The example of Keynes

He basically lived in the worst of times, with the worst of contrasts between his youth and his adulthood, leaping not like a swimmer into cleanness but into unspeakable filth and blood and despair. And he kept his faith, kept his energy, kept his optimism, fought with all his manifold weapons for civilization and peace. I am, we are, everyone basically is, much less gifted but that particular state of mind is not exclusive. 

Slouching towards Jerusalem

The corrosive effect of the ever increasingly liberalistic global capitalism is very hard to underestimate in these bleak times. The magical next quarter along with the mad, totally irrational belief in the invisible hand leading towards ever more inevitable environmental catastrophes, leading towards the ever more inevitable collapse. All this is so very logically accompanied with the relentless undermining of the old values, the old commonalities whether humanistic or religious. Only soulless, angry, resentful consumers left. National radicalism is the opium for people.

The shining city on a hill spewing sewage

The end of the American Dream - or at least the part of it that fought out of slavery and apartheid and rescued the Western civilization three times during the 20th century. The optimistic and forward looking part. Now transformed by robber capitalism, primitive fundamentalism and racial resentment into inward looking, toxic, raging shell of a once mighty Republic.

The gradual fading away of Christian-Humanist values

Not the best opium for the people really. In these increasingly cold, increasingly materialistic times the traditional Western values won't do - we have only production value which we prove by consumption, no metaphysical-ethical ding an sich dimly constructed can be meaningful in this freezing, empty atmosphere. Co-incidentally - well, of course not - the West is stumbling, divided internally, full of enraged national radicalism intent of tearing down liberal democratic structures and values. Lost.

I lived by the river

London calling to far away cities - and even to remote Ostrobothnian villages as I have described here. Me with my lousy shortwave receiving radio back in the 80's in Nurmo. Once I got to Helsinki I bought an actual shortwave radio. The BBC World Service was the gold standard obviously. And in those circumstances, in that media environment it certainly was. But ever increasingly with the years it seems to require more and more effort to explain one's anglophilia. Thqt nation is getting ever more crazy, ever more nasty, ever more ruled by the nauseating, corrupt, semi-fascist Tory media. Where are the English Liberals? The English Progressives? To paraphrase Betjeman. They largely invented liberalism and progressivism - where are they now?

There's nothing wrong with the look that's on her eyes

Separating sex from love needs experience, and re-uniting them needs maybe even more experience... These matters are so hard and we so often are not an any sort of a match to them. I am glad that at least I have learned my ropes quite a bit better during my more mature age. It took such a long time though. And I am very far from perfect still. Love, desire, intelligence and will. I think none of us can perfectly balance them.

I will not cease from mental fight

A perfect Pietist hymn too, so fitting to my background and heritage. And actually the very same nonconformist heritage as Blake's, just in a later Finnish interpretation. A losing battle surely, one is tempted to say in this slough of despond, but pessimism is certainly as much of a sin as optimism is. One is so much fond of, and more, of liberal Protestantism, but maybe not totally sharing with all that absolute puremindedness. Surely an impossibility in this permanently fallen, corrupt, cruel world.

I was such an idiot

Being otherwise pretty smart these days, crazily well read and pretty well thought and lived. But I did brutally waste my youth in burning, in torture - a bright flame I said afterwards mostly for self-comfort. My capabilities led me to my weaknesses, and how weak my weaknesses were. To this mature age it's still hard to come to terms with that brutal failure. But by and large, I actually have come to terms, have accepted, have pardoned my then so hopeless, burning self. That's the only way. But weak moments do come, do return, the regrets, the second guesses. That's how one lives, just a very thin sliver of life but very piercing in certain bad moments. Oh well, that's how one lives. And I could live way worse, I well know. From experience.

Kodu kui majakas

My estophilia was consciously awakened by Jaan Kross: Keisri hull in its Finnish translation was such a text, such a call for defiance, for justice. But also the culture of my childhood, the memories of the Awakened (heränneet) of their recent estophile past was surely in the background too. There were books that I had glanced at or even partially read, things that I had heard, felt: Estonia was a place, a certain absence. But Jaan Kross made it concrete, then just bit later on JMKE, Rahvarinne, that exhilating sense of liberation, not only of Estonia, but also of Finland. And other, more personal things followed. Estonia is now both well known and still well loved, warts and all.

The centre not holding

All over the West internal strife, atavistic hatreds and prejudices reviving, partying it's like the 1930's back again. The vaccination of the 2nd World War is obviously waning. And like back then, unchecked markets, unchecked and ever short sighted capital are leading us towards blind rage and division, dissolution. The social democratic centre is barely holding any longer, maybe cannot hold. We can't obviously learn from history. 

Acceptance World

I rarely have conscious reading plans but I think A Dance to the Music of Time is highly due for a re-reading - I have read it in quite a haphazard fashion, out of sequence, intermittently and sometimes impatiently. Powell's certain conservatism (admittedly with quite a small c in the text) has not always appealed. But there is something pleasurable in the prose, in the observations and rhythms. A dance it is. 

London not calling

Finland in the mid-80's, an insular, wounded country, still appeasing the Soviet Union, the giant neighbour. And a very nerdy boy with a shortwave radio in the deep conservative countryside. The BBC World Service of the time representing the best parts of the departed empire. London calling to far away towns. Obviously with all the failings that all human institutions have. Still such a voice for civilization that seems now to be more and more muted.

I'm no island

To sum up my journey in this world, my success: I am no island, I am not free but bound with ties of love. This is the life that I dreamt about in my distant, burning youth. This is what I actually wanted, not wealth, not fame. But not to be an island, as I so painfully were for many endless years when years were endless. I now love and I am now loved.

Imagine

I have a very faint memory but I think a correct one - one dark December morning with the radio on. The 8am news. And hearing that... It made the dark morning so much darker. Even then, even so young. I can fully understand that maybe he wasn't was a perfectly nice person. I think basically presciously few of us are, and those that are, are not maybe ultimately the best for humanity. In any case, whatever he was, it was and is the art, the songs, the texts. 

30 years on

30 years on the boy is still not there, he is too feeble, too scared. The man is there, self-secure, taking care of his woman, funny and secure, taking care. Such a long bloody needless journey. Now the man loves and lives, 30 years on. And the stupid weak precocious boy is still not there, and not ever will be. As beautiful and perceptive as he was. This world just never was meant for him.