Life was still not perfect. People still had to balance their plates on their knees, together with glasses of red and white wine and Perrier water, plus napkin, cutlery, side-plates, crackers, balloons, going-home presents, and the text of any speeches which they proposed to make, and there were some who found this difficult. Another thirty years elapsed before Ur-Nammu’s successor Amar-Su’en made the next great advance. He was still a student at the time, and although he was himself sitting on a specialised development of the chair called a throne, a lot of his fellow-students were sprawling about on the floor, as students will. Among them was a delightful girl reading Social Sciences and Early Hittite, who was sitting literally at his feet, and laughing in a most satisfactory way at all his jokes. She was saying quite amusing things herself, too, and Amar-Su’en was suddenly taken with the desire to slap his thighs to demonstrate his appreciation. So, to clear his thighs for slapping, he had the idea of balancing his plate on her head.
After that he took the girl to all the parties he went to, and grew so attached to her that he stood everything on her head, from vases of flowers to typewriters. When she subsequently died of pressure on the brain he was heartbroken. But the custom spread, until political developments began to make it increasingly difficult to find volunteers for the task. Soon cheap substitutes made of marble or carved mahogany took their place – and the table as we know it today took shape.
At last the human race was getting somewhere. Nouvelle cuisine and quantum theory followed in short order. So let us give thanks for the table and chair – and please, please, let us make full use of them.
(1994)
A pleasure shared
Do you spit? No? You don’t mind if I do, though …?
Khhghm … Hold on - can you see a spittoon on the table anywhere …? Never mind. Sit down, sit down! I can use my empty soup-bowl. Khhghm – thpp!
My God, that’s better. No, I’ve been sitting here all the way through the first course just dying for one. Iron self-control, but I do think it’s rather bad manners to spit while one’s eating. I mean, at a dinner-party like this. Your mouth full of the hostess’s soup, and suddenly … kkhghm – thpp!
You have finished yourself, haven’t you? You haven’t! I’m so sorry …! Oh, you don’t want the rest.
Very nice of you not to … khhghm – thpp! … not to mind. One has to be so careful these days not to offend people’s prejudices. I always ask first, of course. People never raise any objection, in my experience. In fact they usually never say anything at all. They generally do what you did – smile rather charmingly and kind of wave their hand about. Quite surprised even to be asked, I think, most of them.
Khhghm … Where’s the soup-bowl gone …? No, no – sit down! Don’t keep jumping up! I’ll use yours! You did say you’d finished …? Thpp!
I’m glad you’re not one of these hysterical people who try to stop other people enjoying themselves. It’s so onesided. I don’t try to stop anyone not spitting over me! In fact this is something I feel rather strongly about. People used to spit all the time in the good old days, and no one so much as raised an eyebrow. Spittoons everywhere you went -sawdust on the floor. It was only about fifty years ago, you know, that all this anti-spitting nonsense started. Suddenly everyone went mad. Notices up in the buses – ‘No Spitting. Penalty £5.’ And before we knew what had happened we’d lost another of our ancient liberties.
So, quite honestly, I … Khhghm … Oh, they’ve taken the soup-bowls away … No, no, stay right where you are! Thpp!… Keeps the moth out of the tablecloth … Yes, I spit very largely as a matter of principle.
And I hawk. As you can hear. Khhghm …! In fact I hawk deeply, also as a matter of principle. Khhhhhghhhhm …! Because I believe that if you’re going to spit you might as well get the full benefit of it, and shift the entire contents of your lungs out into the atmosphere. Why keep all that stuff festering inside you, when you could so easily … Khhghm – thpp! … spread it around a bit … ?
Didn’t spit in your face then, did I? Hold on – I think I did! I’m so sorry I’ll just give it a wipe with the corner of the tablecloth … Come back, come back! The tablecloth’s perfectly … no, sorry, hold on, I’ll try another bit … There we are. It’s very nice of you to go on smiling about it, but I know even the most broad-minded non-spitters sometimes feel a little sensitive about getting a faceful of the stuff.
Anyway, point taken! I’ll be very careful henceforth to turn my head aside, look, and … Khhghm – thpp! … spit in your very lovely hair, or down your very charming dress.
Why don’t I sit a little closer? There … It’s the alluring way you’re … khhghm – thpp!… wriggling around! I beg your pardon …? It tickles? What tickles …? You mean it ran down inside your dress? It gets everywhere, doesn’t it! Anyway; don’t worry. Just hang your underwear up in some airy place when you get home tonight, and it’ll be dry in no time.
Look, you wouldn’t mind, would you, if … No, come here! Don’t lean away! I’m trying to whisper a few private words in your ear. You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I gave you a ring some time? I thought perhaps you might like to come round one evening. I could give you a quiet spot of … Khhghm – thpp! Or we might go out and do something a little more exciting. I don’t know. Maybe
– Khhghhkhkhkhm – thppshmk!
You keep shaking your head. Did you get some in your ear? Don’t worry – it’s not as if you were inhaling it … What? Oh, you’re saying no? I see. I see. You’re not somehow offended because you got a tiny bit in your eye …? I thought so! I thought that smile of yours was beginning to get a little fixed. My God! I did ask, if you remember. I did ask if you minded!
So you’re one of these anti-spitting fanatics, are you? I’m not allowed to spit – is that what you’re telling me? – but it’s perfectly all right for you to go round leaning away from people, and grinning that ghastly glassy grin at them.
God, the intolerance of you lot! It makes me want to … Well, I’ll tell you what it makes me want to do. It makes me want to khhhhhhghhhhhm– Oh, and here’s the next course. I’ll put that one back for later.
(1989)
A princess in disguise
I believe society women are becoming more ambitious and serious-minded. In an earlier century they all wanted to take up careers as shepherdesses – now they want to become actresses. I put it down to education and female suffrage.
Ex-Queen Soraya of Iran shot to stardom in the film industry recently. Now Lee Bouvier – otherwise known as Princess Lee Radziwill, and sister of Jacqueline Kennedy – has fought her way to the top of the ladder, and crowned a dazzling career with her appearance on the world’s television screens in ‘Laura.’
A hard struggle it was, as recounted in the TV Times last week. The first thing she did was to take some lessons in acting. She didn’t just rush out and book six half-hours with the local elocution and tap-dancing teacher, of course; you can’t take short cuts in this business. What she did was, ‘she mentioned her ambition to Alan Lerner (author of the musical “My Fair Lady”); he mentioned it to an impresario, who recommended a coach to give her private drama lessons.’
Her studies completed, she made her modest debut on the stage – playing the lead in ‘The Philadelphia Story’ in. Chicago. After this rich and varied experience in the provinces she was ready to tackle anything…. ‘Her friend Truman Capote went to David. Susskind and suggested putting her in a TV production. Capote … offered, to write the script. He turned in the adaptation of “Laura.”’
One can only wonder what the next step will be. Lucia di Lammermoor? Giselle? Or is her song and dance a little rusty? She told the TV Times that it was difficult to find good directors to work with. I suppose all the talented young millionaires and aristocrats one sees around simply don’t have the dedication and stamina it takes. They only have to think of giving up every Thursday evening for a month and serving a week’s apprenticeship in Glasgow or St Louis, and their hearts
fail them.
What I like is the very chivalrous and helpful part played by Mr Lerner and Mr Capote in Miss Bouvier’s success story. Real knights in shining armour. Well, that’s the way we writers are. Take my friend Ken Nocker and myself. We’re besieged with requests from great ladies who want us to write verse-dramas for them, or get them parts in ‘The Avengers,’ and we always do our best to oblige.
Did you see ex-Queen Beatrice of Savoy in that play of Ken’s at the Victoria Theatre, Screwe, recently? Ken rang me up in great excitement the day he discovered her.
‘What a find!’ he shouted. ‘She has a first-class figure, wonderfully expressive eyes, and very substantial holdings in De Beers and blue chip industrials.’
*
‘Yes, but can she act?’ I queried keenly.
‘Can she act?’ he cried. ‘Can she act? Listen, that gracious lady is twelfth in succession to the throne of Romania, and a second cousin by marriage to the Duke of Kent! Anyway, she wants me to write a kind of light-hearted black comedy, with a part for her as a golden-hearted whore. A kooky golden-hearted whore, to be precise.’
‘Aren’t kooky golden-hearted whores a little passé at the moment?’
‘Well, that’s what she wants to play. Either that or Lady Macbeth, and I felt at this stage of her career … you know … Anyway, I shall have a completely free hand. Her only condition is that she isn’t asked to do anything undignified or unbecoming, and that her skirt comes down to the knee.’
‘She’s not going to be standing on her dignity all the time, is she?’
‘No, that’s the wonderful thing about her! She just wants to start right at the bottom of the top, and be treated exactly like any other beginner. Of course, I’ll have to see that each character calls her “Your Majesty” on entering.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘But thereafter it’s just plain “Ma’am.” In fact, I was thinking of making her not so much a golden-hearted whore as a golden-hearted madam. That would make it sound more natural, I think. It’s very important that the other characters behave absolutely naturally with her, just as if they really were in a brothel – so long as they don’t speak until she’s spoken first.’
Well, it all went off very well. Sir John Gielgud injured his back – he tripped over the footlights and fell into the orchestra pit while walking backwards out of the brothel bowing – but apart from that it was all very enjoyable, and surprisingly audible. In the front stalls, at any rate.
Of course, it’s not just acting ambitions that Ken. Nocker and I try to fulfil. Some of our rich friends want to be architects, or airline pilots. There was the lovely Lady Dimity Mincing, who couldn’t rest until she had appeared as a barrister at the Old Bailey, and defended some innocent person wrongfully charged with a serious offence. We managed to pull strings and fix it for her, and it gave her a great sense of personal fulfilment; though I think she was a little disappointed with the verdict.
Our greatest triumph was arranging for Mrs Jefferson T. Doppelganger III to fly over and perform a heart transplant at Guy’s, before an invited audience. Of course, we insisted that she did a Red Cross first-aid course beforehand.
Anyway, our secret ambition is that some of our good friends will be able to repay our little kindnesses, and arrange with the millionaires of their acquaintance for us to have a go at being rich.
(1968)
Private collections
I wish people weren’t so coy about showing their slides and films and snapshots. You have to drag the stuff out of them, as though it were their first efforts at poetry.
They let themselves be frightened off by the convention that one’s snaps are boring to others. But the truth is more or less the opposite. It’s oneself who is likely to be bored, since one has seen it all before; to others they’re almost certainly fascinating.
At any rate, they are to me, in any reasonable moderation. I find the prospect of sorting a huge muddled parcel of somebody else’s snapshots over the carpet on a winter’s afternoon, or of sitting in the calm after-dinner darkness watching the brilliantly coloured images of someone else’s life succeed one another on the screen, a distinctly cheering one.
I don’t mean so much the pictures of the Baptistry at Pisa, or the barefoot boy driving goats on Naxos, or the Hopi initiation ceremony in New Mexico (though I must admit I enjoy these too). I mean the really basic stuff – the pictures taken by our old friend Horace Morris of his wife Doris, with the sun in her eyes and a telegraph pole growing out of her head; the pictures of Horace by Doris where he is striking a humorous attitude on top of a rock, with his feet bigger than his head, half his head missing, and the horizon at 10 degrees to the horizontal.
I suppose it’s partly plain curiosity about how other people live their lives when one’s not around to watch. But there’s more to it than that. I think one is perhaps soothed to have some nagging unconscious solipsism stilled by this evidence of the world’s independent existence.
‘The mystical thing,’ wrote Wittgenstein in the Tractatus, ‘is not how the world is, but that it is.’ And since the arrangement of things in these pictures is unimportant, we are brought face to face with this fundamental aspect – the sheer fact that there was a moment in the history of the world when Doris Morris stood in front of a telegraph pole, and screwed up her eyes against the sun; that whatever was or was not, a rock with Horace Morris on top of it was.
The moment has gone. The state of affairs that united Horace and rock has disappeared beneath a thousand million succeeding states of affairs, and minute by minute grows remoter still. Horace will become too old to climb upon rocks; the rock will be worn down to sand by the sea; the photograph itself will fade and disintegrate. But nothing will ever destroy the fact it recorded for long enough to be appreciated – that at one particular moment this one particular state of affairs did obtain.
I suppose newspaper photographs and television images say no less. But I suspect that we don’t entirely believe them. We accept them, as we do the accounts given by physicists of molecular structure, but we don’t intimately feel the reality of them, as we do of the things which touch upon our own existence and identity, If we registered all those pictures of suffering, wealth, and action as anything more than a sort of factual fairyland, they would overwhelm us.
But poor old Horace Morris I know. My total belief in his reality might falter if I saw him on television, discussing the country’s economic situation, But to the top of that only too probable rock, to a position 10 degrees out of the vertical, with too much foot and too little head, my belief will follow him unquestioningly.
And on, by extension, beyond him, to the world outside the frame of the picture. To the cigarette packet lying half-buried in the sand, just seven feet to the right. To the two men who walked by, three minutes earlier, gazing down at the sand as they talked, the one absently swinging at pieces of seaweed with a child’s plastic spade, while the other gestured with his right hand, and said, ‘That may be so, I don’t dispute that for a moment, it may very well be so, I wouldn’t argue with you on that …’ To the faint drone of aircraft passing high overhead, on their way out from that particular time and place to other countries, other days.
I like the modesty of snapshots - the fact that they make no claims, imply no principles, demand no reactions. They don’t, like news photographs, claim to show anything typical, or illustrative, of matters outside themselves. They don’t, like advertising pictures, attempt to suggest attitudes or courses of action.
They make a counterpoise to art, too. For the convention of all art is that things can be arranged, or selected, or lit, or simplified, or emphasised, to bring out some significance within or beyond the objects themselves; or that events can be represented as falling out in such a way that they cast some special illumination upon human behaviour; or that men can be driven by the pressure of extreme circumstances to some special self-knowledge or self-revelation.
One accepts this as the conv
ention which makes art possible. But so universal is it that it comes to seem more like a natural law. And what that suggests is that there really is, in the external world, some special ‘truth’ which the everyday appearance of things conceals; and that the real significance of these appearances is that they can be manipulated by the artist to reveal this truth.
The snapshot, however, reminds us that the world is not like this – that things are what they are, and that they are significant in themselves, for their own sake. Horace Morris, on his rock, stands for nothing, except Horace Morris on a rock; typifies nothing except Horace Morris on a rock; purports to reveal no truth about the nature of Horace Morris or the rock, except that at this particular moment of time the one was standing on the other, and that together they looked thus and so.
Horace for Horace’s sake – a good working principle.
(1967)
A question of character
Canon Montefiore’s suggestion that Christ might have been homosexual was bound to cause a stir, but it would still have caused offence, I think, if the Canon had speculated about Christ’s heterosexual proclivities. Or, indeed, about the working of his digestion, or whether he had corns on his feet.
The truth is that there’s not much you can say about Christ without its seeming inappropriate. There’s even less you can say about God. ‘All-powerful,’ ‘eternal,’ ‘merciful,’ ‘just,’ and a number of other compliments are in order, but not, I feel, ‘shrewd,’ ‘charming,’ ‘keen,’ ‘cheerful,’ ‘tidy,’ ‘sporting,’ or ‘brave.’ In fact we’ve got in a rather odd tongue-tied state about our gods altogether, considering that the medieval schoolmen used to maintain that God had all possible attributes. That should have provided plenty to say about him.
Collected Columns Page 28
