Directory of Lost Causes (By Quentin S. Crisp)

He's Got a Little List

It is symptomatic of the dilatory way in which this blog is written – and in which my life generally is lived – that this particular blog entry was conceived some weeks ago when I happened to watch The Last Night of the Proms on television one evening. That must have been the 11th of September.



I’ve never really been able to get a taste for classical music, though I have been interested and even tried to like it. However, as I grow older I find that my tastes change. In some ways they become more inclusive, in some ways they become less tolerant. For some reason, when Last Night of the Proms came on that night, I really wanted to watch it, though even someone like myself, who is hardly a connoisseur of the subject, can easily see that it’s a very populist form of classical music purveyed at the Proms. I suppose there was in my desire some hint of nostalgia for a middle-class England that I’ve never really been part of, but which is ingrained in the English consciousness through, for instance, the works of Dickens and some of his contemporaries. Somehow, Last Night of the Proms seems to be a kind of party in celebration of just that England – cosy drawing rooms and brandy and rosy-cheeked daughters of kindly doctors in waistcoats and... you get the general idea. It’s no accident that Land of Hope and Glory, Rule Britannia and Jerusalem are all regularly aired at the Proms. Anyway, I was watching the orchestra and the swaying drunken crowd in a warm vegetative state, when one of the guest singers gave a rendition of a song by Gilbert and Sullivan that particularly caught my attention. The song in question was As Some Day it May Happen from the opera The Mikado. There was a refrain that ran throughout about having 'a little list'. The rest of the song enumerated the kind of people who were on that list. The purpose of the list was not exactly clear, though mention was made near the beginning of 'a victim' that 'must be found'. I’ve not seen The Mikado, and I don’t know its plot. (I do know that no Japanese person in history was ever called ‘Nanki-Poo’ or ‘Poo-Bah’.) However, it seemed to me that the list was actually an assassination list; further, I was suddenly convinced that we all have such lists inside us, and that I had to articulate mine as a matter of some urgency.



The guest singer at the Proms had changed the lyrics slightly, and I decided that I would do the same. To this end, I looked up the original lyrics on the Internet. I found them to be quite lame. Maybe they had had a bit of bite at the time, but really, I couldn’t rally my bitterness and bile behind, "All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs". This satire itself had flabby hands – limp flabby hands that were like lettuce when you tried to grip them. What’s more, I just didn’t agree with the smug, jovial conservatism of most of the lyrics. There’s a reference to "the nigger serenader" which seems worrying, but is explained in footnotes as alluding to singers who would black up their faces a la Al Jolson. I’m ready to believe that, but when I hear another reference to "that singular anomaly, the lady novelist", it fails to tickle my ribs. If we reverse the dictum of Homer Simpson, "It’s not funny, because it’s not true." Rather, I can see the author of the line smiling to himself at his own 'brilliant wit', and I find it tedious.

While not particularly confident of my wit, I am at least confident of my venom, and I thought I could write a much better version of the lyrics in terms of bite than those flabby, floppy Gilbert and Sullivan fellows.

While I was contemplating this task, something rather synchronicitous happened, and the comments section of my blog, specifically the comments section attached to a rather melancholy post entitled 'The Dark Nights are Drawing In', was visited by a purveyor of rhyme, whose metrical response to my ponderous ponderings chimed in rather neatly with the idea of the lyric I wanted to write. I just about managed to respond in kind, and I hope that it provided me with a bit of limbering up for the 'big fight' with Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan. Anyway, here is part of the exchange that I had with my versifying visitor:

Lokutus Prime:

Your 'monologue', it seemed to me,
Lacked an ingredient - 'brevity'.
It looked as if your writing skill
Was used to show us how you "thrill"
Yourself, your ego, artistically
By utlising - dramatically -
A self-made 'prop' which, while macabre,
Reminds one of "Les Miserables"

It's clear you have an aptitude
For narrative, beyond the 'rude'
Employment of plain noun and verb,
But if your 'patron' - the late Quentin -
Were around to read your writ
He might suggest you use some "wit",
For no one, I suspect, much cares
For stories with depressive airs

Q:

Tempted as I am to try
To match your wit and versify,
I fear my version of the same
Would not add greatly to my fame.

If natural talents I possess,
Therewith my fellow being to bless,
They are talents not of wit
(Or not as most would notice it).

Are laughter, then, and talent one?
That most profound which is most fun?
Must talent, too, come easily,
As laughter does not come to me?

If there is mirth in what I do
It's recognised by those few who
Have felt such pain as I, such as the damned
Do feel when in Hell's gate their toes are jammed,

And this deep, everlasting pain
Does rise in spasms to their brain;
In madness do they laugh and cry;
In madness does my talent lie.

But enough of this limbering up. Without further ado, here are the lyrics to As Some Day it May Happen, as re-written by me:

Q:

As someday it may happen that a chance will come my way,
I've got a little list -- I've got a little list
To assassinate the evil swine who haunt my every day
And who never would be missed -- who never would be missed!
There's the Philistinic publishers who ceaselessly insist
That struggling writers their rear-ends do regularly kiss
And to whom a story’s wordcount’s more important than its soul
And who mock the artist but then flock like vultures when he’s cold
And all the morons who from buying trash do not desist
They'd none of 'em be missed -- they'd none of 'em be missed!

Chorus of Men:
He's got 'em on the list -- he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed -- they'll none of 'em be missed!

Q:

There’s the advocate of ‘progress’ whatever that word means,
And the vivisectionist – I’ve got him on the list!
In the pursuit of science he would splice his mother’s genes.
They never would be missed -- they never would be missed!
There’s the suit who bursts out laughing if you venture to suggest
Integrity in business dealings might be for the best
And advertising executives who think their work is art
And believe all real artists, must, like them, be tarts
And the swarm of modern artists who truly do agree with this
I don’t think they’d be missed! I’m sure they’d not be missed!

Chorus of Men:
He's got ‘em one the list -- he's got ‘em on the list;
And I don't think they'll be missed -- I'm sure they'll not be missed!

Q:
And self-satisfied actresses who say, “Because I’m worth it!”
And that Gates monopolist – I’ve got ‘em on the list!
And all men with a bulldog’s gonads where their brains should sit,
They'd none of 'em be missed -- they'd none of 'em be missed!
And politicians, naturally, only fit for plots and schemes
Who make us choose between their lies, and still they have sweet dreams,
And all God’s angels and the cosmic forces who presume
To rule us, judge us, toy with us, then lay us in the tomb
These are just a few of the bastards on my list
For they’d none of ‘em be missed – they’d none of ‘em be missed!

Chorus of Men:
You may put 'em on the list -- you may put 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed -- they'll none of 'em be missed!

While I was mentally engaged in re-writing this lyric – the rhythm was simple and regular, so I could do it in my head without too much difficulty as I went for a stroll, or something – it occurred to me that, actually, what I was proposing with such a list was something like, was, in very fact, a form of Final Solution. What it meant ultimately was that, these are the people or entities who should be sent to the gas chamber. I’ve had – and managed to forget – the same realisation before. And this realisation, not mine alone, seems to point to the fundamentally insoluble nature of the human problem. To put it another way, in solving the problem, I create the problem.

In his famous play, Huis Clos, Jean-Paul Sartre formulated the equation that Hell is other people. For many people this equation is manifest as xenophobia. "If only those foreigners weren’t here, there would be more employment, less crime, and life would be okay." And that is more or less the position taken by the likes of Adolf Hitler. For someone like myself, the equation 'Hell is other people' is manifest not in relation to ethnic groups, but in relation to certain types of behaviour, the types of behaviour enumerated on my 'little list'. However, I wonder if, imagining for a moment that I was in the position of Adolf Hitler, whether the result would be any different if I were to round up advertising executives rather than Jews.

Hell is other people – it is the basic inability of one human being to get on with a slightly, or greatly, different human being that has been the cause of most of our human problems. What can I say? War, crime, loneliness, addiction, segregation of all kinds. There are people who believe that, for instance, problems of racism have been solved. Of course they haven’t. The conflict and violence that is rife throughout the world is proof enough of that. While one human being can justify violence towards any other on the basis that they are different, that they are, in other words 'not me' or 'not us' racism exists, because this ultimately is the source of racism.

The liberal solution to all this is tolerance. We must tolerate each other. But that only works if everyone is liberal. In other words, the eternal dilemma for liberalism is, should we tolerate intolerance? Whether you tolerate it or not, intolerance will exist.

If, as a liberal, you decide not to tolerate intolerance, you have ceased to be liberal as such. You have, instead, chosen sides in a war. Liberalism simply becomes the banner you wave as you march into battle. Is this inevitable, I wonder?

When I read The Place of Dead Roads by William Burroughs, I was half horrified and half delighted to discover the concept of 'shiticide'.

Let me put on my Burroughs drawl for a moment:

"A wise old queen once said to me, 'Darling, some people are shits.' I have never been able to forget it."

In The Place of Dead Roads Burroughs puts forward the (modest?) proposal that we should "slaughter the shits of the world". Just how much Burroughs is playing devil’s advocate and how much he is sincere is difficult to tell, and probably beside the point. Here we have a perfect expression of the liberal finally getting fed up of tolerating others. It’s the old feeling of, "If only everyone else was as liberal as me, the world would be a wonderful place." Looked at another way, it’s a return to the child’s sense of injustice. "They started it!" might be the rallying cry of such a crusade. There’s a sense behind such anger of the incredible potential of the human race if only – if only!!!! – it were not held back by the greedy, the stupid, the spiritually myopic. Somewhere in there is the dream of a community of artists, supporting each other, caring for each other, being creative together. We could have that beautiful world IF ONLY it weren’t for the shits who insist on spoiling it all. And thus, shiticide. Of course, if you want to justify it with a kind of moral logic, you can’t. The contradictions are insurmountable. Still, that feeling of 'if only' calls. It’s a matter of just taking sides in the war, winning it – or, more likely, losing – and then, if you’re not dead, sitting down with a sigh of relief for a moment before getting up again to start building paradise.

But first, how do we identify who the shits are. I’ve made my list above. But what if the people are like have lists that disagree with mine. Do we just pool them? Then there’s the fact that, even if only my list were used for this imaginary revolution, it really looks like a case of destroying almost the entire human race. I don’t think the Utilitarians would approve. Okay, let’s look at Burroughs’ criteria for a moment. He seems to think, metaphorically or otherwise, that the human race has been infiltrated by Venusians. Now, this is an interesting idea, and one that I find simultaneously fascinating and just a bit disturbing, which is what I like Burroughs for, I suppose. Let me explain. I’m sure his choice of Venus and not Mars as the source of the alien invasion is very purposeful. What he is attacking is the romantic viewpoint. He is attacking the notion of Love, certainly as it is propagated within the Judeo-Christian tradition. Addiction is one of the main themes of Burroughs’ work, and in attacking the romantic notion of love he is attacking an addictive illusion. As he says elsewhere, "The face of evil is always the face of total need." And what is love, in its romantic aspect, if it is not need? The idea of love as a kind of sickness or corruption is not new. I’m reminded of a line from T. S. Eliot: "The heart is wicked and deceitful above all things." The quote is, in fact, echoed by Burroughs. Developing his interest in Egyptian mythology, Burroughs tells us in The Western Lands that, "[t]he Ancient Egyptians postulated seven souls." He begins to list the seven souls in order, giving a brief description of their properties: "Number Four is Ba, the heart, often treacherous. This is a hawk’s body, with your face on it, shrunk down to the size of a fist. Many a hero has been brought down like Samson by a perfidious Ba."




While this fascinates me, I’m beginning to worry that I might actually end up on Burroughs’ shiticide list. After all, I’m not entirely free of the disease of romanticism myself.

Let’s not worry about all this abstract theory. What do shits actually do? According to Burroughs, shits are basically those who can’t mind their own business. They support the notion of 'victimless crimes'. They are in favour of censorship and they want to spread their religion. I’m starting to feel a little safer. That’s easy enough. I certainly mind my own business. I’m off the hook. And, I really can’t argue with that criterion. If we’re going to commit shiticide then that’s the criterion it seems most logical to use. It’s like the old chestnut, "we’re free to do what we want as long as it doesn’t impinge on anyone else’s freedom."

Is it really that simple? I rather tend to think that I’m going round in circles here, as is the entire human race. The ideal of shiticide is very much like the ideal of Hitler’s final solution. Ideals destroy themselves. If we engage in shiticide, we cease to mind our own business.

I suppose I don’t really have to worry about this dilemma – and that means the people on my list don’t have to worry, either – because I’m just not the kind of person who is ever going to be in the position where I will have to make the decision of carrying my ideals to their logical conclusion. I’ve already made my position clear just by being who I am and NOT HAVING the power ever to put my list into action. Are you worried that I’m even thinking this deeply about it? Well, there’s another reason not to worry, for me, anyway, the human race will do the dirty work for me without me having to lift a finger. Buy more oil. Drive more cars. Wage more wars. It’s shiticide-suicide. And all that’s left is….

Hell is other people helis othei peple hell is other people heli is oterpeple HeLl is o ther peo pel hell iS other people hell is other people helll is aothte people hell is oathe people hell is other people hell is other people
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