There was a British poet born on the eve of the Franco-Prussian war – or perhaps he would be better called an Anglo-French poet, a publicist, traveler, historian and occasional politician, Hilaire Belloc, who lived a long life and is perhaps best remembered for two books of his children’s verse. I translated both volumes into Russian: Belloc’s outrageous, hysterically funny and politically incorrect poetry for children were the first works by this extraordinary author that I first discovered about 10 years ago. In Russia his poetry remains largely unknown, in the old Soviet Union Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc was labeled a reactionary Catholic author (he was a reactionary all right, even an anti-Communist) and his works were something of a taboo. Not that they were banned, but after the 1920s nobody there bothered to publish anything by Belloc. Hilaire Belloc has been rediscovered in today’s Russia, but only as an author of prose and a historian (Richelieu, the Path to Rome). With all the talk about journalistic integrity or what makes journalists do what they do and how they do it, I suddenly remembered a fairly short poem by Hilaire Belloc: the Happy Journalist. The metaphor-rich poem that is a century old might appear low-key and detached (the happy journalist here is no villain of Ed Lucas caliber), the practitioners of the world’s second oldest profession in those days were innocent lambs if compared to propaganda workers of today, the scale is much smaller, but the parallels, the spirit of the world of presstitution, the character behind the characters live on. So… The Happy Journalist I love to walk about at night By nasty lanes and corners foul, All shielded from the unfriendly light And independent as the owl. By dirty grates I love to lurk; I often stoop to take a squint At printers working at their work. I muse upon the rot they print. The beggars please me, and the mud : The editors beneath their lamps As Mr. Howl demanding blood, And Lord Retender stealing stamps, And Mr. Bing instructing liars, His elder son composing trash; Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers) Refusing anything but cash. I like to think of Mr. Meyers, I like to think of Mr. Bing. I like to think about the liars: It pleases me, that sort of thing. Policemen speak to me, but I, Remembering my civic rights, Neglect them and do not reply. I love to walk about at nights ! At twenty-five to four I bunch Across a cab I can’t afford. I ring for breakfast after lunch. I am as happy as a lord ! timelythoughts/2014/03/22/the-happy-journalist/
Posted on: Sat, 22 Mar 2014 21:36:14 +0000
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