Byzantium

Yesterday I began to assemble the final framework, a ten-year accounting of the work of the College of Wyverns from 1997 to 2007. In essence, these years constituted the final period of my 40-year wandering in the early world, and placed me in position to see something of the vision of William Butler Yeats.

It was in 1886 (yes, there's that year again!) that Yeats began to expound his terrifying, romantic, and painfully sad vision of the Celtic twilight. That was his public mythology, one of the seeds of a renaissance in humanity's remembering of the Irish world. In his private mythology, he spoke of Byzantium, the heart of the Eastern Empire of the Roman Age. In his Sailing to Byzantium, he wrote

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
—those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

Yeats's Byzantium suffered from the slow ossification of excellence; the Emperor drowses on his throne while the soul dies wrapped in trappings of gold and silver. The Byzantium of Yeats is of course not the city known as Constantinople and then as Istanbul; rather, it is a confabulation—something like M John Harrison's Viriconium. Eventually, the story painted gets more and more fantastic, and only the lone poet is able to tell what is true. To do that, he must rewrite the story and in doing so, he destroys the dream.

Some of us prefer, like Yeats, to hang on to both: we try to preserve the vision as well as the mission of the ancient founders, while pointing out how far we have fallen. It is the pointing-out that terrifies the heavily-invested. Once the Emperor is shown to have no clothes, or is at best Yeats's "tattered coat upon a stick" towards the end of days, the barbarians are but one step away. It is hard to dream dreams; it is harder and much more painful to dream reality.

Small Places

I remember a long time ago when I was about six and I read the immortal textbook line, "Atoms are mostly empty space." The idea of space being empty had never crossed my mind, somehow. In real life, what we call 'empty space' in our living environment tends to contain stuff like dust, air, light, and the presence of life. Even if it were physically empty, it would be full of psychological depth, or fear, or night, or darkness, or something.

It's only much later in life that you find out about the small places.

The small places are those things that live in empty space, thus making it apparently not empty. But they don't exist except as psychological or mystical constructs, and it's hard to prove they ever were. Some small places are actually huge realms, but extremely compressible without loss (since the information content is tenuous at best, there can't be any loss). Such are the myriad Golden Ages of humanity, the secret alleys of the old cities, the mythical stations of the world's underground transit systems, the bookshops that you see only once and never again.

I encountered all four of these one windy winter morning in north London. It was during the time that I met my godchildren, who were still small and young and tender and very creative people. (Now, they're bigger and older and tougher but even more creative.) I decided to go for a walk down the road to Highbury, the heart of that wonderful 1886 football club, Arsenal.

On the way there, I found a large old bookshop, full of ancient F&SF books of all kinds. It was opposite the Highbury underground station, and I walked in and was very happy to purchase a couple of books. I promised myself I'd come back for a longer visit on the way back.

I walked back later. I never passed the bookshop again, even though it was along the main road and large and visible. Heh.

Midweek Football Ruminations

If football be the love of food, play on;
I have excess of it, forfeiting
An appetite that sickens, so do I
Refrain again.

I have been watching way too much English Premier League football. I see that now. I have had a love-hate relationship with it for years. Grainy black-and-white Division One footage was my mainstay in the long and boring weekend afternoons. I supported Liverpool when I was young and knew no better. Ray Clemence's steady acrobatics between the sticks, Bruce Grobelaar's steady antics anywhere except between the sticks... I wondered at times why I ever supported a team which only seemed to run on interesting goalkeepers, and with Bruce I sort of gave up.

For a brief spell, I supported the quixotic behaviour of Nottingham Forest. I suppose I had dreams of Robin Hood and stuff like that. Well, least said is best.

I've been an Arsenal fan since the 1996/97 season I think. (I have always had an affinity for creative teams founded in 1886, like Coca-Cola and Mercedes-Benz.) The thing that caught my eye was not at first style and passion and all that stuff, but the fact that a team named Arsenal would have a coach named Arsène. A decade later, I am a great fan of Mr Wenger.

Wenger was born in 1949 (yes, he will be 60 next year, along with Billy Joel), a younger son who grew up to have an undistinguished playing career. He eventually surfaced with degrees in engineering and economics, and a manager's diploma. This was where his career really took off. Wandering around the world and ending up in Japan, he developed a sound resumé by displaying unflappable Gallic cool, an intellectual streak, and a penchant for rigorous philosophy backed by the test of hundreds of football matches. Eventually, he reached England.

Not many gave him a chance at first, but he proved his mettle by taking charge subtly and firmly. He never insulted his predecessors nor his players. He worked with the stingy and physically brutal 'boring, boring 1-0 Arsenal' sides of his earlier years and also with the 'Unbeatable' 2003/2004 side that lost no games. Along the way, he won over the fans and even had an asteroid named after him. He has received France's highest civilian honours and accolades from round the world. And his management style, while open to some criticism, could certainly not be worse than that of many other world-class leaders.

Most of all, Mr Wenger has shown competence, fairness and stability in all his dealings. I am sure he has had a few lapses here and there; most of these have been at those junctures where competence, fairness and stability clash. He has had to be ruthless in building up his side repeatedly after the loss of key senior players, but he has always been consistent in nurturing the young into leaders, movers and shakers. He is not one for drama or Byzantine dealings.

This midweek, surfeited with football, I reflect on Liverpool and Arsenal. I have long been a fan of Liverpool FC and never of its managers; I have long been a fan of Arsène Wenger, and also of his club. When the two meet in battle, I find it hard to be partisan; when the two battle other foes, I am firmly in the red.

Service

My lineage has served the old institution since 1886. But the terms of our service go back, in some historical sense, to 11 August 1755. On that day, in a French church at Spitalfields in London, John Wesley led a mass dedication to the service of God. Tonight I was listening to a somewhat pared-down version of that great dedication. I compared this in my mind with the original words:

Christ hath many services to be done, some are more easy and honourable, others more difficult and disgraceful: some are suitable to our inclinations and interests, others are contrary to both; in some we may please Christ and please ourselves, as when he requires us to feed, and clothe ourselves, to provide things honest for our own maintenance, yea, and there are some Spiritual duties that are more pleasing than others; as to rejoice in the Lord, to be blessing and praising of God, to be feeding ourselves with the delights and comforts of Religion; these are the sweet works of a Christian.

But then there are other works, wherein we cannot please Christ, but by denying ourselves, as giving and lending, bearing and forbearing, reproving men for their sins, withdrawing from their company, witnessing against their wickedness, confessing Christ and his Name, when it will cost us shame and reproach: sailing against the wind, swimming against the tide, steering contrary to the times; parting with our ease, our liberties, and accommodations for the Name of our Lord Jesus.
Sometimes, it seems to me that there is not so much service as acquiescence to slavery. A genteel and civilised slavery, to be sure, but one nevertheless – and inextricably linked to the modern democratisation of the intellect. How so? By offering service to all and sundry just because service is seen as an end unto itself, we are debasing the idea of deliberate and considered service. Service is an active act of bending the knee to receive a load; it is not the act of bending the knee alone (which oddly enough is called lip service), and neither is it the mere act of bearing a load.

Service is a fierce defence of the right to act for another, for that other's good. Service is a terrible pleasure, in which you may not necessarily (and often will not) please yourself. Service can be a disgrace, in which you might yet be surprised by grace. And service is not something in which you begin by making your own terms and conditions. If it is to serve, it is to serve without hedge or constraint. One modern reading can be found here.

In a later post, I will write about those who serve with me – my friends and colleagues. Tonight, I will be alone in the chapel of my head.

Adversity Creates Success

I have been a fan of the old 'canonicals' for years. Founded in 1886, that group of mavericks continues to enthrall under the leadership of their foreign manager. Recently though, their form has seemed rocky at best. They have lost a formidable champion for a while, their board looks shaken up, the manager seems less than convincing on the issue of taking money in from outside... the list goes on.

It was with great joy, therefore that I watched a stupefied imitation of this part of my Western heritage trail stagger around blindly for one whole afternoon, almost lose it totally, and then recover in regal fashion to trounce the heathen on our home ground. While there are those who will still say, "Better Red than dead," I will continue to say that we are still much alive and that the best is yet to be. We might even beat the Blues. Ha.

Ars Magna, Vita Brevis

Yes yes, this is an utterly pagan Easter night post.

As everyone knows, I am a loyal and extremely patriotic adherent of a venerable institution founded in 1886. It has won many awards and medals over the years, and its fan base is wide - covering several continents and many other cities besides its own. My blood flows freely in its colours.

The problem is that this institution can be so much greater than it is. It has everything: young and enthusiastic talent who contain world-class award-winners within their ranks, a developmental system touted as holistic and complete, management once considered enlightened and academically supreme. But it is not indubitably championship material any more. It tends to win enough to make pundits say that it might be the best, and then falter in certain key areas.

They have a brand-new expansion, costing millions in donations and investments. They will be paying off the creditors for years to come. The new site is huger than the old one by far. It should bring with it dominion and power, majesty, honour... argh, all right, I have gone too far and verge on blasphemy now. For the new site has recently been the venue of horrible defeat at the hands of the enemy.

It is an unhappy situation for me. It makes me suffer. I remain loyal and patriotic. I will not let go of this old lady who has provided me with so many thrilling experiences over the years. Yet I am sad, I am hurting. We have become the laughing-stock of millions, our captain appears to be out of the action for months at a time (and even when active, seems a little out of sync with everyone else despite his native talent).

But what can I do? I have suffered long enough as a fan of Arsenal FC. This venerable North London football club has seen highs and lows, and to be truthful, is not doing as badly as it might. It is currently fourth in the English Premier League. Manchester United and Chelsea, however, have an insurmountable lead. And Bolton and Everton are not far behind. Let's not talk about Liverpool though. And we lost to West Ham 0-1 at Emirates Stadium yesterday. Woe, woe, woe.