“I say, I say… do you like Kipling?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never kippled.”
One
of the things you seem to enjoy about ARR is my penchant for inserting
quotations into the stories with the slightest provocation and at every
opportunity. I picked up this habit many years ago when I first
realised that I was in fact A Bear of Very Little Brain and could use
all the help I could get when it came to Profound Thoughts.
I’ve always read reasonably widely, and it occurred to me that many
of the conundrums (conundra?) and frustrations (frustratia?) presented
to me by everyday life had been experienced before, by others who could
usually express and deal with them far better than I could ever hope to
do.
Some, like the poet Robert Herrick, are pretty unfashionable while
others, like the poet Robert Zimmerman, are very fashionable indeed;
all are articulate and concise with their words (yes, I know, that’s
not something I’d ever be accused of).
Perhaps the most rewarding of those people has been Rudyard
Kipling, a figure either unfashionable or Disney-fied today but one who
well repays closer reading than he usually gets. He’s often
misinterpreted – the ‘lesser breeds without the law’ of the powerful
Recessional, for instance, are not the Third World’s native peoples –
but almost always has something relevant to say. Here’s one of his
lesser-known poems, and one particularly applicable to motorcyclists;
apart from being clearly relevant in the current Global Economic
Screwup, to me it addresses a tendency that’s all too common all around
us today. You know the one – it’s all ‘their’ fault.
The Gods of the Copybook Headings
Rudyard Kipling
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return.
Sounds like really good sense to me. Thank you, Mr Kipling…
Peter “The Bear” Thoeming
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