Trying to take a mythical, long view

Titian Europa
Titian, The Rape of Europa (1562)

Like the rape of Helen by Paris, this is an act of sexual coercion with historically portentous consequences: Europa’s rape will literally give rise to Europe. From her union with Jupiter, Minos will be born, and the most ancient of European civilizations on the island of Crete. Her brother Cadmus, the inventor of writing, will search for her, and found the great ancient city of Thebes. The painting records no less than the birth of civilization.
(Stephen J. Campbell)

I am reflecting on the result of the EU referendum. Whatever the motives of the individuals who voted to leave the EU (and I don’t share the view of some on the left that the “leave” vote will deliver opportunities to chip away at the global neoliberal hegemony), the rhetoric of the official campaign unapologetically exploited a spectrum from xenophobia to racism. This leaves a bad taste in the mouth. I want to start washing that out with some thoughts about myth and the British mind.

The “natural” [English-language] national myth ought to have been Arthurian – as Malory, Milton, Tennyson or T. H. White variously supposed. Did, for Britain, the major Christian legends and typologies not lie to hand as they did on the Continent of Europe? What Faustus after Marlowe in English literature is there to be set beside Valéry’s or Bulgakov’s or Thomas Mann’s? What Don Juan except Byron’s? No, it is to Achilles and Odysseus, to the “topless towers of Ilium” and the shores of Ithaka, it is to “deep-browed Homer” that English-language sensibility turns and returns, incessantly, as if striving to appropriate to itself, to the native genius, material already, by some destined or elective affinity, its own.
(George Steiner, ‘Homer in English’)

Steiner notes the same lack of a native mythology that Tolkien wanted to address, but if we have appropriated the Greek, do we need another? (England, of course, never embraced the Celts.) Our mythology is Greek, our early literature is Scandinavian, and our longest-established religion is from the Eastern Mediterranean. But it seems this cultural openness has always been accompanied by suspicion, see Horace, who, in the first century BC, described Britons as hostile to strangers (Ode 3.4, a trait recently discussed by Edith Hall). This mind-body dualism finds its political analogue in the forty-eight/fifty-two per cent split of the referendum vote.

One of the uses of myth is to shore up social or national identity, and the global mythology of our literature is countered by the folk figures of John Bull, Britannia, and a recently deified Churchill. But these figures seem fixed in the public imagination: unlike mythical beings, their stories do not admit change and metamorphosis. Marina Warner surveyed the development of Britannia as a national figure and finds a peculiar, and still recognizable paradox in James Thomson’s ‘Rule Britannia!’: ‘The rhetoric exposes the tension between the Britannia who upholds the freedom of democracy […] and the Britannia who herself brings nations under subjection’ (Monuments and Maidens, 46).

But a living mythology should not be stuck and backward-looking, it should ease transition. In fifth-century Athens, Aeschylus had Orestes speak a charter for a new political arrangement: pledging the military assistance of Argos alongside Athens (Eumenides, 762-77). It’s a pledge of union, of unity after monstrous bloodshed. Alas, like the EU, the union is destructively imperfect: if the ideal of the EU is, in part at least, to keep peace within the union, the Oresteian parallel of plenty of war beyond the borders (Eumenides 858-66) is also revoltingly apposite.

In seeking the strength to combat fascist propaganda, why not look to the apocalypse? (apokaluptein is, literally, ‘to uncover’.) Myths of the apocalypse invariably culminate in a rebirth, reminding us of the circularity of existence. What seems dismal now is not eternal. This is the aftermath of Ragnarök (in a rather selective translation from Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, by C. Fee and D. A. Leeming):

The earth will rise from the deeps again one day, green and blossoming, and crops will flourish where none were planted. A new sun will take the place of her mother, and a number of gods will return to the ancient ruins of Asgard, led now by Baldr. Lif and Lifthrasir will survive to renew the race of men: they will have hidden themselves securely in Yggdrasill’s embrace, and the fire of Surt will not scorch them: they will survive on the morning dew, and keep watch through the branches above them for the new sun rising. And thus, through its death, the world will be born again.


University of Dreams

University of Dreams – Talk and exhibition opening, University of Essex, Tuesday 3 May 2011

From the blurb:

The University of Dreams is a creative project […] that called upon all members of the University of Essex, from each campus, and from every area of work, study and play, to share their dreams. The project caught everyone’s imagination and in a two week period in February over 120 dreams were submitted.

We now invite you to attend the opening of an exhibition which offers a window onto the dream-life of the University. Excerpts from the submitted dreams will be displayed alongside photographs, CCTV footage and sound recordings of the Colchester Campus at night-time.

The dream-descriptions displayed in the exhibition made me regret slightly my decision not to submit my own dream (which I did on the grounds that it was too personal, too much a part of me, even though they were anonymously collected). As I consumed the very high quality nibbles and some decent seminar wine, I bumped into a few old faces, and as we were ushered in to hear the talks, I sat on a bank of seats in the middle of what felt like an intoxicating collision of past, present and future.

The first talk was by Marina Warner: a reliably eclectic rumination on the One Thousand and One Nights. This was followed by Iain Sinclair’s circular talk around Claybury, Clare, Hackney, the M25, and so on. I was amused by Sinclair’s remark that his wife dreams his work before he does it.

Birch, photo by Lynne Pettinger, taken from
Birch, photo by Lynne Pettinger, taken from Will Montgomery’s website

Next was the slideshow of Lynne Pettinger’s photographs with Will Montgomery’s recordings of the campus at night. Both emphasized the industrial / brutalist side of the campus over the lakeside / Constable-country setting. I was particularly struck by a photo of the shadow of a railing protruding from a larger shadow.

The event ended with a poetry reading from two poets with old Essex connections. Ralph Hawkins’s rather surly reading style was ultimately endearing. Jeremy Reed did his best to alienate. He boasted about his friendship with the singer from the Libertines, was rude about everyone present, with the pointed sycophantic exception of Iain Sinclair. He was dressed in the old fart’s r’n’r uniform of dark blue jeans, converse trainers, black jacket, beret with curls of hair carefully flicked in front of his eyes. Needless to say, he kept playing with his hair. He read a poem called ‘Why the Rolling Stones are so skinny’, but preposterously made reference to a 30 inch waist: good lord, that is fat for a post-war junkie. But the thing that really bothered me about him was the way that he had these scraps of paper he was using as bookmarks, and he just tossed them on the floor and didn’t pick them up when he left. I can’t stand that aristocratic mentality that thinks it’s really rock n roll to expect cleaners on minimum wage to tidy up in their wake.

Still, the dreams were good.