormented by the daily visits of a vulture who gnawed his liver.

To Shelley, Prometheus was a hero, representing the potential of man in revolt against repression.

His poem starts with a description of Prometheus’ torture against a background of darkness, disease and tyranny. Asia, Prometheus’ wlfe, determines to release hirn and to overthrow Jupiter. She knows tat there is only one power capable of doing that: the power of Demogorgon, the People-Monster. She and her sister visit Demogorgon in his darkened cave, where she whips and lashes him with argument. Like all good agitators, she starts with the easy questions, playing an popular superstition and servility in order to challenge them.

Asia: Who made the living world?
Demogorgon: God.
Asia:                         Who made all
That it contains? Thought, passion, reason, will
Imagination?
Demogorgon: God, almighty God.

After a bit more of this, her tone switches:

Asia: And who made terror, madness, crime, remorse,
Which from the links of the great chain of things
To every thought within the mind of man
Sway and drag heavily – and each one rests
Under the load toward the pit of death:
Abandoned hope – and love that turns to hate;
And self-contempt, bitterer to drink than blood;
Pain whose unheeding and familiar speech
ls bowling and keen shrieks day after day;
And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell?
Demogorgon:                                  He reigns.
Asia: Utter his name! A world, pining in pain,
Asks but his name: curses shall drag him down!

At the end of a long speech and some more furious questions, Asia calls on Demogorgon to arise, unshackle Prometheus and overturn Jupiter. In a sudden climax, he rises. Two chariots appear from the recesses of the cave. Richard Holmes explains what they represent:

‘There are two chariots: the one that brings Demogorgon to Jupiter is undoubtedly terrible and violent: Jupiter, authoritarian government, is to be overwhelmed by massive force, and the process is to be like a volcanic eruption and an earthquake which ruins cities ...

‘Yet there is a second chariot, with its “delicate strange tracery” and its gentle charioteer with “dove-like eyes of hope”. This is the chariot which carries Asia and Panthea back to Prometheus and it seems to indicate that political freedom transforms man’s own nature and substitutes an ethic of love for the ideology of revenge and destruction represented by Prometheus’ curse.

‘The end of Act II leaves both these possibilities open, historically. Revolution will come, but how it will come depends an man himself. There are always two chariots. In either case, it is inevitable and it is to be celebrated.’

This is the crux of Shelley’s revolutionary ideas, For all his caution when writing about universal suffrage or other reforms, he was an instinctive revolutionary. Perhaps the revolution will come slowly, peacefully, gradually – in gentleness and light. Or perhaps (more probably) it will come with violence and civil war. In either case it is to be celebrated. As Mary Shelley put it in an uncharacteristic flash of insight into her husband’s politics:

‘Shelley loved the people, and respected them as often more virtuous, as always more suffering, and therefore more deserving of sympathy than the great He believed that a clash between the two classes of society was inevitable, and he eagerly ranged himself on the people’s side.’

As the news came through from England, so Shelley’s poetry during the year of repression – 1819 – became more and more openly political. Some poems were what he called ‘hate-songs’, shouts of rage and contempt for the men who ran the English government. There are the Lines Written During the Castlereagh Administration, which appeals to the Foreign Secretary:

‘Ay, Marry thy Ghastly Wife
Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife
Spread thy couch in the chamber of life!
Marry Ruin Thou Tyrant! and Hell be Thy Guide
To the Bed of thy Bride.

Or the Similes for Two Political Characters of 1819:

‘Are ye, two vultures sick for battle,
Two scorpions under one wet stone.
Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle,
Two crows perched an the murrained cattle,
Two vipers tangled into one.’

The sonnet England in 1819 starts with the line:

‘An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king.’

There is even a parody of the national anthem!
 

In August came the event which was to haunt Shelley for the rest of his life. More than a hundred thousand trade unionists and their families gathered in St Peters Field near Manchester for a great carnival and meeting at which the main speaker was ‘Orator Hunt’, the reformer. The meeting was banned by the Manchester magistrates. On their instruction the yeomanry charged into the crowd hacking with their sabres. Eleven people were killed, and more than 400 injured. One of the dead was a small child which was cut down from its mother s arms.

As soon as Shelley heard the news – he was living near Leghorn – he shut himself up in his attic for several days and wrote The Masque of Anarchy, rightly described by Richard Holmes as ‘the greatest poem of political protest ever written in English’. It starts with a dreadful pageant in which the Tory Ministers Castlereagh, Eldon and Sidmouth, dressed respectively as Murder, Fraud and Hypocrisy, ride by, slaughtering ‘the adoring multitude’ as they go.

Shelley parts company with the other poets of his age and since who have pretended to favour ‘freedom’ and other fine words, as long as they remain words. He gives a simple definition of freedom.

‘What art thou, freedom? Oh, could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand, tyrants would flee
Like a dream’s dim imagery.

Thou art not, as imposters say,
A shadow soon to pass away
A superstition and a name
Echoing from the cave of fame.

For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
To a neat and happy home.

Thou art clothes and fire and food,
For the trampled multitude
No – in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.’

The horror of Peterloo – as the massacre came to be known – hangs over many of Shelley’s later poems. In December 1819, he finished Peter Bell The Third, a satire on Wordsworth. The poem shows how Peter was slowly seduced from his revolutionary ideas by the pressures of society, until he was writing drivel like any old Bernard Levin in the Times:

‘For he now raved enormous folly
Of baptisms, Sunday schools and graves
’Twould make George Colman melancholy
To have heard him, like a male Molly,
Cbaunting those stupid staves.

Yet the Reviews, which heaped abuse
On Peter while he wrote for freedom
As soon as in his song they spy,
The folly that spells tyranny
Praise him, for those who feed ’em.

Then Peter wrote Odes to cbs Devil
In one of which he meekly said
May Carnage and Slaughter
Thy niece anti thy daughter
May Rapine and famine
Thy gorge ever cramming
Glut thee with living and dead!

May death and damnation
And consternation
Flit up fröm heaven with pure intent.
Slash them at Manchester
Glasgow, Leeds and Cbester
Drench all with blood front Avon to Trent!’

The same savage satire is directed against the Tory government in Swellfoot The Tyrant, a joke play in which the king and his ministers are hunted down by their pig-people.
 

Shelley’s censors have done their best to suppress all these poems. In the standard anthologies there is no Masque of Anarchy, no Peter Bell, no Swellfoot, no Men of England, none of the shorter political poems of 1819. To compensate for this awful void, the biographers and Shelley-lovers concocted another myth: that the most powerful influence on Shelley was an ethereal, almost divine quality called ‘love’. Extracts were hacked out of context to prove that Shelley was guided by the ‘love’ which every brave Victorian gentleman felt for his passive, obsequious and domestic wife.

But ‘love’, Shelley wrote in the notes to Queen Mab, ‘withers under constraint. Its very essence is liberty. It is compatible neither with obedience, jealousy or fear. It is there most pure, perfect and unlimited where its votaries live in confidence, equality and unreserve.’

For Sbelley love was bound up with the battle for women’s rights, in which he was even more dedicated a crusader than his mother-in-law, Mary Wollstonecraft. In all his, revolutionary poems, the revolutionary leaders are women: Cyntha in the Revolt of Islam; Asia in the PrometheusQueen Mab, Iona in Swellfoot. All are champions not only of the common people, but also of the rights of their sex:

‘Can man be free if woman be a slave?
Chain one who lives, and breathes this boundless air
To the corruption of a closed grave?
Can they whose mates are beasts condemned to bear
Scorn heavier far than toil or anguish dare
To trample their oppressors? In their home,
Among their babes, thou knowst a curse would wear
The shape of woman – hoary crime would come
Behind and Fraud rebuild Religion’s tottering dome.’

It followed that chastity and marriage were a lot of nonsense.

‘Chastity is a monkish and evangelical superstition, a greater foe to natural temperance even than unintellectual sensuality; it strikes at the root of all domestic happiness, and consigns more than half the human race to misery ... A system could not well have been devised more studiously hostile to human happiness than marriage.

Prostitution was ‘the legitimate offspring of marriage’: Shelley, was no prude. There is a thumping organ in Alastor – and another, more prolonged ‘deep and speechless swoon of joy’ in the Revolt of Islam – to prove it. But he had nothing but contempt for ‘unintellectual sensuality’, for ‘annihilating all genuine passion, and debasing that to a selfish feeling which is the excess of generosity and devotedness’. He was forlove, sex, women’s liberation; againstchastity, prostitution, promiscuity.

Needless to say, these ideas goaded Shelley’s Christian contemporaries to paroxysms of indignation. The same ruling class pretended to deplore the morals of Lord Byron and his harem in Venice. In fact, Byron’s orgies were the source of almost uninterrupted titivation at coming-out-balls; they helped to make an enormous fortune out of Byron’s poems. High society worshipped marriage, subsidised prostitution and tolerated promiscuity. Free love of the type which Shelley advocated ‘undermined the fabric of their national life’ and was on no account to be mentioned, let alone published.

All these ideas grew stronger in Shelley as he got older. Stephen Spender in an essay which he wrote in 1953, as he prepared to abandon a dessicated Stalinism for a respectable literary career, wrote that Shelley ‘abandoned his radical ideas’ shortly before his death. This is nonsense. Karl Marx, who enjoyed Shelley almost as much as Shakespeare, understood it better. He wrote:

The real difference between Byron and Shelley is this: those who understand them and love them rejoice tbat Byron died at 36, because if he had lived he would have become a reactionary bourgeois. They grieve that Sbelley died at 29, because he was essentially a revolutionist and he would always have been one of the advanced guard of socialism.

He was in the advanced guard of socialism for long after his death. All through the great agitations of the last century, through the battle to repeal the Combination Laws, through Chartism, through the early socialist activity of the 1880s and 1890s hundreds of thousands of workers took courage and confidence from Shelley. The reason is not just because Shelley was an instinctive rebel who hated exploitation; but because he combined his revolutionary ideas in poetry.

What is the point of poetry? Is it not namby-pamby stuff, the plaything of middle-class education? Certainly, our education would like to reduce poetry to doggerel about trees and clouds and birds which you have to recite in front of teacher and then forget as soon as possible.

That is one of the reasons why generation after generation of text-book editors have limited the ‘great poets’ to meaningless meandering through glades. But poetry has another purpose, very dangerous to our educators. As Shelley wrote in his Defence of Poetry:

‘The most unfailing herald, companion .and follower of a great people to work a beneficial change in opinion or institution, is poetry. At such periods as this, there is an accumulation of the power of communicating and receiving intense and impassioned conceptions respecting man and nature ...’

Why? Because great poems, like great songs, which are only poems set to music, art easily learnt and remembered. The words linger in the memory over generations. And if the words carry revolutionary ideas, those ideas are communicated in poems far more thoroughly than in prose, in conversation or even in slogans.

We socialists have great difficulty in communication. However much we know and understand the political solutions to our social problems, the knowledge and understanding is useless unless we can communicate them. Trade union officialdom has constructed for itself a language of its own, a constipated gobbledegook, which protects it not so much from smooth-tongued employers as from its own rank and file. In the same way, many revolutionary socialists, after years of propaganda in the wilderness, have spun themselves a cocoon in which they and other sectarians can snuggle, safe from the oblivious outside world. Inside the cocoon, there is another language, a hideous, bastard language, unintelligible to the masses.

In the same way as the Russians insulted Lenin’s ideas on religion by mummifying his body, so these latter-day Trotskyists insult the clarity and power of Trotsky’s language by mummifying out-of-character and out-of-context sectarian phraseology. As a result, they communicate with nobody but themselves; argue with nobody but themselves; damage nobody but themselves.

We can enrich our language and our ability to communicate by reading great revolutionary poetry like that of Shelley.

All his life, Shelley was persecuted by the problem of communication. He was not, as his worshippers in later decades pretended, a ‘lyric’ poet interested only in writing beautiful poetry. He was a man with revolutionary ideas, and he wanted to transmit them. His Ode to the West Wind was not a paean of praise to a wonder of nature, but a desperate appeal to the wind to:

‘Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth
And, by the incantation of this verse
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words to all mankind.
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy!’

Shelley wanted the truth about repression and exploitation to go ringing through each heart and brain, so that each heart and brain would unite in action to end that repression and exploitation. So, particulanly in his later poems, he concentrated all his mastery of language, all his genius with rhyme and rhythm into translating the ideas of the revolution to the masses.

After 160 years he survives for us not as a lyric poet but as one of the most eloquent agitators of all time.

That is why we must read him, learn him, teach him to our children. He will help us to communicate our contempt for the corporate despotism under which we live and our faith in the revolutionary potential of the multitude:

‘And these words shall then become
Like oppression’s thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain
Heard again, again, again

Rise like lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you.
Ye are many. They are few.’

 

Notes

1. Shelley: The Pursuit, by Richard Holmes, Weidenfeld and Nicolson.

2. Shelley’s Socialism, by Edward Aveling and Eleanor Marx Aveling – just reprinted by the Journeyman Press, 60p.