Information has been weaponised and is being used against us by those who stand to gain from mass confusion. The question is, how are we going to defend ourselves?
Imagine truth has been deliberately buried under a great pile of rubble by a group of people so distracted by greed they are willing to sacrifice the viability of life on earth for the sake of a few extra golf clubs on the (rapidly disappearing) Florida coast.
The rubble is made of tabloid propaganda, fake news, misinformation, half-truths, spin doctors, Nigel Farage, Boris Johnson, Vladimir Putin, Katie Hopkins, most of the internet. The pile of rubble is as vast as a mountain range. Navigating a path through the rubble without falling off the mountain is one of the great challenges of our time.
T S Eliot famously wrote that ‘Humankind cannot bear too much reality‘. This is presumably why the Daily Mail is so popular. It’s also where drugs come in. But now is no time for getting wasted. Our overheating, war-torn planet needs us. It is us. As the late, great John Berger wrote: ‘Reality is all we have to love. There’s nothing else.’
The only information that can’t be weaponised and used against us is the truth that comes from direct personal experience. Digging for truth among the rubble of lies can be a lonely business. This is where books come in.
Books cut through the loneliness. Books take no notice of time, distance or borders, even the ones that exist between life and death. As the author Johnathan Safran Foer wrote in a recent article for The Guardian ‘A book is the opposite of Facebook.’
If virtual reality is a space owned and managed by mass-murdering corporations, who act as gatekeepers and tax collectors, books represent the open-access land of the imagination. You can pitch a tent anywhere in literature and make it yours. There is no ongoing subscription, no data handed over and sold behind your back, no passwords, nuisance emails and expensive updates, no space for advertising. No up-to-the-minute technology, at eye-watering prices. Just some old trees sliced into pages to make a container for a story, or a poem, or an essay.
I have a friend who is younger than me. She gets anxious. It’s one of the reasons I like her. Frankly, if you’re not anxious right now then you’re not paying attention. Late one night we were drinking gin and talking about anxiety and I was rambling on about books and how they help me and my friend asked me to write a list of books I thought might help her.
The following five books constitute the first installment of this list. They are all books of essays. Essays, being short and full of arguments, are a good way back into reading if you’ve re-wired your brain for the benefit of mass-murdering corporations. Think of these essays as ammunition. Use them when the gin wears off and the money runs out and you find yourself embroiled in a difficult chat with someone who thinks the Daily Mail is a newspaper. Use them for love, comfort, truth and solidarity.
1 / Teaching a Stone to Talk by Annie Dillard (Harper Perennial, first published 1982)
This small book deals with all sorts of big subjects, from polar exploration to weasels (‘We are here on the planet only once, and might as well get a feel for the place’) but the subjects don’t matter. Annie Dillard could write about the inside of my filing cabinet and it would be spellbinding, for ‘We are down here in time, where beauty grows.’
Annie Dillard is the reason I hardly ever publish anything on this blog. I have her words taped to my desk: ‘What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?’
Not much, as it goes.
2 / The Practice of the Wild by Gary Snyder (Counterpoint, first published 1990)
This was my bible when I was alone and terrified in the High Pyrenees. I read these essays – on walking, language, wilderness, change – over and over again, lying in my tent while thunderstorms crashed around the mountains. Gary Snyder became my excuse for being lost: ‘There are paths that can be followed and there are paths that cannot. It is not a path. It is the wilderness.’
Gary Snyder was the inspiration for Japhy Ryder in Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums. While the rest of the Beat Generation mostly drank themselves to death, Snyder dedicated his life to thinking, writing and ‘constantly walking.’
It was Snyder who wrote that ‘In western civilisation our elders are books’.
This book is one of my elders.
3 / Small Wonder by Barbara Kingsolver (Faber, first published 2002)
The title ‘Small Wonder’ refers to the sad inevitability of the attack on the twin towers in the context of American foreign policy, and to the miracle of life and all the small wonders of nature (which we are in the process of destroying).
Barbara Kingsolver’s novels achieve a rare thing, balancing story and polemic, taking difficult subjects (McCarthysim, the execution of Trotsky, the assassination of Patrice Lumumba, climate change) and turning them into fat novels you can’t put down. Her standing within the literary world and politics is such that she was invited to lunch with Obama shortly after Trump’s inauguration.
In this book of essays she reminds us to keep digging for truth, precisely because the mass-murdering nature-bashing corporations would rather we gave ourselves up to confusion: ‘What is new is that we know so much about the world, or at least the part of it that is most picturesquely exploding on any given day, that we’re left with a desperate sense that all of it is exploding, all the time. As far as I can tell, that is the intent and purpose of television news. We see so much, understand so little, and are simultaneously told so much about What We Think, as a populace polled minute by minute, that it begins to feel like an extraneous effort to listen at all to our hearts.’
But we must, and reading Barbara Kingsolver helps.
I wish she was my granny.
4 / Hold Everything Dear: Dispatches on Survival and Resistance, by John Berger (Verso, first published 2007)
If I had to pick a favourite out of all the hundreds of writers I love, it would be John Berger. I love his sparse and painterly style. I love his courage and sense of adventure. I love his unflinching gaze. I love his endless optimism: ‘The multitudes have answers to questions which have not been posed, and they have the capacity to outlive the walls.’
This is a book about despair in the age of Iraq and George W Bush: ‘HOW MUCH LONGER GLOBAL POWER IN D NUMB HAND OF DOSE WHO KNOW NUTHIN?’
But it’s also a guidebook for survival, articulating the questions we’re all asking, in our various languages, with ever-increasing urgency: ‘People everywhere – under very different conditions – are asking themselves – where are we? The question is historical not geographical. What are we living through? Where are we being taken? What have we lost? How to continue without a plausible vision for the future?’
He shows us what resistance looks like, and what giving in looks like: ‘Nihilism is resignation before the contention that Price is all. It is the most current form of human cowardice.’
John Berger died on 2nd January, 2017. His last words were published in a small book of ‘notes’ called Confabulations: ‘We will learn how to wait in solidarity. Just as we will continue indefinitely to praise, to swear and to curse in every language we know.’
5 / A Branch from the Lightning Tree by Martin Shaw (White Cloud Press, first published 2011)
Martin Shaw is a mythologist, and this is not so much a book of essays as an introduction to myth and how we need it in our lives. It was written after Shaw spent four years living in a tent on the side of a mountain in Snowdonia; it’s for anyone who gets anxious wandering the barren desert of work-sleep-telly-buy-consume, everyone who yearns for something different: ‘If you don’t want to be Crazy Horse, Boudicca, or Pablo Neruda, stop reading now. It’s probably best we nip this relationship in the bud. This is a book about teasing out the mischievous, solitude-loving, flamboyant, sorcerous, arms-extended-into-the-inky-blackness singing songs of the lost-highwayman aspect of your nature.’
I loved the stories: ‘After more treacherous journeying, Anga came to a towering mountain, so high your eyes would strain and go blind if you tried to see the top of it.’
I loved the commentaries: ‘One hit of DMT will blow the castle doors open in seconds and precipitate a chemically engineered free-fall into a Persian garden. As we congratulate ourselves on having plunged straight into Ceridwen’s cauldron, we would do well to remember our fathers turning to the whiskey cabinet and gazing at sunsets through the castle gates.’
It gave me a new way of looking at old problems: ‘Another larger interpretation is that the planet itself may be trying to awaken us from the thing that Eats and Consumes All. In this case the listener by the door is a tsunami, a flooded New Orleans – something that in the cold light of day says, “For Christ’s sake; don’t you hear the sobbing of your beloved?”
In 2016 I was lucky enough to have the chance to hear Martin Shaw tell a story and talk about his work. Times are dark and troubled, he said. And when times are dark and troubled there’s only one thing to do: make beauty.
And if you’re wondering what I’ve been making, search for Andy Mac on NTS radio, play the mix and wait for the owls.