Would You Fuck a Queen Bee?

Joanna Frank as Regina in 

The Outer Limits (1964)

 

 

I. 

 

Amongst social insects, such as ants, wasps, and honey bees, a member of the reproductive female caste destined to become a queen is known as a gyne. Such a privileged bee is selected at the larval stage and fed a diet consisting exclusively of royal jelly; a protein-rich secretion which ensures her sexual maturity [1]. 

 

Raised in a specially constructed royal chamber, she will emerge as a virgin queen, bigger in size than a worker, but smaller than a queen in her prime. Her initial desire is not to fuck as many drones as possible, but, rather, to seek out and kill any potential love rivals; i.e., any other virgin queens, be they newly emergent like her, or still developing in their cells [2].     

 

Once she has established herself as top bee, the new queen will fly out on the first warm sunny day to a congregation area, where she will accept the attention of her admirers and mate with a dozen or more drones; male bees who exist only to sexually service the queen and who, having done so, fall to the ground exhausted and dying. 

 

In other words, drones are literally fucked to death by the queen and the congregation area is both an orgy zone and a killing field. 

 

Providing the weather remains fine, the queen may return to this area for several days until she feels herself to be sexually satisfied and full of sperm [3]. Then she is ready to start laying self-fertilised eggs at the rate of about 1,500 a day, whilst worker bees surround her and see to her every need (feeding her, disposing of her excrement, etc.).            

 

 

II.

 

So, the question - aimed primarily to heterosexual males amongst my readership - is this: Would you fuck a queen bee were she to assume human form? 

 

It's a question that was posed by my favourite episode of The Outer Limits: ZZZZZ; an episode in which a queen bee, having metamorphosed into a woman, attempts to seduce an entomologist in order to advance her species [4].

   

And why not, indeed? For as the narrator of the episode says: 

'Human life strives ceaselessly to perfect itself, to gain ascendancy. But what of the lower forms of life? Is it not possible that they, too, are conducting experiments and are at this moment on the threshold of deadly success?'

 

Leaving aside the anthropocentric conceit expressed here, let's provisionally grant that other species apart from man are conducting experiments in evolution and (unconsciously) striving for growth and greater complexity in order to gain an advantage over those against whom they compete for resources. 

 

And this is probably as true for bees as for any other species; for what is a bee, after all, but an evolved form of ancient wasp? [5] So, let's suspend our disbelief and experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to the outer limits ...

III.

In the episode under discussion, Dr Benedict Fields (played by Philip Abbott) takes on a new lab assistant; a beautiful, but somewhat odd young woman called Regina (played by Joanna Frank). Inventing a hard luck story, she is provided with room and board by the kindly (but boring) entomologist and his wife Francesca (played by Marsha Hunt). 

 

Fields is conducting research into the language of bees and hoping he might find some way to communicate with them. Regina is excited by the prospect - though not half as excited as she is by the mating habits of bees and the willingness of drones to sacrifice themselves in the act of love.

 

Despite being happily married - and old enough to be her father - Fields is clearly attracted to Regina. This naturally causes a certain amount of resentment in Francesca, although her suspicions of the younger woman are not simply the result of jealousy; she knows there is something queer or not-quite-right about her. 

 

This is confirmed when one night she watches Regina from her bedroom window dancing about in the garden from flower to flower and then momentarily morphing into a giant bee whilst licking nectar from a water lily. Of course, this is dismissed as a nightmare by her husband. 

 

Later, however, when Francesca finally confronts Regina, the latter releases the bees kept in the lab and encourages them to kill Francesca. Grief-stricken, but finally aware of Regina's true nature and purpose, Fields rejects her sexual advances and gives her a moral lecture on the eternal character of love between a man and his wife. 

 

Frightened that he is about to swat her, Regina backs away and accidently topples from the bedroom window to the ground below. The shock of the fall triggers a transformation back into her insect-self and she buzzes off into the night, presumably returning to the hive, or perhaps to die alone in some quiet spot, having failed in her mission to mate with a human.   

 

The closing narration reiterates the moral of the episode, just in case any viewers missed it:

 

'When the yearning to gain ascendancy takes the form of a soulless, loveless struggle, the contest must end in unlovely defeat. For without love, drones can never be men, and men can only be drones.'

 

 

IV. 

 

I have to say, if I were in the good doctor's shoes, I'm not certain I'd've been able to resist Regina's sexual allure and physical beauty; here was a woman not just with bee-stung lips, but a bee-stung body! And surely, as an entomologist, one would have a professional obligation to experience the unique (if deadly and perverse) form of interspecies experience being offered ...?

 

What I'm trying to say is that, in my view, Joanna Frank as Regina could turn any man into a melissophile ...

  

Notes

 

[1] All bee larvae are given a taste of royal jelly in their first few days, but only those destined to become queens are fed this exclusively; the others must make do with a mixture of nectar and pollen known as bee bread. 

 

[2] Unlike worker bees, the queen's stinger is not barbed and so she is able to sting (and kill) repeatedly without causing fatal injury to herself.

 

[3] A young queen stores sperm from multiple drones in her spermatheca, from where she will selectively release sperm for the remaining years of her life in order to fertilise her eggs. 

 

[4] I'm referring to episode 18 of season 1, entitled 'ZZZZZ', dir. by John Brahm and written by Meyer Dolinsky, which first aired on ABC in January 1964. The episode can be watched in full on the Daily Motion website: click here.   

 

[5] Bees evolved from ancient predatory wasps that lived 120 million years ago. Like bees, these wasps built nests and gathered food for their offspring, but while most bees feed on nectar and pollen, their wasp ancestors hunted other insects. 

      Whether this makes the former more perfect versions of the latter is of course highly debatable. As far as I understand it, natural selection is a process that facilitates adaptations to an evironment, thus improving the chances of survival, but there is no intelligent design at work and evolution isn't progressive (unless one happens to subscribe to an orthogenetic model of the latter).      

 

 

How Playing the Part of a Real Troublemaker Secured Roadent His Place in the Pop Cultural Imagination

Roadent in 1977

 

Everyone (of a certain age) will remember the haunting hit single by The Passions, 'I'm in Love With a German Film Star' [1]. 

 

But not everyone will know that the object of Barbara Gogan's desire - whom she once saw in the corner of a bar trying not to pose - was neither German, nor, to be honest, a film star [2]; it was, rather, Stephen Conolly, aka Roadent, an English punk rocker, famed for his association with the Sex Pistols and the Clash. 

 

For me, Roadent is one of those somewhat shadowy and almost legendary figures from back in the day; someone who, to a large extent, is now of more interest than the (surviving) members of the bands whom he once assisted; and someone who, by playing the part of a real troublemaker, has secured his place in the pop cultural imagination.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The Passions were a post-punk band from West London, fronted by the Dublin-born songstress Barbara Gogan. The single 'I'm in Love With a German Film Star' was released in January 1981 on Polydor Records and reached the top 30 in the UK singles chart (which, for The Passions, was as good as it got). 

      Those who cannot recall the tune, or have never heard it, are invited to click here to play on YouTube. Or to watch a Top of the Pops performance, click here.  

[2] Having said that, it's true that Roadent has had minor roles in a couple of German films - including Brennende Langweile (dir. Wolfgang Büld, 1979) - and he also played the character of Joker in two episodes of the German TV series Das Ding (1978).   

  

On Crystal Skulls and Vitrified Brains

Figure 1: Crystal Skull in the collection of the British Museum [1]

Figure 2: Vitrified remains of a human brain [2]

 

I. 

 

It amazes me that even after the series five episode of Peep Show in which Mark smashes Cally's crystal skull with a brick, having only pretended to share her insane beliefs surrounding these objects in order to get her into bed [3], there are are still people who genuinely think these quartz carvings were crafted by the ancient inhabitants of Atlantis and possess magical powers of healing. 

 

Indeed, even claims of a pre-Columbian Mesoamerican origin have been refuted by those experts who have taken time to investigate them and it seems most likely the skulls were manufactured in the mid-late 19th century, almost certainly in Europe, in order to meet the growing demand for primitive artefacts (this includes the skull in the collection of the British Museum shown in figure 1 above).    

 

It's worth noting, finally - and contrary to popular fiction and New Age fantasy - that stories of crystal skulls possessing mystical properties and paranormal powers, do not feature in actual Mesoamerican mythologies. If you'd held one up to the Aztecs, they'd have laughed in your face (before then ripping your heart out).   

 

 

II.

 

Far more interesting than crystal skulls and their fake history, is the fact - recently brought to my attention by the artist and thanatologist Heide Hatry [4] - that the heat from the Mount Vesuvius eruption in 79 AD was so extreme that it literally turned brains into glass!

 

Who knew this was even possible? Blondie warn about the dangers of having a heart of glass [5], but I don't recall them saying anything about this.   

 

Vitrification, however, is a real process; one which results when material is burned at a very high temperature and then rapidly cooled and the shiny black matter extracted from inside the skull of one poor soul killed by the volcano is indeed the glassy remains of what had previously been squishy grey matter. 

 

Such a process is, apparently, extremely rare. Indeed, according to Dr Pierpaolo Petrone, a forensic anthropologist and the lead author of a recently published study of this topic [6], this case is the first ever discovery of an ancient human brain which has been vitrified.

 

Dr Petrone explains that the victim - found buried by volcanic ash - was probably killed instantly by the eruption and that the intense heat his body was exposed to ignited fat, vaporised soft tissue, and converted his brain into a glass-like substance. 

 

As Mark Corrigan might say: Thank you science, for providing us with this truly fascinating - if horrific - insight.     

 

Notes

 

[1] This and other images of the British Museum's Crystal Skull - along with full details - can be found on the BM website: click here. In brief, the BM purchased it from Tiffany and Co., in 1897, and they readily admit that it is not an authentic pre-Columbian artefact, but one made with modern tools, probably in Europe in the 19th-century.   

 

[2] Image source: The New England Journal of Medicine / Pierpaolo Petrone: click here.

[3] See the episode of Peep Show entitled 'Jeremy's Manager' (E5/S5), dir. Becky Martin, written by Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain, first broadcast on 30 May 2008. The full episode can be viewed on All 4 (the on demand service from Channel 4): click here (note you'll need to sign in or register first). Alternatively, the relevant scenes from the episode can be found on YouTube: click here and here.

[4] See the post dated 3 May 2022 on Heide Hatry's Icons in Ash Instagram account: click here.

 

[5] Blondie, 'Heart of Glass', a single release from the studio album Parallel Lines, (Chrysalis, 1978), written by Debbie Harry and Chris Stein. Click here for the official music video (dir. Stanley Dorfman). 

[6] Pierpaolo Petrone, M.D. (University of Naples Federico II, Naples, Italy), et al, 'Heat-Induced Brain Vitrification from the Vesuvius Eruption in C.E. 79', The New England Journal of Medicine, (Jan 23 2020): click here.

I Wish I Was Skiing (Fragment from the Dementia Diary)

Stan Laurel (c. 1920)

 

 

When you are living in exile and singlehandedly caring 24/7 for an elderly parent with dementia, then, trust me, all days are bad days [1].

 

But some days are worse than other days and feelings of entrapment, isolation, and violent frustration are overwhelming. Today is one such day. 

 

But, for some reason, at times like this, I always remember Stan Laurel on his death bed telling the nurse that he wished he was skiing: 

 

'Oh, I didn't know you could ski, Mr Laurel', she replied. 

 

To which Stan jokes: 'I can't - but doing anything would be better than this.'

 

Amazingly, thinking of this and of Stan's smiling face - or whistling Laurel and Hardy's cuckoo theme [2] - always manages to bring solace and make happy. 

 

It's not that the latter promises a better tomorrow; rather, it reminds one that in the grand scheme of things there is no grand scheme and life is patently absurd. Ultimately, we are all descendants of Sisyphus, forever pushing a giant rock uphill, or, in the case of Stan and Ollie, a piano up a long flight of steps.      

 

Notes 

[1] For an idea of what a typical day involves, click here. 

 

[2] Laurel and Hardy's cuckoo theme - entitled "Dance of The Cuckoos", was composed by Marvin Hatley. For Stan, the tune's melody represented Oliver Hardy's character  - pompous and dramatic - whilst the harmony represented his own character; somewhat out of key and only able to register two notes: Cu-coo. 

      The original theme, recorded by two clarinets in 1930, was re-recorded with a full orchestra in 1935. It was first used on the opening credits for Blotto (dir. James Parrott, 1930). A full version of Hatley's absurdist masterpiece can be played on YouTube by clicking here. 

 

 

May Day with D. H. Lawrence (1921 - 1929)

Claude Flight and Edith Lawrence Maypole Dance (1936)
goldmarkart.com 

 

 

1 May 1921 

 

Lawrence is back in Germany - staying at a country inn just outside Baden. 

 

He informs his American literary agent Robert Mountsier that it's lovely, although in a lettter written two days earlier, also to Mountsier, he confesses he doesn't really like Germany - even though things are cheap (always an important consideration for Lawrence). 

 

He expands upon this in a letter written the following day - May 2nd - to Mary Cannan, the actress wife of the British writer Gilbert Cannan: 

 

"The country is beautiful, Baden a lovely little town, and there are some exquisite things in the shops. Everybody is very nice with us: and we live for about 5/- a day the pair of us. Food is very good: wonderful asparagus." [1] 

 

And yet: "Germany is rather depressed and empty feeling [...] The men are very silent and dim." [2] 

 

To be fair, they had just lost a war and Germany had not fully recovered from the shock caused by the overthrow of the old way of life and the ongoing economic misery caused by the Treaty of Versailles's demand for punitive war reparations. 

 

Soon, however, the Nazis would be along, promising to address these issues ...

 

 

1 May 1923 

 

Two years later, and Lawrence is in Chapala, Mexico - which he describes in a telegram to Frieda as paradise (whether this is meant ironically or not, I don't know). 

 

She duly arrives from Mexico City the following day by train and they move into a little house of their own (near but not overlooking Lake Chapala): "It is hot and sunny and nice: lots of room." [3] 

 

They even have bananas growing in their garden - so much more exotic than the apples growing in mine! 

 

 

1 May 1925 

 

Many of Lawrence's short letters written from Del Monte Ranch, New Mexico, are full of relatively dull domestic details and conventional remarks about the weather and his state of health. 

 

And this includes his May Day letter to the American modernist painter (and early exponent of Cubism) Andrew Dasburg: thanks for sending a new ribbon for the typewriter; we've got the workmen in laying pipes; the cold winds cause my chest to play up, etc. [4] 

 

There's really not much one can say about this. But it's reassuring to know that Lawrence wasn't raging or in genius mode all of the time. 

 

 

1 May 1926 

 

Although Lawrence mockingly portrayed Reggie Turner as little Algie Constable in Aaron's Rod (1922), I will forever hold him in high regard due to the fact that he was one of the few friends who remained loyal to Oscar Wilde when he was imprisoned and supported him after his release.

 

On May Day, 1926, Lawrence wrote to Reggie from the pensione where he was staying, in Florence, hoping to clear up a misunderstanding. Apparently, they had agreed to meet at a popular bar, but, due to some confusion over the day, they managed to miss one another. 

 

Surprisingly, rather than be angry about this and blame Reggie, Lawrence sincerely regrets the lost evening and confesses that he was involved in a similar mix-up in Mexico City "with the one man I really liked in that damnable town: he said Thursday, and I heard Friday ... But anyhow I'm awfully sorry, and a thousand apologies" [5]. 

 

This is maybe explained by the fact that, as well as needing spectacles, Lawrence was a little deaf.

 

 

1 May 1928 

 

Harry Crosby, the young American playboy, poet, and publisher, epitomized the Lost Generation and would, in December 1929, commit suicide, aged 30, having first shot his young mistress, Josephine Rotch, through the head as part of an apparent death pact.

 

Twenty months earlier, however, in the spring of 1928, Lawrence had offered to write an introduction to a collection of poetry by Crosby and he sent this off to him at the beginning of May [6]. 

 

In a letter of April 29, Lawrence writes: "I have done the introduction to Chariot of the Sun [...] You can cut this introduction, and do what you like with it, for your book. If there is any part you don't like, omit it." [7] 

 

That's very generous of Lawrence; as was his proposal to promote Crosby's book by trying to get the introduction published separately; "a magazine article would be a bit of an advertisement for you" [8].

 

Just before Lawrence had the chance to post this letter, however, he received some further poems from Crosby in the mail. Unfortunately, he didn't think much of them - and in a PS written on May 1st, he advised Crosby not to add them to Chariot of the Sun:

 

"They don't belong; they are another thing. Put them in another book. Leave Chariot as it is. I send my foreword [...] It's good - but it won't fit if you introduce these new, long, unwieldly, not very sensitive poems. Do print Chariot as it stands. The new ones aren't so good." [9] 

 

 

1 May 1929

 

This would be Lawrence's final May Day; he was to die the following year on March 2nd. 

 

And he spent it in Spain (Palma de Mallorca): "Brilliant sunny May Day here, but wind cool - everything sparkling." [10]

 

In fact, he liked Mallorca so much he thought about staying the whole month and then do a little tour around Spain: Burgos, Granada, Cordoba, Seville, Madrid ..."I don't expect to like it immensely [...] Yet it interests me." [11]  

 

In fact, Lawrence had already decided the Spanish were rancid and lifeless: 

 

"The people seem to me rather dead, and they are ugly, and they have these non-existent bodies that English people often have [...] Dead-bodied people with rather ugly faces and a certain staleness. [...] The Spaniards, I believe, have refused life so long that life now refuses them [...]" [12]

 

Despite this, Lawrence lingered on in Palma until June 18th, when he finally sailed for Marseille (and from there headed by train to Italy).    

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. III, ed. James T. Boulton and Andrew Robertson, (Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 710. 

      The May Day letter to Robert Mountsier is also on p. 710. 

 

[2] Letters, III. 711. 

 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, writing in a letter to Thomas Seltzer (2 May 1923), The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. IV, ed. Warren Roberts, James T. Boulton and Elizabeth Mansfield, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 436. 

      The short May Day telegram to Frieda is on p. 435 of this volume. 

 

[4] See the letter to Andrew Dasburg (1 May 1925), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. V, ed. James T. Boulton and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 248. 

 

[5] Letters, V. 445-46. 

 

[6] This introduction by Lawrence - entitled 'Chaos in Poetry' - can be found in Introductions and Reviews, ed. N. H. Reeve and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 107-116. It is one of my favourite pieces of writing by Lawrence and, I think, one of the most important. It was first published in Echanges, in December 1929.  

 

[7-8] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VI, ed. James T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton, with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cabridge University Press, 1991), p. 389.

[9] Letters VI. 390. 

[10] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Nancy Pearn (1 May 1929), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VII, ed. Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton, (Cabridge University Press, 1993), p. 269.

 

[11] Letter to Maria and Aldous Huxley [9 May 1929], Letters, VII. 276. 

[12] Letters, VII 275-76. 

      Lawrence is still denigrating the Spanish - whom he compares disavourably to both the Italians and the French - in another letter to Aldous Huxley written on the 17th of May [VII. 283]. Just for the record: I love Spain and I love the Spanish.

 

 

To read the first part of this post - May Day with D. H. Lawrence (1911 - 1917) - click here.

May Day with D. H. Lawrence (1911 - 1917)

Edith A. Cubitt: Children Dancing Round a Maypole (c. 1900) 

Watercolour drawing (commissioned by Ernest Nister)

vam.ac.uk

 

 

1 May 1911

 

After his advances to Agnes Holt in the autumn of 1909 had come to nothing - not even a handjob - Lawrence convinced Jessie Chambers to become his lover. 

 

In the two years that followed, finally free from the bonds of chastity, Lawrence actively pursued several women - or bed bunnies as he referred to them - in the hope of further sexual experience; "years of enforced virginity had given way to a kind of compulsive arousal" [1].

 

One of these women was the lovely Louie Burrows, to whom he wrote on May Day 1911:

"I would sell birthrights and deathrights for an embrace of thee, Louisa: toss 'em out of the window, poetic powers, perceptivity, intellect - pouf: for a few kisses and a tight clasp." [2]

 

 

1 May 1912 

 

Lawrence has now met and fallen in love with a woman whom he believes to be the most wonderful in all England. 

 

Unfortunately, Frieda Weekley is married with children. Still, that doesn't deter either of them from beginning an illicit affair and on May Day 1912 he writes a letter in which he expresses his anxiety and guilt - but also his commitment to the relationship - having arranged to effectively elope with her to Germany:

"I feel so horrid and helpless. [...] And what was decent yesterday will perhaps be frightfully indecent today. [...] 

      What time are you going to Germany, what day, what hour, which railway, which class? Do tell  me as soon as you can [...] I will come any time you tell me - but let me know.

      You must be in an insane whirl in your mind. I feel helpless and rudderless, a stupid scattered fool. [...] I would do anything on earth for you [...] but I don't like my feeling [of] presentiment. I am afraid of something low, like an eel which bites out of the mud, and hangs on with its teeth. I feel as if I can't breathe while we're in England." [3]

 

 

1 May 1913

 

Although he and Frieda are now an established item, Lawence is still thinking back to his (mostly sexless) relationship with Jessie - and doing so with increased bitterness. In a letter to Edward Garnett, he writes:

 

"It's all very well for Miss Chambers to be spiritual - perhaps she can bring it off - I can't. She bottled me up till I was going to burst. But as long as the cork sat tight (herself the cork) there was spiritual calm. When the cork was blown out, and Mr Lawrence foamed, Miriam said 'This yeastiness I disown: it was not so in my day.'" [4]  

 

It's always surprising how explicit Lawrence was with his sexual metaphors. Reading this, however, makes one wonder whether Jessie (or her fictional alias of Miriam) had a fear of semen and/or the act of ejaculation? In other words, was her intense disgust-response to male sexual activity rooted in a genuine phobia, or was it merely a consequence of her moral beliefs and idealism? 

 

Either way, this would explain (in part at least) why she was so bitterly ashamed of having allowed Lawrence to fuck her; it was as if he had "dragged her spiritual plumage in the mud" [5]. 

 

 

1 May 1915

 

American readers will probably know that William McKinley was the 25th president of the United States, serving from 1897 until his assassination by the anarchist Leon Czolgosz in 1901 at the Pan-American Exposition held in Buffalo, New York.

 

English readers will probably ask: So what? 

 

Well, it turns out that Lawrence was fascinated by this event and much amused by a song (of anonymous origin) that was written about the shooting and Czolgosz's execution in the electric chair. On May 1st 1915, he enclosed the lyrics to the song in a letter to the English author Eleanor Farjeon (presumably at her request) [6]. 

 

 

1 May 1916 

 

In a letter to his Freudian friend Barbara Low - a founding member of the British Psychoanalytical Society - written from his cottage in Cornwall, Lawrence expresses his complete dismay with the world at war:

 

"I would write to you oftener, but this life of today so disgusts one, it leaves nothing to say. The war, the approaching conscription, the sense of complete paltriness and chaotic nastiness in life, really robs one of speech." [7]  

 

Of course, having said that, Lawrence then goes on (at some length) to speak of the local flora, his work on what he still at this time calls the second half of The Rainbow, and the current state of his health: "I was very well, but have been seedy again these few days ..." [8] 

 

But mostly he complains of the utter nausea he feels for humanity; "people smelling like bugs, endless masses of them, and no relief: it is so difficult to bear. [...] I feel I cannot touch humanity, even in thought, it is abhorrent to me." [9]. 

 

Still, it is from such nausea and violent anti-humanism that great art is born and the greater health discovered. For as Lawrence says: One sheds one's sickness in books.

 

 

1 May 1917

 

Today, of course, when we are all supposed to stand with Ukraine and wear a little blue and yellow ribbon or badge in solidarity, to say anything positive about Russia is almost taboo. But in May 1917 Russia was, for many people, the country that held out the greatest promise. 

 

And so it is that Lawrence writes to his Russian-born friend S. S. Koteliansky:

 

"I feel that our chiefest hope for the future is Russia. When I think of the young new country there, I love it inordinately. It is the place of hope. We must go, sooner or a little later. [...] Send me a Berlitz grammar book, I will begin to learn the language - religiously." [10]

 

Notes

 

[1] John Worthen, D. H. Lawrence: The Early Years 1885-1912, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 252.  

[2] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. I, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 264. 

[3] Letters, I. 388-89. 

      It should be noted that this letter was actually written on April 30th, 1912, and not May 1st, but I'm using a little artistic and historical license for the sake of the post.

 

[4-5] Letters, I. 545. 

      This letter has been dated by the editor as 2 May 1913. It is mostly famous for the following boast made by Lawrence: "I know I can write bigger stuff than any man in England." [546]. 

[6] See The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. II, ed. George J. Zytaruk and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1981), p. 332.

[7-9] Letters, II. 602. 

[10] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. III, ed. James T. Boulton and Andrew Robertson, (Cambridge University Press, 1984), p. 121. 

 

 

The second part of this post - May Day with D. H. Lawrence (1921 - 1929) - can be read by clicking here.

He Who Lives by the Tusk ...

 

 

I.

 

As a matter of fact, I'm not what some would term an elephantophile. 

 

For whilst I wouldn't describe them as pig-tailed monsters, they're a bit too big and grey for my tastes and do sometimes possess a look in their long-lashed, colour-blind eyes that makes me uncomfortable. And don't mention those appalling feet and toenails!   

 

Putting these things aside, however, I have nothing against them and in the unlikely event an elephant should wander into my backgarden, I would happily give them a sticky bun to eat (providing they were careful not to tread on the cat). 

 

 

II. 

 

In contrast, I would not be so considerate of those involved in the illegal ivory trade. 

 

For if you wish to speak of monsters, then look no further than those who participate in the slaughter of African elephants and threaten them as a species with extinction. No wonder Joseph Conrad described the ivory business as the vilest trade that ever disfigured the history of human conscience.

 

It's chilling to recall that during the 1980s, 75,000 African elephants were killed annually for the ivory trade and their population was reduced in number from around 1.3 million to 600,000. 

 

Even more horrifying and depressing is the fact that the trade continues today, if on a reduced scale; approximately 20,000 elephants are now killed by poachers each year in Africa - more than the number of elephants being born - and the population now stands at around 415,000 individuals (to which one can add the remaining 50,000 Asian elephants).         

 

Of course there are other threats to the survival of the elephant, such as habitat destruction, the enclosure of farmland, and global warming. But poaching remains a real issue and there is an increasing demand for ivory in China and the Far East, where it is used for luxury items no one really needs.    

 

Apparently, ivory which is seized by the authorities is eventually destroyed, either by crushing or incineration, and this is believed to deter the poaching of elephants for their tusks, suppress the illegal trade in ivory, and foster public support for the conservation of elephants.

 

Whether that's true or not, I don't know (one might imagine it would simply push up the price), but over twenty countries have adopted this policy, including Kenya, which held the first high-profile ivory burning event in 1989, as well as the largest, in 2016, when 105 tonnes of ivory went up in flames. 

 

If it were up to me, rather than destroy the ivory I'd manufacture crosses and spikes from the material on which to crucify the bodies and impale the severed heads of poachers. I'm sure this savagely ironic method would prove a more effective deterrent and be something that the elephants would approve of in their ancient wisdom. 

 

For he who lives by the tusk must surely die by the tusk ...        

 

 

On D. H. Lawrence and Circus Elephants

The people watched and wondered, 

and seemed to resent the mystery that lies in beasts. [1]

 

 

I.

 

Put two men in a ring and there's a fight on. Add some performing animals to the mix and you have a very different type of spectacle: circus. 

 

Circus is a form of popuar entertainment involving men and beasts that, in its modern form, developed in England in the mid-18th century. Although there were travelling zoological exhibitions and clowns and acrobats before this time, it was the combination of these elements within the confines of a circular arena that was unique, and for this we can thank Philip Astley [2]. 

   

For some people, the star of the circus is the ringmaster; for others, it's the trapeze artists, or the showgirls on horseback wearing their sparkling costumes and feathers. But for D. H. Lawrence, the figures which seemed to best capture his imagination were the elephants. 

 

 

II. 

 

As far as I know, Lawrence never saw elephants in the wild; only captive beasts at London Zoo in 1911 [3]; ceremonial creatures taking part in a Buddhist festival in Ceylon in 1922 [4]; and trained elephants at a circus in Toulon (France), where he went with Frieda in December 1928. 

 

Whilst the magnificent tusker elephants in Kandy certainly left their impression on Lawrence (and his poetry), it's the much shorter series of verses - or pansies - that he wrote about the circus elephants that I wish to discuss here. 

 

These verses are:

 

 

Elephants in the circus [5]

 

Elephants in the circus

have aeons of weariness round their eyes

Yet they sit up

and show vast bellies to the children.

 

 

Elephants plodding [6]

 

Plod! Plod!

And what ages of time

the worn arches of their spines support!

 

 

On the drum [7]

 

The huge old female on the drum

shuffles gingerly round

and smiles; the vastness of her elephant antiquity

is amused.

 

 

Two performing elephants [8]

 

He stands with his forefeet on the drum

and the other, the old one, the pallid hoary female

must creep her great bulk beneath the bridge of him.

 

On her knees, in utmost caution

all agog, and curling up her trunk

she edges through without upsetting him.

Triumph! the ancient pig-tailed monster!

 

When her trick is to climb over him

with what shadow-like slow carefulness

she skims him, sensitive

as shadows from the ages gone and perished

in touching him, and planting her round feet.

 

While the wispy, modern children, half-afraid

watch silent. The looming of the hoary, far-gone ages

is too much for them. 

 

 

III. 

 

What these verses suggest is that elephants not only look old and worn out - their saggy, wrinkled skin doesn't help with this - but belong to a prehistoric world or time gone by, as if they were relics or living fossils, who have nothing more to offer than entertainment value (and ivory). 

 

It's often assumed by stupid people that animals that predate man and haven't physically changed much for thousands (if not millions) of years are somehow less evolved than us, or have reached an evolutionary dead end and are thus deserving of no place in the modern world. 

 

But whilst it's true that most species of proboscidean are extinct - and the future's not looking hopeful for the remaining elephants that do roam the Earth in ever-dwindling numbers - this mistaken line of thought is simply an example of anthropocentric conceit. Elephants are as evolved as us and belong as much to the world today as we do.    

 

I'm surprised Lawrence doesn't see this. And disappointed that he suggests performing elephants are having fun. For whilst I'm not an expert in elephant psychology and welfare, I very much doubt they enjoy exposing their vast bellies or find it amusing to balance on a ball or drum. Nor - I imagine - do they want to plod or shuffle around a ring, or crawl on their knees in utmost caution.  

 

Does anyone really imagine that the strange postures and poses they are forced to take up - "showing the pink soles of their feet / and curling their precious live trunks" [9] - come naturally? Or that training doesn't involve cruelty and the brutal use of bull-hooks, whips, and electric prods?  

 

And let's not even mention the physical and emotional abuse these poor creatures are subjected to when they are not in the spotlight; confined and chained for hours on end, or transported from town to town in the back of trucks and boxcars. 

 

Obviously Lawrence was writing a hundred years ago and so can't be expected to share a contemporary view of zoos and circuses in terms of so-called animal rights. But it is strange that a writer who was acutely sensitive to animals in all their wild otherness or mystery - and who hated the attempt by mankind to impose its will over the natural world - should have not been angered or outraged by the indecent sight of an elephant performing on command. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'When I went to the circus', The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 386. Click here to read in full online.

 

[2] Philip Astley (1742-1814) staged a show at an ampitheatre in London in 1768, featuring trick horseback riding and music. He later added other acts which quickly became associated with the circus, a term coined by Astley's rival, Charles Dibdin, who opened The Royal Circus in London in 1772.

      Readers who are interested, can find more details and a brief history of circus on the website of the National Fairground and Circus Archive (part of the Special Collections and Archive Division of the University of Sheffield Library): click here. 

 

[3] In a letter written to his girlfriend at the time, Louie Burrows, on 9 May 1911, Lawrence is excited by the prospect of her visiting at the weekend (if only for a day) and he proposes taking her to London Zoo, where, he says, he has never been (but presumably wanted to go). See The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. I, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 266. 

      Whether they did go, is uncertain. But if they did visit, they surely called in at the Elephant-House, to see one of the Zoo's main attractions. Readers who are interested to know what other creatures were on display in 1911 might like to consult the illustrated official guide to the London Zoological Society's gardens in Regent's Park, by P. Chalmers Mitchell, published in that year: click here.   

[4] In the Spring of 1922, the Lawrence's spent six weeks in Ceylon. On arrival, they witnessed the Pera-hera (or Festival of the Tooth); a night-time procession involving savage music and devil dancers, as well as huge tusker elephants dressed in gorgeous apparel. Lawrence was impressed, particularly by the latter stepping forth to the beat of a tom-tom and illuminated by torch-light, and he wrote a powerful poem entitled 'Elephant' shortly afterwards which was published in the English Review (April 1923).

      See D. H. Lawrence, The Poems, Vol. I, pp. 338-43. Alternatively, to read 'Elephant' online, click here. 

      My recent post on Lawrence's time in Ceylon can be read by clicking here.  

[5] D. H. Lawrence, The Poems I. 369.

[6] D. H. Lawrence, The Poems, I. 370.

[7] D. H. Lawrence, The Poems, I. 370.

[8] D. H. Lawrence, The Poems, I. 370. 

[9] D. H. Lawrence, 'When I went to the circus', The Poems, I. 386.

 

For a sister post to this one in which I discuss Lawrence's poem 'The elephant is slow to mate', click here.

Is the Elephant Slow to Mate?

And what ages of time

the worn arches of their spines support! [1]

 

I. 

 

D. H. Lawrence wrote several poems featuring elephants, one of which makes the claim that they are, as a species, slow to mate: 

 

 

The elephant, the huge old beast 

    is slow to mate; 

he finds a female, they show no haste 

    they wait 

 

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts 

    slowly, slowly to rouse 

as they loiter along the river-beds 

    and drink and browse 

 

and dash in panic through the brake 

    of forest with the herd, 

and sleep in massive silence, and wake 

      together, without a word. 

 

So slowly the great hot elephant hearts 

   grow full of desire, 

and the great beasts mate in secret at last, 

    hiding their fire. 

 

Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts 

    so they know at last 

how to wait for the loneliest of feasts 

    for the full repast. 

 

They do not snatch, they do not tear; 

    their massive blood 

moves as the moon-tides, near, more near 

    till they touch in flood. [2]

 

 

It's a lovely poem. 

 

But is what it says about the mating habits of the elephant true, or is Lawrence simply constructing another of what Amit Chaudhuri identifies as a dummy creature [3]; i.e., one which fits nicely into his own philosophy, but has little or no relation to natural history or mammalian biology? 

 

Unfortunately for those who like to believe that Lawrence has an uncanny insight into the essence of animals (and plants), I think it's the latter. That is to say, I don't think this verse tells us much about the love lives of actual elephants - and what it does tell us is misleading. 

 

For the fact is elephants - despite their huge size and weight - are not slow to mate and have been successfully fucking and evolving for tens of millions of years (i.e., long before there were any human beings to watch and wax lyrical about their sexual habits).

 

 

II. 

 

As is so often the case, the facts about most things - including elephant sexual behaviour - are at least as interesting as the musings of a poet. And so, for the record ...

 

Adult male elephants enter a state of amour fou known as musth when searching for a mate; massively increased testosterone levels produce highly aggressive behaviour and this helps them not only see off or gain dominance over potential love rivals, but increases their chance of reproductive success with the ladies (musth enables females to determine the condition of the male, as weak or injured males cannot cut the mustard).    

 

As for female elephants, they have their own recurring periods of sexual madness when they are receptive to male advances. When on heat, they release pheromones in their urine and vaginal secretions, signalling their fertility and the fact they are ready and willing to be mounted. (Males will often collect a chemical sample from a potential mate with their trunks and analyse such with their vomeronasal organ.) 

 

Elephants are polygynous by nature; i.e., they subscribe to a mating system in which one male lives and breeds with multiple females (although each female only mates with a single male). And once a bull elephant has his harem, he will jealously guard it, thereby ensuring paternity of any offspring that result from union with the cows. 

 

Although Lawrence suggests elephants mate in secret, actually, for young females, the attentions of a large older bull can be intimidating, so her relatives will often stay nearby to provide support and reassurance. The deed itself - i.e., of copulation - lasts for less than a minute and does not involve any pelvic thrusting by the male, whose penis has a remarkable degree of independent mobility. 

 

Having ejaculated, the male's sperm then have to swim six feet in order to encounter and penetrate an egg. If all goes well and one manages this mammoth task (no pun intended), then two years later a baby elephant will be born into the world (and as an endangered species - thanks to poaching and habitat destruction - that's an increasingly rare and vital event).          

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'Elephants plodding', The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 370.

 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'The elephant is slow to mate', The Poems, Vol. I, pp. 403-04.  

[3] See Amit Chaudhuri, D. H. Lawrence and ‘Difference’: Postcoloniality and the Poetry of the Present, (Oxford University Press, 2003). 

      Amongst other things, Chaudhuri demonstrates how - contrary to the conventional view - Lawrence as a poet is not a simple-minded nature lover concerned with understanding the beauty and essence of real animals, but, rather, in artificially constructing creatures in and on his own terms. In other words, he recreates and imitates various birds and beasts for his own artistic and philosophical amusement, assembling a menagerie of textual mannequins.

 

 

For a sister post to this one on D. H. Lawrence and circus elephants, click here. 

The Last of the Groupies: In Memory of Nancy Spungen

Nancy Spungen (1958-1978)

 

What d'you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with 

a society that abandons her and treats her like trash? 

You get what you fucking deserve!

I. 

 

It might be argued that Nancy Spungen was the last of the great American groupies [1]. 

 

For whilst there were - and probably still are - many young girls happy to starfuck their way to notoriety post-Nancy, I can't think of any by name and in the #MeToo era even the term groupie now seems dated and problematic.

 

Similarly, whilst the rock 'n' roll circus continued after the Sex Pistols imploded in 1978 - the year of Miss Spungen's death - it has never really recovered from the blow dealt it by punk and I'm pretty sure that when cultural historians look back a hundred years from now, rock's golden age will be identified as lasting from the mid-1950s until the end of the '70s (i.e., from Elvis to Sid Vicious). 

 

 

II. 

 

It would be wrong to pretend that Nancy was simply a nice Jewish girl at heart. Because, whilst she was indeed Jewish and raised in a respectable middle-class home, she wasn't composed of sugar and spice, so much as madness and spite and all things vice [2]. 

 

An emotionally disturbed infant and young child, prone to screaming fits and violent behaviour, Nancy was already prescribed barbiturates at just a few months of age in an attempt to pacify her [3]. Finally, at fifteen, having attempted suicide the year before, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

 

An obviously bright girl, Nancy excelled at elementary school, but made few friends. At age eleven, however, she was expelled due to repeated absenteeism. She had also by this age threatened to kill her babysitter with a pair of scissors and attacked her shrink after being accused of simply wanting attention and this also caused the school authorities some concern.  

 

Nevertheless, Nancy graduated from high school in April 1974 and was accepted into the University of Colorado. Unfortunately, after being twice arrested - firstly for purchasing marijuana from an undercover police officer and then for being discovered in possession of stolen property - her student life was cut short. Indeed, it was only on condition that she leave the state of Colorado and agree to parental supervision that Nancy avoided jail. 

 

At seventeen, Nancy left home and moved to New York City. Here she supported herself by whatever means she could; a little bit of freelance music journalism, some temporary work at a clothes store, stripping, and prostitution. She also decided she wanted to become a groupie and began to follow various rock bands, including Aerosmith, The New York Dolls, and the Ramones [4].

 

In 1977, Nancy flew to London with The Heartbreakers and decided she wanted to get herself a Sex Pistol. Initialy she had set her sights on Rotten, but when he showed no interest, she turned her attention to Sid. And so began a fateful eighteen-month relationship that came to a bloody end at the Chelsea Hotel in October 1978; one I have written of elsewhere on Torpedo the Ark: click here.   

 

Nancy was buried in the King David Memorial Park in Bensalem Township, Pennsylvania. Her mother, Deborah, published a memoir in 1983 with a title taken from a poem by Vicious: I Don't Want to Live This Life [5]. 

 

Whilst often still demonised by those who should know better (and, in many cases, didn't know her), Nancy Spungen has cemented her place within popular culture and I do think, over forty years since her death (aged just twenty), we might retrospectively view her with a little more kindness.  

         

 

Notes

 

[1] For an earlier post on groupies - those muses with dirty faces - click here.

 

[2] Having said that, I don't think Nancy deserved the epiphet Nauseating placed before her name, no matter how unpleasant she may have seemed. For whilst even his fellow band members may have found her behaviour objectionable, there's no doubting that Sid was besotted with Nancy, describing her as an intelligent and humorous woman who possessed not only beautiful eyes, but the most beautiful wet pussy in the world - and a fab taste in clothes. 

      Ultimately, perhaps being nauseating is preferable to being nice anyway; certainly when one recalls that the latter derives from the Latin nescius, meaning unknowing, ignorant, foolish - terms which cannot be applied to the streetwise Miss Spungen. 

 

[3] Although no brain damage was recorded at the time of her birth, one wonders if the fact Nancy had emerged into the world bright blue due to oxygen deprivation played a part in her later mental health problems; after all, no one likes to be strangled by their own umbilical cord (or carry an unconscious memory of such). 

 

[4] When I say follow, I of course mean rather more than this; Nancy supplied numerous rock stars with drugs and sexual favours. Before meeting Sid, she had slept with many of those on the New York scene at that time; David Johansen, Johnny Thunders, Syl Sylvain, Jerry Nolan, Richard Hell, Iggy Pop ... et al. 

 

[5] Those who are interested can listen to Deborah Spungen talk about her daughter, her book, her memories of Sid Vicious, etc. in a 42-minute radio interview (23 Nov 1983): available on YouTube: click here.