This Brexit mess reawakens some old childhood memories from the 1970s and 1980s. I was born to German parents in England, where my father was selling German industrial products for a living. We lived in a quiet settlement called Donkeytown, on the edge of the London suburbs in Surrey. We were the “Germans of the village”. And so one of the dominant feelings of my childhood was a sense of permanent war.
Let me explain. In the year of my birth, 1973, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Island joined the European Community. This didn’t mean that the…
When the flood comes, that final wave,
when the network is down, when there's nothing left to save,when the sun is so hot that nothing else grows,
when the weather has killed off our information flows,when my child and grandchild have run for the mountains,
to scavenge for food and mythical fountains,when the cats and dogs and rats and raccoons
have gnawed through the skulls of the bosses and buffoons,when the very last orgasm has sent the last shiver,
when Eros has forever emptied his quiver,when we're both alone on a slim bar of sand,
Fried, frazzled, finished.
By “planet” I don’t mean “the earth” or “nature”. I mean Planet Human, as in Planet Hollywood. The psychological, cultural, intellectual, ecological and social sphere we inhabit as a species or, put more loosely, a category of being. Even in the richer neighbourhoods and countries of this planet, our mental and emotional well-being, our basic psychic security is constantly under assault from all directions, including the inside. Even the sane are insane, even the enlightened are bamboozled, even the benevolent are cruel. On this fried planet, little is what it seems.
In the nineteen-sixties, the French writer…
Journalist, writer, translator, drummer