With thanks to David Rose.
I sometimes complain that we have forgotten so much of our fantastic hreitage of thinkers and writers in the British radical tradition. Please read this closely. It is the best comment I have seen yet on the current extraordinarily bad condition of our World.
It was written by William Blake in 1804.
What is the price of Experience; do men buy it for a song
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath; his house his wife his children
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
And in the witherd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer’s sun
And in the vintage & to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer
To listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry season
When the red blood is filld with wine & with the marrow of lambs
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan
To see a god on every wind & a blessing on every blast
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies house
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, & the sickness that cuts off his children
While our olive & vine sing & laugh round our door & our children bring fruits & flowers
Then the groan & the dolor are quite forgotten & the slave grinding at the mill
And the captive in chains & the poor in the prison, & the soldier in the field
When the shatterd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity
Thus could I sing & thus rejoice, but it is not so with me!
Wlliam Blake: The Four Zoas – Vala (Night the Second)
My love laughs her last laugh
and disappears in a red cloud
I twist and turn and spin
pain is no substitute for love
With my one good eye I peer
peer into the red cloud
I know, I feel she's in there somewhere
I can still, I think, I can see her
a child, a lover, a memory
My other eye lies bleeding on the sand
I pick it up and hold it in my palm
then I realise, it not my eye, it's hers
the red cloud is gone
She drove me wild with her smiles
She could melt the hardest heart the coldest smile with just a simple look
now she's gone, my love, my child
I'm crawling on my hands and knees
God, guide my heart to hers
Help me, I want to kill and seek revenge in blood to raise her from the dead once more, just once more
I've one good eye and an empty heart
for a start I'll cling to a dead dream
then I'll start walking in silence
walking towards the sound of gunfire
You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud
Who does not know peace
Who fights for a scrap of bread
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman,
Without hair and without name
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.
Meditate that this came about:
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts
At home, in the street,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children,
Or may your house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.
Primo Levi, "If This is a Man"