Author Archives: Tim Lenton

Savage cruelty – the easy option

What could be worse than being trapped in front of a television set on a Saturday night? Ant and Dec, followed by The Cube, followed by Jonathan Ross.

Well, lots of things of course. Being trapped in a rugby scrum. Or living in one of the countries that underwent the Arab Spring and discovering that, as a Christian, you are now more likely to be killed than you were when the dictators were in power.

What could be quite as frightening as being confronted by a mob of wintry Arabs with misconceived religious beliefs? Perhaps being confronted by a mob of mad Englishmen with misconceived religious beliefs, as we have demonstrated quite convincingly in the past. As novelist Petru Dumitriu put it, there is nothing quite like “the savage cruelty of people who are sure they are right”, especially when there are a lot of them.

Part of the fear (on both sides) stems from an inability to understand what is being said by those who are foreign to our way of thinking. Language barriers are fearsome things, and translation is not an easy art.

I come fresh from a translation workshop led by Dr B J Epstein of the University of East Anglia, where the difficulties of getting all the meaning of a piece of writing across from one language to another were expounded clearly.

We tried to imagine how a passage from Alice in Wonderland, with its extremely English wordplay, could possibly be conveyed into Swedish (or anything else). My rather esoteric view is that it is impossible, just as it is impossible to translate poetry into another language, because there is too much involved: precision, rhythm, context, nuance, word play of many kinds.

And as much religious belief was expressed originally as poetry – or at least in a poetic language like Hebrew or Aramaic – it is not surprising that we may not quite “get it” when it is transferred into a modern, more literal tongue. We tend to end up with chopped up religion instead of the whole body. I’m not sure how this works with Arabic, but no doubt the opportunities exist.

Getting the spirit of a piece of writing is something we seem ill-equipped to do in the modern world, with its knee-jerk journalistic view of things and its painful self-righteousness and eagerness to cast the first stone, with many more to follow.

Perhaps the answer is to be aware that you may not quite understand the other person’s point of view, and to give him or her the benefit of the doubt – or at least listen as hard as you can.

The shorthand term for that is love, but maybe that would take too much time and effort. Much easier to throw something. A quick fix: it might make us feel better. Switch channels – there may be something better on the other side.

 

 

*After attending the workshop on translation, I wrote the following poem, which is of course not about translation but is helped by some of the ideas discussed there.

Horse meat and Leonard Cohen

I could eat a horse, and so could you. So could most people, because a healthy horse is perfectly edible.

To call it a contaminant, as many in the media have done, is as misleading as calling carbon dioxide a pollutant. Horse is not toxic or impure, and nor is carbon dioxide, which is a naturally occurring gas, just as horse is a naturally occurring animal. If anything is being polluted here, it is language.

But there is something else going on, and Leonard Cohen, the master of language, foresaw it (and much more) in his song The Future. “Things are going to slide,” he said, “slide in all directions; won’t be nothing you can measure any more.”

The problem is not that there is horse in ready foods: it is that ready foods are so mediocre that you can’t tell whether there is horse in them or not.

Some concoctions invite substitution, like meat balls. Are they beef, pork or something even more sinister? If they don’t tell us on the tin – or the packet – how can we know?

All right, we can avoid that kind of food if we’re worried. But if we do, we are still faced with another trend in supermarkets: dumbing down. I have been infuriated recently in the vegetable section (and that can be dangerous) by finding potatoes labelled “Potatoes” or sometimes  daringly “White Potatoes”.

Now I suppose there may be people who don’t know a potato when they see it, or can’t tell the difference between white and red, but when I’m looking for potatoes I want to know what sort they are. I happen to like King Edwards, but they’re becoming increasingly hard to find.

I can foresee a time when, to avoid the horse problem, all meat will be labelled “Meat”; in fact I’m almost sure I’ve come across meat curry in the not-too-distant past. Then where will we be? I’ll tell you. We’ll be on the fish counter, trying to distinguish between hake (fish) and herring (fish).

Or will we just go for one of those “meal deals” that seem to crop up everywhere, and not worry our little heads about it?

Truth is more important than speed

I was never very keen on Chris Huhne as portrayed by the popular prints. If he were a regular reader of this site, he would probably not be keen on me.

If on the other hand we met anonymously at a party (as long as it was not a political one), we might get on quite well, laughing ruefully about life’s little misfortunes and how you never actually achieve what you’re aiming at.

What sort of little misfortunes? Well, being caught by a speed camera, for instance. And then thinking it might be simpler if you pretended it was your wife who was driving.

Not much harm in that, is there? And denying it afterwards? Well, it’s all pretty trivial, isn’t it?

National newspaper columnists have not gone along with this wholeheartedly.  Some of the verdicts: “error upon error”; “dodging and scheming”; “a display of hubris and ego that is utterly bewildering”; “a very minor misdemeanour”; and “a series of stupid, utterly avoidable decisions”.

Again, we’ve all been there. But Cabinet ministers, even Lib Dem ones who are in office almost accidentally, are expected to have high standards. Where Mr Huhne went wrong was in deciding wrongly which standards were more important.

Clearly he thought that at all costs people should not know he had been exceeding the speed limit. In order to cover this up, it was worth the risk of lying and, when the lie was exposed, it was worth the risk of lying again.

I know this is hard to believe, but during the last war (and for a long time before and after) cyclists had to use lights after dark. The trouble was that because of the privations of war, batteries became unavailable. As a result many cyclists, who depended on their machines to get to and from work, were prosecuted for riding without lights and fined.

The injustice of this was raised in the House of the Commons, and the Home Secretary, Herbert Morrison, said that the police “should exercise a wide discretion”. He had no doubt that “in any individual case the police will take account of any mitigating circumstances”.

You may wonder about the relevance of this to Mr Huhne. It lies in the nature of the speed camera, which knows nothing of mitigating circumstances and exercising discretion. In fact it knows nothing of the quality of driving. All it knows is that something went at a certain speed and therefore had to be photographed, and that as a result, someone had to be punished.

This is actually a deplorable way of administering justice, and so one has sympathy with Mr Huhne. If it had been revealed by self-righteous journalists that the Energy Secretary had been caught speeding, I would have thought no worse of him. It happens. It did not mean he was driving carelessly, or that anyone was in any danger. No-one got hurt.

Up to that point, anyway. It was what happened next that hurt. In protecting himself from being exposed as a fast driver to the kind of people who find that deplorable – the kind of people who would back most of his lack-of-energy policies – he decided that it wouldn’t matter so much if he lied.

But he was completely wrong. Speed by itself is not a problem. Lying is. If he is willing to lie about one small thing – and worse, to deflect the “guilt” on to someone else – why should we believe him when he says we need 32,000 new wind turbines and have to wreck the landscape to save the planet? Or that speed cameras are a good idea?

A better system of justice might have enabled him to contest the “trivial” issue of speed. But lying is a different kettle of fish. Of course we all know that politicians lie about policy. But lying on such a personal level is a symptom of a deeper problem.

Nevertheless, I refuse to go along with those who will paint him for ever as “shamed” or “disgraced” politician Chris Huhne. I believe in redemption, and that goes for Cabinet Ministers, Lib Dems and Energy Secretaries as well as less exalted human beings. For all you know I have done worse than Mr Huhne, and he probably has qualities that outshine mine.

He has reached a low point. It is up to him, and not us, where he goes from there.

Passing place

In the wild land
between Ben Avon and Gairnshiel
between black snow and white wind
there is a passing place

where spirit brushes flesh
clouds shift shapes
and brown is the colour
of my true love’s eyes

In the heather, footprints can just be seen
reaching upwards, almost hidden:
the road like a juggler
throws, then catches

nine times out of ten,
and I keep passing.

This is the place:
enchantment is a wound
that reopens.

I pass again.

Just a little bit lower, and I’ll feel better

Funny thing, temperature.

Over the past week or two in the UK we’ve experienced some pretty low temperatures. Not as low as Antarctica, or even Braemar on a bad day, but low nevertheless.

However, if we wear the right clothing, we can survive it without much trouble. In fact a brisk walk up to a nearby hill (taking care not to break a leg on the unsanded pavements or the uncollected rubbish) can be quite invigorating. The nip of frost on bare cheeks is kind of pleasant, in a bracing sort of way.  The outdoor life holds no terrors for us.

And yet when the temperature goes up, so that it’s about ten degrees warmer – say five or six degrees above freezing – we start to feel unpleasantly cold. The outdoor life is suddenly not for us, and we hasten inside to make friends with the central heating.

Why should this be? Why is a lukewarm bath somehow less pleasant than a cold one? Are we designed to prefer extremes? Or is it just me?

Maybe it’s a psychological thing. Very cold weather has visual compensations: the beauty of icy spider webs, the purity of fresh-fallen snow – the stunning, inexplicable attraction of something that is actually threatening to us, like floods and bombers. Not many of us would share the view of a friend of mine, who believes that “if you’ve seen one snow-covered mountain, you’ve seen them all”.

Slightly warmer weather, however, has no visual excitement. It brings dampness, greyness, mud and a vague uneasiness. The countryside becomes flat and tedious, like a dithering driver. There is no stimulus for our minds to grapple with. No vital questions, like “Why does butter remain hard in winter, even in a centrally heated house?”

Somehow, cold seems to enliven us, as long as it doesn’t go too far and remove our toes and fingers. We dive into it, make snowmen, ride sleds, throw snowballs.

I have this suspicion, for what it’s worth, that snow and ice open our minds to other dimensions, but maybe this is because I live in a temperate, comfortable climate and can put up with a limited amount of ice and snow, as long as it eventually goes away and releases my car from its clutches. If I lived in an igloo, perhaps a heatwave would open my mind to other dimensions.

Maybe we’re desperate for something to open our minds to other dimensions, even if it’s just a change in the temperature. Something that makes us see things differently.

Are you concentrating, or have you dropped something?

I can’t say this very often, but I was pleasantly surprised by an article on road safety that appeared in Norfolk County Council’s “magazine for all residents” that eased its way carefully through my door this winter.

It was titled “Keep your mind on the road”, and I read it very attentively, keeping my mind on it. I was not driving at the time.

What surprised me? I don’t think the word “speed” was mentioned once.

Speed limits, cameras and associated persecution are not – taking the world as a whole – very high among the great evils of our time. But they do affect many of us in Britain almost every day, sometimes for long periods. So I think it’s reasonable to hope that transport authorities might see sense on the issue. In recent years, that has not happened much, and it has been unusual to see anything written about road safety without speed being seen as the main problem.

That article, by contrast, concentrated on what is clearly a major cause of accidents: lack of attention. It pointed out: “There are lots of distractions every day which take your mind off the road, from jogging while listening to music to turning round to talk to passengers in the car.”

It also struck fairly new ground in suggesting that cyclists, walkers and joggers need to concentrate just as much as drivers. It offered courses in cycling and motor cycling training for young people and in teaching children to cross the road, as well as co-ordinating and promoting driver development – important when it takes years to learn to drive really well.

By that time you know how fast it is safe to drive in most situations. You also know what causes accidents – stupidity, inattention, boredom and poor judgement tend to top the list. Excessive speed is also dangerous, of course, but this is not the same thing as going faster than speed limits that are for the most part inexpertly fixed. And it’s rarely uncovered by cameras because they are normally set to catch people, not to keep the roads safe.

We’re all familiar, and fed up, with puerile slogans like Speed Kills (it doesn’t) and It’s Fifty for a Reason (yes, usually a very bad reason). I’m in favour of speed limits, set by people who know what is realistic and safe (experienced traffic police, for example) but preferably to advise rather than punish motorists. It is only poor drivers (and non-drivers) who like slow limits punitively policed, because they don’t understand how fast is safe. They assume they’re safe because they’re obeying the law. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Reckless behaviour in a motor vehicle is a serious offence, but this is masked by the pretence that speed is the major issue. Even those few serious accidents attributed primarily to speed by the police are usually the result of some other criminal activity, like drug-taking or theft.

Reckless behaviour in a car always involves a lack of proper attention, and that includes using a mobile phone, fiddling with the cd-player, watching the speedometer, carrying on a vigorous debate with a passenger, pointing at landscape features and trying to find the glasses that fell off the central console. Driving is dangerous, and we mustn’t forget it.

My solution? The same as yours, probably: more traffic police. And in the cities, more visible police generally. And more education as suggested by the article that prompted this one. Not fatuous slogans, and wilfully diverting people’s attention from the real problem.

Unexplained light

The precise shape of the star
and the way it moved,
backwards and forwards,
does not concern the wise,

who love
unexplained light

Private browsing –
examining conjunctions,
comets and dwarfs –
tempts the unwary

into disintegrating time
and again

A baby can throw the best-laid plans
into disarray,
reaching for empty hands,
hoping for gold

Do we believe Christmas is real?

Do you believe in Father Christmas? All right, that’s an easy one. But what do you really, really believe in? And what connection does it have to reality?

Someone said that reality is what remains after you stop believing in it. In other words, reality doesn’t depend on  belief. Or does it?

Experiments in quantum physics suggest that what happens may depend on who is watching. St Paul says that an act of faith is necessary for the veil to be lifted from our eyes: that we can’t see what’s really going on until we place our faith in God.

Most people, of course, reject that entirely. Seeing is believing, we say. Give us proof, and then we’ll believe.

A lot of people believed the world was going to end on December 21 this year, because certain calculations involving the Mayan calendar suggested as much. You don’t have to be cranky or gullible to believe that an ancient people may have known something we don’t. To paraphrase Linus in Peanuts, some of those ancient people were pretty sharp. But to put all our eggs in the Mayan basket would have been unwise, to say the least. All prophecies attempting to date the end of the world have been wrong. So far. Obviously.

Many people regard faith in much the same way as putting all your roulette chips on one number. Others see it as a no-cost bet. But people who believe Christianity is true (as opposed to those who see it as a respectable lifestyle) don’t see it as a bet at all. They agree with Stephen Verney, who wrote that “faith is being grasped by a truth which confronts you and which is self-evident and overwhelming, and then trusting yourself to the reality which you now see”.

This is, I suppose, an irritating viewpoint to those who don’t believe and would prefer the matter to be settled in a “rational” way. But the coming together of faith and reality is a powerful thing.

To many people, Christmas consists largely of a temporary suspension of disbelief. And despite a few high points, this can only end in disappointment. Fooling ourselves can be fun on the kind of superficial level that occupies us most of the time, but how much more exciting if the essence of Christmas were actually true.

Is it a coincidence that all the great stories in world literature are about sacrifice, salvation and redemption? That is what really grips and moves us, until we return to reality. Unless of course we have it wrong: maybe we’re returning from reality when we put those stories aside and concentrate on the mundane horrors of making a living.

Reality and belief are intertwined. Don’t be fooled by the tinsel.

Lost and found

Out on a limb,
like desperate travellers looking for somewhere to stay
like lonely shepherds in the dark
like a young girl suddenly with child
like wise men laughed at, following a wild idea

we are lost in a shapeless world
waiting for something to happen
out of step with time

unaware of the resting place
and the angels
trying to see through the pain
something in the shape of a star

until at the perfect moment, just off the beat,
the sound of singing
or a knock on the door,
a safe delivery:

as if we had found something lost
like a coin or a sheep
or someone sleeping in a field:

someone who, on closer inspection,
appears to be us

Landscape of the Baptism of Jesus

Here in the centre is the River Jordan,
boundary between past and future,
war and peace:
deep enough

and there, in the same picture,
the Dead Sea,
white like a sepulchre

If you look closely you can make out
a path going down
from Jerusalem to Jericho

and a Samaritan
off to one side

There are churches in Bethany,
old and new, like caves
for resurrection

Through the mists of time
the walls of a monastery
and St John, gazing upwards

seeing something
outside the landscape
away from the dusty Judean desert

away from Bethlehem,
away from the blinding light
away from the voice

that bursts out of the picture
and at the same time into it

The dove is hard to see
but the baptism remains,
undeceiving the eye

[This poem was written after a visit to the Salvador Dali Foundation at Figueres and a church next door to it, where I was struck by a large picture with the same title as the poem. It was a bleached-out  landscape, at the same time real and surreal, past and present.]