The American Dream Myth

Donald Trump goes on a lot about the American Dream as if it was more than "just a dream". The idea behind the American Dream is that with enough hard work and ambition, anyone, regardless of their background, can achieve success and prosperity. It’s an idea that has been indoctrinated for generations into Americans, from the cradle to the grave

But in reality, it is, indeed, just a dream: one that simplifies the complexities of social mobility, while ignoring systemic inequalities ingrained in American society. For many, this idea has become a narrative that encourages people to blame themselves for their failures, rather than the real forces that shape opportunity.

The actual phrase "American Dream" was first coined in 1931 by James Truslow Adams in The Epic of America. He defined it as: ‘Life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.’ In some ways, the Dream was a reality for a few people, but for the majority it was not.

The Dream is based on the myth of equal opportunity: that hard work equals success. But the reality is far more complicated. Social mobility in America has become increasingly restricted, particularly for those in the lower socioeconomic strata, who face systemic barriers preventing them from achieving their dreams.

There is also the growing wealth inequality in America. The richest 1% of Americans now have more wealth than the bottom 90% combined. The gap between the rich and poor has widened, making it difficult for those born into poverty to escape. This means that social mobility in America is now lower than in many other industrialised countries

This wealth gap has created a system where, for many, the Dream is very much a dream. People with financial resources have access to better education, healthcare and job opportunities, while those without wealth have no access to them. This inheritance of privilege, makes it difficult for those born into poverty to succeed, regardless of their ”work ethic”.

The education system in America is often regarded as “the great equaliser”, and a way for people to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Yet, the reality is that education is heavily stratified by socioeconomic status. Public schools in wealthier areas have access to better resources and more experienced teachers than those in less wealthier areas.

And the astronomical cost of higher education has made it difficult for students from lower-income families to access university. Students from wealthy families are more likely to go to prestigious institutions, while those from disadvantaged ones face high student loan debt or don’t go to university at all. This educational disparity limits opportunities for upward mobility.

There has also been a decline in organised labour unions and job security. For most of the 20th century, unions played a crucial role in improving working conditions, wages and benefits for American workers. However, union membership has declined, resulting in low wages for many workers and the removal of workplace benefits.

The rise of gig economy jobs, with its short-term contracts and precarious employment philosophy, has also contributed to the decline in job security, resulting in many workers being trapped in low-wage, unstable jobs, unable to escape the cycle of poverty, despite their best efforts to.

Yet, despite the evidence to the contrary, the Dream remains a powerful cultural ideology. This is because the idea that anyone can achieve success through hard work creates a sense of meritocracy, where people believe that success and failure are based on individual effort rather than external factors. This makes it easier for those who succeed to believe that they earned their success, and that those who fail simply didn’t work hard enough. It also allows those at the top to justify inequality, as it is framed as the result of individual choice and effort, rather than systemic barriers.

Confronting the truth about how systemic inequalities limit access to opportunities can be uncomfortable, particularly for those who benefit from the existing system. Acknowledging these barriers would require a radical shift in how society views wealth and power, and many are reluctant to acknowledge these uncomfortable truths. It’s easier to hold on to the comforting myth of the Dream than to confront the reality of how deeply entrenched inequality is in American society.

So, the American Dream is no longer an achievable ideal for many, if it ever truly was. The idea that anyone can make it if they just work hard enough is a myth that ignores the real forces at play. True social mobility requires dismantling the barriers that perpetuate inequality and creating opportunities for everyone, regardless of their background, to reach their full potential. Only then can we begin to move beyond the myth of the American Dream and work towards a society where success is not just for the privileged few, but for everyone.

Rethinking Gender Beyond Biology

When it comes to understanding gender, we are often told to start with biology. Chromosomes, hormones and anatomy form the standard framework for defining what it means to be male or female. But I've come to believe that this framework—while useful in certain contexts—is fundamentally flawed when it comes to understanding gender identity.

To me, biological sex is like a bottle. It has a shape, a colour, a material. But what really matters is what’s inside. The contents. The substance. In this analogy, the bottle represents the body and the contents—milk, juice, water—represent gender identity. What makes a person a man, a woman, or nonbinary is not the bottle they were born in, but what they carry within them.

This isn’t just a poetic metaphor. It’s also aligned with a growing body of neuroscience that suggests gender identity might have roots in brain structure—material, biological differences in the brain that are independent of reproductive anatomy. Some trans individuals have brain patterns that more closely resemble those of their identified gender rather than their assigned sex at birth. These differences aren’t just theoretical—they show up in scans, in developmental pathways and in lived experience.

Critics often point to chromosomes or genitalia as the final word on gender. But if we accept that the brain is the seat of the self—of thought, feeling, identity—then surely it should be given greater weight than the body parts we can see. After all, we don’t define a person’s personality, intelligence or emotional world by the shape of their feet or the number of ribs they have. Why should gender be any different?

I believe gender types are innate. Not learned, not conditioned, not a result of cultural programming—but built in, hardwired, perhaps even before birth. That’s why attempts to “correct” gender identity through social pressure or behavioral therapy don’t work. You can’t pour milk into a bottle of juice and expect it to become juice. The contents are what they are.

And this is why I see the recent debates over legal definitions of sex and gender as missing the point. Courts and governments can legislate bottles, but they cannot legislate contents. The law may define “woman” by anatomy, but many trans women live every aspect of their lives as women—not because of surgery or clothing, but because of who they are on the inside. That reality deserves recognition.

It’s important to acknowledge, though, that the science around gender identity is still in its infancy. While there is growing evidence pointing to biological factors—such as brain structure and hormonal influences—there’s no single, conclusive explanation yet. The relationship between gender identity, brain patterns and genetics is complex, and we are still learning how these aspects fit together.

That said, the point I’m making isn’t that gender identity can be reduced to biology alone. Instead, it’s that the biological aspects—particularly those related to brain function—deserve more recognition in the conversation. Much like how we don’t reduce a person’s intelligence, personality or emotions to a single biological feature (like the size of their brain), gender identity should not be defined solely by physical markers. It’s the lived experience—the internal sense of self—that truly defines us.

In the end, we have to ask: what makes a person who they are? Is it the visible, the measurable, the externally assigned? Or is it the felt, the known, the lived experience of being? For me, the answer is clear. It’s not the bottle that defines us—it’s the contents.

The Human Being as God’s Camera

Back in the early 1990s, I was looking for something beneath the surface of religions. And I adopted a metaphor, probably not original to me, but perhaps not rendered in as detailed a way as I made it.

The metaphor is this: Each human is a sort of “CCTV camera”—a physical and psychological apparatus used by God (or universal consciousness) to observe the world. Each “camera” thinks it’s autonomous and unaware that it’s part of a vast network of observation. And it is unaware that what it sees, thinks and experiences is not for its own use.

In this metaphor, God is not separate from us but is present through every eye, experiencing the physical plane through billions of perspectives. It is not intervening or judging but just watching, absorbing and remembering. Every human is a lens, in other words.

At death, the camera stops, and the body decays, but the camera footage is not lost but archived as a kind of “soul-memory” or “karmic imprint”. This, perhaps, is what people tap into when they recall past lives—not because the ego reincarnates, but because the recorded footage still exists and can sometimes be accessed when the conditions are right.

This idea harmonises with a range of mystical and philosophical thought. In Hinduism and Buddhism, karma and samskaras (mental imprints) continue beyond death. And in Theosophy, there is the “akashic record”—a universal memory field.

Meditation, in this metaphor, is the moment when the camera pauses itself, turns inwards and becomes aware of its own function. In that pause, the camera begins to realise it is not just filming the world but is the thing that is operating it. Or more accurately, it is an extension of the watching God. Meditation allows the camera to see that it is the apparatus through which consciousness flows.

Eventually, if the meditation deepens, even the sense of being a “camera” will disappear. What will be left is the “watcher”—the God that sees through all eyes but is not limited to any single pair.

The Unrealistic Promise of the Second Amendment

In American politics, the Second Amendment is venerated as a foundation for personal freedom. For many US citizens (mainly on the right-wing of the political divide), the right to bear arms isn't just about self-defence, but about safeguarding personal freedom. The idea is that an armed population is essential to protect against an overreaching government. But in today's world, where advanced technology and military strength have shifted the balance of power, this argument no longer holds water.

In theory, a well-armed population could act as a check on government power or tyranny. But that theory was born in an era when the United States had to rely on militias, not fighter jets or drones. Nowadays it’s impossible to take that argument seriously. No matter how many guns people own, they stand little chance against the overwhelming force of the modern US military.

The US military is one of the most powerful in the world, and has technology that is superior to anything a civilian could match. Tactical nuclear weapons, stealth bombers, drones and fighter jets would render any resistance movement powerless. A group of civilians armed with hunting rifles wouldn’t stand a chance against the precision and reach of military aircraft, able to take out targets from miles away.

Also, today’s military can shut down communications and disable power grids, cutting off access to the tools needed for any coordinated resistance. Without communication and electricity, the fight would be over before it began.

So, when we look at the Second Amendment today, we can’t help but wonder if the argument for its role as a safeguard against tyranny is more a fantasy than a feasible reality. In the age of modern warfare, where the power of the state is nearly limitless, the idea of armed civilians standing up to the government is, for all practical purposes, an impossibility.

Calvinism and Arminianism Harmoised

When I used to be a Christian, I went through several theological shifts that reflected a deeper conflict not just with doctrine, but with the very nature of God. One of the most significant transitions for me was the journey from a traditional evangelical view of salvation—where only the "saved" escape hell—to that of Christian Universalism, the belief that ultimately, all people will be reconciled to God.

This shift didn’t come easily. I had been steeped in the kind of theology that drew rigid lines between the “elect” and the “damned”, between those who would experience eternal bliss and those who would suffer unending torment. But over time, I began to question whether such a view could truly reflect the character of a God who is love.

As I moved towards Universalism, I also moved away from Calvinism. I could no longer accept the idea that God created some people for salvation and others for damnation. It felt incompatible with any meaningful definition of goodness or justice. I found the Calvinist vision of God not just troubling, but blasphemous—a distortion of divine love. Arminianism, while still not fully in agreement with my Universalist views, at least held to the idea that God desires everyone to be saved. So this was a theology I could be comfortable with.

I remember at one point considering attending a Methodist church. Methodism is rooted in Arminian theology, and while I knew that Arminians aren’t Universalists, I felt more at home with their view of a God who sincerely seeks the salvation of all people. My thinking was that Christian Universalism harmonises both Arminian and Calvinist insights: yes, God has chosen an elect, as Calvinism teaches—but that elect is not an exclusive club; it is simply those who have accepted Christ in this life. And yes, God desires to save all, as Arminianism teaches—and he will do so, even if that salvation comes in the life to come. Seen in this way, the theological conflict between Arminians and Calvinists dissolves into something greater and joyous.

So even though I didn’t fully align myself with Arminianism, I felt no tension about attending an Arminian church. The real issue was Calvinism. I couldn’t bring myself to worship with those who believed in a God who would intentionally create people for eternal suffering. That was not a God I could love or trust. In contrast, the Arminian vision—though imperfect—pointed in the direction of a God whose character I could love.

In the end, theology isn't just about ideas. It's about the kind of God you believe in, and whether that God is worthy of your love, trust and worship. For me, the God of Christian Universalism was. The God of Calvinism was not.

Dell Deaton and the Rolex Explorer 1016 in the Bond Novels

In the world of James Bond fandom, the Rolex Explorer 1016 is often regarded as the watch Ian Fleming intended for Bond. This view derives largely from Dell Deaton’s 2009 article in WatchTime, titled 'Found: James Bond's Rolex'. In it, he argues that the Explorer is Bond’s definitive watch, citing Fleming’s personal preference for the model and references in the novels. However, on closer examination, several of Deaton’s claims become questionable, and the idea that the Explorer is Bond’s definitive watch becomes tenuous.

One of Deaton’s main arguments is that the Explorer—worn by Fleming himself—was also the watch Fleming chose for Bond. He asserts that the Explorer mentioned in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service is the same model Fleming owned, creating a direct link between Fleming’s personal watch and Bond’s. However, this claim relies more on speculation than concrete evidence. While the novel’s description of Bond’s watch might resemble the Explorer, the text never explicitly confirms this. Fleming’s preference for the model is interesting, but there is no definitive proof that it influenced his choice of watch for Bond.

Another flaw in Deaton’s argument is regarding the role of product placement and market trends. As a journalist and writer, Fleming would probably have been aware of the brands associated with Bond’s sophisticated image. While he clearly favoured Rolex—having bought an Explorer in 1961 or 1962—the brand’s appearance in the novels might simply reflect its prestige rather than any personal connection Fleming had to a single model.

Deaton’s case weakens further when examining Thunderball, where Bond undertakes an underwater mission. During a 300-yard dive to inspect the Disco Volante, Bond is described as wearing a Rolex. Deaton reasonably assumes this must be a Submariner 6538, given its 200-meter water resistance. However, he speculates that the Submariner was issued by Q Branch, stating, "It’s likely that Q had provided this particular watch as well". The word "likely" reveals the assumption behind this claim, as there is no textual evidence that Q Branch supplied the watch. If the Submariner was not issued by Q Branch, it suggests it could have been Bond’s definitive watch—bringing into question the idea that the Explorer 1016 was his definitive watch.

As I mentioned in my previous blog post, 'The Mystery of James Bond’s Rolex', the Rolex 6200 might provide an insight into why Deaton links Bond’s watch with the Explorer. The 6200 had a 200-meter water resistance rating, making it a more practical choice for Bond’s underwater activities than the Explorer, which was limited to 50 meters. The 6200 also combined elements of both the Explorer and the Submariner, featuring the Explorer’s 3-6-9 dial alongside a rotating bezel.

While the 6200 was not explicitly labelled as a Submariner, it shared many of the same characteristics, making it a strong candidate for Bond’s watch. Yet, Deaton overlooks this model, instead emphasising the Explorer. His focus on the 3-6-9 dial as an Explorer-only feature ignores the possibility that the 6200’s hybrid design could bridge the gap between the Explorer and Submariner, making it a more obvious choice as Bond’s definitive watch.

Ultimately, Deaton’s argument is based on the idea that Bond’s watch is a fixed, definitive model. However, Fleming’s descriptions are deliberately vague, leaving room for interpretation. In Thunderball, Bond’s watch is simply referred to as a “Rolex Oyster Perpetual”, without specifying a model. While Deaton champions the Explorer as Bond’s definitive watch, Fleming’s vagueness suggests he never intended Bond to be associated with a single model.

In the end, the case for the Rolex Explorer 1016 as Bond’s definitive watch remains unproven. While Deaton presents a well-researched perspective, his conclusions rely heavily on assumptions and speculative connections that don’t hold up under scrutiny.

The Mystery of James Bond’s Rolex

I came across an interesting forum discussion on a James Bond forum called “Absolutely James Bond” that discussed which watch Bond wore in the Ian Fleming novels:

https://www.ajb007.co.uk/discussion/35980/bond-s-watch-in-the-thunderball-novel

Apparently, in the world of James Bond fandom, the watch he is said to wear is a Rolex Explorer 1016, and the consensus has been for many years that this is the watch that Fleming intended for him to wear. However, the forum discussion posited that this was not the watch he wore.

The discussion was initiated by a forum member called ”Osris”, who brought up an interesting point about the Rolex Explorer 1016, and argued that while the Explorer 1016 is commonly associated with Bond, there is a gap in the timeline when the novels are examined. He said:

’In the Thunderball novel, Bond is mentioned as wearing a water resistant watch on his dive to examine the underside of The Disco Volante. As the novel was published in 1961, and completed probably up to a year before that, this would make the watch unlikely to be the Explorer 1016, as that only came into production in 1963.’

He went on to make a persuasive case that if Bond had been wearing an earlier model of the Explorer, the water resistance would only have been rated to 50 metres—far less a depth rating than Bond would need for his diving activities. Osris said that this brought into question the practicality of the Explorer for a spy who is frequently involved in dangerous underwater activities, leading him to suggest that it was more likely that Bond wore a Rolex Submariner.

As the discussion progressed, Osris and other forum members pointed out that the Rolex Submariner 6538 (a model introduced in 1956) fits the description much more closely. This watch had a 200-metre water resistance rating, making it far more suitable for a spy involved in underwater activities. 

For Osris, the 6538 was also seen as a more fitting choice for someone with Bond’s background in the navy. The design of the Submariner being a more practical and appropriate watch for Bond, who was constantly involved in situations that required diving.

Another interesting point raised in the discussion was about a remark made by Felix Leiter in Thunderball, where he describes Bond’s watch as “old”. Osris said that since the Explorer 1016 came out in 1959, it would have been difficult for Leiter to describe it as “old” by the time Thunderball was written in 1961. This, again, indicates a different model being worn by Bond that was probably older and in line with Osris’s theory that it was the Submariner 6538.

As the discussion progressed, the Rolex 6200 came up. This came out in the mid-1950s, and had a 200-metre water resistance rating. This model was seen as relevant because it combines characteristics of both the Explorer and the Submariner: it has the Explorer's dial design and the Submariner's rotating bezel. However, it also had the “Oyster Perpetual” label rather than "Submariner" label on its dial, and so had no specific branding indicating it as a Submariner.

The hybrid nature of the 6200 led some forum members to wonder whether this could have been the model Fleming had in mind when describing Bond’s watch, although like with the Explorer and Submariner, the evidence is only speculative.

Another element brought up in the thread was Ian Fleming’s own vagueness when describing Bond’s watch. As a forum member called ”Donald Grant” pointed out in the discussion, Fleming was known for equipping Bond with products he (Fleming) personally liked, but when it came to the watch, he left the details purposefully ambiguous. In fact, Bond’s watch was only described as a “Rolex Oyster Perpetual”, and no further details were provided, which has left Bond fans to fill in the gaps over the years.

Fleming’s personal connection to the Explorer 1016 is well known, but as the discussion progressed, it was posited that his lack of precision could have been intentional, leaving room for the reader’s imagination. Donald Grant argued that Fleming’s main goal was to simply associate Bond with a Rolex, rather than a specific model, which is why the exact model of the watch remains open to debate.

The discussion has been an eye-opener for me. A few years ago, I read an article by Dell Deaton, a well-known writer in the world of James Bond horology, who is recognised for his research into the Rolex Explorer 1016 and its connection to James Bond. In the article, Deaton argued that Bond's watch in the novels was a Rolex Explorer 1016. However, none of the observations made in the forum discussion were mentioned in the article, which now leads me to believe that Deaton's research may not have been as thorough as it could have been.

What is clear from the discussion is that the question of which Rolex Bond wore in the novels is far from settled. As Osris and other forum members pointed out, we may never know for sure which Rolex Bond did wear.

See also:

'Dell Deaton and the Rolex Explorer 1016 in the Bond Novels'

https://jeffrey-side.blogspot.com/2025/03/dell-deaton-and-rolex-explorer-1016-in.html

What’s in a Name?: The Art & Language Group and Conceptual Poetry

(Adapted from an article I wrote for The Argotist Online in 2013)

In his 2013 article, ‘Charmless and Interesting: What Conceptual Poetry Lacks and What It’s Got’ Robert Archambeau asks: ‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’ The answer to this question would clarify the relationship between conceptual poetry, conceptual art and the generally accepted definition of poetry as being specifically a literary art whereby language is utilised aesthetically and evocatively.

That some of the concerns and practices of conceptual poetry are not new in the world of conceptual art needs no extensive repetition here. However, it is interesting to note that in relation to conceptual poetry’s use of texts and lexical elements to comprise its works, a fairly recent historical precedent already exists. This can be seen in the theories, practices and works of 1960s conceptual artists such as Lawrence Weiner, Edward Ruscha and Robert Barry; and also in the theories, practices and works of the conceptual art group known as Art & Language, which was formed by Terry Atkinson, Michael Baldwin, Harold Hurrell and David Bainbridge in 1968. Others affiliated with this group, included Ian Burn, Michael Corris, Preston Heller, Graham Howard, Joseph Kosuth, Andrew Menard, Terry Smith, Philip Pilkington and David Rushton. These artists were among the first to produce art from textual and lexical sources.

The notable similarity between the theories of this group and those of conceptual poetry’s is that the group developed, extended and championed the conceptual theories that were initiated by artists such as Marcel Duchamp. The group also held the view that the practice of art should be systematically theoretical and entirely separated from concerns relating to craft or aesthetics. These and other ideas appeared in the group’s journal, Art-Language, the first issue of which appeared in 1969.

A direct parallel with the works of these artists and those produced by conceptual poets is not my intention here. There will be differences in scale (both physical and theoretical) and presentation between them; suffice to say, that the common element they share is that of a conceptual approach to their works, and as such, this leads us back to Archambeau’s question (‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’), and also one that I would like to ask. If it is at all possible to agree that both the Art & Language group and conceptual poetry share similar theoretical stances and working practices, then in what sense is the work produced by conceptual poetry more suited to be called poetry than that of the Art & Language group?

In one of the two Facebook discussions I took part in a few years ago about Archambeau’s question, it was mentioned by someone that the term “poetry” was merely an honorific one, conferred by the academy on what it deemed was poetry: the logical extension of this being that if the academy should deem, for instance, a text-book to be poetry then it would have to be accepted that a text-book was, indeed, poetry. In response to this, someone else mentioned that the approach of the literary theorist Roman Jakobson was more reasonable, in that Jakobson saw poetry as marked by specific functions in language rather than by an arbitrary redesignation by the academy of general texts. I agreed with the latter.

In light of this, it seems to me that given that there is no significant difference between the work of the Art & Language group and that of conceptual poetry, for the work of the latter to be designated as poetry whilst that of the former is not, seems a peculiarly inconsistent and whimsical act on the part of the academy. It seems to me, that neither the Art & Language group nor conceptual poetry can accurately be described as producing works of poetry, given that they are both operating from within a conceptual art aesthetic and theoretical stance.

A Journey Through Christianity and Beyond

For many years, I identified as a Christian. It wasn’t just a label—it influenced how I viewed the world, formed my values and approached life. But over time, I began to re-evaluate my beliefs, and I eventually stopped identifying with Christianity. Here’s why.

It started with contemplative prayer. I practised it regularly for months and noticed it produced a sense of calm and connection that felt very familiar. Years earlier, I’d experienced exactly the same thing when practising Eastern meditation. This raised a question: If contemplative prayer and meditation produce identical effects, are they really so different? Could it be that contemplative prayer isn’t uniquely Christian at all?

Curious, I began looking into its origins. I learned that contemplative prayer has its roots in the practices of the Desert Fathers of 3rd-century Egypt. While there’s no direct evidence linking their practices to Eastern meditation, cultural exchange via trade routes like the Silk Road makes it plausible that the ideas travelled. If contemplation is a universal human practice, rather than something unique to Christianity, its effects wouldn’t depend on theology. They’d simply be the natural outcome of the practice itself, regardless of the label we attach to it.

This line of questioning opened the door to deeper doubts. I already knew that some concepts in Christianity—like the idea of the “Logos” in John’s Gospel—were borrowed from Greek philosophy. But I’d always thought of these as minor adjustments. What I hadn’t realised was how extensively Hellenistic ideas shaped Christianity.

For example, the concept of the immortal soul, central to Christian theology, is essentially Platonic. Traditional Judaism didn’t have this view; instead, the soul and body were seen as inseparable, ceasing at death until a future resurrection. Christianity adopted a dualistic view of body and soul from Greek philosophy, which shifted its framework significantly.

This raised a serious question for me: If Christianity is a blend of Judaic and Hellenistic ideas, can it claim to be an authentic continuation of Jesus’ teachings? Or is it something else entirely?

This led me to explore the possibility of even broader influences. Some scholars argue that Greek thought itself was shaped by Eastern philosophies, particularly those of the Vedanta tradition in Hinduism. If that’s true, then Christianity’s intellectual roots might extend much further east than we usually consider.

I also came across the theory that Jesus could have encountered Buddhist teachings during his so-called “lost years”. While there’s no definitive evidence that he travelled to regions like India, the spread of Buddhism via trade routes brought these ideas much closer to Judea than I’d previously imagined. The parallels between Jesus’ teachings and Buddhist principles—like compassion, detachment and a focus on inner transformation—are striking.

Gradually, I came to see Christianity not as the one true path to God, but as one of many ways humanity has tried to articulate the divine. Religion, I now believe, is shaped more by culture and history than by absolute truth. And if there is a spiritual truth, it likely exists beyond the limits of any one theology.

There’s a saying I’ve come to appreciate: “If you need words and doctrines to define the truth, then you’re probably not describing truth at all”. That, for me, captures the heart of why I moved on from Christianity. Language and theology create frameworks, but the divine is too vast to fit into them.

Even Jesus seemed to understand this. His teachings were practical, focused on moral living and direct connection with God, rather than rigid systems of belief. Yet, as Christianity developed, it became a Religion (with a capital “R”), full of doctrines, creeds and institutional structures.

People seem to have a natural tendency to organise themselves into groups and express spirituality collectively. That’s fine for those who find meaning in it, but for me, faith has become something more personal—an individual search for the divine that doesn’t rely on one tradition.

I haven’t rejected God. If anything, I feel a stronger connection now than I ever did as a Christian. I’ve simply let go of the need to define or confine that connection within a particular framework. The divine, I believe, is beyond labels, beyond systems and present everywhere.

A Complete Unknown: A Believable Rock Film Biography

The Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown, directed by James Mangold, captures Dylan's rapid rise to fame during the 1960s folk movement with a nuance and authenticity seldom seen in rock film biographies.

The film begins in 1961, with Dylan’s arrival in New York City as an eager young singer hoping to meet his idol, Woody Guthrie, who is hospitalised due to Huntington's disease—a condition that causes progressive deterioration in physical and cognitive functions. Dylan does meet Guthrie, and the story concludes with his polarising 1965 Newport Folk Festival performance. The film ends on a poignant note with Dylan’s touching, dialogue-free farewell to Guthrie.

Timothée Chalamet’s portrayal of Dylan is a revelation, and he captures his distinctive vocal intonations and idiosyncratic body movements and hand mannerisms with uncanny precision—especially once Dylan is preparing to “go electric” and becomes “hip”. Chalamet’s Dylan singing voice is also accurate, capturing Dylan’s phrasing and vocal quirks. I have never seen a performance by an actor playing a famous person before that has made me forget that they are not that person in actuality—Chalamet achieves this.

Equally impressive is Monica Barbaro, who portrays Joan Baez, a significant person in Dylan’s life and career during this period. While she physically doesn’t look like Baez, she captures her speaking voice and, to a great extent, her singing voice also.

Another notable performance is Edward Norton’s as Pete Seeger. Though not as tall in stature as Seeger was, he captures his sing-song-like speaking voice, and his warmth, integrity, humility and charm. His portrayal adds depth to the story, particularly in scenes where Seeger’s frustrations with Dylan’s evolving musical style come to the fore. It is refreshing to see Norton in such a role, as he has often played complex, morally ambiguous or unlikable characters in the past.

Another good performance is given by Elle Fanning, who plays Sylvie Russo, based on Dylan’s real-life girlfriend during this period, Suze Rotolo. While her portrayal is persuasive, I couldn’t help but wonder why the character wasn’t directly named Suze Rotolo. It’s a minor issue, but one worth noting.

The only performance that felt slightly misaligned, due solely to a script shortcoming, was Dan Fogler’s portrayal of Albert Grossman. For me, the role was underwritten, as if the director were marginalising Grossman’s pivotal role in Dylan’s career.

All in all, I was pleasantly surprised, as I was expecting the film, like most rock film biographies, to lack authenticity or fail to capture the Zeitgeist of the period they are set in.

My only complaint is that it left out a whole chunk of Dylan’s life in Greenwich Village. There was no mention of Dave Van Ronk or the other folk venue performers and friends he had there. For me, the most interesting part of Dylan’s life in Greenwich Village was precisely his involvement and interactions with the other folk-singers there.

A Day In Liverpool in 1929 Film

Here is a 1929 film of Liverpool city centre that's been enhanced to look more modern. It gives a vivid sense of how people walked and moved back then. We often think of people from over 100 years ago, as seen in old photos, as somehow "other-worldly"—almost "spooky". But this film shows them as just like us, as of course they were all along. 

Courtesy of the admin of the Facebook group "The Scouse Back Kitchen Social Club".

Connotation, Denotation and the Complexity of Poetry: A Response to George Szirtes

It’s not often I find myself quoted, but when I came across George Szirtes’ 2007 Stanza Lecture, I was flattered and taken aback to find my views on connotation and denotation in poetry cited. At the time, I argued that there isn’t really such a thing as "difficult" poetry, only poetry that either connotes or denotes. In my view, the former tends to be seen as difficult, while the latter is often considered easier to engage with. I used The Waste Land as a prime example of connotative poetry—arguably more complex and harder to penetrate than a Simon Armitage poem, which I suggested is more denotative.

Szirtes, however, took issue with my distinction between connotation and denotation, suggesting that both processes are not mutually exclusive but rather simultaneous in any speech, let alone poetry. Here is my full quote:

'I don’t think there is such a thing as difficult poetry, only poetry that connotes or denotes. The former is always considered difficult by opponents of it. The Waste Land is more connotative than a Simon Armitage poem, for instance, that is why The Waste Land is seen as difficult.'

Here is Szirtes' response to it:

'I am not sure how this writer can draw a sharp distinction between connotation and denotation in any speech, let alone poetry. Connoting and denoting are simultaneous processes.'

While I respect his intellectual rigour, I still maintain that the distinction I drew between connotation and denotation is not only valid but necessary to understanding the nature of poetry. Semantically and cognitively, I agree that both processes can occur at the same time, but in the context of poetry, their creative usage modifies the balance Szirtes mentions. If connotation and denotation were always functioning in the same way, then literary criticism, as we know it, would not be as contentious or layered as it is. The tension between connotation and denotation is precisely what fuels much of the interpretation, discussion and critique of poetry.

This is why The Waste Land is a monumental work. It isn’t just a collection of images or a narrative that can be easily interpreted; it’s a network of connotative meanings, layered and intertwined, inviting the reader to feel as much as understand. 

Poetry that connotes and resonates deeply is not necessarily poetry that is "difficult". It's poetry that engages us in the fullness of our emotional and intellectual lives. It’s poetry that invites us to feel, think and inhabit the spaces between words and meanings. And for that, we need connotation just as much as we need denotation.

Layered Meaning or Fleeting Impressions? The Case of Frank O’Hara

Frank O’Hara’s poetry has always left me uncertain about its merits. I’ve given his work a try and ultimately found that its casualness and prosaicness, while often praised as clever or subversive, lack the transformative depth I associate with poetry. For me, O’Hara’s work feels like prose arranged into lines, lacking key poetic elements such as ambiguity, symbolism and metaphor. But this is, of course, a subjective view, and I realise that his appeal lies elsewhere for many readers. Let’s explore these missing elements in the context of O’Hara’s work.

A hallmark of poetry, as I see it, is its ability to suggest layers of meaning, inviting readers to engage in interpretation. O’Hara’s poems, though, are straightforward and journalistic. For instance, ‘The Day Lady Died’ recounts O’Hara’s emotional response to Billie Holiday’s death. Its opening lines, filled with mundane details of his day, is more like a diary entry than a poem designed to evoke multiple interpretations:

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday

three days after Bastille day, yes

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner

and I don’t know the people who will feed me

Some might argue that the stark specificity and cataloguing of errands reflect the fragmented, distracted state of grief, and that these plain details accumulate emotional weight. But for me, the poem doesn’t seem to invite further engagement beyond its surface narrative. 

Also, his poetry lacks transformative qualities. Rather than elevating mundane moments into something transcendent—an ambition Wordsworth attempted, though arguably without success—O’Hara doesn’t even make the attempt, if he was aware of such a possibility. In contrast, his poetry seems uninterested in this kind of transformation. For instance, in 'Having a Coke with You', a love poem that celebrates intimacy through straightforward, conversational language, O’Hara remains firmly grounded in the literal.

  I look

at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits

      in the world

except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and

      anyway it’s in the Frick

which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go

      together for the first time

For admirers of O’Hara, this unadorned honesty is (probably) precisely the point—why dress up emotion in metaphor when you can express it directly, they might ask? Yet compared to poets like Wallace Stevens or Sylvia Plath, who mingle dense symbolic frameworks with metaphor into their work, O’Hara’s style feels limited in scope. The simplicity of his language, while charming to some, leaves little for readers who enjoy creating individualised meanings from poems.

I appreciate that much of O’Hara’s appeal lies in the personal nature of his work. He records fleeting moments of his life with a conversational intimacy that feels confessional. But unlike T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, which uses personal experience as a lens for exploring universal themes of despair and renewal, O’Hara’s poems seem content to remain on the surface of individual experience.

Critics of this perspective might argue that O’Hara’s personal focus is itself a reflection of his era. As a central figure of the New York School, his work aligns with a broader cultural movement that celebrated the everyday and rejected the “self-serious” ambitions of modernism. In this sense, his lack of universal themes could be seen as a deliberate rejection of poetic pretension. But this interpretation risks overstating the intent behind his simplicity; rather than rejecting pretension, O’Hara’s work often feels content to remain in the realm of fleeting impressions, offering immediacy at the expense of the layered richness that sustains deeper engagement.

If O’Hara’s poetry doesn’t fit traditional expectations, what is it? Perhaps it’s best understood as textual reportage, capturing fleeting moments of urban life with wit and immediacy. In this sense, O’Hara is akin to a literary Andy Warhol: both artists elevate the mundane and present it without pretence. O’Hara’s work also evokes the sharp wit and conversational charm of Truman Capote. While his poetry may lack the depth that draws me to other poets, it remains of interest for its immediacy, humour and charm.

The Poetic and the Political

Back in the late 2000s, I took part in a few online discussions about poetry and politics, or more accurately, the intersection of politics and poetry. In these discussions, I argued that the inclusion of overt political content in poetry often detracts from its aesthetic value and risks reducing poems to mere propaganda. I pointed out that if such poetry could effectively change the real world, then the protest song movement of the early 1960s would have been more effective in bringing about political change. None of the other participants agreed with me. I still hold the view that there is a necessary distinction between poetry as art and poetry as political rhetoric.

In these discussions, several objections were voiced against this view. A common objection was that all art, including poetry, is inherently political because it reflects the society and culture from which it emerges. While it's true that no work of art exists in a vacuum, this does not mean every poem must explicitly engage with political themes. For me, poetry's power lies in its ability to express enduring human concerns, emotions and aesthetic experiences that transcend immediate political concerns.

One rebuttal to this viewpoint is that poetry cannot avoid politics, as even silence or neutrality is a political statement. However, this conflation of the implicit and the explicit misses the point. A poem that incidentally reflects societal conditions through its imagery or themes differs fundamentally from one that overtly proselytises. The former allows for multiple interpretations, while the latter risks becoming didactic and one-dimensional.

Another argument presented in these discussions was that political poetry serves as a platform for marginalised voices, offering a means to challenge oppressive structures. While this is an admirable goal, it raises the question of whether poetry is the best medium to achieve this. As I have written about many times before, poetry excels in ambiguity, metaphor and layered meanings—qualities that are often at odds with the clarity and directness required for effective political communication.

However, advocates for political poetry argue that it can simultaneously inspire change and retain aesthetic depth. While this is theoretically possible, most overtly political poems prioritise message over form, resulting in work that might resonate with a specific current political issue but fails to achieve lasting artistic significance.

Several participants in these discussions claimed I was imposing a restrictive definition of poetry that excludes diverse voices and styles. They argued that my preference for aesthetic value over political engagement reflects an elitist bias rooted in traditional notions of art. However, this critique misunderstands my position. I am not advocating for a rigid, exclusionary definition of poetry but rather emphasising the importance of artistic integrity. Political content in poetry is not inherently problematic, but it must be integrated in a way that serves the poem as a work of art, not as a vehicle for ideological dissemination. Poetry’s primary obligation is to its craft, not to any external political agenda.

Other participants cited examples of celebrated poets—such as W.H. Auden, Pablo Neruda and Langston Hughes—who infused their work with political themes. They argued that this tradition validates the role of politics in poetry and challenges my argument. I fully acknowledge the contributions of politically engaged poets, but their success lies in their ability to transcend their immediate political contexts. Auden’s ‘September 1, 1939’, for instance, is deeply political yet achieves universality through its exploration of fear, hope and human frailty. The best political poetry balances specificity with timelessness, an achievement most politically charged contemporary work fails to replicate.

Some participants contended that in moments of social or political upheaval, poets have a moral obligation to address the issues of their time. While this sentiment is understandable, it risks reducing poetry to a tool for activism. Art, including poetry, functions best when it is free to explore, question and reimagine, rather than being used solely for the service of a cause. In addition, political engagement, when forced or expected, diminishes spontaneity and authenticity.

The relationship between poetry and politics is complex, and I am not denying the validity of political themes in poetry. Rather, I am questioning the prioritisation of political content at the expense of aesthetic and artistic considerations. Poetry’s enduring value lies in its ability to connect with readers on a deeper, more universal level—something that overtly political works often fail to achieve.

The counterarguments raised in these discussions highlight valid concerns but ultimately overlook the fundamental issue: the tension between art as a mode of expression and art as a tool of persuasion. In my view, poetry’s role is not to instruct but to illuminate—not to advocate, but to inspire. Reducing poetry to a mere vehicle for political expression risks undermining its integrity. Instead, we should strive to preserve poetry as an art form that transcends its immediate context, capable of expressing enduring human concerns and timeless insights.

From Folk Ballads to Dylan and Cohen

The evolution of song lyrics from simple folk ballads to complex poetic forms, is one of the most significant transformations in the history of popular music. Songwriters like Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen were instrumental in transplanting pre-1935 poetic ambiguity into the songwriting form, and, thus, reimagining lyrics as a serious art form. This introduction of lyrical ambiguity to songs has not only expanded the expressive potential of music but has also filled a void that modern mainstream and some avant-garde poetry, perhaps paradoxically, has failed to maintain.

Historically, song lyrics served as communal stories or refrains, intended for accessibility and for easy memorisation. Folk ballads, for instance, utilised repetitive structures and unambiguous language to convey themes of love, loss or societal injustice. Songs like ‘Barbara Allen’ or ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ are timeless thematically, but they are nevertheless unambiguous, focusing on narrative rather than interpretive introspection. Their impact lay in their thematic universality, using unambiguous language that could resonate broadly within the oral tradition.

However, the late 20th century saw a significant shift with the rise of the singer-songwriter “movement”. Dylan and Cohen’s work especially exemplifies this shift, as they introduced themes and structures more usually encountered in text-based poetry. Dylan’s lyrics, influenced by the Symbolists, Jack Kerouac's poetry and some of Allen Ginsberg’s “word chain runs” in Howl, enabled him to infuse into the song form surrealist landscapes and ambiguous narratives that moved beyond direct narrative structures. Songs like ‘Visions of Johanna’ and ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ rely heavily on metaphor, symbolism and an obscurity that invites listeners to interpret meaning.

Cohen, also, did similarly, imbuing his lyrics with spiritual and existential undertones, as seen in songs like ‘Suzanne’, ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ and ‘Night Comes On, the latter of which I have written about elsewhere. Unlike Dylan, he does this with an economy of words, that is more akin to “formal” poetic norms than Dylan’s lyrics are. Yet both writers achieve peak ambiguity via their respective approaches. The ambiguity in their lyrics, and their refusal to convey explicit messages, introduced a new dimension into the song form.

In many ways, this ambiguity reflects the qualities of pre-1935 poetry, which often specialised in open-ended meaning and interpretive possibilities. Poets like T.S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas exemplified this approach in their work, leaving readers with a sense of mystery and with numerous possibilities for the interpretation of their works. Eliot’s The Waste Land is an obvious example of this, and is dense with symbolic imagery and fragmented voices, where meaning is not predominantly explicit, but rather suggested in flashes of insight after reader-engagement with the text. Similarly, Dylan Thomas’ 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion' expresses themes of defiance and transcendence in the face of death through a sophisticated and mainly ambiguous form. His repeated use of the line 'and death shall have no dominion' evokes a strong emotional response, but he leaves it to the reader to explore the full range of its meanings.

Since 2005, I’ve argued that poetry’s shift toward precision and explicitness after 1935 left it less accessible to mystery and symbolic depth. The result has been that contemporary poetry, mainly mainstream and popular poetry (and even some avant-garde poetry in recent decades), has largely avoided the kind of ambiguity that Dylan, Cohen, Thomas and Eliot embraced.

It must be emphasised, that Dylan and Cohen are not isolated in this poetic approach to music, and dozens of artists since them have carried this aspect forwards to varying extents, including: Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, Neil Young, David Byrne, Tori Amos, Patti Smith, Beck, Lana Del Rey and dozens more; including bands like The Grateful Dead, The band, The Rolling Stones etc.

The impact of this development has been profound. Music has become a medium where ambiguity is not only tolerated but celebrated; where listeners are encouraged to engage in the same interpretive acts once largely reserved for poetic texts. Unlike much contemporary poetry, which tends towards precision and explicitness, song lyrics remain a laboratory for ambiguous expression. Dylan and Cohen helped to make this possible by expanding what lyrics could achieve. 

The ambiguities in song lyrics allow listeners to find resonance and meaning without dictating any singular interpretation, which is why songs have replaced poetry as a culturally significant art form.

Is John Ashbery Overrated?

John Ashbery occupies a complex position within the avant-garde tradition. While he is celebrated for his “innovative” style and layered themes, in actuality he might not embody after all the true spirit of avant-garde poetry. Instead, he risks being seen as a sort of "wannabe" (for want of a kinder word), creating a chasm between his reputation and the core principles of the “movement”.

While his work is frequently praised for its complexity, this complexity often lacks genuine originality and innovation. His poems weave together threads of thought and imagery that seem like pastiches of avant-garde influences. Whether this is intentional, though, has yet to be comprehensively established.

While his use of language to deconstruct meaning, along with his surrealist influences, is what made his poems noticeable when he first appeared, this doesn’t mean that he was doing anything particularly innovative historically. The poetic milieu he was operating within was very conservative poetically, and so naturally he would be seen as novel within that context.

And his reliance on disjointed imagery and non-linear narratives echoes elements and trends from earlier poetic movements, and even those of late-1960s psychedelic rock song lyrics. Instead of breaking new ground, his approach can be seen as a rehashing of ideas that have been explored by numerous other poets and artists.

And while his appropriation of, for instance, the "derangement of meaning" aesthetic was novel for late 1950s American poetry, a case could be made that the Beats were doing this before him.

Ashbery's association with the New York School places him within a specific cultural context that celebrates experimentation, but this affiliation can create a facade that obscures any actual contributions to the avant-garde tradition. At one time he was compared to T. S. Eliot as a marketing strategy, yet Eliot grappled with profound philosophical and emotional questions, pushing the boundaries of poetry in ways that challenged readers to confront meaning. In contrast, Ashbery’s work often seems like an exercise in style over language, prioritising a surface-level complexity that lacks the transformative engagement with language and texts that avant-garde poetry is supposed to embody.

The New York School, with all its cultural idiosyncrasies, certainly added its own flavour to the poetry scene, and Ashbery’s personal and cultural context gave him a particular lens. However, this doesn’t make him immune to critique or exempt from being held up against the broader standards of avant-garde exploration. It's one thing to mix different influences; it's another to argue convincingly that those influences have been used in a way that pushes the form or content of poetry in genuinely new directions. That's the point I’m making—Ashbery's work often seems more like an echo of past movements than a real departure from them.

Also, within this complex framework, can be found passages that lack the intricate layering often associated with his reputation. For example, his poem ‘The Picture of Little J. A. in a Prospect of Flowers’ juxtaposes sensory imagery with abstract reflection:

Yet I cannot escape the picture

Of my small self in that bank of flowers:

My head among the blazing phlox

Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus.

I had a hard stare, accepting

Everything, taking nothing,

As though the rolled-up future might stink

As loud as stood the sick moment

The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,

Still, as the loveliest feelings

This sort of straightforward nostalgia is remarkably similar to Wordsworth’s approach to language. I discus this in my article ‘Reflective Discursiveness: Exploring Poetic Thought and Fragmentation in Wordsworth, Ashbery, Prynne and Harwood’.

While Ashbery’s contributions to the field are acknowledged, his legacy deserves reevaluation within the context of the avant-garde movement that critics claim it represents. His "style" has led to his celebration as a literary giant, yet it has rendered his work as derivative.

This critique doesn’t stem from a desire to limit poetry to predefined notions of what it should be (I’ve written many articles defending a reader-response approach to poetry), but rather to question how Ashbery’s work fits within the broader context of the avant-garde tradition. The avant-garde, historically, has often been about radical, innovative engagement with language and form, but also about pushing boundaries in ways that challenge not just craft, but also how readers engage emotionally and intellectually with the world.

I must emphasise, that I am not suggesting that the avant-garde was ever a monolithic aesthetic unity—that would be a gross oversimplification. What I am pointing out is that Ashbery is often celebrated as embodying a kind of avant-garde ideal, yet I question whether his work truly pushes the boundaries in the ways typically associated with that tradition. And his post-surrealist tendencies, which are sometimes noted, don’t necessarily equate to meaningful innovation or deep engagement with the kind of radicalism we often see in other strands of the avant-garde.

In this light, one might argue that John Ashbery, while celebrated, is ultimately overrated and perhaps not as authentic an avant-garde poet as is claimed.

Wombwell Rainbow Interview: Poets and Writers' Writing Approaches and Methods

I was interviewed for The Wombwell Rainbow a few years ago. The interview was part of a series of interviews with poets and writers about their approaches to and methods of writing. My thank to Paul Brookes for inviting me to take part. You can find it here:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/24/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-jeffrey-side/

The Influence of Dylan: Rediscovering the Joy of Poetry

It has been so long since I first started writing poetry, that I had almost forgotten why I started to write it. It certainly had everything to do with listening to Bob Dylan, and aspiring to do what he did with words but in a non-musical context. Because I couldn’t write songs, I used to write poems to song melodies and rhyme schemes. This was my way of "being musical", as I regarded myself more a frustrated songwriter than a poet. Writing poetry was for me merely a way to be able to say that I was doing something creatively similar to Dylan. I never saw my early poems as anything other than different lyrics to his melodies.

Looking back, I realise that this was my only enjoyable period in poetry. After I started to write poems “seriously”, and tried to get them published, and performed them at local readings, all the enjoyment began to fade. Like most pleasures, once you start to see it as a “business” then all its charm diminishes.

I was quite content to write such poetry and not have it seen by anyone, which is what I did for a while. But after having read some 19th century poetry by Browning, Tennyson, Coleridge etc., as well as some contemporary mainstream poetry, I was surprised to find that none of it was as rich in interpretive possibilities as Dylan’s lyrics were.

This led to my appreciating even more the genius of Dylan. The only poets who matched Dylan for me were Blake, Dickinson and Eliot. I also read Rimbaud, to see if he was as good (seeing as Dylan liked him) but apart from a few phrases here and there, he wasn’t. I also read Ginsberg and Kerouac, again because Dylan liked them. Of the two, I found Kerouac’s poetry more similar to Dylan than Ginsberg’s was—apart from Ginsberg’s Howl, which is very Kerouac in parts.

Finding out that nearly all the poetry I’d read wasn’t as good as Dylan’s lyrics, was a major revelation to me, and motivated me to find out why this was the case. So I read as much about poetry and its history as I could, but still could not come up with a sufficiently plausible answer. Eventually, I decided to go to university and do a degree in English Literature, thinking that this more rigorous and advanced study might reveal some answers. It did, and these answers led me to embark on a PhD course, and later to start The Argotist Online.

I eventually found that there was poetry out there that was as good as Dylan regarding his use of ambiguity and multi-textuality, but what it had of those elements, it lacked in emotional resonance. Such poetry was often associated with various postmodernist styles of writing, and as such tended to prioritise formal dexterity and novelty above emotion. This avoidance of emotion, particularly regarding the themes of love and loss, appears rooted in a theoretical understanding, that sees emotional expression as theoretically contentious and "unsophisticated".

Though I have borrowed a lot from postmodernism in my own poetry, I have never followed it down the “no emotion” road. Maybe other poets have done and are doing the same. I welcome that, if it is the case.

Wuthering Heights: The Ultimate Film Adaptation of Emily Bronte’s Novel

Looking at the barrage of overrated and over-produced contemporary films it is easy to forget that film once aspired to be an art form. One such film is William Wyler’s 1939 underrated version of Emily Bronte’s novel Wuthering Heights which is, for me, the best film adaptation of that novel. Whilst the film deals with only the first 16 chapters of the novel’s 34, it compensates by capturing perfectly the emotional essence of the book, which for me resides in the relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff. When read in light of having seen this film, the rest of the novel’s 18 chapters seem almost like an afterthought or padding.

Wyler’s use of camera, lighting and mise-en-scene take much from the German Expressionist cinema of the 1920s, which is to be expected since many of this school’s filmmakers and technicians had, by the early 1930s, relocated to Hollywood and become part of mainstream film production there. This expressionist style is well suited to the film, as it provides a visual equivalent to the novel’s gothic atmosphere.

The film quite deservedly won an Academy Award for Best Original Score, by Alfred Newman. Indeed, it is difficult to separate film and score, so entwined and essential are they that they become almost dyadic. To listen to Newman’s score alone is a deeply emotional experience.

However, Wuthering Heights did not win the Academy Award for Best Picture, which went to the unfortunately titled Gone With the Wind. In my view, this was an oversight because Wuthering Heights is the far superior film. One cannot help but suspect that Gone with the Wind won because it was an adaptation of a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, which dealt with a “big” subject. However, for me, the really timeless and universal themes are dealt with in Wuthering Heights.

Exploring the Art of Generalisation: Songs vs. Poetry

What distinguishes a song from a poem? Is it the melody or the vocal delivery, the lyrics or the musical arrangement? Certainly, it encompasses all these elements. However, for me, the key difference lies in how songs tend to generalise, whereas many contemporary poems do not. When I refer to "contemporary poems", I primarily mean anecdotal or descriptive pieces that lack ambiguity or mystery, which are often read by poetry enthusiasts. Such poems often fail to resonate personally with readers because they primarily serve as vehicles for straightforward information transfer—information that could easily be conveyed through prose. These poems aim to express the poet's thoughts and emotions regarding specific events, situations or places, without necessarily inviting readers to connect personally. The focus is on clarity of communication, whether conveying a profound insight, a prosaic observation or a commentary on everyday life.

Songs go beyond mere description. They activate both the imagination and emotions, allowing listeners to delve into their own deeply personal reservoirs of images, memories and associations. There was a time when poetry achieved this too, similar to songs, by employing generalisation. However, since Wordsworth's era—and largely influenced by him—poetry has shifted more towards novelistic and descriptive forms. Before Wordsworth, poets like William Blake or Thomas Wyatt adhered more closely to the traditions of song and ballad, avoiding extensive descriptive elements. It is widely acknowledged that songs pre-date poetry—or rather, songs transformed into poems once they were transcribed and read privately.

The limitations of poetry that does not generalise are plain to see if we compare some lines from one with those of a song. First the poetry—a stanza from Frank O'Hara's ‘Cambridge’:

It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit

looks silly round a window giving out on winter trees

with only three drab leaves left. The hot plate works,

it is the sole heat on earth, and instant coffee. I

put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater,

and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe.

What we see here is straightforward and descriptive writing that leaves little room for the reader's imagination. In contrast, let's examine song lyrics, specifically those of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. In Cohen's 'Night Comes On', we find this verse:

I said mother I’m frightened,

the thunder and the lightening,

I’ll never get through this alone.

She said I’ll be with you,

my shawl wrapped around you,

my hand on your head when you go.

And the night came on,

it was very calm.

I wanted the night to go on and on

but she said go back,

go back to the world.

In contrast to O'Hara, Cohen embraces generalisation in his verse, opening up a wealth of interpretive possibilities. Right from the outset, ambiguity dominates as listeners are left pondering whether the speaker addresses his literal biological mother or if 'mother' serves as a metaphor for God or Mother Nature. Similarly, the thunder and lightning that instil fear are ambiguous—whether they are literal or symbolic remains uncertain. This ambiguity enriches each listener's experience, allowing them to interpret the nature of the speaker's fear differently.

Furthermore, this ambiguity invites numerous inquiries. When the speaker's mother assures him of her presence wherever he goes, the listener is prompted to question: Where exactly is he headed? Is he venturing into the fearful scenario symbolised by thunder and lightning? Could this be an existential ordeal akin to the "dark night of the soul" as described by Christian contemplatives? Is the "night" in 'the night came on' also metaphorical, perhaps representing a sense of comfort and reassurance? If so, does the speaker desire this reassurance to persist? Likely so, yet there's a suggestion to 'go back to the world'. Who issues this advice—the maternal figure or the night itself, in whatever symbolic form it represents?

The fact that this verse provokes such inquiries underscores its transcendence over the earlier quoted stanza by O'Hara.

Similar ambiguities and the questions they prompt can be found in the following verse from Dylan’s ‘Changing of the Guards’:

Fortune calls.

I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,

Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.

She’s smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born,

On midsummer’s eve, near the tower.

Similar to Cohen, Dylan embraces generalisation in his verse, blending various poetic registers to create a tapestry of language that both diversifies his expression and pays homage to his poetic lineage. He interweaves archaic phrases like 'I stepped forth', 'smelling sweet like the meadows' and 'on midsummer's eve' with more colloquial language such as 'last deal gone down'. This linguistic variety enriches the verse while acknowledging his poetic heritage.

The verse begins by declaring 'fortune calls', yet Dylan leaves it open-ended, leaving listeners to ponder: Is fortune beckoning the speaker, the audience or humanity at large? This ambiguity empowers the listener to interpret as they see fit. The introduction of a persona stepping forth from shadows adds another layer of intrigue—the identity of this persona remains ambiguous and unexplored, leaving ample room for interpretation. Even the term 'shadows', deliberately vague, invites myriad interpretations.

Moreover, Dylan employs phrases like 'merchants and thieves' and 'hungry for power' not only as specific symbols of corruption, decay and amorality but also as broader statements on the human condition. These phrases provoke further questions: Who is the woman 'smelling sweet' like the meadows? Why is "meadows" plural—does it symbolise something beyond its literal meaning? And what about the tower—does it hold symbolic significance as well?

In essence, Dylan's verse, like Cohen's, invites interpretation through its generalisations and poetic blending, making it a rich and layered piece that transcends simple description.

Similarly with Dylan’s song ‘The Wicked Messenger’, more questions are raised than answered:

There was a wicked messenger

from Eli he did come,

with a mind that multiplied

the smallest matter.

When questioned who had sent for him,

he answered with his thumb,

for his tongue it could not speak, but only flatter.

We note immediately the presence of ambiguity with the line: ‘from Eli he did come’. We are not told if Eli is a place or a person. The name has biblical connotations and can easily be a person. In the Old Testament Eli was the judge and high priest of Israel and although loyal to God, his reluctance to remove his two corrupt sons from the priesthood resulted in disgrace. Dylan’s lack of indication as to whom or what Eli is allows us to perhaps see a biblical reference in the name. If we take the name as referring to the biblical Eli then we have to ask the question: If the messenger was sent by Eli (who was a faithful servant of God) why is he seen as wicked? Is it because his mind ‘multiplied the smallest matter’ (possibly meaning he was neurotic) or that his ‘tongue it could not speak, but only flatter’ (possibly meaning he was a liar)? Are these common human failings sufficient grounds for someone to be designated as wicked? Alternatively, perhaps the messenger is wicked because there is a crudity about him—he ‘answered with his thumb’ (he gave the finger, perhaps?). For want of detailed information, we simply do not know.

So for me, each reader deserves the essential right to craft a personal meaning that encapsulates the essence of a poem. The poem itself serves primarily as a catalyst for this interpretive act. Embracing such an approach to poetry reading could potentially elevate poetry back to its rightful place as a significant and widely appreciated art form.