As opposed to virtual friends. I was thinking lately of people who are no longer part of my life, and it occured to me that of all the friends I used to have, I only really miss one of them. I was also looking at all my MySpace friends, and much as I adore them - hello Caitlin and Seren! - it set me to wondering what a real friend is. As usual, Sir Francis Bacon has a few words on the subject...
 
IT HAD been hard for him that spake it to have put more truth and untruth together in few words, than in that speech, 'Whatsoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god.' For it is most true, that a natural and secret hatred, and aversation towards society, in any man, hath somewhat of the savage beast; but it is most untrue, that it should have any character at all, of the divine nature; except it proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desire to sequester a man's self, for a higher conversation: such as is found to have been falsely and feignedly in some of the heathen; as Epimenides the Candian, Numa the Roman, Empedocles the Sicilian, and Apollonius of Tyana; and truly and really, in divers of the ancient hermits and holy fathers of the church. But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company; and faces are but a gallery of pictures; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love. The Latin adage meeteth with it a little: Magna civitas, magna solitudo; because in a great town friends are scattered; so that there is not that fellowship, for the most part, which is in less neighborhoods. But we may go further, and affirm most truly, that it is a mere and miserable solitude to want true friends; without which the world is but a wilderness; and even in this sense also of solitude, whosoever in the frame of his nature and affections, is unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast, and not from humanity.
A principal fruit of friendship, is the ease and discharge of the fulness and swellings of the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause and induce. We know diseases of stoppings, and suffocations, are the most dangerous in the body; and it is not much otherwise in the mind; you may take sarza to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flowers of sulphur for the lungs, castoreum for the brain; but no receipt openeth the heart, but a true friend; to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of civil shrift or confession.
It is not to be forgotten, what Comineus observeth of his first master, Duke Charles the Hardy, namely, that he would communicate his secrets with none; and least of all, those secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon he goeth on, and saith that towards his latter time, that closeness did impair, and a little perish his understanding. Surely Comineus mought have made the same judgment also, if it had pleased him, of his second master, Lewis the Eleventh, whose closeness was indeed his tormentor. The parable of Pythagoras is dark, but true; Cor ne edito; Eat not the heart. Certainly, if a man would give it a hard phrase, those that want friends, to open themselves unto, are carnnibals of their own hearts. But one thing is most admirable (wherewith I will conclude this first fruit of friendship), which is, that this communicating of a man's self to his friend, works two contrary effects; for it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halves. For there is no man, that imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the more; and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less. So that it is in truth, of operation upon a man's mind, of like virtue as the alchemists use to attribute to their stone, for man's body; that it worketh all contrary effects, but still to the good and benefit of nature. But yet without praying in aid of alchemists, there is a manifest image of this, in the ordinary course of nature. For in bodies, union strengtheneth and cherisheth any natural action; and on the other side, weakeneth and dulleth any violent impression: and even so it is of minds.
The second fruit of friendship, is healthful and sovereign for the understanding, as the first is for the affections. For friendship maketh indeed a fair day in the affections, from storm and tempests; but it maketh daylight in the understanding, out of darkness, and confusion of thoughts. Neither is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from his friend; but before you come to that, certain it is, that whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clarify and break up, in the communicating and discoursing with another; he tosseth his thoughts more easily; he marshalleth them more orderly, he seeth how they look when they are turned into words: finally, he waxeth wiser than himself; and that more by an hour's discourse, than by a day's meditation. It was well said by Themistocles, to the king of Persia, That speech was like cloth of Arras, opened and put abroad; whereby the imagery doth appear in figure; whereas in thoughts they lie but as in packs. Neither is this second fruit of friendship, in opening the understanding, restrained only to such friends as are able to give a man counsel; (they indeed are best;) but even without that, a man learneth of himself, and bringeth his own thoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a word, a man were better relate himself to a statua, or picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother.
Add now, to make this second fruit of friendship complete, that other point, which lieth more open, and falleth within vulgar observation; which is faithful counsel from a friend. Heraclitus saith well in one of his enigmas, Dry light is ever the best. And certain it is, that the light that a man receiveth by counsel from another, is drier and purer, than that which cometh from his own understanding and judgment; which is ever infused, and drenched, in his affections and customs. So as there is as much difference between the counsel, that a friend giveth, and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the counsel of a friend, and of a flatterer. For there is no such flatterer as is a man's self; and there is no such remedy against flattery of a man's self, as the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of two sorts: the one concerning manners, the other concerning business. For the first, the best preservative to keep the mind in health, is the faithful admonition of a friend. The calling of a man's self to a strict account, is a medicine, sometime too piercing and corrosive. Reading good books of morality, is a little flat and dead. Observing our faults in others, is sometimes improper for our case. But the best receipt (best, I say, to work, and best to take) is the admonition of a friend. It is a strange thing to behold, what gross errors and extreme absurdities many (especially of the greater sort) do commit, for want of a friend to tell them of them; to the great damage both of their fame and fortune: for, as St. James saith, they are as men that look sometimes into a glass, and presently forget their own shape and favor. As for business, a man may think, if he win, that two eyes see no more than one; or that a gamester seeth always more than a looker-on; or that a man in anger, is as wise as he that hath said over the four and twenty letters; or that a musket may be shot off as well upon the arm, as upon a rest; and such other fond and high imaginations, to think himself all in all. But when all is done, the help of good counsel, is that which setteth business straight. And if any man think that he will take counsel, but it shall be by pieces; asking counsel in one business, of one man, and in another business, of another man; it is well (that is to say, better, perhaps, than if he asked none at all); but he runneth two dangers: one, that he shall not be faithfully counselled; for it is a rare thing, except it be from a perfect and entire friend, to have counsel given, but such as shall be bowed and crooked to some ends, which he hath, that giveth it. The other, that he shall have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe (though with good meaning), and mixed partly of mischief and partly of remedy; even as if you would call a physician, that is thought good for the cure of the disease you complain of, but is unacquainted with your body; and therefore may put you in way for a present cure, but overthroweth your health in some other kind; and so cure the disease, and kill the patient. But a friend that is wholly acquainted with a man's estate, will beware, by furthering any present business, how he dasheth upon other inconvenience. And therefore rest not upon scattered counsels; they will rather distract and mislead, than settle and direct.
After these two noble fruits of friendship (peace in the affections, and support of the judgment), followeth the last fruit; which is like the pomegranate, full of many kernels; I mean aid, and bearing a part, in all actions and occasions. Here the best way to represent to life the manifold use of friendship, is to cast and see how many things there are, which a man cannot do himself; and then it will appear, that it was a sparing speech of the ancients, to say, that a friend is another himself; for that a friend is far more than himself. Men have their time, and die many times, in desire of some things which they principally take to heart; the bestowing of a child, the finishing of a work, or the like. If a man have a true friend, he may rest almost secure that the care of those things will continue after him. So that a man hath, as it were, two lives in his desires. A man hath a body, and that body is confined to a place; but where friendship is, all offices of life are as it were granted to him, and his deputy. For he may exercise them by his friend. How many things are there which a man cannot, with any face or comeliness, say or do himself? A man can scarce allege his own merits with modesty, much less extol them; a man cannot sometimes brook to supplicate or beg; and a number of the like. But all these things are graceful, in a friend's mouth, which are blushing in a man's own. So again, a man's person hath many proper relations, which he cannot put off. A man cannot speak to his son but as a father; to his wife but as a husband; to his enemy but upon terms: whereas a friend may speak as the case requires, and not as it sorteth with the person. But to enumerate these things were endless; I have given the rule, where a man cannot fitly play his own part; if he have not a friend, he may quit the stage.

Yes, I quit. Last Wednesday was my last day at the BBC after almost two and a half years. A little sad but it had to be done; changes were happening, changes that were turning a comparatively good job into a comparatively shit job. Shit management decisions. Many others have quit too, wisely I think. Who pays attention to the cannon-fodder though? I felt a little tremulous anxiety at leaving without anything else definitely lined up, but all anxiety vanished when I walked out into the sunshine for the last time. On my last day, I got a card from everyone and £60 in book tokens, neither of which I expected. Lump-in-throat-moment. I'll miss the people but not the place, which is the first times I've been able to say that about any job. The bastards better keep in touch or I know a phone number to make their lives miserable!

So now I am turned loose on the world, with a bit of money saved up to tide me over until a new job comes along. Sometimes you have to take a leap no matter what. That's what I did with my last job. Five fucking years I wasted in that place, and all the while a little voice drumming away in my head, 'If the only reason you have for staying in the job is fear of what'll happen if you don't stay in the job, then you're a coward and you deserve to be miserable'. It baffles me that such a simple lesson took so long to sink into my otherwise eager brain. Fear is failure and the beginning of failure, as the book says.

What does the immediate future hold? Jobseeking and general idleness, taking some time to be good to myself. I got a complete edition of  'Casanova' for £50 yesterday, and tomorrow afternoon I'm off to see 'Brief Encounter' at the GFT.

I'll also try to keep this damned blog more up to date. There seemed little point in doing so when I was working since every day was so damned near identical...

Mum is moving back to Arran on April 1st.  I am very envious. With the obvious exception of one funeral, it's a place that has only happy memories for me. The longer I live in the city, the more I loathe it. There is a horrible sense of being stuck, of having no freedom of movement. How much more liberating to wake with the dawn and watch the mist rising off the mountains.

 

 

I'm especially pleased that she has managed to get the old house at Brodick back again, for the sake of familiarity and comfort. A good place to write too, and now that her Writing Group is beginning to find more students that's important. I remember gorgeous summer breakfasts in the garden, drinking coffee and eating toast with honey, listening to the lambs bleating in the field next door. Perfect.

I'm hoping she can get enough short stories together for publication later this year. I really ought to spend more time working on short stories too but all of mine end up looking like pastiches of Algernon Blackwood. Which is not a bad thing in itself but I'd rather find more of a voice of my own. It's been an age since I had any short stories published and the drip-drip-drip of rapidly vanishing money they bring in isn't really an encouragement. Still, disclipline John, discipline.

http://hem.fyristorg.com/bd/ab/

 

 

So, on Sunday as planned I went through to Edinburgh on the 12.30 train from Queen Street. Grey drizzly day, miserably Scottish. Met mum and had lunch at Bella Italia. Yum. And both slightly drunk on red wine. We laughed a lot and talked about out writing. Feels good to have someone who knows what goes on in my brain in that respect, and she was quite impressed by 'Christabel', the projects I'm working on with Jed.

After lunch, to the Mansfield Church, where we got there just before closing time. We only had about ten minutes for a quick look. I'm amazed that Phoebe managed to raise three kids in the early 20th Century and do this:

 

I must go back next month for a longer look. This place needs attention.

As far as the rest of my travelling goes, I've decided not to go back to Italy in April. I'm going to save money until the end of the years so I can go for longer - a month maybe - and travel farther, from Venice down to Sicily probably.

 

To keep myself sane I'll have a couple of short breaks over the summer. I'm thinking a long-weekend in Paris for the Gustav Moreau museum, and a long weekend in St Petersburg for the Hermitage. I'll need to figure out how to do the 2^nd one cheaply. Fly to Scandinavia and take the train the rest of the way maybe. We'll see.

 

 

On Sunday I'm going to Edinburgh to visit mum. We're going to the Mansfield Church so I can - finally - get to see the amazing paintings of Phoebe Traquair. I'd never heard of her until last year and find it amazing that something as special as this could be so close to me and remain unknown. They call it 'Scotland's Sistine Chapel'. Traquair deserves much wider fame.

 

I am spending too much money on books. Two weeks ago I spent £30 on a 6 volume edition of Ruskin's 'Modern Painters', published in 1896. And last week I spent £40 on a book about Joseph Gandy. I'm meant to be saving for Italy in April, I'm meant to be dispensing with the luxuries. But when it comes to books, I get such cravings.

 

http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/ruskin/ruskinov.html

 

http://www.hughpearman.com/2006/09.html

 

 

 

Figure something has to be written just for the sake of keeping this thing alive until I can do a Herbert West on it. Not much to write about though, apart from my Italian trip, and even that has been and gone all too quickly. I'll try to get the pictures posted when I can. Most of the interesting stuff that has happened since the last entry is stuff that goes into my inky diary, secret stuff that I don't want anyone to know about.

On that note of mystery, adieu.

Last night I dreamed I was back in Venice on a cool day. There were hardly any people about , and a fine morning mist hung over the bacino. I sat on the corner of the Logetta with a laptop, booking tickets to take me to Rome.

This is the most normal sounding dream I've had in ages.

http://jssgallery.org/Essay/Venice/San_Marco/Campanile/Logetta.htm

Thanks to Al-Qaida, I never forget my sister's birthday. Tomorrow. I sent her a card and 'Firestarter' on DVD, the only Drew Barrymore movie she hasn't seen. Apart from 'Babes in Toyland.'

Uneventful weekend, and I'm glad of it. Peace and sanity. I started reading 'The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole' by Fr Rolfe this morning and his description of Nicholas Crabbe resembled me in many ways. Or do I flatter myself?

That last line is a quote. Anyone who recognises it is an admirable and worthy individual.

Now I'm logging off and going for lunch and beer, both of which are civilising influences in the otherwise grubby world of my BBC life.