BaczyńskiSeventy years ago today, Polish resistance fighters attempted to seize Warsaw from the hands of the Nazis. They hoped to drive out the fascists and also to reclaim their capital before the Soviets arrived. Theirs was a heroic but futile endeavour. The Nazis attacked them with the full force of their death throes and Stalin, for whom the deaths of gallant young Poles were to be welcomed, banned American and British assistance.

The Nazis somehow managed to exceed their typical standards of depravity. The division of the paedophilic sadist Oskar Dirlewanger was dispatched to slaughter, rape and rob their way through Warsaw. The anti-partisan troops of Bronislav Kaminski arrived to loot and kill. “They raped nuns and plundered everything they could get their hands on,” one of his own troops said. The Germans proceeded to destroy over 80% of the city.

Whether or not the Uprising was advisable is beyond my judgement. What is beyond dispute, though, is the bravery of the Poles – fighting  to rid their nation of the “black death” of Nazism and also to protect it from the “red plague” of the Stalinists. The young Poles who lived between the reclamation of independence and its loss at the hands of Molotov and Ribbentrop became known as the Generation of Columbuses. Among them was the 23-year-old Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński, whose poems groped through the darkness of occupation towards the light of the human spirit. This is Elegy on a Young Pole

They kept you, little son, from dreams like trembling butterflies,
they wove you, little son, in dark red blood two mournful eyes,
they painted landscapes with the yellow stitch of conflagrations,
they decorated all with hangmen’s trees the flowing oceans.

They taught you, little son, to know by heart your land of birth
as you were carving out with tears of iron its many paths.
They reared you in the darkness and fed you on terror’s bread;
you traveled gropingly that shamefulest of human roads.

And then you left, my lovely son, with your black gun at midnight,
and felt the evil prickling in the sound of each new minute.
Before you fell, over the land you raised your hand in blessing.
Was it a bullet killed you, son, or was it your heart bursting?

Baczyński was killed in Warsaw by a sniper’s bullet.

Chesterton on life…

In the opening pages of that excellent book MANKIND IN THE MAKING, he dismisses the ideals of art, religion, abstract morality, and the rest, and says that he is going to consider men in their chief function, the function of parenthood. He is going to discuss life as a “tissue of births.” He is not going to ask what will produce satisfactory saints or satisfactory heroes, but what will produce satisfactory fathers and mothers. The whole is set forward so sensibly that it is a few moments at least before the reader realises that it is another example of unconscious shirking. What is the good of begetting a man until we have settled what is the good of being a man? You are merely handing on to him a problem you dare not settle yourself. It is as if a man were asked, “What is the use of a hammer?” and answered, “To make hammers”; and when asked, “And of those hammers, what is the use?” answered, “To make hammers again”. Just as such a man would be perpetually putting off the question of the ultimate use of carpentry, so Mr. Wells and all the rest of us are by these phrases successfully putting off the question of the ultimate value of the human life. (From Heretics.)

Burke on doubt…

If any inquiry thus carefully conducted should fail at last of discovering the truth, it may answer an end perhaps as useful, in discovering to us the weakness of our own understanding. If it does not make us knowing, it may make us modest. If it does not preserve us from error, it may at least from the spirit of error; and may make us cautious of pronouncing with positiveness or with haste, when so much labour may end in so much uncertainty. (From Selections From the Speeches and Writings of Edmund Burke.)

I have an on-off relationship with the Internet at the moment, and a limited supply of books, so to satisfy a deep hunger for reading material I have been copying and pasting free texts into Word. My favourite discovery has been the complete archives of the Paris Review “Art of Fiction” profiles, which I recommend for authorial insights as well as glimpses into peculiar odd minds. Here is the most purely entertaining extract, in which P.G. Wodehouse comments on contemporary fiction…

Do you read any contemporary novels?

I’ve read some of Norman Mailer.

Do you like his writing?

I don’t like his novels very much, but he writes very interesting nonfiction stuff. I liked Advertisements for Myself very much.

How about the Beats? Someone like Jack Kerouac, for instance, who died a few years ago?

Jack Kerouac died! Did he?


Oh . . . Gosh, they do die off, don’t they?

The Old Town of Toruń sits on the banks of the Vistula, suitably fortified, as you can see, against English invaders…

Crossing the bridge I indulged in a little nostalgia…

…and beheld unfortunate anti-communist illiteracy…


On the banks, it was a good day for a spot of reflection…

…and it was the lunchtime of an ageing mariner…

Boats carried tourists through the afternoon…

For some reason, dwarves had been imprisoned underneath the pier…

Toruń was the hometown of Nicholas Copernicus. Here, I thank him for robbing us of our sense of existential importance…

Copernican and Teutonic souvenirs featured heavily in the marketplace, along with these peculiar good luck charms…

I had no idea of who Zbigniew Lengren was but anyone with a monument like this has to have been a good chap…

I popped into the rather ornate Holy Spirit Church…

One of the most beautiful pieces in the church was its most humble…


Travelling onwards, into a summer evening…

Henry Louis Mencken had two enemies above all others: the masses and the moralists. It was his opinion that they Menckenwere one and the same. He wrote, in Damn!: A Book of Calumny, that…

…the mob is eternally virtuous, and the only thing necessary to get it in favor of some new and super-oppressive law is to convince it that that law will be distasteful to the minority that it envies and hates. The poor numskull who is so horribly harrowed by Puritan pulpit-thumpers that he can’t go to a ball game on Sunday afternoon without dreaming of hell and the devil all Sunday night is naturally envious of the fellow who can, and being envious of him, he hates him and is eager to destroy his offensive happiness. The farmer who works 18 hours a day and never gets a day off is envious of his farmhand who goes to the crossroads and barrels up on Saturday afternoon; hence the virulence of prohibition among the peasantry. The hard-working householder who, on some bitter evening, glances over the Saturday Evening Post for a square and honest look at his wife is envious of those gaudy drummers who go gallivanting about the country with scarlet girls; hence the Mann act. If these deviltries were equally open to all men, and all men were equally capable of appreciating them, their unpopularity would tend to wither.

This diagnosis of moral crusades is striking in its inaccuracy. It is true that common men can be imbued with puritanism, and fundamentalist religion could not exist otherwise, but it is wrong-headed to think that this is due to envy. Arabic Salafists could down alcohol and ditch their wives as easily as American agnostics if they shook off their religious creed but it turns out that beliefs can be as and more emotionally satisfying as sensory pleasure. Closer to home: are Middle English prohibitionists envious of the crack fiends they seek to deny a fix? I doubt that most have any idea of what heroin is like except that it can lead one to turn out like Peter Doherty.

Mencken was also wrong to think that common men need be inclined towards virtuous living. The years since prohibition maintained its uneasy rule over America have seen an unprecedented rise in drinking, drug-taking, fornicating and material accumulation of which adults, and young people, of every class have energetically partaken. True enough, we have a great deal that still stirs the millions into emotional fevers, but censoriousness in the case of age-old ethics of restraint has all but disappeared. Tell the average man or woman that you feel that sport should not take place on Sunday afternoons and they will laugh until they reach the point when they grasp that you are earnest, at which they will conclude that you are freakish.

It is ironic that Mencken, the arch aristocrat, was significant in his contribution to populism: one of the finest sharpshooters among the progressive ranks that picked apart the tired old armies of traditional ethics and allowed a wave of social liberalism to sweep the rich and poor into a strange new cultural age.

It does not take Anthony Comstock to observe that amid the enthusiasm for brief and often self-involved pleasures, significant customs and enduring consolations have been undervalued. From the steep decline in stable families to the discomfiting rise in social isolation, Westerners are too fractured to be very moblike and it turns out that this is not an unqualified blessing.

Mencken may have been too much of an individualist to appreciate this. He cared about great men. Everyone else was entertainment. I quote, again, from his Book

The only permanent values in the world are truth and beauty…This is the heritage of man, but not of men. The great majority of men are not even aware of it. Their participation in the progress of the world, and even in the history of the world, is infinitely remote and trivial. They live and die, at bottom, as animals live and die.

It is true that most people will not get far in or with science and art, and that their lives will not be troubled to all that great an extent by the more fundamental questions of existence. There are two points to be made, though. The first is that the lives and works of the greatest people have depended, to a large extent, on their existence in societies populated by conscientious and energetic men and women. The second is that those of us who are not phenomenal in our cognition and creativity have emotional lives alone and together that are meaningful to us, and, in their triumphs and tragedies, often rich in charm and interest. Not everyone can be Shakespeare, Dickens or Mencken favourite Mark Twain but these men drew inspiration from the lives of the forgotten. One is entitled to reject or disregard this but I think that societies with no care for the wellbeing of all but a select few of their members are doomed to callousness so dramatic that it entails barbarism.

To believe this, one need not deny individual greatness any more than admiring a landscape prevents one from studying particular flowers. I suspect that Mencken knew this or he would not have been such a keen journalist. Some of his enthusiasm can be attributed to a morbidity but once this has been accepted as an avenue of pleasure, as well as listening to opera or reading the classics, it would be foolish to suppose that one could transcend the masses.

GrouchoThe Modern Review was a magazine edited by Julie Burchill and Toby Young, which served up “low culture for high-brows”. A Guardian profile observed that it “redrew the cultural map, forever wiping the high-cultural smirk from the face of Britain’s critics”. A while ago I claimed that its influence on British Conservatism was a symptom of a movement that had so prioritised economic concerns that it had lost its sense of the importance of culture.

One data point that I used was Cosmo Landesman, Burchill’s ex-husband and a founder of The Modern Review, writing in the Spectator in defence of dirty old men. Reflecting on this, I thought that it might have been harsh. The ageing libido is an intriguing subject that has been explored in art to very fine effect.

Yet those works explored the theme with style and Landesman did not. He has returned to validate my judgement with a Spectator column on his “lust for right-wing women”…

I belong to that small, deviant group of liberal-lefty-pro-feminist men who find conservative/right-wing women super sexy.

Oh dear.

Of course, the intrusion of politics into the bedroom could also be explored in an interesting way. Landesman, however, offers this…

I have slept with women who write for the New Statesman and women who write for the Daily Telegraph and I can’t honestly claim that one lot is better than the other.

Bragging about one’s sexual prowess is always sad. When you are almost sixty it is downright tragic.

But there are certain post-coital benefits that come with women of the right. They never subject a man to the music of Nick Drake or Nina Simone.

What is “left-wing” about listening to Nick Drake and Nina Simone?

As good libertarians, they don’t mind if you smoke in bed or pick up a newspaper or roll over and go to sleep…

What is “libertarian” about reading in bed?

Nor do you ever have to lie in bed and watch some mawkish film about Nelson Mandela or one made by Michael Moore.

It is perhaps beside the point but Michael Moore references are so dated that one might as well drop in jokes about Al Gore, Friends and Janet Jackson exposing her cleavage at the Superbowl.

I am sure that Landesman is a pleasant chap to know but if this dull boorishness represents right-wing humour we should tip concrete into the graves of Waugh and Mencken lest their spinning cause earthquakes in Combe Florey and Baltimore.


Phillip LarkinChristopher Hitchens wrote, in a review of Philip Larkin’s interesting if undignified Letters to Monica, that “it is inescapable that we should wonder how and why poetry manages to transmute the dross of existence into magic or gold, and the contrast in Larkin’s case is a specially acute one”.

Indeed. Disagreeability is common in writers. What makes Larkin’s more surprising is that it was manifested in such humdrum ways: pettiness, parochialism and porn collecting. How could a man who spent so much of his life grumbling about bills, or leafing through dog-eared back issues of Bamboo & Frolic, produce beauty on the scale of An Arundel Tomb?

Distinguishing between the life and work of an artist is a wise move inasmuch as the value of the latter can transcend whatever dark surprises the former might yield. (And it must be said that Larkin’s were trivial compared to the motley collection of ideologues, paedophiles and rapists other biographers have damned.) Yet it would be folly to imagine that the two are not related – and, indeed, to insist on absolute separation can demean the life more than it ennobles the work.

Often, I believe, the lives of artists seem pathetic next to their creations because their art embodies that which they could not express through their behaviour. It was easy for Larkin to grouse in letters to Miss Jones, or to leer and mock in correspondence with the elder Amis, but it would have been more difficult to express his fears, sadness and longing to his friends. The more interesting an idea or emotion the harder it becomes to deal with the thing. Poetry was a form through which these more sympathetic and yet more difficult tendencies could be explored and expressed and, thus, it not only assures his status as an artist but goes some way towards redeeming him as a man.


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