The week started on the fairytale euphoria of
the Royal wedding, wended its way through #metoo campaigners celebrating Harvey
Weinstein in court and closed with a resounding victory in Ireland for repeal
of the inhumane abortion laws. It’s an
odd juxtaposition of light and dark events. Being cheered by the
happy-ever-after froth and flummery dream (and I’m a Royalist, just adore the
pomp and pageantry) and inspired by the endurance of those who fought gruelling
battles over decades for justice. 
One Irish tweet
after the vote result said: ‘Old Ireland died tonight. The old Ireland of
asylums for “fallen” women, children sold abroad, shame, secrecy, and fear.
Rotten old Ireland’s gone. Long live new Ireland.’
Alongside
respectful awe at their grit, I have an angry despair about how long it takes
before these marathon struggles reach the finishing line against bitter
resistance. Countless numbers die before common sense and humanity
prevails.
Despite an
avalanche of evidence that predators walk the face of the earth and that not
all ‘holy’ behaviour lives up to the founder’s creed of love and forgiveness,
there is a solid core who cling on to their illusions with desperate
ferocity. Talent, money, success on one
hand and religious garb on the other have proved to be formidable camouflage
for a multitude of sins.
Maybe it was
significant that Philip Roth also died this week a few days after Tom Wolfe –
two great writers who shafted a spear through hypocrisy and warped social
values. Not that the passing of their abilities is a cause for celebration. The
baton needs to be picked up by younger satirists and questioners who can tear
back the veil to shine a light on the underside of human behaviour.
The problem being
that staring into the abyss for too long runs the risk of the darkness eating
us up. T S Eliot’s ‘Humankind cannot bear very much reality’ is both a
judgement and an acceptance of what is tolerable. The ‘unreal’ ideal is the
antidote to what lies below. We slide into Pollyanna-land as an escape from
toxic and paralyzing shame.
‘Is the truth destroyed because it distresses you?’ Euripides.
Sex crimes
contaminate the victim and wash over anyone who hears their sad tale; though
not the perpetrators whose narcissistic pathology allows them to shrug off any
notion of responsibility. No surprises the public would rather believe the
latter (colluding in the lies) because it leaves them feeling less polluted.
There is a mountain to climb against head winds of self-serving hostile
disbelief.
Becoming conscious
is a painful process where hope recedes and depression looms. Julian Jayne’s
notion that consciousness arose in humans through natural disasters may have
been discredited, but in individual psychology it holds true. It usually takes
a major crisis to crack the old mindset, allowing daylight in.
Television drama and
novels often lead the way to change or magnify what is already happening. The
two best offerings in the UK, also this week, are Patrick Melrose, adapted from
Edward St Aubyn’s searing tales of childhood abuse, drug addiction and
recovery; and the 50 year old Jeremy Thorpe political scandal of sexual mayhem
and conspiracy to murder, brushed under the carpet by those in power at the
time.
While it’s tempting
to imagine we’re at a game-changing moment, past experience would suggest the
pendulum can and does swing both ways. Ground gained is lost as the revulsion
against too much unpleasantness takes over.
Our divided selves,
in RD Laing’s phrase, see-saw between delusionary optimism that life is better
than it is, and horror when we glimpse grim realities. The
up-the-golden-staircase Royal fantasy may be exactly what the doctor ordered to
provide an injection of brightness into the gloom of real lives.
Follow me on:
BUY my new crime thriller BY the LIGHT of a LIE at:
www.marjorieorr.com
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