Don't It Make Your Blue Eyes Weep - A Guest Post by Simon Solomon

Police breach social gathering legislation to pollute lagoon at Harpur Hill, Buxton 

Photos: Sky News

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. - Albert Camus

In the febrile air of 1967/68 Paris, the Situationist International group planned a beautifully macabre stunt to protest the Vietnam war and épater les bourgeois by staining the Seine blood-red and depositing in it the corpses of a couple of hundred Asiatics to drift downstream to Notre Dame.

Reportedly, obtaining the cadavers was the easy part, courtesy of an enterprising plan to hijack a refrigerated truck en route to one of the city's medical schools that was said to do a brisk trade in Chinese dead bodies. However, the industrial dye proved a sticking point since the quantities were prohibitive. Thus, the plan sadly foundered, and the river herself remained artistically unperturbed. [1]

Fast forward to the viral madness of 2020 Blighty this week, when it has been depressing beyond belief to read of Derbyshire's Police's serial overreaches of the government's already draconian guidelines in locking down the entire nation - bar the odd permitted sortie to buy a pint of milk, stretch your legs or go to your job if you feel you must (and still have one) in order to, say, stay alive.

Taking as its departure point a spokesman's confidently philistine assertion that 'driving to beauty spots in the Peak District cannot be considered an essential journey', the constabulary has recently been keeping us safe by means of a catalogue of reassuring innovations - culminating in the reassuring use of drone surveillance to trace the car number plates of drivers back to Sheffield and subsequently name and shame on social media tweed-jacketed ramblers and old ladies with dogs. As Plod now extends its Orwellian arm to issue its wisdom concerning the dispensability of beauty for psychic health, God's green earth (beyond your own garden fence) is now - in its Cyclopian gaze - officially off limits. [2]

And so, building upon its blatant contempt for the necessity of beauty for anyone with half a soul or a breath of joy in their Covid 19-squeezed heart - and in a supremely dumb gesture strangely redolent of the French situationists (but without a soupçon of the spirit, wit and intelligence ) - the same force's recent desecration of a Buxton lagoon with a cheery black pigment at public expense has made good on its claim that communing with nature is to be outlawed, since the area (and doubtless any others it so decrees) is intrinsically 'dangerous'.

With this in mind, a surprisingly literate Facebook post on Buxton Police SNT reads, 'we have attended the location this morning and used water dye to make the water look less appealing.'

Difficult as it might seem for the rest of us to make this up, news reports state that the force has form in this domain, since the same tactic has been used in the past to reduce anti-social behaviour - such as children wading in the water or young people (whose risk of death from Corona virus is close to nil) admiring its turquoise tones in short sleeves. [3]

The former Supreme Court Justice Lord Sumption has lambasted the overreach in an extended public statement, the civil liberties group Big Brother Watch has dubbed the force's behaviour 'sinister' and 'counter-productive', and even the former Justice Secretary David Gauke has called matters 'badly misjudged', while local residents have themselves taken to social media, with one commenting: 'If only they were this authoritarian to people carrying zombie knives, stealing your car or grooming kids in Rotherham' - an item of customer feedback one wouldn't be surprised in the current climate to see earn its writer a court summons all by itself.

How best to respond to people who seemingly think aesthetics are a species of foreign head lice?

Clearly, the aforesaid pushback is pointless against those who clearly don't even have enough shame themselves to admit they are wrong (while seeking to shame others for such dangerous behaviour as going for a spin and a scenic stroll). We are ourselves at a loss, but would suggest that any remaining poets, anarchists and libertarians not yet criminalised in the Buxton area should band together under cover of nightfall, create a kindly cordon sanitare around the local cop shop, and throw a bucket of some suitably irremovable industrial dye of their own choosing over a few local officers. (In this venture, we suggest scarlet might be a colour of choice to leave the recipients suitably red-faced.)

As for the Blue Lagoon itself, by some accounts the water is barely more chemically benign than ammonia, contains dead animals, turds and needles, and is so cold it might (literally) drag you under at a stroke. There are a few sensible signs up, we gather, so that people can assess the risks for themselves like adults. Such excremental details, however, only make us love it all the more for its clearly Baudelairean allure to the local populace, and we look forward to looking in when time permits. 

Notes

[1] On the Situationist movement and fun and games on the Seine, see Christopher Gray (ed. and trans.), Leaving The 20th Century: The Incomplete Work of the Situationist International (Rebel Press, 1998). Thanks to Stephen Alexander for reminding me of this.

[2] Except it isn't! To see a summary of the correct and updated government/police powers (which allow one to drive and hike in the country with loved ones to one's heart's content), see https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/explainers-52106843.

[3] This is of course in no way to diminish the deaths of a small number of 'non-vulnerable' young and middle-aged people from Covid-19 in the UK in recent weeks.

Símón Solomon is a poet, translator, and critic. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He can be contacted via simonsolomon.ink

Surprise musical bonus: click here. 

For a follow-up post to this one, click here.

Fashion in the Age of Coronavirus

Paul Fürst's famous engraving of a 
plague doctor (c. 1721)

People think that heroic medical and military personnel in their sexy-scary, handmade hazmat suits and face masks are terribly futuristic. But that's probably because most of us have only ever seen them worn in science fictition movies.

Actually, they are simply updating a look that belongs to 17th-century European fashion and mankind's attempt to tailor a fully disease-resistant outfit. The now iconic (and carnivalesque) Venetian beak-doctor's costume was designed by the French royal physician Charles de Lorme (c.1619) to protect against the bubonic plague (i.e., the coronavirus of its day).

It featured a long leather or waxed fabric overcoat and a startling beak-shaped mask that contained a potpourri of aromatic ingredients, ranging from mint and lavender to garlic and cloves, designed to protect the wearer from imaginary gases (miasma) and bad smells that were believed to cause disease (this was before modern science developed germ theory). The outfit was finished with a wide-brimmed hat, boots and gloves, all made from goatskin, and a pair of glass goggles (incorporated into the mask).   

Strangely, even those without any fetishistic interest seem to possess a profound (cultural) fascination for men and women in protective clothing.

Where once we kissed the splendid robes of priests and believed only they could save us, now we place our faith in those wearing hi-tech hazmat suits and trust that they will restore health and safety to a diseased and dangerously chaotic world (and the fact that they do so without resorting to frogs and leeches and poking us with a long wooden stick, is something we should be grateful for).       

Turn and Face the Strange (On Coronavirus and the State of Funk)

It's interesting (to me at least) how extraordinarily relevant some of D. H. Lawrence's essays and articles still seem, even though he was writing for a very different readership, in a very different time.

Take, for example, 'The State of Funk', written in 1929. What Lawrence says here about the fear of change on the one hand and the need for courage on the other is surely worth (re-)considering in this Age of Coronavirus; a period characterised by governmental overreaction and media hysteria in the face of a global health crisis and ensuing socio-economic upheaval:

"There is, of course, a certain excuse for fear. The time of change is upon us. The need for change has taken hold of us. We are changing, we have got to change, and we can no more help it than leaves can help going yellow and coming loose in autumn, or than bulbs can help shoving their little green spikes out of the ground in spring. We are changing, we are in the throes of change, and the change will be a great one. Instinctively we feel it. Intuitively, we know it. And we are frightened. Because change hurts. And also, in the periods of serious transition, everything is uncertain, and living things are most vulnerable." [219]

This, I think, was true and important to say then and is true and important to say now: for it seems increasingly certain that the present pandemic will trigger not just a temporary suspension of civil liberties and a Great Confinement, but radical, long-lasting change; not just political and institutional change, but cultural and individual change in terms of everyday behaviour and values.

And the prospect of that understandably causes a certain anxiety amongst a good number of people: But what of it?, asks Lawrence. We might feel uncomfortable and there may be wretched times ahead, but that's no reason for panic or cowardice: "Granted all the pains and dangers and uncertainties, there is no excuse for falling into a state of funk." [219] What is needed, rather, in a time of great change is:

"Patience, alertness, intelligence, and a human goodwill and fearlessness [...] Courage is the great word. Funk spells sheer disaster." [220]

If we are quick-witted and undaunted, then there's the hope that things will be much better than they are presently; "more generous, more spontaneous, more vital, less basely materialistic" [220]. But, on the other hand, if we "fall into a state of funk, impotence and persecution, then things may be very much worse than they are now" [220].  

It's up to us: and we mustn't just leave it to the authorities; to politicians and policemen and those who look to shape public opinion via the media.

Lawrence concludes:

"Change in the whole social system is inevitable not merely because conditions change - though partly for that reason - but because people themselves change [particularly following a serious illness]. We change. You and I, we change and change vitally, as the years go on. New feelings arise in us, old values depreciate, new values arise. Things we thought we wanted most intensely we realise we don't care about. The things we built our lives on crumble and disappear, and the process is painful. But it is not tragic. A tadpole that has so gaily waved its tail in the water must feel very sick when the tail begins to drop off and little legs begin to sprout. The tail was its dearest, gayest, most active member, all its little life was in its tail. And now the tail must go. It seems rough on the tadpole: but the little green frog in the grass is a new gem, after all." [221]

So, as Bowie would say: Turn and face the strange ... and dare to become that little green frog!

See: D. H. Lawrence, 'The State of Funk', Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 219-224. 

Play: David Bowie, 'Changes', single release from the album Hunky Dory (RCA, 1971): click here for the 2015 remastered version.

Soon It Will Be Easter

F. N. Souza: The Deposition (1963)

Oil on canvas (138 x 170.5 cm)

Soon, it will be Easter ...

And this year, Christ's period in the tomb - post-crucifixion / pre-resurrection - will have a terrible significance and reality for us all, in this, the Age of Coronavirus and the Great Confinement, as we lie suspended between life and death, frightened even to cough or touch our faces.  

Of course, sooner or later, we will have to wake from our viral slumber and leave our domestic isolation. Even if our bodies are numb and full of hurt, we will have to move; assuming we're still alive and haven't perished behind the stack of quilted toilet rolls where we sought safety and reassurance, but which became at last a 3-ply prison.   

But it won't be easy moving back into life and returning from the land of the dead - particularly as the idiots in government have crashed the global economy. It might be spring and the natural world may be "thronging with greenness" [1], but things are, I suspect, going to be difficult for a lot of people for a long time to come.  

And, of course, we won't really be moving back into the same world, or the same life; but a different world, a different life (even if it has the appearance of the same). Sickness changes us and changes everything.

Indeed, what D. H. Lawrence once wrote of the flu is perhaps something we might say of coronavirus, namely, that it's a transformative disease: "It changes the very chemical composition of the blood." Hence, the fact that even when one does finally recover, "one has lost for good one's old self ..." [2].

Notes

[1] D. H. Lawrence, The Escaped Cock, in The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories, ed. Michael Herbert, Bethan Jones and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 126.

[2] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VI, ed. James T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), letter 3995, to Mabel Dodge Luhan, [14-15 April, 1927], pp. 36-38. 

It's Failure to Live That Makes Us Sick (D. H. Lawrence in the Age of Coronavirus)

Alan Bates as Birkin and Jennie Linden as Ursula

Women in Love (dir. Ken Russell, 1969)

In Chapter XI of Women in Love, there's a brief but interesting discussion between Ursula Brangwen and Rupert Birkin on the subject of illness which I thought might be interesting to examine as we all sit cooped up at home trying not to touch our faces and hoping not to manifest symptoms of coronavirus (the disease that is not only pandemic but also emblematic of this new socio-cultural era of confinement and isolation in which we suddenly find ourselves).  

"Ursula looked at him closely. He was very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face.

      'You have been ill, haven't you?' she asked, rather repulsed. 

      'Yes,' he replied coldly. 

      'Has it made you frightened?' she asked.

      'What of?' he asked, turning his eyes to look at her. Something in him, inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her, and shook her out of her ordinary self.

      'It is frightening to be very ill, isn't it? she said.

      'It isn't pleasant,' he said. 'Whether one is really afraid of death, or not, I have never decided. In one mood, not a bit, in another, very much.'

      'But doesn't it make you feel ashamed? I think it makes one so ashamed, to be ill - illness is so terribly humiliating, don't you think?'

      He considered for some minutes. 

      'Maybe,' he said. 'Though one knows all the time one's life isn't really right, at the source. That's the humiliation. I don't see that the illness counts so much, after that. One is ill because one doesn't live properly - can't. It's the failure to live that makes one ill, and humiliates one.'" [124-25]

The precise nature of Birkin's illness isn't, I believe, made clear in the novel. But the fact is he's often sick and laid up in bed, for his sins (and his sensitivity) - a bit like Lawrence himself, who had pneumonia at least twice and was dogged by both pulmonary tuberculosis and chronic bronchitis during his last years.

His description - very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face - makes one think of the man who died after having left the tomb, filled with the sickness of unspeakable disillusion and with a deathly pallor. No wonder Ursula finds Birkin - or, rather, the ravages of disease upon him - repulsive.

For whilst decadents may see beauty in physical decay and find signs of mortal corruption terribly romantic, Ursula is Nietzschean enough to appreciate that the weak and diseased present a terrible danger to the strong and healthy; not because they might pass on their medical condition, but because they invariably make miserable and undermine the natural gaiety that's in life. Repulsion is thus a noble defensive reaction; a vital somatic response to the threat of contamination.     

Having said that, Nietzsche also acknowledged that whilst strength preserves, it is only sickness which ultimately advances man. And so Birkin "liked sometimes to be ill enough to take to his bed", for then, during a period of convalescence, "he got better very quickly, and things came to him clear and sure" [201].    

Arguably, it's this convalescent conviction sparkling in his eyes that Ursula finds disturbing. Ordinarily, human beings always have a little fear and uncertainty in their eyes and Ursula seeks reassurance that Birkin, does, in fact, still know what it is to be frightened; of illness and of the possibility of dying.

However, whilst Birkin concedes that being critically ill and brought to death's door isn't very pleasant, he remains ambivalent about whether he is really afraid of death or not; sometimes no, sometimes yes. As for Lawrence, he was much clearer on this point: one must ultimately lose the fear and learn to affirm death in the same manner (and for the same reason) that one affirms life; for without the song of death, the song of life becomes pointless and absurd.  

Finally, we come to the question of illness and humiliation ...

Ursula finds sickness terribly humiliating and even the thought of being ill shameful. Birkin doesn't deny this, but seems to regard it as missing the real issue. For Birkin, it's not being ill that prevents us from living, but being unable to live - which for Lawrence means blossoming into full being like a flower - that makes us ill. It's this ontological failure - exacerbated by the conditions of modern existence - that, for Birkin, brings shame upon us.*

I don't know if that's true, but it's certainly something worth thinking about in the present time ...

Notes

D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen (Cambridge University Press, 1987). Note that I have slightly edited the discussion between Ursula and Birkin, removing a couple of lines.

* Lawrence reaffirms this idea in a poem found in his Nettles Notebook called 'Healing', which opens with the following lines:

I am not a mechanism, an assembly of various sections.
And it is not because the mechanism is working wrongly, that I am ill.
I am ill because of wounds to the soul, to the deep emotional self ..."

See The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 534.

Readers who liked this post might also find the following essay by Judith Ruderman of interest: 'D. H. Lawrence's Dis-Ease: Examining the Symptoms of "Illness as Metaphor''', D. H. Lawrence Review, Vol. 36, No. 2, (Autumn, 2011). 

On Protecting the NHS

One of the justifications for the Great Confinement - or lockdown as those who prefer prison slang refer to it - is that we need to protect the NHS, i.e., prevent an increasingly creaking, crisis-ridden institution from collapsing as the number of coronavirus cases requiring critical care rapidly escalates.    

It's an interesting slogan: one cynically designed to play on people's love for a state run health care system staffed by (heroic overworked) doctors and (angelic underpaid) nurses and accorded sacred cow status amongst the Great British Public. You can criticise anything and everything, it seems, but not the mythical monolithic NHS, no matter how poor, actually, the level of service provison and how desperately in need of reform it is.

I don't know when or why the NHS became quite such a powerful symbol of national pride and identity, but as Danny Boyle's preposterous London 2012 opening ceremony demonstrated, that is precisely what it has become. [1] We may not have a mighty empire any longer, or a world beating football team, but we do have Great Ormond Street and Pudsey Bear.

As one commentator notes, the NHS "provides the state with its moral purpose, and citizens with an idea not of the Good Life, but of the Healthy Life". But it also, of course, allows the state to relate itself to us not as citizens so much as patients or patients-to-be, ascribed a number on one huge waiting list. From cradle to grave, the Nanny State is there to care for us (which is why, ironically, we must now stay at home and protect it).

Ultimately, however, as Tim Black argues:

"The NHS doesn’t need saving; it needs demystifying. And perhaps then, stripped of its ideological role as the long therapeutic arm of the state, it might be possible to have an honest and open debate about what exactly we want from a national health provider. A point-of-need service, or a secular religion?" [2]


Notes

[1] Boyle's 20-minute long tribute to the NHS - with dancing medics and a giant baby - brought a tear to the eye of many a viewer, but I'm not the only one to have found it absurd, delusional, and slightly sick-making in its sentimentality. Whilst the vast majority of people employed within the NHS are well-intentioned and hard-working, that shouldn't blind us to the grim reality of many UK hospitals or make the system (in all its bureaucratic ineptitude and wastefulness) immune to criticism.      

[2] Tim Black, 'NHS: the state religion', Spiked (10 Jan 2017): click here to read online.

For a related post to this one - on clapping our NHS heroes - please click here.

On Keeping Calm and Carrying On in the Age of Coronavirus

The British have long prided themselves on their sense of humour and their stoicism; their carefree ability to keep calm, carry on and always look on the bright side, whatever the circumstances. Thus, there's something profoundly antithetical to the national spirit about panic buying, self-isolation, and lockdown - the key symptoms (apart from a fever and dry cough) of the media-driven, government-authorised coronavirus pandemic. 

What could be more humiliating than to hide away behind a mound of toilet rolls, checking for the latest updates on how many are infected and how many have died? I think I prefer those Brits in Benidorm defying Spanish police attempts to impose a curfew with chants of we've all got the virus / na, na, na, na.

What on earth are political leaders thinking, as they trigger massive cultural and socioeconomic disruption because of a disease that will make most people only mildly or moderately ill? I mean, it's not the zombie apocalypse or World War III, and one rather admires Peter Hitchens for daring to ask whether shutting down the UK - with unprecedented curbs on civil liberties - is really the most sensible response to the cornovirus crisis?

As Hitchens knows, anyone who doesn't conform to the official line on this question is immediately accused of being irresponsible and threatening public health, undermining the NHS, etc. So it takes a certain courage to even pose the possibility that we might have got things wrong and retreated from reason into mass hysteria, compromising our freedom as we do so (restrictions on movement, travel and public gathering, are already in place). He writes:

"How long before we need passes to go out in the streets, as in any other banana republic? [...] All the crudest weapons of despotism, the curfew, the presumption of guilt and the power of arbitrary arrest, are taking shape in the midst of what used to be a free country. And we, who like to boast of how calm we are in a crisis, seem to despise our ancient hard-bought freedom and actually want to rush into the warm, firm arms of Big Brother. Imagine, police officers forcing you to be screened for a disease, and locking you up for 48 hours if you object. Is this China or Britain? Think how this power could be used against, literally, anybody."

Is the Great Confinement justified? Perhaps. To be honest, I don't know - and neither, of course, does Hitchens. But nor am I confident that anyone else knows for certain; not even the medical experts that the government claims to be relying upon for its information and decision making.

And if coronavirus turns out to be far less deadly than we are being led to believe, then the global decision to shut up shop will be something that future generations will look back on with amused astonishment.

See: Peter Hitchens, 'Is shutting down Britain - with unprecedented curbs on ancient liberties - really the best answer?', Mail on Sunday (22 March, 2020): click here to read online.

Twins

Doublemint Twins Patricia and Cyb Barnstable

pose on the cover of Playboy (March 1981)

There is a persistent fascination with twins within the cultural imagination which is, appropriately enough, dual in character ...

On the one hand, twins signify all that is queer, uncanny, and sinister within the realm of horror; the terrifying suggestion often being made that we all possess an evil twin or doppelgänger, just like the character played by Roger Moore in The Man Who Haunted Himself (1970).

Whilst on the other hand, twin obsession has a pervy fetishistic component; particularly, of course, when the twins are young, female and sexually attractive. Advertisers and pornographers alike, have been quick to exploit the (mostly male) desire for a threesome involving twin sisters with the promise that this will instantly double their pleasure, double their fun.* 

And if this also involves transgressing the taboo against incest - which it does - well that only serves to intensify the experience for the illicit lover. (What it does for the self-esteem of the women involved, however, one can only guess, but I suppose sleazy characters ranging from Austin Powers to Tony Stark don't really consider that an issue.)

* Note: I'm paraphrasing the famous slogan used to promote Wrigley's Doublemint chewing gum, a brand which has long exploited the twin fetish, beginning in 1939 with illustrated print ads such as the one above and then via a long running series of TV commercials featuring actual twins. To enjoy a classic example of the latter, from 1987, click here.   

Mama Weer All Carers Now (Something to Reflect Upon Whilst in Self-Isolation)

On a rather schadenfreudenistic note, it has amused me to see how the coronavirus pandemic has obliged millions of people to essentially adopt the life that I've been living for almost four years; one of illness, isolation, constant handwashing, financial hardship and grave concerns about the future.

Experts are already expressing fears about the mental wellbeing of people in a lockdown situation denied normal social interaction and deprived of certain material comforts that they have previously taken for granted. And I can vouch for the fact it isn't easy ...

However, if spending 14 days shut-up indoors worrying about whether you'll run out of quilted toilet paper is your idea of hardship, then try spending 1,448 days caring for an elderly parent with Alzheimer's without any external support and just £66.15 a week to live on ...         

I'm just saying that people should learn to make do - or do without - with a certain equanimity (or, if you prefer a more philosophical term, then go google ataraxia - a crucial component of the good life for Stoics and Epicureans alike).*  


* Note: those interested in this can also click here to read a post on the topic from April 2018. 

The Bear Necessity: Reflections on the Case of Timothy Treadwell

Promo image for Grizzly Man (2005)

I.

It's funny how life works out: one minute you're just an audition away from landing the role of Woody Boyd in one of TV's greatest sitcoms; the next you're being eaten by a brown bear ...

II.

Failed actor, self-confessed substance abuser, and gonzo naturalist, Timothy Treadwell, believed he possessed a unique bond with all creatures great and small, particularly bears, which, he insisted, were just harmless party animals. To prove it, he spent his summers in an Alaskan National Park getting chummy with grizzlies, whilst pissing off the park rangers who repeatedly warned him about the risks he was taking.

Warnings he blithely chose to ignore; refusing, for example, to carry a can of bear spray (just in case), or protect his campsite with a (non-lethal) electric fence. Both of these measures were dismissed as cruel and unnecessary, 'cos he loved his furry friends and they would never hurt him, he said.

Unfortunately, this proved to be a fatal conceit ... Something that Treadwell discovered when he and his girlfriend, Amie Huguenard, encountered a denizen of the woods out looking for a meal, rather than searching for human companionship.


III.

The tragic result of this encounter was documented in Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man (2005); a film which makes silent use of a six-minute audio recording in which the agonised screams of Tim and Amie can be heard as they meet their grisly end (excuse the pun). Whilst some vorarephiles might find that idea arousing, I suspect in reality there's nothing very erotic about having a large male bear chow down on you (as Leonardo DeCaprio will vouch). 

Interestingly, however, whilst praising Treadwell's astonishing video footage of bears, Herzog makes it clear in his narration that he repudiates Treadwell's Disneyfied view of nature and regards him as a disturbed individual harbouring a bizarre death wish. So, perhaps it was the end he longed for after all ...? 

If nothing else, it certainly makes one question why it was that Treadwell, who usually left the park at the end of the summer, chose in 2003 to stay until early October; a decision that placed him and Huguenard at far greater risk, as bears become more aggressive in the autumn as they desperately search for food prior to hibernation.

Herzog speculates that by staying later in the season Treadwell was almost deliberately inviting trouble. And he concludes:

"What haunts me, is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food."

Notes

For a lengthy essay discussing the case of Timothy Treadwell entitled 'Night of the Grizzly - A True Story of Love and Death in the Wilderness', visit: yellowstone-bearman.com

To learn more about Grizzly People, the grassroots organisation founded by Treadwell devoted to preserving bears and their natural environment, click here. 

See: Grizzly Man, dir. Werner Herzog, (Lions Gate Films, 2005): click here to watch the official trailer.