I suppose that most of us played this game as children: close your eyes, spin the globe, and choose with a finger the exotic place to which you will travel in your future life. As an inveterate daydreamer, I still play the game in my mind. Thus, for instance, nearly every painting that I have ever posted here is one that I have walked into in my imagination. I suppose there are worse habits and vices.
With these dubious credentials, I am not well-qualified to extol the virtues of staying put. Nonetheless, that is what I intend to do. Albeit with a fair amount of hemming and hawing.
In my hut this spring,
There is nothing, --
There is everything!
Sodō (translated by R. H. Blyth), in R. H. Blyth,
Haiku, Volume 2: Spring (Hokuseido Press 1950), page 34.
Dane Maw (1909-1989), "Scottish Landscape, Air Dubh"
Mind you, I do not wish to be thought of as a stick-in-the-mud or a curmudgeon. I am as subject to wanderlust as the next person. I concur with the old saw that "travel broadens the mind." But Pascal's well-known pronouncement also comes to mind: "I have often said, that all the Misfortune of Men proceeds from their not knowing how to keep themselves quiet in their Chamber." Blaise Pascal,
Pensées (translated by Joseph Walker) (1688).
Against Travel
These days are best when one goes nowhere,
The house a reservoir of quiet change,
The creak of furniture, the window panes
Brushed by the half-rhymes of activities
That do not quite declare what thing it was
Gave rise to them outside. The colours, even,
Accord with the tenor of the day -- yes, 'grey'
You will hear reported of the weather,
But what a grey, in which the tinges hover,
About to catch, although they still hold back
The blaze that's in them should the sun appear,
And yet it does not. Then the window pane
With a tremor of glass acknowledges
The distant boom of a departing plane.
Charles Tomlinson,
Jubilation (Oxford University Press 1995).
The title "Against Travel" should be taken with a grain of salt: Tomlinson travelled extensively during his life, and he wrote dozens of fine poems about the places that he visited (which included Italy, Greece, Portugal, Japan, Mexico, and various locations in the United States). Yet, the poems of his which seem the most heartfelt and evocative are those in which he writes about his native England. (Of course, other admirers of Tomlinson's poetry may disagree with this assessment.)
Eric Bray, "Allington, Dorset, from Victoria Grove" (1975)
Perhaps what I am circling around is the distinction between the living of an "extensive" or an "intensive" life that Hilaire Belloc makes in his essay "On Ely":
"Everybody knows that one can increase what one has of knowledge or of any other possession by going outwards and outwards; but what is also true, and what people know less, is that one can increase it by going inwards and inwards."
Hilaire Belloc, "On Ely,"
Hills and the Sea (1906), page 44.
In connection with travel, Belloc suggests that, either way, you will likely end up in much the same place:
"You may travel for the sake of great horizons, and travel all your life, and fill your memory with nothing but views from mountain-tops, and yet not have seen a tenth of the world. Or you may spend your life upon the religious history of East Rutland, and plan the most enormous book upon it, and yet find that you have continually to excise and select from the growing mass of your material."
Hilaire Belloc,
Ibid, page 45.
I have no answers. On certain days, I feel that I ought to spend the remainder of my life immersed in, say, the four volumes of R. H. Blyth's
Haiku or Thomas Hardy's
Collected Poems. There is more than enough in those books to fill a lifetime. On the other hand, if someone I trust knocked on my door tonight and asked me to travel with them tomorrow to a village in the Carpathian Mountains or to one of the former cities of the Hanseatic League, I would be sorely tempted.
Angle of Vision
But, John, have you seen the world, said he,
Trains and tramcars and sixty-seaters,
Cities in lands across the sea --
Giotto's tower and the dome of St. Peter's?
No, but I've seen the arc of the earth,
From the Birsay shore, like the edge of a planet,
And the lifeboat plunge through the Pentland Firth
To a cosmic tide with the men that man it.
Robert Rendall,
Shore Poems (Kirkwall Press 1957).
Myrtle Broome (1888-1978), "A Cornish Village"
The Siren song of an escape to paradise is nothing new. The choice between views from mountain-tops and the religious history of East Rutland seems obvious. But we mustn't be too hasty.
"More than half a century of existence has taught me that most of the wrong and folly which darken earth is due to those who cannot possess their souls in quiet; that most of the good which saves mankind from destruction comes of life that is led in thoughtful stillness. Every day the world grows noisier; I, for one, will have no part in that increasing clamour, and, were it only by my silence, I confer a boon on all."
George Gissing,
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft (1903), pages 13-14.
Don't get me wrong: we need to get out. I'm not suggesting that we should hole up in a roomful of books. But, in a world that encourages short attention spans and ephemeral desires, there is something to be said for staying in place.
The Man from the Advertising Department
There's more to see
In the next field.
Not much here
But grass and daisies
And a gulley that lazes
Its way to the weir --
Oh there's much more to see
In the next field.
There are better folk
In the next street.
Nobody here
But much-of-a-muchness people:
The butcher, the blacksmith,
The auctioneer,
The man who mends the weathercock
When the lightning strikes the steeple --
But they're altogether a better class
In the next street.
There'll be more to do
In the next world.
Nothing here
But breathing fresh air,
Loving, shoving, moving around a bit,
Counting birthdays, forgetting them, giving
Your own little push to the spin of the earth;
It all amounts to
No more than living --
But by all accounts
There'll be more to do
And more to see
And VIP neighbours
In the next world.
Norman Nicholson,
Collected Poems (Faber and Faber 1994).
William Peters Vannet, "Arbroath Harbour" (1940)
There is a restlessness that comes with being human. There is also a natural tendency to think that something is
missing in our life. Hence the allure of movement, of travelling
in search of paradise.
Is this an argument for staying put? I don't know. But perhaps this is where poetry, and art in general, come in. They are not a substitute for life. Nor are they aesthetic trifles. For all of their beautiful variety, their message is actually quite simple. In one of our ears they whisper:
Pay attention. In the other ear they gently remind us:
Time is short.
In the Same Space
The setting of houses, cafés, the neighborhood
that I've seen and walked through years on end:
I created you while I was happy, while I was sad,
with so many incidents, so many details.
And, for me, the whole of you has been transformed into feeling.
C. P. Cavafy (translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard), in C. P Cavafy,
Collected Poems (Princeton University Press 1975).
Bernard Ninnes (1899-1971), "Nancledra"
