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Thursday, 11 June 2020

Poet of the Month 064: HARRY HARBORD 'BREAKER' MORANT


HARRY HARBORD 'BREAKER' MORANT
9 December 1864 – 27 February 1902 






 
 
 
SHORT SHRIFT



 

 

I can mind him at the start ––
Easy seat and merry heart!
Said he, as he threw a glance
At the crawling ambulance:

 

'Some day I'll be on the ground
And the van will hurry round!
Doc will gravely wag his head:
"No use now! the poor chap's dead!"

 

'Every man must, soon or late,
Turn up at the Golden Gate:
When we weigh in –– you and I ––
How can horsemen better die!'

 

On that sunlit steeple course
He lay prone beneath his horse,
Never more his pal may ride
By that gallant horseman's side.

 

'Reckless fool?'  What matter, mate?
All his time he'd ridden straight ––
Went (smashed 'gainst that wall of sod!)
Spurred and booted to his God.

 

Carve in stone above his head
Words that some old Christian said:
'Grace he sought, and grace he found
'Twixt the saddle and the ground!'

 



 
 
 
1902
 
First published in The Bulletin






 

 

 

 

There are few figures in Australian history more controversial and, more than a century after his execution for the crime of murder by a British army firing squad on 27 February 1902, more divisive than the stockman and poet who called himself Harry Harbord Morant.  

 

Born Edwin Henry Murrant in the English county of Somerset on 9 December 1864, Morant arrived in the northern Queensland town of Townsville aboard the SS Waroonga in 1883 and soon established himself as a larger than life figure in the Australian bush, as renowned for his gentlemanly manner and skills as a  horseman –– talents which earned him the nickname 'The Breaker' –– as he was for his gifts as a poet and his reputation as a hard drinking ladies' man.

 

Morant had been living in adopted homeland for sixteen years –– telling assorted tall tales about himself and his family history, consorting with his fellow newspaper published 'bush balladeers' AB 'Banjo' Patterson, Henry Lawson and Will Ogilvie, and even finding time in 1884 to marry (and be thrown out by) future anthropologist Daisy O'Dwyer –– when, in October 1899, he dropped everything to enlist in the Second Contingent of the South Australian Mounted Rifles.  The British Empire, of which South Australia was a directly controlled colony as was every other future state of the Commonwealth of Australia prior to the Act of Federation passing into law on 1 January 1901, was now at war with the Boer-controlled South African colonies known as the Republic of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State.  As a loyal healthy Englishman who had a way with horses, joining up to help the Empire fight the independence-seeking rebels was viewed by Morant as the only honourable course of action open to him.  Joining up would also allow him –– a man who never became an Australian citizen –– to return to England free of charge once he had served his country long enough to qualify for what was termed 'home leave.' 

 

Morant and his regiment arrived in the Transvaal in February 1900 where his superior riding skills soon saw him selected to carry dispatches first for the war correspondent from the English newspaper The Daily Telegraph and then for Colonel Lowe, his Commanding Officer.  He was soon transferred from Lowe's staff to that of General French, Commander of the Cavalry Brigade, under whom he saw action in Middelberg, Belfast and Barberton.  (He had already fought at the Battle of Diamond Hill and several other locations while serving under Lowe.)  Now promoted to the rank of Sergeant, he requested six months leave and returned to England where he befriended Captain Percy Frederick Hunt and allegedly became engaged to either Hunt's sister or the girl who was to be Hunt's future sister-in-law (sources disagree).  It was Hunt who persuaded him to abandon his plan to quit the army and rejoin him in South Africa as an officer of a semi-guerilla unit known as the Bushveldt Carbineers, the unruly and nearly mutinous Squadron B of which Hunt had recently assumed command of.  

 

Morant enlisted as a Lieutenant in this unit and along with his fellow Lieutenant, an Australian named Peter Handcock who hailed from the western New South Wales town of Bathurst, immediately set out to make it a disciplined, regulation obeying fighting force –– a plan which did not endear them to their men, several of whom were subsequently discharged after ambushing a consignment of rum being transported to Fort Edwards, the BVC's farmhouse headquarters located several miles north of its main garrison in the town of Pietersburg, by a third newly arrived 'upstart' Lieutenant.  Morant's unpopularity did not prevent him from becoming an effective deterrent to the Boers or from becoming 'like a man demented' after learning that his CO and best friend Hunt had been killed during a tactically unsound attack on an enemy stronghold known as Duivelskloof [Devil's Gorge] on 2 August 1901.  

 

Determined to avenge Hunt's death, Morant led a patrol which eventually caught up with the Boers a little before sunset.  Impatient for revenge, he gave the order to fire on the enemy too early, warning them of his intention to attack and allowing all but one of them to escape.  Floris Visser, the only Boer prisoner captured during the engagement, was wounded in the ankles during the ensuing exchange of gunfire –– a fact which did not prevent Morant from rigorously interrogating the man before forming a firing squad and executing him, citing the words of Lord Kitchener, Commanding General of the British forces in South Africa, as the justification for his decision.  'Take No Prisoners!' had been Kitchener's alleged proclamation to the Empire forces.  Morant chose to take the General's words literally, ignoring the fact that Visser had technically been a prisoner of war after being captured, thereby making his execution an act of murder under military law.

 

 


LT HARRY MORANT, c 1899



 

 

The slaughter did not end with the death of Floris Visser.  On 23 August Morant led another patrol which intercepted a group of Boer prisoners being taken to Fort Edward for questioning.  He ordered the men to be lined up by the side of the road and shot, their deaths witnessed by the Reverend Carl August Daniel Heese, a South African born, German-speaking missionary.  A week or so later, reports reached Fort Edward that Reverend Heese's corpse had been discovered on the road between the post and Pietersburg where he had supposedly gone to report Morant's activities to his superior officers.  It was later revealed that Morant had either personally killed or ordered that Heese be killed before leading yet another patrol, co-led by Handcock and including a young Australian trooper named George Witton, which had been responsible for the executions of another group of disarmed Boer prisoners.  A rare visit from Morant's CO, General Lenehan, resulted in Morant being sent to arrest a notorious Boer-Irish leader named Kelly whom he brought in alive following a successful two week search and capture operation.  Morant then requested a fortnight's furlough so he could travel to the South African capital Pretoria to attend to the personal affairs of his deceased friend Captain Hunt.

 

Morant returned from Pretoria to find himself immediately placed under arrest and facing court martial charges arising from a letter, signed by fifteen of his own men, which accused him and several other members of the Bushveldt Carbineers of six separate atrocities including the executions of the Reverend Heese, more than a dozen disarmed Boer prisoners and even three children who had been part of a convoy approaching Fort Edward with the intention of surrendering itself to the British garrison.  Morant was cast as the ringleader of these activities, with his Australian subordinates Handcock and Witton cast as his all too willing accomplices, and committed to stand trial for his actions in a Military Court of Inquiry.  

 

The first phase of this trial began in Pietersburg on 16 January 1902, during which the damning testimonies of several of Morant's own men were heard and questioned by Major James Francis Thomas, another Australian who had been named defending counsel to the three accused soldiers.  The trial was then relocated to Pretoria where Morant was tried on the most serious charge, the murder of the non-combatant Reverend Heese, of which he was found not guilty.  But he, Handcock and Witton were found guilty of the other charges brought against them and unanimously sentenced to death, with the court decreeing that all three sentences should be carried out as soon as possible.  Witton, the youngest of the convicted men, soon had his sentence commuted to life imprisonment by Lord Kitchener who refused to do the same for Morant and Handcock, signing their respective death warrants personally. 

 

When Thomas tried to appeal directly to Kitchener he was told by the General's aide that the General was away and not expected to return to headquarters for quite some time.  Thomas then pleaded for a chance to lodge an appeal with the King, only to learn that the Crown had already approved the death sentences and no power on earth was capable of rescinding them.  While denying the convicted men the right to appeal was grossly unfair and probably illegal, it made no difference in the end.  Morant, Handcock and Witton were granted permission to spend a final evening together on 26 February 1902, time which Morant mostly spent writing as Witton later recalled.  Witton himself was removed in manacles at five o'clock the following morning for transportation to England where he was to serve his commuted sentence in Lewes Prison in the county of Sussex.  He would serve a total of twenty-eight months in gaol before eventually being released on 10 August 1904. 

 

A short time after Witton was removed from their shared cell, Morant and Handcock were led out to the yard and, both having refused blindfolds, executed by a firing squad consisting of troops selected from the Queen's Own Cameron Highland Regiment.  Their bodies were buried side by side in a common grave in a Pretoria cemetery which lay neglected until 2002 when a small delegation travelled from Australia to South Africa to witness the placement of a new memorial stone, the inscription of which was taken from Chapter 10, Verse 36 of the Gospel of St Matthew:  'A man's foes shall be those of his own household.'  (The verse is misquoted, appearing as 'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household' in the King James Bible.) 

 

Was Morant a vicious cold-blooded killer or were he and his comrades Handcock and Witton what the latter described as a 'Scapegoats of Empire' in his controversial book of the same name published in 1907?  Did Morant's grief at the loss of his friend Hunt –– 'The best mate I had on Earth' according to a note written on the eve of his execution –– justify the murders of what may have been upwards of twenty unarmed Boers, one of whom was a clergyman and at least three of whom were children?  It needs to be remembered that Morant, for all his loyalty to Hunt and to King and country, was also something of a self-invented con man, as adept at running out on unpaid bar bills –– something he did several times in Australia and at least once in South Africa, causing a Cape Town hotelier to write to Admiral Sir George Digby Morant, a man Morant had falsely claimed to be his father, demanding restitution for services provided in the amount of £16 –– as he was at masquerading as a dashing well-bred gentleman.  While this behaviour does not prove that he was a murderer, it does cast serious doubts upon his credibility and personal integrity. 

 

The truth is that Morant was never the gentleman he pretended to be.  He was the son of the Master of a workhouse, a place where the indigent and those who forfeited on their debts were sent by local English authorities to 'earn their keep' by doing menial, often backbreaking work for which they were 'rewarded' with substandard food and a bed of loose straw.  While there is no doubt that Morant's case was bungled by the British Army, there is also little doubt that he ordered and/or directly participated in the deaths of Visser, Heese and many defenceless Boer prisoners.

 

The other significant thing about Morant, of course, is the posthumous status he has gained in Australia as an authority-defying folk hero.  As his defense counsel Major Thomas reminded readers of The Sydney Morning Herald in a letter written to that newspaper in June 1923, the man he unsuccessfully defended in 1902 '…was not Australian, he was an Englishman who came to this country for "colonial experience".'  This fact is often overlooked by Morant's idolaters, as is the fact that he returned to England, not to his adopted homeland, after completing his first tour of duty in South Africa and apparently had every intention of remaining in England until he was persuaded to return to the war by his friend Hunt. 

 

Like his predecessor the Irish-Australian bushranger Ned Kelly –– somebody else misleadingly portrayed as an 'innocent victim' of English oppression who was 'driven' to a life of crime and eventually to murder by 'cruel circumstance' rather than by temperament and opportunity –– Morant's treatment at the hands of the British (his own countrymen) became a focal point for the resentment harboured by the 'Young Country' of Australia for the 'Old Country' of Great Britain.  Morant was and is viewed by many Australians as the prototypical 'lovable larrikin' who ran afoul of 'the Poms' and paid the ultimate price for following the contradictory orders handed down by his superiors.  The view of him as an 'innocent' victim of circumstance continues to serve as effective propaganda for those who wish to see him exonerated for his crimes and pardoned by the Crown despite strong evidence which suggests that he was, in fact, guilty of every offence he was charged with and perhaps several more into the bargain.

 

While Morant's death by firing squad may have made him a martyr in some eyes –– thanks in large part to Witton's 1907 book and the 1978 play Breaker Morant: A Play in Two Acts by Kenneth Ross which was successfully adapted into the popular and award-winning Australian film Breaker Morant two years later –– it remains a highly romanticized image of a man who, while capable of producing fine and sensitive art in the form of poetry, was clearly not above committing criminal acts against unarmed civilians during wartime.  Morant was not the first person to embody these contradictions and nor, sadly, is he likely to be the last.  He seems to be the perfect example of a desirable myth supplanting an undesirable reality, a phenomenon enhanced by his work as a poet which, while reasonably popular in its day, does not appear to have stood the test of time as well as that of his more famous contemporaries AB 'Banjo' Paterson and Henry Lawson.  It remains unlikely that the truth about Morant and what really happened out on the veldt in 1901 and 1902 will ever come to light, despite the many books which have been written about him since the success of Breaker Morant made his case a cause célébre in a nation so bereft of homegrown heroes that it felt compelled to make one of a convicted English war criminal.



 
 
 
BUTCHERED TO MAKE A 
DUTCHMAN'S HOLIDAY




In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d––d crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit ––
A little bit –– unhappy!

 

It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction ––
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst awaiting cru-ci-fixion!

 

No matter what 'end' they decide ––
Quick-lime or 'b'iling ile,' sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!

 

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in sailing ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!

 

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em!
And if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!

 

And if you'd earn a DSO,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: 'ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!'

 

Let's toss a bumper down our throat, ––
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: 'The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon.'

 

 




Also known by the titles
 
  In Prison Cell I Sadly Sit
 
The Last Rhyme and Testament of Tony Lumpkin




 
 
 
 
 
NOTES 

d––d = polite form of 'damned' 
 
'b'iling ile' = 'boiling oil' as a Cockney might pronounce it
 
Dutchmen = alternative name for the Boer
 
DSO = Distinguished Service Order, a British military decoration
 



 

 

Use the link below to read more poems by British horseman, bush balladeer, soldier and war criminal HARRY HARBORD 'BREAKER' MORANT:

 

 

https://www.poemhunter.com/harry-breaker-harbord-morant/

 
 

 

 

You may also like to visit Breaker Morant: Justice Denied, a website operated by Australian barrister, solicitor and author JAMES UNKLES who continues to try to obtain pardons for MORANT, HANDCOCK and WITTON from the British Government after an apology was issued to their descendants by the Australian House of Representatives on 12 February 2018 acknowledging that an injustice had been perpetrated against them during their trial.   

 

 

This followed the rejection of an appeal submitted by UNKLES to the British Crown in 2010 and a decision made in May 2012 by NICOLA ROXON, the then-serving Attorney-General of Australia, that the Australian Government would not be pursuing the matter with the British any further.  In a letter to UNKLES, she explained that 'Despite the time that has passed… I consider seeking a pardon… could be rightly perceived as glossing over very grave criminal acts.'  The debate remains ongoing.

 

 

 

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 

 

 
Poet of the Month 006: HENRY LAWSON

 

 

 
Poet of the Month 016: WB YEATS

 

 

 
Poet of the Month 001: WALTER RALEGH

 

Thursday, 4 June 2020

The Write Advice 132: JOAN DIDION


In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind.  It's an aggressive, even a hostile act.  You can disguise its aggressiveness all you want with veils of subordinate clauses and qualifiers and tentative subjunctives, with ellipses and evasions –– with the whole manner of intimating rather than claiming, of alluding rather than stating –– but there's no getting around the fact that setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writer's sensibility on the reader's most private space.

Why I Write [The New York Times Book Review, 5 December 1976]


 

Use the link below to visit the website of North American novelist, essayist, screenwriter and memoirist JOAN DIDION:

 

https://www.thejoandidion.com/

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 
The Write Advice 122: ALICE HOFFMAN

 
The Write Advice 092: ELENA FERRANTE

 
The Write Advice 062: CLEMENTINE VON RADICS

Thursday, 28 May 2020

Think About It 055: ALAIN DE BOTTON


Without sex, we would be dangerously invulnerable.  We might believe we were not ridiculous.  We wouldn’t know rejection and humiliation so intimately.  We could age respectably, get used to our privileges and think we understood what was going on.  We might disappear into numbers and words alone.  It is sex that creates a necessary havoc in the ordinary hierarchies of power, status, money and intelligence… We might even embrace the pain sex causes us, for without it we wouldn’t know art and music quite so well… When every contemptuous but fair thing has been said about our infernal sexual desires, we can still celebrate them for not allowing us to forget for more than a few days at a time what is really involved in living an embodied, chemical and largely insane human life.

How To Think More About Sex (2012)


 

Use the link below to visit the website of Swiss-born British writer and philosopher ALAIN DE BOTTON:

 

https://www.alaindebotton.com/

 

 

You might also enjoy:

 
Think About It 045: CG JUNG

 
Think About It 035: ANDY WARHOL

 
Think About It 025: CHRISTINE ROSEN

Thursday, 21 May 2020

Touching from a Distance: Ian Curtis and Joy Division (1995) by DEBORAH CURTIS


Faber and Faber first UK edition, 1995




When I went into the dressing room to look for Ian, two of the lads were in there talking to a couple of young female fans.  I thought nothing of it at the time, but the day after the gig Ian asked me not to go any more unless I had the other girls with me, as it wasn't fair if I went without them.  It was gradually made plain to us that wives and girlfriends were no longer welcome.  It had been OK for us to boost the numbers in the audience in the early days and we had become used to sitting on the amplifiers to stop them being stolen.  It was taken for granted that we would wash and iron clothes, pack cases and make excuses to employers, but now it seemed we were bad for the image.  Rob Gretton shouldered the blame, but to be fair all the boys had tongues in their heads.  If they had disagreed with the 'no women' policy, they could have spoken up.  I was very disappointed –– the whole scenario was reminiscent of when I was pregnant.  Too big for my jeans, I had been panicked into borrowing a dress from my mother.  That evening as Tony gave me the once over and then looked away without greeting or comment, I felt for the first time that my presence might be unwelcome or even unsuitable.



 

The Memoir:  There have been dozens of reviews of this book published online, nearly all of which focus on the suicide of Ian Curtis on 18 May 1980 on the eve of what would have been the debut US tour by his band Joy Division.  What prompted me to add to this avalanche of words was not any particular fascination with Curtis himself –– I respect his talent but have always preferred the music of other Manchester bands like The Fall and The Buzzcocks to that of Joy Division –– but rather the fact that his story is told in this brief but gripping memoir by his wife, the person who discovered his corpse hanging from a clothes rack in their kitchen on that chilly spring morning and knew him for much longer and in a far more intimate way than any of his bandmates or fans can realistically claim to have known him.  In the minds of many people, particularly those who share the delusion that listening to and/or liking an artist's music is the same thing as 'knowing' or 'understanding' them, Deborah Curtis is the villain in his life and even regarded by some as the person whose 'selfishness' inspired him to end it –– fallacies this strikingly honest book sets out to challenge and permanently correct. 

Deborah Woodruff met her future husband Ian Curtis through the latter's best friend Tony Nuttall.  In fact, it was Nuttall whose girlfriend she originally became and Nuttall she would have 'a kiss and a cuddle with' whenever the three of them would spend time together in the flat owned by the Curtis family.  Curtis himself was an unmissable figure in the relatively affluent Cheshire town of Macclesfield, a kid who wrote poetry, smoked incessantly, regularly took pills and wore eyeliner and black nail varnish in public in imitation of his musical heroes David Bowie and Lou Reed.  Whatever else he may have been, Curtis was clearly not your average teenage boy.

Deborah's romantic relationship with Curtis began when he took her to a Bowie concert in December 1972, several months after her relationship with Nuttall had abruptly ended without warning or explanation.  'What thrilled me,' she recalls, 'was not particularly the opportunity of going out with Ian, but more the chance to get out of Macclesfield and to be included in a crowd of people who did more than catch the train to Stockport for a weekly shopping trip.'  After she became involved with Curtis 'life seemed one long round of parties, pop concerts and pub crawls.'  Deborah was also exposed to her new boyfriend's obsession with James Dean and Jim Morrison and other figures from the music and entertainment worlds who, like them, had died young.  'When he told me that he had no intention of living beyond his early twenties, I took it with a pinch of salt, assumed it was a phase and that he would grow out of it.'  She adopted a similar attitude to his plan to start a 'proper' band of his own some day to succeed the one he and Nuttall had formed together as schoolboys.  The fact that he couldn't play an instrument and seemed uninterested in learning how to do so did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for his plan.  Curtis could be a very entertaining person when he chose to be and was determined to become as famous as his prematurely deceased idols had been.

 


Faber and Faber UK, 2007

 

 

Curtis's relationship with Deborah was totally one-sided, with him always taking the dominant role and making every decision for both of them.  While this arrangement would be viewed today as being completely unacceptable by most young women, it was very much the norm in the 1970s for a girl to put up with behaviour from her boyfriend –– which, in Curtis's case, included mood swings, prolonged bouts of depression, possessive jealousy and refusing to allow her to wear make-up –– that would now be classified as manipulative if not borderline abusive.  (And let's face it, there's no shortage of relationships today which continue to function, or not, in precisely the same manner.)  But Curtis also had his gentle and romantic side which expressed itself by reading the work of Oscar Wilde and other writers he admired aloud to Deborah and in the sympathy he displayed toward marginalized members of society like the disabled, the mentally ill and the homeless.  The latter was reflected in the hard work he did as an Assistant Disablement Resettlement Officer after being transferred from his former civil service job at the Ministry of Defence to a new position at the Macclesfield Employment Exchange. 

Deborah's parents were against the idea of her marrying a strange moody boy like Curtis but marry him she did, becoming his wife on 23 August 1975 at St Thomas's Church in Henbury and then honeymooning with him in Paris.  She too had left school and was working by this time –– as a receptionist at ICI Chemicals among other jobs –– and they returned to England to live with his grandparents while they saved the money they needed to purchase a home of their own.  They were nineteen years old but determined to show their families their marriage could work despite the early warning signs that it had been a terrible mistake.  'One night,' Deborah remembered, 'I was in a giggly mood.  I waited until Ian went to the bathroom and hid… at the bottom of the stairs.  When Ian passed by, I leaped out and gave a loud cry.  I was stunned when he scurried on all fours to a corner of the landing and cowered there, whimpering.  Seconds later he was up on his feet again.  He descended the rest of the stairs as if nothing had happened and resumed his television viewing.  I wanted to ask him about the incident, but I could tell that he was completely oblivious to what had happened.'

Choosing not to discuss this behaviour with her husband proved, as she readily admits, to be another serious mistake.  Curtis was later diagnosed with epilepsy, one of the symptoms of which is exactly this type of 'forgotten' disassociative episode.  But that was still in the future at this point in their relationship.  For now, Curtis was more concerned that he was making no headway with his plan to start a band –– a concern brought into even sharper focus in July 1976 after he took Deborah to see The Sex Pistols perform live at Manchester's Lesser Free Trade Hall.  As it would for so many other would-be musicians and performers, attending a gig by the doyens of British punk proved to be a life-changing experience for Curtis.  Also in the audience that night, sitting a few rows away from himself and Deborah, were Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook and Terry Mason –– young men he'd known at school and would shortly go on to form a band with that briefly called itself Warsaw (after the opening track on Side Two of the newly released David Bowie LP Low) before changing its name to Joy Division.  By May 1977, with new drummer Steve Morris recruited to replace Mason, they were regularly performing in and around Manchester with Curtis writing their lyrics in addition to serving as their lead vocalist.  

In September 1978 Joy Division made its first appearance on So It Goes, a local TV program hosted by Tony Wilson, club owner and co-founder of the new Manchester-based independent record label Factory Records.  With the help of Wilson and new manager Rob Gretton the band became a local and then a national phenomenon, as famous for its starkly minimalistic stage performances as it was for refusing to cooperate with journalists during interviews and its intense and challenging music.  Nothing, it seemed, could now stand in the way of Curtis's long-held dreams of stardom.

Nothing, that is, except for epilepsy.  He experienced his first seizure in December 1978 and, after seeking medical advice, was prescribed a variety of anti-convulsive medications to control the condition –– medications that were continuously being changed and which were not in any way compatible with the alcohol and other recreational drugs he had regularly been using and abusing since his teenage years.  Joy Division might have been a New Wave band, but they proved no less immune to the trappings of stardom than any of their old wave predecessors had been.  Soon Deborah, who had been there from the beginning, was being told by Rob Gretton not to come to gigs anymore or, worse, being denied access to her husband altogether by not being given contact numbers so she could telephone him while the band was touring.  This was partly due to the band's growing success and the need to keep it a solid indivisible unit and partly due to the fact that Curtis had begun having an affair with Annik Honoré, a Belgian journalist and music promoter, in October 1979.  (Honoré claimed in a 2010 interview that theirs had been a platonic relationship, a claim I find difficult to accept given they regularly shared hotel rooms and Curtis chose to keep their alleged 'friendship' a secret from his wife.)  That the affair had begun a mere seven months after the birth of their daughter Natalie on 16 April did not make Deborah's understandable feelings of anger and rejection any easier to bear.  But she does not use her memoir as an excuse to vilify her rival.  'During the time he spent with Annik,' she notes, 'Ian's personality became more serious… At home, Ian stopped sharing his life with me.  Rather than tell me amusing stories and gossip, he began to name drop and use catch-phrases which meant nothing to me.'

Many believe that Curtis's relationship with Honoré was a motivating factor in his decision to commit suicide.  Whether this was true or not, there's no denying that he was a deeply troubled individual by this time, attempting to juggle his responsibilites as a husband and father with a tremendous amount of guilt, plus epilepsy and the artistic demands placed on him as a member of what was now a successful full-time band.  (Joy Division played over 120 gigs in roughly two and a half years in addition to recording an EP, several tracks for various compilation albums plus two full length studio albums –– a punishing schedule even for a healthy twenty-three year old not afflicted with a debilitating medical condition.)  But Deborah suffered just as much if not more from his frequent absences, some of which were explained or quickly glossed over but many of which were not.  'My only communication with the rest of the band,' she recalled, 'was through Ian and, although he was causing them some concern too, I felt they blamed me for many of Ian's problems.  People weren't as friendly as they used to be and it was understandable… Our marriage was over and he hadn't told me.'

 

ANNIK HONORÉ c 1977

 

 

The situation could not continue.  The moment of realisation came when, as Curtis and Deborah were walking home from a friend's housewarming party that he had uncharacteristically agreed to attend with her, he turned to her and said that he wouldn't be upset if she wanted to sleep with other men.  Always possessively jealous before this –– to the point where his parting words to her each time she left the house were 'Watch yourself,' his domineering way of warning her not to flirt with any males she might encounter –– it was undeniable proof of the fact that he no longer loved her.  'Every day I wanted Ian to come up behind me, put his arms around me and tell me he hadn't meant it.  After eight years of him telling me what to wear, what make-up to use and what music to listen to, I suddenly felt lost, as if I had been given my freedom and didn't know what to do with it.'  A visit to his parents, in front of whom he was always careful to maintain a cheerful demeanour, gave her brief cause to hope that their problems might one day be resolved, but this proved not to be the case.  After searching his notebooks and finding Honoré's name and London address in one of them, Deborah confronted him and had her hitherto unspoken suspicions immediately confirmed.  'My reaction,' she says, 'was to run to the blue room [the room in their house where Curtis did his writing], break David Bowie's Low into pieces and then smack Ian around the head… Eventually, when I asked him what he intended to do, he asked for time to break off their relationship.  I agreed.  I was relieved that there were no protestations of love for her and no threats to leave… He didn't ask for my forgiveness; I just assumed that he would want it.'  Again, this proved to be an unjustified assumption on her part.  Several weeks passed –– weeks during which Joy Division recorded what would become their final album Closer, now considered one of the most influential post-punk recordings ever released –– before he could bring himself to make a half-hearted attempt to stop seeing his mistress, who would occasionally call the house looking for him when Deborah was there.

In early April 1980, while playing a three night residency in London, Curtis allegedly had an epileptic fit onstage –– an episode he found profoundly humiliating but which Joy Division fans assumed to be a new element of his increasingly erratic but frequently rivetting performance style.  Nor did he immediately return home following these shows.  He stayed in London with Honoré until 7 April, when he returned to Deborah and announced, while they were getting ready for bed that night, that he'd taken an overdose of phenobarbitone, a narcotic barbituate often prescribed for the treatment of epilepsy.  The fact that he had left a suicide note, stating that there 'was no need to fight now' and asking its discoverer to 'give his love to Annik' should have provided a clue to his state of mind.  But these warnings went unheeded.  He was admitted to hospital, with Deborah completely unaware that his suicide attempt had not been prompted by the still unresolved problems in their marriage but by an argument with his mistress.  The hospital's attending psychiatrist judged him to be non-suicidal and released him into the custody of Tony Wilson.  Once again, Deborah was left with no way to contact her husband and the father of her child.  The next night Joy Division played a gig in Bury, with Curtis watching from the wings because he was still too sick to join his bandmates on-stage.

In hindsight, which is always perfect and unclouded by variables like circumstance and shifts in allegiance and personality, Curtis's death just over one month later should have shocked nobody.  He was severely depressed and suffering from some form of emotional paralysis which prevented him from choosing between his wife and daughter or remaining with his mistress –– a paralysis so crippling that at one point he asked his bandmate Bernard Sumner to make the decision for him (which Sumner swiftly and wisely declined to do).  Deborah, still kept in the dark, finally cracked and told her parents what was happening in the marriage, prompting them to contact Curtis's parents and inform them of the situation –– a 'betrayal' met with stony silence by her husband.  'I took it for granted that once the secret was out I would lose him forever, but it was different now.  It was clear I would have to lose him in order to start living again, and deep down inside he must have wanted to lose me too.'  She contacted Honoré and screamed at her that she was going to divorce him, to which Honoré calmly replied that she would cooperate in every way with whatever choice she made.  'It was difficult initiating the divorce, but once I had made the decision it felt wonderful… For that short time, I honestly believed that Ian was not my problem any more… I believed I had done him a favour by eliminating one of his biggest worries –– me.'  

Curtis moved back in with his parents after this, but did pay several visits to Macclesfield during the next few weeks to catch up with Deborah and Natalie.  He was there on the weekend of 16–18 May, having come, he said, to watch the Werner Herzog film Stroszek –– about a man who kills himself because he's unable to choose between the two very different women in his life –– that would have upset his father had he attempted to view it at his parents' house.  He and Deborah spoke after she got home from working as a waitress at a wedding reception where, in typically polite fashion, she had told the guests who knew them both that their own marriage was fine.  Curtis asked her to drop the idea of divorcing him but the matter was left unresolved when she took Natalie to stay with her parents and then returned to spend the night with him.  But Curtis had changed his mind about that during the short time she was out dropping off their daughter, telling her he needed to be alone and that she should not return to the house before ten o'clock the following morning, when he planned to leave Macclesfield to catch a train back to Manchester.  

In the end, Deborah did not return to the house until nearly midday, which was when she found her husband hanging from the wooden ceiling-mounted clothes drying rack in their kitchen and a long letter in which he spoke of their life together, his love for her and Natalie and his hatred of Annik Honoré.  'I never heard him say he hated anyone.  I think he wrote that to try to please me.  He told me,' Deborah adds, 'that he couldn't bring himself to be so cruel as to tell her he didn't want to see her again, even to save his marriage… By the time he had finished writing, he told me, it was dawn and he could hear the birds singing.'  

 

IAN CURTIS, c 1979

 

 

Touching from a Distance is mostly described by other reviewers as a 'brave book' and it is, offering the reader a glimpse into the tormented physical and emotional life of a musician who has become something of a cult figure since his death and, like other cult figures before and after him, the subject of much fervent speculation regarding what inspired him, drove him and led him to take the irrevocable step of hanging himself at the age of twenty-three.  Valuable as that is, what sets it apart as a memoir is the perspective it offers into the day-to-day workings of the music business and the means by which the abstractions (and distractions) of 'fame' and 'success' became more important to those around Curtis than his physical and mental well-being and, eventually, his life.  Deborah was even advised to hold off on divorcing him for a few more months, by which time he was sure to be rich and would then be in the position to pay her larger amounts of alimony and child support.  Throughout the book she reveals herself as someone who had no power over her husband, who accepted what he told her and did what he wanted her to do because she was too naïve and trusting to question his decisions and those made on his behalf by his manager and record company.  'I was just totally besotted,' she confessed to a journalist during a 2005 interview she gave to promote a new edition of her book.  'I think the fact I didn't stand out was an attraction for him.  I think he thought I would be easy to mould, to control.'

They say that no man can ever be a hero to his wife and the story of Ian Curtis proves that to be true.  He may or may not have been the genius that so many fans and music critics claim he was –– I leave that to better qualified minds than mine to decide –– but there's little doubt that he could be a selfish control freak when it suited him and that his attitude to his loving and supportive young wife could be appallingly callous at times.  He was a man who consistently refused to take responsibility for his own actions, behaving for much of his life like a dependent child who managed to convince everyone he knew that he was an autonomous human being capable of making rational adult decisions when, as the evidence all too pointedly suggests, this was seldom if ever the case.  Deborah Curtis is to be commended for the honesty it took to reveal the human side of a legend –– someone, according to her, who enjoyed a good practical joke and spent several hours listening to Frank Sinatra prior to recording the vocal for Love Will Tear Us Apart, the biggest selling song that Joy Division would ever release –– without succumbing to the urge to practise the art of hagiography on her subject or excuse her own role in what was probably always going to be his unpreventable death.

 
  

DEBORAH WOODRUFF and IAN CURTIS, c 1973

 

 

The Writer:  Deborah Curtis (née Woodruff) was born in the northern English city of Liverpool on 13 December 1956.  Her parents, wanting to raise her and her younger sister in a more suburban environment than this large bustling sea port could offer at the time, moved to Wiltshire and then to Sussex before permanently settling in the town of Macclesfield in the county of Cheshire in (or around) 1961.  Deborah attended Sutton Primary School before moving on to Macclesfield High School for Girls, considered the sister school to the boys only King's School attended by her future husband Ian Kevin Curtis.  Her childhood, she wrote, '…had been spent looking for birds' nests, building dams across the river Bollin, and feeding orphan lambs.'  She also spent many hours at the youth club sponsored by her local church.

Deborah began dating Ian Curtis in December 1972, shortly after he had entered hospital to have his stomach pumped following an overdose of Largactil, an anti-psychotic medication he'd secretly stolen from the medicine cabinet of an old age pensioner he was visiting as part of his school's social service program.  She had initially been the girlfriend of Curtis's close childhood friend Tony Nuttall, with whom they would gradually lose contact after becoming a couple and eventually marrying, at the ages of eighteen and nineteen respectively, on 23 August 1975.  Three years after their wedding her husband experienced his first epileptic seizure, casting Deborah in the role of his primary caregiver for the remainder of his life.

 

 

DEBORAH CURTIS, 2007

   

 

Deborah Curtis was supportive of her husband's desire to write his own songs and start his own band and attended the first-ever Joy Division gig –– they were then known as Warsaw –– on Sunday 29 May 1977 at a club called the Electric Circus in Manchester.  She would remain closely involved with the band until the birth of her daughter Natalie on 16 April 1979, shortly after which her husband began a relationship with Belgian journalist, concert promoter and embassy employee Annik Honoré.  This affair, along with her husband's successful music career, elevated drug intake and worsening health problems, was the catalyst for her decision to divorce him in 1980 –– a divorce that never occurred because neither party could make up their mind to go through with it before his death by suicide on 18 April of that same year.

In 1995 Curtis, now remarried (although she later divorced), broke her fifteen year silence about the true nature of relationship with her first husband by publishing the memoir Touching from a Distance: Ian Curtis and Joy Division.  The book went on to inspire the 2007 film Control, directed by Dutch photographer Anton Corbijn, for which she served as co-Executive Producer with journalist, impresario and former record label/nightclub owner Tony Wilson (who died of cancer two months prior to its UK premiere on 5 October).  Curtis was portrayed in the film by Samantha Morton with the role of Ian Curtis played by musician Sam Riley.  Annik Honoré, who left the music business in 1985 and also died of cancer on 3 July 2014, was played by German-Romanian actress Alexandra Maria Lara.

 

 

Use the link below to read a short 2005 interview with DEBORAH CURTIS:
 
 
 
 

 
 

The 2007 biopic Control, written by Mancunian journalist and screenwriter MATT GREENHALGH and directed by Dutch photographer and filmmaker ANTON CORBIJN, remains widely available on DVD and online streaming services.

 


Film poster, 2007



 

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Last updated 16 October 2021 § 

 

Thursday, 14 May 2020

The Write Advice 131: CHARLES WEBB


…that's how I view writing and the creative process altogether –– as a personal thing where you need to do something for a reason of your own.  You do it and it's done and what happens afterwards is interesting but not really the important part.
      I've always wanted to be a writer ever since I can remember.  I think I might have wanted to be President before that for a short time, but other than that it's been writing I've always thought about.  I haven't always known what form it would take and I still don't think I've quite reached the form I probably should have reached…

Meeting With An Author [2007 Canal+ documentary]


 

Use the link below to read an article about the life and career of North American novelist CHARLES WEBB, author of The Graduate (1963) and many other fine but now out-of-print novels:

 

 

https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/real-life/true-stories/the-strange-destitute-life-of-the-graduate-author-charles-webb/news-story/db361072ea07f7ad7fba9079316f1b27

 

 

 

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Thursday, 7 May 2020

Poet of the Month 063: GABRIELA MISTRAL

  



GABRIELA MISTRAL
7 April 1889 – 10 January 1957





 
 
 
SLOW RAIN



 
 
This timorous, sorrowful water
Like a child that suffers,
Before it touches the earth,
    Falls fainting.
 

The tree and the wind are quiet
And in the stupendous silence,
These clear and bitter tears
    Keep falling.
 

The sky is like an immense heart
Which opens bitterly.
It does not rain:  it is bleeding, slowly,
    Abundantly.
 

Men indoors at the hearthstone
Feel none of this bitterness,
This gift of sorrowful water
    From above us.
 

This wide and weary descent
Of conquered waters
Toward the earth, reclining
    And exhausted.
 

The lifeless water is falling
As quietly as in a dream,
Like the slight creations
    Dreams are full of.
 

It rains… and like a tragic jackal
Night lies in wait in the mountains.
Out of the earth, in darkness,
    What will rise up?
 

And shall you sleep, while, outside,
This sickly lifeless water of death
    Is falling?



 
 
 
Published May 1943


 
 
 
 
 
 
Translated by 
 
HR HAYS







 

 

 

'Gabriela Mistral' was the pseudonym of Chilean poet, educator, diplomat, social activist and Nobel Prize winner Lucila de María del Perpetuo Socorro Godoy Alcayaga. 

 

Alcayaga was born in the small town of Vicuña on 7 April 1889 and spent her childhood in the village of Monte Grande, nestled in an arid valley of the Andes mountains, where she attended the local primary school run by her sister Emelina who was fifteen years her senior.  Her father, also a teacher who loved to sing and carouse, abandoned his family when she was three years old, returning only rarely to visit his wife and daughters before disappearing for good and probably dying in 1911.  Alcayaga would always recall her days in Monte Grande as an idyllic time of her life where she was able to indulge her lifelong love of nature to her heart's content. 

 

In 1910 she qualified as a teacher, having already spent several years supporting her mother by working as a teaching assistant in the seaside village of Compañia near the southern town of La Serena.  She was also a published writer, with several of her poems appearing in local newspapers in 1904 (when she was just fifteen) and an important if controversial article La instruccíon de la mujer [The Education of Women] following them into print two years later.  The publication of the latter probably explains why she was refused entry to the teaching course at the Normal School in La Serena, its Catholic chaplain marking her out as a potential troublemaker because he considered her so-called 'radical' ideas to be at odds with those of a dutiful Catholic woman and future moulder of young minds.  Alcayaga overcame this setback by studying for and obtaining her teaching certificate on her own, although she remained bitter all her life at being denied such an important educational opportunity.

 

Her lack of formal education did not prevent Alcayaga from rising swiftly through the ranks of the Chilean education system after gaining her teaching credentials.  She was sent to many different parts of Chile to teach and serve as an educational administrator and came to know her country and its inhabitants very well.  She also continued to write, sending several poems and a short story to the Spanish language magazine Elegancias, published in Paris by the Nicaraguan editor Rubén Darío.  Her work appeared in this magazine in 1913 while she was working in a liceo, or high school, in the city of Los Andes –– a six year appointment that allowed her to pay regular visits to the Chilean capital Santiago and participate to some degree in the city's intellectual life.  A year later her collection of poems titled Sonetos de la Muerte [Sonnets of Death], inspired by the suicide of her first love Romelio Ureta in 1909, was awarded first prize in the Juegos Florales, a prestigious national literary contest.  It was after winning this prize that Alcayaga permanently adopted the pseudonym 'Gabriela Mistral,' allegedly created by combining the names of two of her favourite poets, the Italian Gabriele D'Annunzio and the Frenchman Frédéric Mistral.  But this success in no way diminished her devotion to her pupils or prevented her from running the night classes she offered for free to poor workers, none of whom had access to any other form of education. 

 

After spending time in Punta Arenas, the southernmost town in Chile located in the desolate Patagonia region, and then in the largely native community of Temuco (where she encouraged the teenaged Pablo Neruda to pursue his literary ambitions and began a lifelong friendship with him), Alcayaga returned to Santiago where she was appointed principal of the Liceo des Niñas #6 [Girls High School #6].  Although this was a much coveted position, she only remained in the job a year, leaving Chile in 1922 for Mexico where she had accepted an invitation from that country's Minister of Education to help him construct a national education system based upon the successful Chilean model.  

 

Her poems and other writings continued to appear in magazines, newspapers, education journals and literary periodicals, with her showing no interest in publishing a book until Desolacíon [Desolation], featuring some of the bleak poems she had written while living in Punta Arenas, appeared in 1922.  The fact that this collection was published in New York by the Spanish language Instituto de las Españas helped to consolidate her growing international reputation, as did the lectures she gave in several US cities and the time she spent in Europe prior to the publication of her second poetry collection Ternura [Tenderness], which appeared in Madrid in 1924.  Although she returned to Chile in 1925, Alcayaga did not remain at home for long.  With the passing of new government legislation which forbade anybody without a recognized university degree to teach in the national school system, she found herself suddenly jobless and accepted a post at the Institute for Intellectual Cooperation sponsored by the League of Nations.  In early 1926 she left for Paris and a new life of entirely self-imposed exile from her native land.

 

Alcayaga spent the rest of her life combining her work as a poet and essayist with that of a lecturer on education-related subjects and, from 1932 onward, as Chilean consul in cities including Naples, Lisbon, Los Angeles and New York.  Her third volume of poetry, titled Tala, appeared in 1938, with all proceeds from its sale being donated to children orphaned in the Spanish Civil War.  In November 1945 she made history by becoming the first Latin American writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, an honour that her former pupil Pablo Neruda would also receive in 1971. 

 

An enthusiastic traveler throughout her life, failing health eventually forced Alcayaga to settle in the New York town of Roslyn with her final female partner Doris Dana.  She was transferred from Roslyn to Hempstead Hospital in New York City where she died, of pancreatic cancer, on 10 January 1957 with Dana, who had been named her literary executor, at her bedside.  Her body was returned to Chile, with its government declaring three days of national mourning which saw her remains visited by thousands of Chileans who rightly considered her a champion of the poor and underprivileged and a legitimate national treasure.


 

 

Use the link below to read more poems by Chilean poet, essayist, educator and diplomat GABRIELA MISTRAL:

 

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gabriela-mistral

 

 

 

 

 

 

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