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| An Equal Voice: Andrew Motion's Remembrance Day poem In this 'found poem' for Remembrance Day, Andrew Motion stitches together the words of several generations of shellshocked soldiers from the first world war to the presentDoctors, historians and other experts have documented the effects of shellshock – thanks to them, we know that the term covers a multitude of ailments, and is the result of far more than just shells going off. But, as Ben Shephard wrote in his history of medical psychiatry, the people who have suffered from it have often been too ill to speak. They have been left out of the record. I wanted to hear from them. This is a "found" poem, a stitching together of the voices of shellshocked people. Their words have been taken from a variety of sources, from the first world war to the present, and are presented in the poem in roughly chronological order. There's a fragment of Siegfried Sassoon in there, but most are from unknown soldiers. Together, they give a sense of moving through time to establish what is horribly recurrent about this affliction. It is a poem by them, orchestrated by me.An Equal Voice"We hear more from doctors than patients. However hard he tries, the historian cannot even the account, cannot give the patients an equal voice, because most of them chose not to recount their experiences."from A War of Nerves, by Ben ShephardWar from behind the lines is a dizzy jumble.Revolving chairs, stuffy offices, dry as dustreports, blueprints one day and the next –with the help of a broken-down motor carand a few gallons of petrol – marching menwith sweat-stained faces and shining eyes,horses straining and plunging at the guns,little clay-pits opening beneath each step,and piles of bloody clothes and leggingsoutside the canvas door of a field hospital.At the end of the week there is no tellingwhether you spent Tuesday going overthe specifications for a possible laundryor skirting the edges of hell in an automobile.*There were some cases of nervous collapseas the whistle blew on the first day of battle.In general, however, it is perfectly astonishingand terrifying how bravely the men fight.From my position on rising ground I watchedone entire brigade advancing in line after line,dressed as smartly as if they were on parade,and not a single man shirked going throughthe barrage, or facing the rapid machine-gunand rifle-fire that finally wiped them all out.I saw with my own eyes the lines advancingin such admirable order quickly melt away.Yet not a man wavered, or broke the ranks,or made any attempt to turn back again.*A soft siffle, high in the air like a distant lark,or the note of a penny whistle, faint and falling.But then, with a spiral, pulsing flutter, it grewto a hissing whirr, landing with ferocious blasts,with tremendous thumps and then their echoes,followed by the whine of fragments which cutinto the trees, driving white scars in their trunksand filling the air with torn shreds of foliage.The detonation, the flash, the heat of explosion.And all the while fear, crawling into my heart.It literally crawled into me. I had set my teethsteadying myself, but with no success. I clutchedthe earth, pressing against it. There was no oneto help me then. O how one loves mother earth.*One or two friends stood like granite rocksround which the seas raged, but very manyother men broke in pieces. Everyone called itshell-shock, meaning concussion, but shell-shock is rare. What 90% get is justifiable funkdue to the collapse of the helm of our self-control.You understand what you see but you cannot think.Your head is in agony and you want relief for that.The more you struggle, the more madness creepsover you. The brain cannot think of anything at all.I don't ask you what you feel like but I tell you,because I have been like you. I have been ill as youand got better. I will teach you, you will get better.Try and keep on trying what I tell you and you will.*The place was full of men whose slumbers were morbid,titubating shell-shockers with their bizarre paralysesand stares, their stammers and tremors, their nightmaresand hallucinations, their unstoppable fits and shakings.Each was back in his doomed shelter, when the panicand stampede was re-enacted among long-dead faces,or still caught in the open and under fire. This officerwas quietly feasting with imaginary knives and forks;that group roamed around clutching Teddy Bears;one man stripped to his underclothes and proclaimedhimself to be Mahatma Gandhi; another sat crampedin a corner clutching a champagne cork; one chanted,with his hands over an imaginary basket of eggs, Lordhave mercy on us, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.*I could feel the bullets hit my body. I could feelmyself being hit by gun fire and this is what made mesit up and scream. What I saw round me were otherswalking with the bent and contorted spines of old age,or moving without their lifting their legs, by vibrating limbson the ground. All equally unfortunate, filled with sadness.Dead friends gazed at them. Rats emerged from the cavitiesof bodies. Then came trembling and losing control of legs:you never dreamt of such gaits. One fellow cannot holdhis head still or even stand except with incessant jerking.Instantly the man across the aisle follows suit. In this waythe infection spreads in widening circles until the wholeward is jerking and twitching, all in their hospital blues,their limbs shaking and flapping like the tails of dogs.*Naturally it can save a good deal of time if men,before battle, have pictures from the Hate Room hungin their minds of things the enemy has already done,waiting to be remembered. Starving people for instanceand sick people, and dead people in ones and in heaps.If that proves ineffective, then treatment is post facto.Compulsory mourning is no longer recommendedwhereby the hospital confines a man for three daysalone in a darkened room and orders him to grievefor dead comrades. But other cures must be attempted,and in some cases men wish to return to do their duty.See, your eyes are already heavier. Heavier and heavier.You are going into a deep, deep sleep. A deep, far sleep.You are far asleep. You are fast sleep. You have no fear.*I am quiet and healthy but cannot bear being awayfrom England. I have been away too long and seentoo many things. My best friend was killed beside me.I have a wife and two children and I have done enough.I thought my nerves were better but they are worse.The first fight, the fight with my own self, has ended.I may be ready to fight again but I am not willing.I am in urgent need of outdoor work and would be gladto accept a position as a gardener at a nominal salary.My best friend walked back into my room this morning,shimmering white and transparent. I saw him clearly.He stood at the foot of my bed and looked right at me.I asked him, What do you want? What do you want?Eventually I woke up and of course I was by myself.PoetryFirst world warSecond world warWar reportingAndrew MotionAndrew Motionguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Catullus still shocks 2,000 years on Lines from the Roman poet are at the centre of a court case - and many news organisations still dare not translate themQuite an extraordinary chapter in the already extraordinary story of Mark Lowe and Jordan Wimmer. For those who haven't been following the lurid details, this is an ongoing employment tribunal case at which Lowe is accused by a former employee of having tried to kill her and humiliate her in various ways. The financier denies accusations of sex and disability discrimination.And now, this: the tribunal has heard that Lowe, 59, sent Wimmer, 29, an offensive text message in the form of a quote from a Catullus poem, the Roman poet of the first century BC. The line in question (misquoted by the BBC website, and perhaps, for all I know, by Lowe himself) is this: "pedicabo vos et irrumabo". The BBC declines to translate it, merely saying that it "threatens a violent sexual act", but I am not so coy. It means "I will bugger you and stuff your gobs." (The Wikipedia entry on the poem contains the full text and a reasonable translation.)It's the first line of Catullus's very funny obscene poem 16. Addressed to his friends Aurelius "who takes it in the mouth" and Furius "who takes it up the arse" (these are rough translations, gentle readers), it takes issue with the accusation that Catullus's romantic poems to his girlfriend Lesbia are sissy, lovelorn and effeminate in a robust and earthy way, in the grand tradition of rhetorical invective.Lowe's defence for the text was: "It is burlesque, it was always light-hearted in the first century and it still is now." Well, context is all – and I am certainly not suggesting anything about the spirit in which it was sent to Wimmer by Lowe or what it was meant to convey under that particular set of circumstances – but he's probably right about its original tone.The BBC, by not translating the line, is following a long tradition of coyness about the poem. It was omitted from the 1961 Christian James Fordyce edition of the poet's work, which was still the standard edition used in schools and universities when I was studying classics, in the 1980s and 1990s. But then Fordyce was a terrible bowdleriser. He admitted to leaving out "a few poems which do not lend themselves to comment in English" – in fact 32 out of a corpus of 113. And in 1989 there was even a full-blown hoo-hah – which got as far as the letters pages of the Guardian – when three poems of Catullus were removed from an A level syllabus after protests about their "obscene" content (all, it must be said, milder than this one).But there's no point trying to understand Catullus without these cheerfully rude and explicit works. We can't wish away his seamier side, nor should we.PoetryClassicsCharlotte Higginsguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Katine writer Ben Jones wins book prize Ben Jones' book, Beyond the state in rural Uganda, picks up the Elliott P Skinner award from the American Anthropological AssociationBen Jones, a lecturer in development studies at the University of East Anglia and a regular contributor to the Katine website, has been awarded The Elliott P Skinner Book Award for his work on Uganda that questions the role of the state in rural development.Jones' book, Beyond the state in rural Uganda, which was published this year by Edinburgh University Press, is based on research conducted in the north-eastern Teso region, in which Katine is found.The award is presented annually by the African section of the American Anthropological Association and recognises work "that best furthers both the global community of Africanist scholars and the wider interests of the African continent". Special consideration is given to work that draws upon extensive research in the field or offers new methods for fieldwork in Africa.Jones, who is also a research fellow at Roskilde University in Denmark, collected his award at the association's AGM in the US last week.In this book, Jones argues that academics too often assume that the state is the most important force behind change in African communities, when in fact churches and village groups play a significant part in social transformation. Jones has drawn on the 18 months he spent in Teso researching his book to write a number of posts on the Katine Chronicles blog.PraiseBetty Harris, a professor at Ohio University, who was on the awards committee, praised Jones' book for its sensitivity. She said it was "very much in the spirit" of the Elliott Skinner award. Prof Skinner, America's first African American ambassador, was a professor of anthropology at Columbia University in New York and a keen advocate for Africa in policy making circles.Jones said the book, his first, was difficult to research and write and took three years to complete."I had to set aside many of the opinions and ideas I had going into the Teso region," he said. "At the beginning all I had wanted to do was a piece on how people responded to government reforms. By the end of the 18 months what was clear was that I was living in a place still coming to terms with a violent war. Much of the book is about the legacy of that war, and how people, through church, through clan and customary institutions, and through their village committee, make sense of the recent past."He said he wanted to write a book that was accessible and one that "people back in Uganda would be comfortable reading and commenting upon".He added: "Getting the award is a complete surprise. I have only recently completed my PhD and so this is my first book. I was not really expecting such an award and honour."Reviews of Beyond the state have been encouraging.The Ugandan Daily Monitor said the book "celebrates the role and triumph of culture and religion and instruments of social cohesion which have become critical alternate centres of power in Uganda and thereby channels of social transformation".It added: "Ben Jones employs a simple, easy-to-read writing style, with plenty of humour, sarcasm and satire subtly hidden between the lines. Yet these devices serve not only to make a mockery of the assumptions that politicians and politically correct folks often entertain, but more importantly to enhance the reader's understanding of how social transformation is taking place at the grassroots, in many instances in spite of the inefficiency, incompetence, inability and even nonchalance of the state."James C Scott a professor at Yale University, described Jones' book as an "illuminating, astute, against-the-grain study of real-existing development".• Beyond the state in rural Uganda is now available in paperback. Read the book's prefaceNewsUgandaLiz Fordguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
From Spotify to Bookify: how playlists could revolutionize the books market With a little imagination, e-readers could give out of print and backlist books a whole new lease of lifeWhen reading bold declarations that the Kindle and the Sony Reader  are poised to provide the iPod-esque "tipping point" for the book market, it's hard not to cringe. The vague optimism of the statement betrays a fundamental uncertainty about how it might actually be brought about, and the interminable disputes - over appropriate pricing levels for e-books  for instance, or digital rights management strategies that don't completely alienate purchasers - fail to inspire. It seems at times that the publishing industry is just muddling along, hoping for the best. One can't help but wonder if the industry, dazzled by the technological potential of e-readers, has lost sight of the most important thing: how readers actually interact with books. Let's track back for a minute to the optimistic comparisons between the iPod and e-readers. Ultimately, the iPod's success comes down to one thing: the facility to create something that music lovers have dreamt about since the dawn of time, the personally curated playlist. Now, whatever advantages are afforded by the e-reader - and the most commonly mentioned is the potential to tote hundreds of books about at a time - one is hardly likely to want to chop up one's favourite novels into a playlist of favourite chapters. Books are the indivisible sum of their parts, and an e-reader will never make reading accessible in the manner that the iPod has made music. But perhaps there is more to the notion of the playlist than first meets the eye. Not long ago, I was mucking about on Spotify when a thought occurred me. The online music library's extensive catalogue impresses for obvious reasons, but what genuinely recommends the service is the public playlist facility, allowing individual users to curate and publish groupings of songs based on whatever criteria take their fancy. It's a fascinating way to discover music, to expand one's tastes, and the only limitation is the imagination of the curator. And I wondered: why not a similar facility for books?Recently, Amazon – e-reader market leaders with the Kindle - unwittingly revealed the extent of the control they wield over e-purchases. Discovering a potential copyright violation in sales of an edition of George Orwell's 1984, Amazon recalled the book from all e-purchases  - without informing the purchasers first. Ignoring the obvious irony in Amazon's unilateral action - I mean, 1984, of all books - one can accept that they had no choice but to act as they did under the circumstances. But this prompted a question: given this facility, and their impressive e-book catalogue of up to 250,000 titles, why not put the technology to good use? Let's imagine an online lending service - I'll call it Bookify. On payment of a subscription fee, a reader is given access to what will probably become the largest library in the world. Books can be borrowed at will, even on a whim. Subscriptions can be calibrated to allow for pre-determined 'borrowing' limits. And when the 'book' is due, Bookify reclaims it without the untidy business of dealing with forgetful borrowers and overdue fees. Bookify opens up the possibility of a genuinely innovative approach to book marketing, particularly for backlists and out of print books. Most books have an extremely limited commercial life; no matter how good they are, they have only a small window to capture the reading public's attention before being consigned to the great big pulping machine in the sky. Without demand, the chances of a reprint are minuscule, and a book thus discarded is unlikely to see light of day again outside a second-hand bookshop. What Bookify can do is give these texts a new lease of life. It's not just about making books available: it's about making them relevant. One already existing example is the Harper Perennial PS range, where authors talk about their inspirations and influences as a postscript to the book itself. It's a nice idea, but it doesn't actually do very much unless one is both motivated enough to track the recommended titles down, and the owner of a very flexible credit card. But with Bookify …And the fun needn't be restricted to professional types. There'd be nothing to stop a keen reader from curating a playlist of texts around a particular theme. Perhaps you're interested in exploring the historical context of Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall? There'll a Bookify playlist for that. Or investigating a contemporary political or social issue? There'll be a Bookify playlist for that, too. Publishers, it's argued, often pay more attention to the balance sheet than to the true potential of a book. Bookify opens up the possibility of genuinely democratising the book publishing industry.E-readers and digital publishing can revolutionize the business of selling books. All that's needed is a little imagination.Publishingguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Ten of the best poisonings in literature Cards on the Table by Agatha ChristieChristie (who had worked as a pharmacy dispenser) used poison to do away with more than 30 victims in the course of her 66 novels. In Cards on the Table Poirot uncovers the perfidy of Dr Roberts, who kills one man with an injection of anaesthetic and another by applying Bacillus anthracis to the victim's shaving brush. All it takes is one little nick from his razor.A Shroud for a Nightingale by PD JamesThis whodunit is set in a nursing home, where trainee nurse Jo Fallon dies from a dose of insecticide added to her whisky. To find the culprit Inspector Dalgleish will uncover lesbian passions and a matron with a Nazi past.The Sign of Four by Arthur Conan DoyleDoyle was a doctor and made his sleuth an expert toxicologist. When he has to crack the "locked room" murder of Bartholomew Sholto, he soon spots what appears to be a poisoned thorn lodged in the victim's skin. His anthropological knowledge allows him to surmise that the killer was an Andaman Islander, using a poisoned dart. He is not wrong."The Laboratory" by Robert BrowningThis dramatic monologue is spoken by a spurned and resentful lover, looking to revenge himself. He naturally visits his local concocter of poisons, ambitious "To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, / A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!" He leaves the lab with a phial and goes to meet her at a dance.A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony SnicketIn The Reptile Room (the second volume of this thoroughly Gothic children's roman fleuve) Uncle Monty, a keen herpetologist, appears to have been killed by a bite from one of his own snakes. In fact the benevolent guardian of the Baudelaire orphans has been poisoned by the fiendish Count Olaf, who is after the Baudelaire inheritance.Metamorphoses by OvidIn book nine, Hercules finds Nessus the centaur trying to rape his wife, Deianira, and shoots him with an arrow dipped in the poisonous blood of the Hydra. The dying Nessus tells Deianira that his blood can be used as a love potion. In fact it is poisonous, and the robe with which she soaks it causes her husband such agonies that he begs for death.The Jew of Malta by Christopher MarloweThe brilliantly malign Barabas's victims include his own daughter Abigail, whom he poisons because she becomes a Christian and joins a nunnery. In order to get her, he has to kill all the other nuns as well with "poisoned broth".Hamlet by William Shakespeare"Then, venom, to thy work!" Poison accounts for four of the play's leading characters. In a fencing match, Hamlet and Laertes are both poisoned by the same rapier, "unbated and envenom'd". Gertrude quaffs the poisoned drink intended by Claudius for her son. Claudius then gets a poisoned stab from Hamlet, who also makes him drink the potion. Even Horatio tries to join in, offering to drink the remaining "liquor".The Revenger's Tragedy by Christopher MiddletonThis Jacobean tragedy features one of the most ingenious examples of poisoning in literature. Vindice revenges the poisoning of his beloved Gloriana when she rejected the advances of the lustful Duke: the lecherous ruler is conned into kissing Gloriana's skull, to which he has applied poison.I, Claudius by Robert GravesTop poisoner among many in this fictional memoir of the Roman emperor is Livia, the narrator's grandmother and wife of the emperor Augustus. Augustus will eat only figs he has himself picked from the tree, but he dies mysteriously anyway – the poison probably having been administered while the fruit were on the branch.Agatha ChristiePD JamesArthur Conan DoyleChristopher MarloweWilliam ShakespeareJohn Mullanguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |