It’s summer ‘59, Billie Holiday has put her death mask on and she’s now Trav’lin light, and somewhere, near the banks of the River Clyde, an infant peers at mighty iron gates from a safe distance, curious about what lies behind. He hears the rhythmic banging of hammers, the neurotic sizzle of welding torches and the stench of red-hot pop-rivets as the snapping, thundering sounds and reeks ricochet and resonate throughout the town. Then… then, a deafening horn brings the cacophony to an end. The metal gates ascend, and the concealed society emerge. They push out shoulder-to-shoulder; they splinter into groups down roads, streets, and lanes. Dressed like characters from a Lowry painting, they go thundering along like the snorting bulls of Pamplona. The child scampers up the stairs screaming for his mother and lays in her arms sobbing like it was a bad dream.
Childhood memories like this visit often, sometimes as welcome guests and occasionally like a nocturnal burglar that enters my vaults and robs me of tranquillity. There’s the thoughtful passage in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities where Sydney Carton in conversation with Mr Lorry poses the following question:
‘Does your childhood seem far off? Do the days when you sat on your mother’s knee seem days of Long ago?’
‘Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in a circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be of the kind smoothing of the way.’ Mr Lorry replies.
Much as I respect Dickens’ insight into human nature, I’m not sure I’m with Dickens on this ‘smoothing of the way.’ Truth be told, nostalgia is spurned by all generations. We have ABBA revivals. In China they have 80’s cafes where Generation Y can moonwalk the decade away to Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean. It’s even been reported that Generation Z are affected by early-onset nostalgia
Charles Dickens and Nostalgia
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Nostalgia
It’s summer ‘59, Billie Holiday has put her death mask on and she’s now Trav’lin light, and somewhere, near the banks of the River Clyde, an infant peers at mighty iron gates from a safe distance, curious about what lies behind. He hears the rhythmic banging of hammers, the neurotic sizzle of welding torches and the stench of red-hot pop-rivets as the snapping, thundering sounds and reeks ricochet and resonate throughout the town. Then… then, a deafening horn brings the cacophony to an end. The metal gates ascend, and the concealed society emerge. They push out shoulder-to-shoulder; they splinter into groups down roads, streets, and lanes. Dressed like characters from a Lowry painting, they go thundering along like the snorting bulls of Pamplona. The child scampers up the stairs screaming for his mother and lays in her arms sobbing like it was a bad dream.
Childhood memories like this visit often, sometimes as welcome guests and occasionally like a nocturnal burglar that enters my vaults and robs me of tranquillity. There’s the thoughtful passage in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities where Sydney Carton in conversation with Mr Lorry poses the following question:
‘Does your childhood seem far off? Do the days when you sat on your mother’s knee seem days of Long ago?’
‘Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in a circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be of the kind smoothing of the way.’ Mr Lorry replies.
Much as I respect Dickens’ insight into human nature, I’m not sure I’m with Dickens on this ‘smoothing of the way.’ Truth be told, nostalgia is spurned by all generations. We have ABBA revivals. In China they have 80’s cafes where Generation Y can moonwalk the decade away to Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean. It’s even been reported that Generation Z are affected by early-onset nostalgia