At 71 years old, and with the inevitability of nothingness before me, I am about to give up – so far as novels go – sending MS off to agents and publishers. Even if they do read the synopsis and ask to see the MS it can be a year or more before a decision on the MS is made. More often than not, after repeated sendings-out, the MS doesn’t even find a slush pile to grace. And most times I don’t receive as much as a Thanks-But-No-Thanks response to my introductory email/letter.
So, with time the least I can now spare, from January 2018 I am going to self-publish on Kindle those novels already published but which I felt, their publishers not long after publication going out of business, didn’t get a fair chance at attracting a readership.
First to appear on Kindle will be Trees: The Tree Prospectus. Trees first saw light of day as an e-book courtesy of the German company, Safkhet Publishing. That was in the October. May the following year Safkhet ceased trading and their version of Trees was withdrawn from Amazon. This new version is a bigger book, comes complete with my illustrations – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B078R5C5R2
At present I have 4 other titles to follow during 2018. 2 of them will be republications and 2 – should I not in the meantime hear back from agents and publishers – will be brand sparkling new. One of them is even bigger than Trees. And inbetweentimes I’ll leave a few spare beginnings here.
2018 is going to be busy.
Plot One. On a frost-pattered morning here in a Welsh valley the first of these plots under consideration is a weekend country house gathering, a middle-age celebration of a birthday.
One of the presents gets stolen. Probably a piece of art, or china, but there on display one moment, gone the next. Say when all the celebrants go out for a hill walk together, house locked on departure, unlocked on return. Someone asks to examine the artefact, and so discover that it is missing.
Doubt now whether the house was truly locked, but certainly not broken into. Mystery gets chewed over but unresolved. Until morning, when the artefact is back where it was.
Title I played with was Dark Side of the Moon. Possibly the name of the artefact, but doubling as the ongoing speculation, all of the weekend friends remaining under suspicion. A sub-theme was to be setting the value of possessions against that of friendship.
Possible dialogue could be – partner of birthday person speaking – “It’s back. Does it matter now who took it?”
“’Course it matters. I have to know. Else how can I trust those who were here? Trust anyone of them? Even the thief. Without knowing they’re a thief. I have to know.”
That could be the prologue. Then, with the weekend over, the friends disperse back to their own houses, own lives. The birthday person, however, and of either gender, and despite still having the artefact, or because it is still there on prominent display, becomes fixated with not knowing who could have tried to steal it. Each chapter could be an analysis, various points of view, of each of the characters under suspicion.
“Not still going on about it?”
“They were our friends.”
“Were our friends.”
Plot Two. Another Dark Side, but different. Again a weekend plot, but in a decidedly wealthier house. So wealthy that the servants are taken for granted. Except that on this weekend as soon as all the guests have arrived the servants get sent away. The guests, couples all, have gathered for a weekend orgy. Although, being of their class, the orgy is not acknowledged as such.
Over dinner guests and host do talk of promiscuity, do advocate permissiveness, mention erotic books and films, joke about pornographic scenarios and moustachioed plumbers, about bed-hopping; but the conversation of a general nature, not referring to any of those present.
Throughout the weekend however there are various secretive recouplings. All part on the Monday and the weekend is never explicitly referred to again, nor is any attempt made to repeat it. Not out of shame but out of prudence and a sophisticated unease over arousing their partner’s basic emotions. Jealousy principally, but for some a fear of pornographic lust, which might have them stepping beyond the bounds of acceptable class-contained behaviour and tapping up their secretary, their gardener, or, perish the thought, a stranger on the tube, in the lift….
It’s that repressed urge of maybe a couple of them that I was thinking maybe to explore. That repression becoming increasingly difficult to sustain. Imagination, fantasy scenario overload. Imploding? A Dice Man who didn’t dare? A Zipped Up Jong?
Place Familiarity : another aspect of ageing (15th January 2018)
When younger what I wanted was to be invited, allowed into the places familiar to others – their streets, their houses, woods, fields, park. To know the places that knew them, and to know the places know the person.
Knowing wasn’t so easy.
I very soon learnt that I couldn’t know their perception of the place, what memories lurked by association in the thirty third passing stone, where their old den before last had been, who lived grumpily behind that garden hedge, the tree that had a cruel shadow….
Despite the impossibility of knowing, and being a pensioner now, I miss that I no longer have to go looking for day jobs, or go sneaking off to do removals on the black. So there’s probably no chance at all that I’ll ever open that door into that walled garden, won’t know what it’s like to work with robots in a warehouse, be a forklift driver, finger the code to go through the door that says, ‘Market Staff Only’.
Small loss maybe, in the time gained for writing and publishing, for catching up on my reading. And yet… and yet I sometimes wonder if retirement is foremost a denial of familiarity. No more workmate camaraderie, no routine breaks in the day other than those self-imposed. Could that be why some people, with a pension sufficient to meet all their domestic bills, to take them on foreign holidays, apply for any old job – security guard, shelf-filling – not so much to occupy their days or nights, but to be familiar with something other than the house they can return refreshed to?
I’m supposing that at one time or another we have all had awkward neighbours. Not just those neighbours we have found impossible to love, but the odd one or two who have been simply hateful, ridiculously aggressive, and have gone way beyond being unhelpful to performing small acts of spite. And that, a home under threat, has to be where these 2 plots had their genesis.
First plot relies on a sense of gathering menace. But begins with a silly row with a neighbour – over bins, a noisy party, a parcel lost? – the row ending with the neighbour threatening, “I’ll get you for this.”
This neighbour is completely beyond reason, beyond entreaty. “Can’t we,” our hero asks, “consign our differences to the past?”
“I don’t forget.”
The not forgetting is perpetuated by the baleful stare, the muttered threats whenever passed in the street.
“I don’t forget.”
Then come the small events – cat gets run over, a window broken, car damaged… The neighbour is confronted, unconvincingly denies it. Dog disappears, and so on.
Two possible conclusions to this plot. One could be an escalation to the murder of one combatant or the other. Or possibly the small disasters could become part of the victim’s increasing paranoia? A paranoia going way beyond the domestic.
The second home-unsafe idea is that of a respectable man receiving a letter/email/text telling him that at 12 the next day his garden hedge will catch fire, and that in 8 days time, at seven in the evening, he will die. Other daily events prior to his dying are predicted.
On every one of the 8 days things happen more or less as predicted – a window falls out, dining room furniture is rearranged, a water main bursts outside his house, etc . All taken as evidence of the letter writer’s power. Police are called, can find no culprit, doubt that the ‘events’ are a crime.
At seven on the eighth day a courier arrives with a package. The bomb squad are called, can detect no explosives. Package is nonetheless carefully opened. Under layers of wrapping is a single postcard, on it a message asking the man if he recalls a letter he wrote to a national newspaper in support of capital punishment. ‘Know how the condemned man feels now?’
© Sam Smith 21st January 2018
This is what I jotted down on the 19th November 1994: “I hate being part of a predictable process – keen recruit to become wise old hand. Always I feel that [by such processes] my identity is being stolen from me.”
I had returned to nursing after a stint as a Residential Social Worker. Just having been called a ‘Social Worker’ had gone against the grain; while having had to teach disruptive children to accept and not to fight, trying to impress upon them that they couldn’t win fighting the system, had felt like a personal betrayal. Fighting the system was what I’d been doing all my life. My own teachers had called me wilful. Bloody right.
Working back in Tone Vale Hospital I had been going from ward to ward, filling in where needed as the hospital was being closed down, grounds to be sold off, patients being moved to the ‘community’. The younger, keener nurses were competing for favoured places in the new, smaller ‘community’ units; with a few having already started their own private ‘care’ homes.
Many of the nurses I was left working with on the wards were seeing out their time; and they projected their disgruntlement and disenchantment onto me. And although I didn’t share their disenchantment with the work, nor their cynicism for the worth of the work, I did share their affection for Tone Vale, saw it as a true asylum, a place of safety. I had walked the extensive grounds – a couple of football pitches, cricket field, bowling green, parkland, chapel, gazebos – with so many patients passing through… I had, when I’d worked there previously, for a while even been known as Specialling Sam.
‘Special Observations’ meant that one member of staff had to keep the patient within arm’s length at all times. The objective was to allow the patient as much liberty as possible, even if only within the ward, while keeping them safe. Specialling a patient in the erratic throes of psychosis could have the staff on permanent edge, and individual members of staff were only supposed to special for an hour at a time. Staff shortages during the closure however meant that I could spend most of a 13 hour shift beside just the one patient.
Some patients as I accompanied them around the hospital grounds talked non-stop – paranoids voicing the current tabloid terrors – of nuclear war, AIDS, BSE, CJD, bird flu, al Qaeda, paedophiles… While the religious might seek to convert or convince me that their interpretation of their gospel was the only truth… While some patients, recovering from their recent self-inflicted traumas, wanted only silence and greenery. Round and round we walked. And walked.
That walking would be denied patients in the smaller units in town with their tiny token gardens. So too would Tone Vale’s corridors no longer be available to them: there on wet days they could still pace out their demons. Consequently, like the old nurse hands who had spent their working lives at Tone Vale, often whole families having worked there, who knew it as a community, had fond memories of both staff and patients, I too saw little advantage, small benefit to the patients in Tone Vale’s closure. But the government, in the shape of Enoch Powell and Margaret Thatcher, believed that the closure of the old Victorian asylums would save the NHS money. I couldn’t see that it would, or that society in general would benefit. The patients about to be stored in isolated bedsits and maintained on depots, visited occasionally by social worker or community nurse, certainly wouldn’t benefit.
“Each patient,” I wrote on the 9th April 1995, “carries the sickness of society. As society can’t be cured we pretend to treat the patient. The alcoholics though return to drink, addicts to their drugs, and the rest [those we ‘rehabilitate’] to society’s confusion.” Confusion internalised.
© Sam Smith 10th February 2018
Coming upon Bothwell in an Elizabethan history I straightaway found myself rising sympathetically to his defence.
The conventional history had it that James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell, blew up Darnley, the then husband of Mary Queen of Scots, and married her himself. Or so accepted royal politics would have us believe.
For me – one time editor of The Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry https://sites.google.com/site/samsmiththejournal/ - the fact that Bothwell died mad in a Danish castle and was buried in Norway added to his attraction as a possible subject.
I warned myself however to be on guard, because I’d been drawn to cases like Bothwell’s before. His being viewed as a wrong ‘un by those who want to appear respectable had me instinctively rooting for him, as I had for William de Marisco and Edward Bibbins Aveling (https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B079S79NSD). Such imperfect characters are too easily maligned, too readily made fall guys by those who in-their-day came out on top and who wanted also to be seen on the side of the angels by history.
James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell, was most certainly not virtuous. More of that in a moment. But first, and one unsympathetic aspect of his life, what I have yet to find out is how, other than by virtue of birth, he could have become High Lord Admiral of Scotland at age 25. Though even for that I’m tempted to forgive him. None of us can be blamed for the circumstances into which we are born, expectations placed upon us. Thereafter though…
While in Copenhagen this lusty young fellow met Norwegian Anna Throndsen, fell into love and bed with her. Which, according to then Norwegian law, said that they were now husband and wife. James maintained, later, that they had only been engaged.
Here is where regular history would have us call James a bounder, an arch-seducer of innocent maids. Anna Throndsen though was his social equal, was herself the daughter of a renowned Norwegian Admiral. So the first question that arises concerning his subsequent behaviour, and a possible reinterpretation of history, Did she pursue him to Flanders? And did he, tiring of her there, dispatch her back to Denmark to ‘plunder her family coffers’ on his behalf? Or was that her way of keeping him? Had he wanted shot of her needy presence and, at the same time, had seen a way of getting some much-needed dosh? Were Anna’s complaints about him to her family basically that he was not as in love with her as she with him?
Either way his reputation was now set and ready to be exploited at every future turn.
Which is not say that this spoilt rich boy, a previous Donald Trump say, may well have deserved his reputation. Because when seven years later James married Jean Gordon, sister of the Earl of Huntly, she divorced James but a year later because of his adultery with her servant. Eight days after his divorce he married Mary, Queen of Scots.
A continuing lusty fellow then? Or does the timing suggest such out-of-one marriage and-into-another a part of political intrigue? Was James a victim of the time’s religious and political machinations, his own manoeuvrings possibly backfiring on him? Was all this as much about court intrigue and therefore power politics as about who was doing what to who in castle bedrooms?
James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell, had certainly been no innocent abroad. A supporter of the Catholic crown he had fully backed Mary in her claim to the English throne. His reputation having been early set in Denmark however his every venture was dogged by whisper and rumour, much as Marisco’s and Aveling’s had been. Bad boys easily defamed by the squeaky clean, by those who had never dared go, or even been led, astray. And all this before we ever get to suspicions about others’ involvement in the murder of Darnley, Mary’s consort.
Such a book, such a life, I reluctantly decided would be too much like other books I had written. Would mean furthermore the book coming up against studiously researched histories and fictional accounts of the period, even if mine was to have been a tale motivated by instinct and sympathy.
© Sam Smith (20th February 2018)
Is it therefore one of our duties as writers to remember and remind; and at the same time to show how we dress those memories and demonstrate the unreliability of eyewitnesses. How we deliver any reminder but a matter of individual taste and imagination, breadth of vision probably being more important here than depth of vision. In achieving depth a narrowness of vision might be at play.
That though is to be aware of one's own inaccuracy of recall. We have to be even more chary when others our age try to include us in their memories, even when we weren't part of their circle: "When we were young we all..." Whatever it was they did when young I can be pretty confident that I didn't. Yet so persuasive can they be with their tale that I start to suspect my memory of being selective. But no, I was never like that, didn't dance to this, wear that, follow them. I know my shames well, and theirs was not one of them. Mine was never the self-lobotomy of the conformist to repress and belong.
One effect however of always having been boy-in-a-tree distant, estranged, is that with age comes increased disassociation. Often now I don't recognise my own body. Hand and arm are not mine. Nor, and especially, is the old fool in the mirror. All that I am now is an uncertain memory of myself.
Grief (an exercise in disassociation)
The old man, slipping in and out of chairbound sleep, passively adjusts to the changing realities. His dog, 10 years dead, was just now leaning against his left leg. On the radio a symphony’s flute solo. Between high sloping-away grass banks a grey road that must once have led somewhere, the hard voice of the announcer telling the room what is coming next...
The voice drones into sleep. He looks for the dog. Not behind him in this other unrecognisably familiar street...
The next time the old man jerks awake his neck will hurt. Painfully realigning the bones of his vertebrae he will look around the room bewildered, then check his watch, possibly decide that it’s time for tea, maybe slip back into dream.
Sparrow Attack (a further exercise in disassociation)
Dream scenarios and personalities as uncertain as pronunciation, mind’s afterimage is the initial setting: a part-cobbled entrance, line of different size plant pots, centre of someone’s universe.
Anorexic thin as fiddlestrings, she slides her talon fingers into the curled hairs on his chest. Skull smile, leer, tug.
Free of ancestry, but with mind’s anchor holding psyche in place, this semi-awareness demanding review and repetition, here under sleep-shaped hair situations have again broken out of time’s corset and he is again briefly child-vulnerable, now both father and son.
Sense of self-observation keeps him floating above the singularity of madness. He sees his outer self being attacked by sparrows. Frightened by their massed clinging-on flutter and sharp little claws he tries to break into a locked brick and flint house.
Which is when he awakes to gulls and crows shouting up the day.
© Sam Smith 27th February 2018
When young I used to think that life, especially social life, so complicated. My every utterance then seemed to upset somebody or other. But my hope/belief was that, as I got older and learnt all the rules, faux pas would become fewer. Such naiveté. I didn’t know, when trying to be honest, how complicated any approach to another human being could be.
Which is one of the reasons why books – with their one voice at a time – became my family, my home, was where I belonged. Within a book I can lose myself in ideas and arguments, disbelief and contrary concepts. At the turn of the millennia I wrote, ‘I truly do devour books, eat and assimilate them.’
Or reject them. Because I soon after followed that declaration of hungry love with this: ‘Unless a life-view, world-view, a morality, a philosophy, call it what you will, doesn’t incorporate the reality of death then it has to be wholly invalid. Which is why sentimentality is such a lie, its focus being so narrow. Any denial of death must void its view.’
What I disliked especially, continue to despair of, is the confusing of ‘sentimental’ with ‘spiritual’. Dharma, satori, epiphanic roads to Damascus, eureka moments of clarity, connectedness, are what unites us. Not some fuzzy spirituality which only the cognoscenti can divine. Not an otherness alluded to, not some manufactured empathic emotion, not some sentimental happy-ever-after ending. If endings there are.
© Sam Smith 6th March 2018
On June 13th 2004, while living in Ilfracombe, I wrote, ‘I am owned by a huge uncertainty. My every conviction disperses under challenge.’
Ilfracombe (see apostrophe combe, boho press) was a strange time for me, its remoteness especially. At one and the same time, because so many of my novels were at last being published, and I was actually earning money as a freelance editor, I felt involved in the literary world, and yet physically out of touch. I had left so many of my contacts – on local newspapers, bookshops, library, the council, but especially on the radio – behind in Somerset. And so remote was Ilfracombe, took an hour and a half’s driving just to reach the motorway, which meant that every venture out took that much longer and cost that much more.
And I wasn’t the complete, self-sustaining author, still had to have cash-in-hand jobs. Nor was our upper floor maisonette that secure an address. In a steep street of junkies’ bedsits Steph and I yearned for some outside space of our own, a garden even. I also didn’t like being back in Devon. Having a Devon address made me a failure.
From my early teens on, determined to escape all the hypocrisies, snobberies and double standards of a Christian village and a grammar school education, I had battled and schemed to leave Devon. (see Paths of Error trilogy https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/21567 )I hadn’t cared much how I escaped. Although I did turn down the armed services, hadn’t wanted to kill somebody just for a change of address. Nor did I have anywhere particular I wanted to go, just so long as it wasn’t Devon.
First it was the Merchant Navy that got me away. Until that too became a shipbound and career trap. I returned briefly to Devon, then escaped to London. Which in itself was supposed to have been but another starting point in my search for a life that was to be more than a series of meaningful gestures. I stayed in London for 10 years before hooking up with Steph, then came Amsterdam and Somerset.
During our 23 years raising our daughters in Somerset Steph had missed being by the sea – she had been raised in Torquay. But unable to find anywhere affordable with outside space in Ilfracombe, after 5 years Steph and I moved to Maryport on the Cumbrian coast..
Seemed perfect at first - our Maryport terrace was our very first freehold house, and we were in hearing distance of the estuary bird life, loads of easy bike rides, plus mountains to climb. But with the coastal population being so few, it was even more remote, and with a lot less – in literary terms – happening locally than there had been even in and around Ilfracombe.
We stayed in Maryport 10 years.
Now here, top of our South Wales valley, I’m busy again. Still not sure however that I’ve made a sensible move, have done the right thing. Bike rides here are one way downhill, a long uphill back; and I miss the estuary bird life. So do I continue to be easily unconvinced, especially these days with uncertainty all about me. I can’t even be certain that this will be read, that letters, even emails I send, will arrive.
© Sam Smith 13th March 2018
Where the Poetry Library of Wales?
Answer at the moment has to be – nowhere. Wales, home of the Eisteddfod bards, does not have its own poetry library.
England has its own Poetry Library – on London’s South bank. For hands-on research it’s open every weekday except Mondays. One can even do research via its website - http://poetrylibrary.org.uk/ It also puts out a monthly newsletter, giving details of poetry events in England.
Wales does not have its own poetry library.
Scotland has its own poetry library – near the bottom of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. It too is open to all-comers for research, or for general reading. Like the English poetry library it too subscribes to most poetry magazines published in the UK; as well as taking copies of poetry collections, chapbooks and criticisms published within Scotland’s border, or of related interest. www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk
Both libraries have staff eager to respond to pretty much any enquiry.
Wales does not have its own poetry library.
Peter Finch did try to get one going. When he had the Oriel bookshop in Cardiff he amassed a balcony length, floor-to-ceiling collection of poetry publications. Unfortunately he had to give it up and Wales is still without its own poetry library.
Wales does have two large general libraries, one in Aberystwyth and a tall one in Cardiff. Neither specialises in poetry. And Wales is in desperate need of a library specifically for poetry, where the works of generations of Welsh poets can be stored and, more importantly, accessed.
Personally I would like the Poetry Library of Wales to be situated in Swansea. It is in Swansea that the hoarding above looms over one of its carparks. I also find Swansea easier to get to and more culturally ambitious than Cardiff. The national Poetry Library being in Swansea would also avoid the centralising/capitalising of the nation’s culture as with our fellow nations. And as Swansea already has the Dylan Thomas Centre and theatre, plus several regular reading venues, having the Poetry Library of Wales here would seem a natural fit. Let’s leave Cardiff to politics, sport and shopping.
I would also take as a model for the Poetry Library of Wales the Scottish Poetry Library. Not only for its promotion of Scotland’s indigenous languages and dialects, but also for its design, incorporating as it does shelving capable of being moved to allow performance and workshop space.
The Scottish Poetry Library did have as well as indoor space an outdoor reading space. The one reading I did there I had to shout over the jackhammers on next door’s parliament building. Cardiff’s general library does have a performance space, but which gets interrupted by tannoy announcements. The English poetry library lacks a reading space.
Wales does not yet have its own poetry library.
When Swansea, Wales city of poetry, does become home to the nation’s Poetry Library what will give me great pleasure is seeing Idris Caffrey’s work indexed there. Idris and I started getting poems published in magazines like Borderlines and Purple Patch at around about the same time. We became friends; and when I set up Original Plus one of the first collections I published was Idris Caffrey’s Other Places.
Born in Rhayader, Welsh to the marrow, but having had to move to Tamworth for work, kept there by family, Idris’s one regret, despite several subsequent collections, was that he felt he never received any recognition in his own country. In fact he even found it difficult to get single poems published in Welsh magazines. Belatedly maybe he could get that recognition in Wales own poetry library, find shelf space if not a resting place alongside his Thomas heroes, Dylan and RS.
While I’d love to know where to go to explore and investigate the works of Dannie Abse, Mike Church, Gillian Cark, WH Davies, Menna Elfyn, Peter Finch, Bryn Fortey, John Freeman, Ric Hool, Elin ap Hywel, Nigel Jarrett, Mike Jenkins, Bobi Jones, John Jones, Peter Thabit Jones, Phil Knight, Huw Lawrence, Alun Lewis, Dave
Lewis, Gwyneth Lewis, Iwan Llwyd, Sophie McKeand, Robert Minhinnick. Rob Morgan, Owen Sheers, Fran Smith, Gareth Writer-Davis, and any others who on that day may occur to me. And that’s before one starts on the exclusively Welsh language poets, which I am unfortunately not equipped to do.
Apart from more poetry – as Swansea’s sign says – what we need now for a Poetry Library of Wales is funding, political will, a system for acquiring Welsh poetry publications, and a Swansea building to house them in.
© Sam Smith 1st April 2018 (I may be, but this is no April Fool.)
Is the one true sign of ageing, an emotional indication that is, the inability to become indignant? And could that be because, with more of life to mull over, it becomes harder to make straightforward sense of life?
Or is it that I’ve got so old I can no longer remember exactly why it was I once felt so aggrieved? The reasons yes, I can remember those, but not the strength of feeling that had me act as I did. Not that I regret any of those actions: they led me here.
Then there are those pop-up memories of odd sexual encounters; and my only thought now (no concerns at this late stage that their oddness might indicate a confining trend) is how very peculiar that particular conjoining was.
Or is this not getting indignant, maybe the tamping down of emotions while the new is assessed, the re-experiencing of one’s own life through what is happening to one’s own children, and grandchildren? Did I, didn’t I, react the same as my child/grandchild? In what way, and why, did my response differ? Was the difference within me, or was it due to the very different circumstances?
While acknowledging that these are different times, different circumstances and considerations, I am simultaneously on guard against becoming like other men who, the older they get the more they seem to hang on to that which gave their life meaning, both routines and memories. They seem always to be telling of their distant accomplishments, and then persevere at whichever way of life those accomplishments had them arrive at.
Could be that I’m not that confident because I haven’t had many accomplishments. When I was 50 my only habitual emotion was disappointment: I saw myself as a failure. Even back then my youngest daughter reckoned that my books wouldn’t be that well known until after I was dead. If then. And 20 years on there is still the daily realisation that I have failed in all that has mattered to me. My books are still not widely read, it’s still a hand-to-mouth effort to bring out The Journal 3 times a year; and, with my lack of confidence/convictions, still I struggle to know what best to do in order to get my books read.
My one hope/consolation, and faint at that, is that I could yet find myself as Herbert Marcuse did with his One Dimensional Man and end up with a bestseller way into my late seventies.
Can but hope.
That hasn’t changed.
© Sam Smith 9th April 2018