Literature and the Word
Verbal tradition gave sustenance to all societies, but as knowledge grew so did the need to record in order to be able to pass on what had come before. A cave painting may have been a representation of thought because in this image or word the spiritual took form and possessed the truth and reality of that which was depicted. Today there is evidence that as Egypt united and organisation and trade developed a method of recording was necessary and the pre-dynastic King Scorpion 3250 BCE may have ordered the creation of writing. Pictographic recording also appeared in Mesopotamia soon after and Cuneiform writing about 2400 BCE. The hieroglyph or sacred word appears to be the earliest organised system of passing on ideas, history and wisdom. A glance at history shows that just as in magic where the power of the word brings forth what is willed, so in Egypt, Ra by the word brought order from chaos, the God of Abraham brought forth creation by his word and for Christians the word was made flesh. The three great monotheistic religions of today are known as the people of the book. Ideas can unite and today can be shared with anyone on the planet who can find a bookshop, a library, have access to the internet, or can at least listen to a teacher.
Possibly the first words found appear inscribed on the tortoise shells from China which date back 8,600 years.
As long ago as
3340 years ago the Egyptian, Duauf, tried to encourage youth to read, for it is
the source of wisdom and promotes freedom of both soul and body. He
said 'I have seen
him that is beaten, you are to set your heart on books. I have beheld him that
is set free from forced labour - behold, nothing surpasses books.'
Left is Thoth, god of Writing and knowledge.
The Egyptians, apart from religious and scientific texts, also had their own literature or fiction much of which was for moral entertainment.
One of the most popular was the 'Story of Sinuhe' which can be found on several sites.
Papyrus and early writing materials.
Papyrus stalks were harvested from the banks of the Nile probably after April for the best quality. Apart from writing material it was also used for mats, ropes, baskets and light rafts. After removing the outer green skin the inner pith of the plant is cut into long thin strips which are pounded to break down the fibres and then soaked for three days in water until pliable. The strips are cut to length and laid on a piece of cotton fabric, which was also invented by the Egyptians. They are arranged in two layers, one horizontal and the other vertical with a small overlap. They are covered with another piece of cotton, placed between absorbent barriers, stacked and placed in a press where they are squeezed and left in the Sun. The absorbent layers are replaced every eight hours and after three to four days the papyri are dry and ready for use. Papyrus paper making was a state monopoly in Egypt and the method of its production was a closely guarded secret. Many efforts were made in various parts of the Mediterranean to find a suitable writing material and came up with the much inferior clay and wax tablets, lead sheets and parchment. papyrus had completely vanished from Egypt due to lack of cultivation and heavy silting in the marshes, lakes and ponds and had to be re-introduced and the method of manufacture had to be worked out as no records existed. Papyrus began to be made again in the 1960’s.
This was the first easy system of portable writing and lasted until the Arabs introduced the cheaper process of pulp paper making in the tenth century which they had learned from the Chinese. Legend says that Cai Lun invented paper in 105 AD, however archaeological evidence shows paper being used two hundred years before that. Chinese papermaking used the pulp of bamboo fibre which produced a fine quality paper.
Printing
The early Chinese and Koreans had invented printing by wood blocks,
which was a little awkward, but the first mass production of books for all began
in Europe with the invention of the printing press by Gensfliesch
zur Laden known as Johann
Gutenberg who was born in Mainz in the 1390s. His father worked with the
ecclesiastic mint so Guttenberg knew about metal casting and the trade of the
Goldsmith. They moved to Strasburg in 1411. He first appeared in a breach of
promise lawsuit in 1436. He had a partner Andreas Dritzehn who died and appeared
in another lawsuit by his partners relatives in 1439, having borrowed a
considerable amount of money for a development venture which the court documents
refer to as including lead and other materials which would be suitable for
printing. He developed his machine by adapting an olive press. At first they had
produced items for pilgrims to Aix-la-Chapelle and some suggest these may have
included printed indulgences. Broke he moved back to Mainz, borrowing yet again,
from Johann Fust and in 1456 he produced his 300 copies of the Latin Bible and
the world was forever changed. The first mass produced printed book was in
Gothic type, 42 line double columned, and decorated with coloured wood
cuts. Fust with his son in law, Peter Schoffer eventually took over the
Guttenberg's business and published his Latin Psalter in 1457 under their name
although Guttenberg had worked on it for years. Within fifty years 20 million
books had been printed. Guttenberg died in 1468.
Some Important words
We,
the people of the United
Nations
Determined to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war, which twice in our lifetime has brought untold sorrow to mankind, and
To reaffirm faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person, in the equal right of men and women and of nations large and small, and
To establish conditions under which justice and respect for the obligations arising from treaties and other sources of international law can be maintained, and
To promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom, and for these ends
To practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and
To unite our strength to maintain international peace and security, and
To insure, by the acceptance of principles and the institution of methods, that armed force shall not be used, save in the common interest, and
To employ international machinery for the promotion the economic and social advancement of all people. have resolved to combine our efforts to accomplish these aims.
Accordingly, our respective governments, through representatives assembled in the city of San Francisco, who have exhibited their full powers found to be in good and due form, have agreed to the present Charter of the United Nations and do hereby establish an international organisation to be known as the United Nations.
Done in the city of San Francisco, the twenty-sixth day of June one thousand nine hundred and forty-five.
Something I wrote in a letter some time ago
Writing is often difficult and perhaps one needs an overpowering love or experience, a profound loneliness or a crisis to give you something that just has to be put on paper. I have heard that according to the Oxford Companion to Depression that many writers are often very depressed people. I have found that at least a healthy melancholy sometimes helps focus your thoughts and thus I write when inspired with a feeling that the world needs my ideas, like a shout in the dark. This is not to say that the contents are depressing; just the opposite; they tend to be more uplifting, perhaps as a way of clawing one's way out of the mire. To date I have submitted only one book to a publisher. They were kind enough to say it was well written and very descriptive but "no thanks". Publishing was originally not the goal, but I so impressed myself that I soon felt that I would like to have it read by more than the thirty or so friends that have mostly enjoyed my efforts. Initially writing was a cathartic pastime, but as the characters evolved they took on a life of their own -almost a new group of friends. Perhaps each of them reflected a part of me or at least some characteristics that I dream or fear might be a part of me. The remaining dozen books I have begun are still being attended to occasionally and each grows steadily, but none has so far gripped me enough to take over my life. There is time though and I need not rush. It is only one of the many interests that occupy my time.
DANCE WITH THE SUN. ©2000
Below is a synopsis of my novel 'Dance With The Sun' that a friend kindly wrote some time back.
This book is about dreams, expectations and passions - an erotic tale of lusts and love and the frustrations of creativity and the misconstructions placed on its intent or meaning. A beautiful boy grows up in a family which encourages freedom of expression and opinion, which is unusual for the place (Brisbane) and the time (1950's and early1960's). His father is a painter and his mother an opera singer, and, as is common with an only child of such a union, the boy is allowed a relatively undisciplined life which is untouched by the moral restrictions of the time. These are encountered at school and cause some minor frictions which serve to reinforce the strength of the family and its liberal ideals. Sunny and his parents move to London when he is seventeen and the momentum of the boy's life begins to accelerate. Although Sunny has studied music, painting and dance, it is with this last that he chooses to express himself, possibly as an alternative to the careers of his parents. As is often the case with the undisciplined life of the child of artists, the coherent form of Sunny's creativity is often destructive and difficult to contain. The fantasy and subsequent reality of flight allows him the ultimate freedom, but at a cost to both him and a growing group of admirers. The story moves to Europe and develops a strongly religious tone as the theme of freedom and self-expression finds conflicts in the strictures of the church and society. A core of seven young men form around Sunny to allow this theme to develop and to provide a framework within which ideas of love, purity, decay and art are interwoven until finally an apocalyptic finale closes the drama and the dream. This book is a complex one dealing with many ideas in a style which is baroque and very musical. The recurring [paradox is that of the striving for perfect freedom in self-expression, but which ultimately ends in frustration. The fetters of discipline and self-control are shown to be a necessary part of the creative human spirit, and without these constraints the artistic soul screams in anguish and undirected rage. Perfect freedom and individual expression - are such things possible on this earth? It seems not, unless art and love are abandoned in flight. All this is expressed in musical or operatic tableaux in which recurring patterns of ritual, nudity, sex and dance group the players in various structures and patterns. Duets are harmonious or strident, passionate or tender and choruses and arias alternate in either crystal clarity or opulent confusion. It is a daring book, and one which reveals much of the author's own passions and desires. The flight of Sunny parallels the soaring spirit of mankind and contrasts in its elegant simplicity with the skills shown in writing a book of this magnitude. Freedom of spirit and imagination vie with the rigours of creative reality and thankfully we, the readers, are the ultimate winners.
and just a few words from the beginning of my novel which was once on my site in full, but I no longer have room for all 300,000 words
PRELUDE TO THE TALE.
Coincidence - Luck - Fate ...... I doubt I believe in any of them. Touched by the accidental passing of the spheres? I think not. Often I wish it was true, but having no faith in divine intervention either, I feel the need to accept that we are merely the products of our own accidents. For the mysteries of life, inevitably there appears to be no solid, logical explanation, or none that I have been able to fathom. Reasoned alternatives appear to come and go, but through this confusion I pray that my options will forever remain optimistically open, and if all is perhaps possible, then all surely will be possible. Like a turn of the dice we are tossed into the game and whether we are winners or losers is no more than a subjective interpretation of the outcome. It is possible that God may intervene on a whim, the pantheon of gods, both old or new, may bicker over their control, the magician may conjure his tricks, and the madness in us all will haphazardly create what it will. Internally and externally we may be pushed and cajoled into action by our passions and guilt, the phantom forces within. More pathetically we may be manipulated, puppet-like, by the sweep of circumstances outside our control, but then again, is all of this no more than an uncontrolled, unconscious, reaction to what we perceive. Is chaos taking control? Can the beat of a butterfly wing cause the mountains to crumble on the far side of the earth? Can a simple careless human act cause unintended pain, or spark unrelated, unjustified joy in those close by, or even those far removed from us? Is our life changed, redirected, perhaps willingly dominated by the insignificant? So insignificant, that it is beyond or beneath definition. Whether great or small each man's story (destiny?) is most certainly complex. Do we ever really understand the workings of our mind? Can any of us confirm the certainties of a single existence other than our own? Should we bother?I know, because the newspapers trumpeted so, that John Wayne, a most unconvincing actor, changed his religion, no doubt impulsively, but somewhat spectacularly, on his deathbed. Also, according to what we can understand from stories in the Bible, Judas seemed more than a trifle confused as to which way he would turn. In fairness, I too, should be allowed a little wavering indecision in such matters, all matters. Often it is so obvious to us, what are definite intentions and unavoidable influences, and then suddenly, without warning, and just as clearly, the reverse overwhelms us. Black unfolds to white; right becomes wrong; lead changes to gold; truth turns out to be a lie and our forever-fragile confidence is undermined again.
Often we stubbornly acknowledge only what we want to see, but I believe we must also attempt openness to the suggestion that some visions are real, and like it or not, the inspiration is meant to be. Simply and obviously, fact. Confusing, but it does make life interesting to have an open mind. What a stimulus it is, to draw on what may be only fantasy, when all is dark or unclear, and the need arises to lift ourselves out of the shadowy fear of uncertainty. Most certainly it would be dull if we did not allow ourselves to sometimes imagine life to be a fairy tale; extraordinary, beautiful, and surprisingly wonderful. From our childhood, we can all of us recall that fairy tales and pantomimes, although simplistic, and apparently preordained, do often have a dark, unsettling or tragic side. What cruel, but necessary training for our future this is. Our experiences are wide, and perfection elusive. It is such a grand game we play, if imagination is given the freedom to bend the rules.
What stories we can all tell. None of us have been totally isolated from the glories of life around us. It is just that some of us see them differently, or unfortunately, often fail to notice them at all. Adventures are being created at every moment. Some are true and some could have, or should have been true. Even history can become jumbled in the collective memory of us all, and from this the imagination can define us. An old, French philosopher once said "I think, therefore I am." Not bad! A storyteller could just as easily say "I thought, therefore it is." Much depends on our ability to believe, or our thirst for unknown adventures. Do we have a willingness to take the courageous leap into a reality of our own or someone else's making. A lie or a fiction can be a truth if we believe it to be so. Just as readily the truth can sometimes not seem possible. Perhaps all is true, if it appears true enough in the mind. Our life, or what we make of it, is governed by its own reality, informed or otherwise, hence I am not only prepared, but I am anxious to accept the fantasy, and the reality. Sometimes though, I am not clear as to which is which. Madness or sanity, strength or stupidity, or is it perhaps balanced precariously, if not ominously, in between.
Whatever the reality is, the one thing that has become clear to me is that there does appear to be a balance and a harmony in all that is thought and all that happens. For all that is good there is almost always an alternative, slashing away at us that can be harsh and bruising. In just the same way for all that is confused and agonising, if we are capable of taking a sideways step, often a small step, we have the possibility of finding another avenue to relieve us of the pain of the mire within which we find ourselves. Each and every action can be balanced with the choice of an alternate path. The only danger of such freedom of choice is that if we become obsessed with trying every alternative for the sake of it, we can in confusion, lose sight of that which can give us the most benefit. An event, which may initially confound us, is better examined and savoured before we shy away, but experience alone is not necessarily progress. By all means, I still believe we should try everything we wish to, but we must choose to accept, as well as choose to change. Confidence in one's judgement is essential. We may only be given one chance. Like a faithful guard of our own future we must take the responsibility and be vigilant in recognising the right when it appears over the horizon. Separate and accept. Make a choice. We have no other way. Take chances, but be careful. Above all be careful. Once again this sounds contradictory, but I have found the complexity acceptable.
A fantasy can enter your life at any time. As I suggested, we are capable of making it a part of us, we can reject it, or the other possibility is to use it as an inspiration to seek and create a further dream. I have a story that confounded me, surprised me and has changed me. Please do not pass judgement for I too have never been certain, but I have tried to be a good player.
****************************************
Anyway, I first saw him in Paris.
I had come out of the sublime darkness, and stone, still echoes of Notre Dame. Before me and beyond the square, spotted with bird droppings and anonymous tourists, was another grey and misty December day. I had travelled for three months alone, wandering the Continent looking for myself. In between the relics of history I thought I might be hiding. Soon, I knew that I must return home, but a voice, always a voice said, 'not just yet'. My mind was in a continual turmoil as I travelled from city to city, but, at that juncture I was momentarily inspired, compelled, even frightened into continuing the search that had so far proved fruitless. My desires had been unfulfilled, but yet they still possessed me with a force I could not deny. I wanted to be part of it, but which part, which role? What was the 'it' I longed to be part of? I was not even sure of that. The search was not new, for it had unhappily occupied most of my life in one place or another. I had searched through books, both fact and fiction, looked into religions, sought enlightenment in the passions of music, indulged in the breadth of creative arts, trekked across Asia, the Americas, and Europe. Now, three days before Christmas, I stood alone in a crowd, and still beautifully confused, at the centre of yet another foreign civilisation. I had become accustomed to the comfort of my excuse, my seeming failure; my life. At least I was looking, and I knew I would not give up. Convinced that this was good, I had actually grown fond of myself. A certain egotistical pride assured me that I was better off for looking. The mysteries were not solved, but I was alive. It would be fine. I would make it so. I wavered.
A cathedral, Gothic or otherwise, is the perfect place for being in close contact with the very deepest and most treasured, of human imaginings. Many of the ancient churches of Europe are unfortunately lit, promoted and displayed like toy palaces in Disneyland. They are full of bright lights and godless, but the French have more style, and the awesome darkness and cold shadows of Notre Dame created a profound personal experience that gave intimate privacy to my most hidden thoughts and desires. Contemplation of my past pleasures and my future fantasies had, for a few brief moments, stilled my mind as I ambled through the colonnades, and sat in silent corners staring at the flickering yellow candles dancing like an acrobat in front of the distant Virgin. The peace did not last, fear returned, the miracle did not come. I felt that my brain would explode if this self-obsession did not abate. Where am I? Who am I? I needed to breathe in the open and expel the ghosts from my head, but the air was so cold that my lungs hurt. I took a photograph, glanced up at the blue green neglect of Charlemagne straddling a horse's bronze arse, and I too turned my back on yet another place where I could not be found. My tired, heavy feet dragged me away despondent and angry, thinking that I could be doomed to wander this forsaken earth forever.
Was it hunger, tiredness or depression that made me feel ill? A pitiful, self indulgent, self-induced sickness had become my greatest security, my closest friend. I knew I was a great tragedy. I had begun to act out the life that gave me importance. How meaningful it had become to aspire to great mystery. The shambles of my life had been elevated to the performing platform where I knew it should be observed, even admired. Where was the chorus to chant my refrain? Would roses be dropped at my feet? 'Please Tragedy, can I have your autograph?'
Rugged up against the almost insufferable cold, I walked to the bridge intending to eat in some cosy, narrow, poster covered cafe on the Left Bank. I would visit the bookshops first and then from behind the childish safety of a glass window, I would settle in with some hot toasted cheese to read, drink and observe Paris passing before me. Who knows, I mused, perhaps I might one day see myself in the crowd. I wore no mask, but I, the great tragedian, could be recognised by the thorny crown and the tree thrown across my shoulders.
It was the period of self awareness; the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Men and women began to change their costumes. No more could there be satisfaction with selfishly gathering possessions in the cultural sterility of the suburbs. What good would it do? Any living Westerner had to find himself, because we were convinced that generations before us had all lost their way, altered the plot, and the world was being destroyed because of it. Most were of the age of the new generation, but some, like myself, had claimed a role, by choice and guilt alone. More properly I should have been one of the wretched self-flagellators, cast out and left trembling in the wings, but I wanted and needed to be part of the youthful renewal, the deafening chorus of change. I insisted that my life be lived in the present, denying my age to myself, if to no one else. The revolution of youth was, I decided, open to the young in spirit as well, and if anyone had failed to progress far beyond childhood, it was certainly I.
There was a barge floating along the Seine, so having never been down close to the river, I decided to take a look under the old stone crossing as the ancient, black, floating pile of rotting wood and iron pushed its way through. It was far from warm and, after huddling unsteadily against the damp of the grey stone wall for no more than a few short minutes, arms crossed in my long duffle coat, the comforting thought of a hot, and unfortunately expensive coffee was too much to resist. I decided to proceed to the Boulevard St. Michel before I froze, and my gloveless fingers turned blue or red with frostbite. Not knowing which, I made a mental note to find out the effects of severe cold. More trivia.
For no particular reason I felt an urge to glance up at the railing above. Overcome by this sudden compulsion to look for something as yet unknown, my eyes scanned the horizon to be soon confronted with a vision of such overwhelming, spontaneous beauty. My stare was met with a look so penetrating that I had an urge to call out and make contact. Not knowing how to react, I failed to do anything other than be entranced by this enigmatic face drifting above me. Our eyes locked and as each of us ambled quickly/slowly in opposite directions we remained united in a look that I will never forget; sad, searching and so full of every desire that I had known. My breath stopped as I fixed my gaze at my future. The face was not mine, but the world cried out that my search had ended. Apparently I did possess a mask. I suddenly saw it, as it fell away. Like the arrogant Paul being knocked from his horse on the way to Damascus by the force of inspiration, I was excited by the sudden revelation that I knew would change my life. From this moment I would look upon the world differently and the world would see another manifestation of myself. The actor had changed roles.
In an instant the apparition disappeared and I forgot what to do, or where I was. Had I seen that face? Who was he? Would I see the boy again? In a rush, thoughts flooded my mind. His life already mingled with mine as I felt his blood surge through my veins. My head began to spin. It was as if the blinding brightness of my miracle, had turned all to darkness. Stage fright. I had forgotten my lines.
For the remainder of my life those few brief seconds will be treasured as one of the truly romantic moments of my existence. My soul rejoiced in the knowledge that some major event had taken place, but I was unable to comprehend the impact of this transformation, this transfusion. Now there was something new to haunt me. Would life's composure be better or worse because of it? Already by instinct I began to worry. Habit told me that failure was possibly around the corner, but I, at the same time, felt the lightning had struck. Fear was suddenly irrelevant, because I knew I must take the chance. I would move forward. Inevitable was the future; unread but scripted.
Life obviously continued. Fifteen months later I opened the front door to some friends and standing there on the landing, looking somewhat ill at ease, was the Paris apparition. It was a face never far from my thoughts. The coincidence was hardly possible, but there before me stood my angel. Memories returned and within an hour, a few drinks, and a proud displaying of my photography, discussion led to Europe and Paris and our lives were eternally intertwined. His skin was darker than I remembered, and his hair a little sun
-bleached, but the boy was every bit as beautiful.At last we had come face to face. It is he, this passing phantom, who is the subject of this book. It is his life and interaction with the world that is the story. It is a boy's story, and his tale of beauty, sadness, confusion, surprises, and ugliness. It is a search for a place of meaning. You can not anticipate the stories that I will tell you. Some you may have read of and not believed, and others are known only to me, but I feel that they must be told. Perhaps we have all searched, but of you and your life I know not a single thing. He, I feel I know as well as myself, and that familiarity I treasure above all things.
I love this boy, this creation, this part of me. Please think of him as a friend, a lover, a father, or a son. Whatever you need, think of him that way, although I can not say for sure that you and I have the same definition of love. What love means has a subtlety, unique to each of us, but perhaps there is enough in common that we can agree on an understanding that suits us all. No two of us ever see exactly identical images, however if you can accept this boy into your dreams, I hope as the performance unfolds, that you will grow to know, and understand what is very dear to me
Adjust the mirror, open the curtains, and soon you may recognise his reflection, for are we not each reflected in the lives of those we contemplate? This said, I do still wonder is anything as it appears?
Updated
April 23, 2007
