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The Great Round World and What Is Going On In It, Vol. 1, No. 36, July 15, 1897 by Various

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THE GREAT ROUND WORLD
AND WHAT IS GOING ON IN IT

Vol. 1 JULY 15, 1897 No. 36.
[Entered at Post Office, New York City, as second class matter]

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ILLINOIS STATE NORMAL UNIVERSITY.

NORMAL, ILL. June 16, 1897.


To whom it may concern:--

I have examined the publication "The Great Round World". It seems
to me to be admirable in its design and also in its execution. It
abandons the formal style of the newspaper in the narration of
events, substituting instead a style that is at once conversational
and free. I commend it to the consideration of school men.

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="The Great Round World" PRIZE CONTEST=


THE GREAT ROUND WORLD is now over six months old, and it feels some
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=Name ten of the most important events that have been mentioned in
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_In mentioning these events give briefly reasons for considering
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to enter the competition must send to this office their name and the
date of their subscription; a number will then be given them.

All new subscribers will be furnished with a card entitling them to
enter the competition.

In making the selection of important events, remember that wars and
political events are not necessarily the most important. If, for
instance, the air-ship had turned out to be a genuine and successful
thing, it would have been most important as affecting the history of the
world. Or if by chance the telephone or telegraph had been invented in
this period, these inventions would have been _important_ events.

Prizes will be awarded to those who make the best selection and who
mention the events in the best order of their importance. Answers may be
sent in any time before September 1st.

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to take plenty of time and do the work carefully. It will be a pleasant
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We would advise you to take the magazines starting at No. 1, look them
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For instance: suppose you decide that the death of Dr. Ruiz was one of
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prison of Guanabacoa--because it brought the cruelties practised on
American citizens to the attention of our Government," etc., etc.

In sending your answers put your number and the date only on them, for
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[Illustration: THE GREAT ROUND
WORLD
AND WHAT IS GOING ON IN IT.]

VOL. 1 JULY 15, 1897. NO. 36

It is reported from Thessaly that the Turks are ruining the country.

The correspondent who sent the news, having managed to escape the notice
of the Turkish officials, claims to have made a personal examination of
the state of affairs in the city of Larissa.

He found that all the houses, except those inhabited by Mohammedans, had
been stripped of their contents, and he was informed on the best
authority that many car-loads of plunder had been sent by the soldiers
to the Turkish town of Elassonna.

In Turnavo, another city of Thessaly, the same condition of affairs
exists as in Larissa. Here, however, the inhabitants had some warning of
the coming of the Turks, and had time to remove many of their valuables
before the enemy arrived.

The condition of Thessaly is desperate. The harvests are rotting in the
fields. The peasants dare not attempt to gather them in, for fear of the
Turkish soldiers, who, under pretence of seeking for arms, beat them
unmercifully until they hand over what money or valuables they have.

* * * * *

The governorship of Crete has been offered to Monsieur Droz, the
ex-president of Switzerland.

It is said that he has accepted on condition that he is first to be
given an opportunity of seeing how he can get along with the Cretans.

* * * * *

The latest report from Cuba is that General Gomez has been wounded, and
some say killed.

There was a fight in the province of Puerto Principe, and during the
action General Gomez's horse was killed under him and the old soldier
wounded.

The whole story comes from the Spanish side, and so the Cubans, before
being disturbed by the news, are waiting for it to be confirmed.

The insurgents have been very active during the last few days.

It is reported that they have had the good fortune to intercept a couple
of valuable Spanish expeditions, securing in one a prize of $200,000,
and in the other $3,000 in cash, $1,700 worth of medicines and two carts
laden with provisions.

We are, however, sorry to tell you that the Cubans are beginning to
adopt the same cruel methods toward the Spaniards that the Spaniards
have been using against them.

A coach full of travellers was journeying with the expedition that
carried the medicines and provisions. The Cubans outnumbered the party,
and took them all prisoners. A woman and a little child who were of the
party were treated kindly and set at liberty, but every Spanish soldier
and every man with the expedition was put to death.

If the Cubans continue to practise these cruelties they will lose the
strong sympathy which their bravery has so far gained for them.

Many Spanish soldiers are still deserting to the Cuban lines. The
deserters say that life is unbearable in the Spanish army. The soldiers
are roughly treated, have scarcely anything to eat, and receive their
pay in worthless paper money.

One entire battalion mutinied a short while ago, and refused to accept
this paper money. The colonel had to give the soldiers his solemn
promise that their pay should be given them half in gold and half in
silver before they would consent to return to duty.

It is stated that the sum of $50,000,000 is needed for the payment of
the soldiers, and that there is little hope of getting it from Spain,
because the Rothschilds will not lend the Government any more money
unless Spain sacrifices the income of the famous Almaden quicksilver
mines for twenty years.

The Rothschilds are the greatest and richest bankers in the world.

This firm has branch houses in all the great capitals in Europe, and has
probably lent money to every government on the continent.

If a war is contemplated, and a nation needs a large sum of ready money
to make preparations, it is to the Rothschilds that its government
generally turns.

When good security is offered there is never any trouble in getting
money from them, but if the security is not of the best they never find
themselves in a position to lend the money.

In 1870, Spain, needing money, applied to the Rothschilds and obtained
what she needed because she offered as security for the repayment of the
loan a lease of the Almaden mines for a term of thirty years.

These mines are said to be the greatest quicksilver mines in the world,
and yield an immense profit.

The Rothschilds worked the mines and realized their profits, the Spanish
Government receiving a royalty of so much money for each flask of
quicksilver sold.

This royalty, in the twenty-six years the bankers have been working the
mines, has amounted to thirty-six millions of dollars.

The contract with the Spanish Government expires in 1900, and so when
Spain needed money for the Cuban war and applied to the Rothschilds for
it, the bankers were very willing to lend it, asking in return that
their lease of the mines be extended for another term of twenty years.

This, Spain was unwilling to do.

She had been informed by her engineers that if she could get the control
of the mines into her own hands, she could realize a yearly income from
them of $6,000,000.

The Government therefore decided that the lease could not be granted,
and the Rothschilds on their part said that they could not accommodate
Spain with the required money, and so the last loan for the Cuban war
had to be obtained from other sources.

Spain is again in need of money. If she decides to grant a new lease of
the mines she can obtain it readily.

If she does not make this arrangement, it is said that she will be
obliged to come to terms with Cuba for lack of funds to fight her.

A plan to raise money for Cuba has been started in this country.

A silver coin has been struck off, which is to be sold in the United
States, and the proceeds used to buy arms for Cuba.

The coin is about the size of a silver dollar, one side bearing the head
of the Goddess of Liberty, and the reverse the arms of Cuba. Its price
will be one dollar.

Ten thousand of these coins are to be ready during the first week in
July, and the Cubans have made arrangements for a further three millions
to be coined if they are required.

* * * * *

The fate of Gen. Rius Rivera is not absolutely decided.

He was tried by court-martial in the Cabanas fortress and was condemned
to be shot.

A cablegram was received by General Weyler from Madrid, ordering him to
delay the execution on account of the feeling in the United States.

General Weyler is said to have cabled back that the United States should
not interfere with prisoners who are not Americans, and to have
requested that he be allowed to carry out the sentence of the court,
because the punishing of General Rivera would have a very desirable
effect on the insurgents.

A Cabinet council has been called in Madrid, and the question is being
carefully discussed. The decision is anxiously awaited.

A letter has been received from General Lee saying that food purchased
with the Relief Fund is being distributed to the needy Americans.

* * * * *

The _Dauntless_ is certainly a very lucky little vessel.

We told you last week how she had been captured by the cutter _McLean_,
in consequence of an accident to her machinery.

The crew of the _Dauntless_ were of course arrested with her, and were
brought to Key West for trial.

To everybody's surprise they have been discharged on the ground that
there was no evidence to prove they were engaged in fitting out a
filibustering expedition.

The Madrid newspapers are saying very bitter things about the United
States for not punishing the persons connected with these affairs. They
declare that we make a pretence of taking them prisoners to satisfy
Spain, and then set them at liberty to please ourselves.

* * * * *

It would seem that the reports from the Philippine Islands are as
unreliable as those from Cuba.

It was only last week that we heard that the rebellion was on a stronger
footing than ever, and that there was little chance that it would soon
be put down.

This week a steamer from Japan brings the news that the Governor-General
of the Philippines has issued a proclamation that the rebellion is at an
end, and announcing that Spanish rule had been re-established.

It will be interesting to know whether this is really true or merely a
statement of the same kind as those General Weyler has been making for
so many months.

* * * * *

A curious experiment is being tried in Tennessee.

A co-operative town has been established by a few workingmen, and from
all accounts it seems to be a great success.

The town is called Ruskin, and at the present time has seventy families
in it.

In this town all men are considered equal, every man, and woman too,
receiving the same amount of wage for his labor, whether it be skilled
or unskilled. The school teacher receives the same pay as the day
laborer; all stand on an equal footing.

When a man wishes to go and live in Ruskin, he has first to ask for
permission to settle there. The Ruskinites own their town, and are
careful not to allow any people to settle in it who are not likely to be
agreeable to them.

To every person who wishes to join them they send a list of questions,
asking the would-be settler what his ideas are on certain points.

If the answers are unsatisfactory, the applicant is told that there is
no room for him in Ruskin.

If, however, his ideas agree with those of the rest of the community,
his name is put up for membership, and he is elected by ballot, as he
would be to a club.

When elected, the new member is obliged to pay an initiation fee of $500
toward the general funds of the town, and he and his family are then
welcome to join the settlement as soon as they see fit.

When they arrive they are given a house and lot rent free. There are no
taxes to pay in Ruskin; everything is free but furniture and food.
Schools and school-books, doctors, medicines, all are free; the family
washing is even undertaken by the community free of charge.

In return for these advantages the family is required to work.

The father must be willing to do any task that is assigned to him,
without complaint. It does not matter if he has never handled a spade in
his life, he must dig if required to, and dig to the best of his
ability.

The payment in Ruskin is not in dollars and cents, but hours' labor,
notes of one, five, and ten hours' value being printed, and passing for
currency in the town.

The community allows each man the value of fifty hours' labor a week,
his wife the same amount, and his children twenty hours each.

The husband is required to work the full time for the community; the
wife is allowed four hours of the day to work for her home, and need
only give five hours to the general good. The four hours that she spends
in her housework are, however, credited to her as hours of labor,
because she is benefiting the community by keeping an orderly home.

In the same way the twenty hours' weekly labor for which the children
are paid are the hours they spend in school. By going to school and
learning they, too, are benefiting the community, so that their labor is
also for the general good.

When school is over, children who wish to do so can wait on table in the
community dining-hall, and then they earn more time-checks.

These checks can be exchanged at the general store for goods, the prices
of articles not being reckoned at so many cents but at so many hours of
labor.

The Ruskin people seem to be hopeful that they have solved the problem
of living.

A similar experiment is to be tried under the management of Eugene Debs.
He is the man who led the strikers in Chicago, got into trouble with the
authorities, and was finally sent to prison.

Debs proposes to start a co-operative town in the West, taking one
hundred thousand men and women along with him to settle it.

He is going to build factories and start all kinds of industries, which
are to belong to all the people in common, the profits and the losses to
be shared by all the citizens alike.

Peace and prosperity are promised to all who will enter this ideal town.
It will be interesting to watch the experiment and see just what results
can be achieved.

* * * * *

Foreign governments are beginning to be heard from on the subject of the
annexation of Hawaii.

A member of the English House of Commons has asked the Government
whether it intends to allow this very important coaling-station to pass
out of its reach without protest.

The Secretary of the Foreign Office replied that no decision had as yet
been reached by the United States, and therefore the Government did not
see that any action was necessary at present.

The Secretary went on to state that the English ministers would be
careful that none of the rights of British subjects were interfered
with.

Russia, on her part, has stated that she thinks that the annexation of
Hawaii may be followed by the seizure of Cuba, and considers it a step
very dangerous to Europe. She will not, however, join with Japan in her
protest.

A report was circulated that Spain and Japan were forming an alliance to
resist the annexation of the Sandwich Islands, but this report has been
denied.

The German Emperor is said to have declared that he fears the
interference of the United States with European affairs if she is
allowed to extend her territory in this way.

With all these more or less unfriendly comments there has been but the
one serious objection to the project, and that has come from Japan.

The State Department has replied to the protest from the Japanese
minister. The Department refuses to allow the claim that the treaty
between Japan and Hawaii was a perpetual treaty. The refusal was based
on the grounds that we gave you last week.

The Japanese protest also declares that there are twenty-five thousand
of her people resident in the Sandwich Islands who have earned the right
to become citizens, and our Government is asked what it proposes to do
about these people in case the treaty is ratified.

In replying to this point the State Department refused to give any
definite answer, saying that it was a matter to be settled by Congress
or the courts.

This reply was sent to the Japanese minister, who immediately cabled it
to his Government.

The next step in this matter must be taken by Japan, and there is a good
deal of anxiety as to what it will be.

The arrival of the steamer from Honolulu was eagerly watched for, as it
was thought that the news from Hawaii might give some idea of the temper
of the Japanese.

Every one was therefore very delighted to learn that the Japanese had
taken no aggressive steps.

The steamer brought news of a slight alarm in Honolulu, but it had
amounted to nothing.

A report had been spread that the Japanese warship _Naniwa_ was about to
land her marines and take possession of the Hawaiian Government
buildings and custom-house.

The news soon reached Admiral Beardslee, who is in command of the
cruiser _Philadelphia_.

Since the _Philadelphia_ has been in port the Admiral has held weekly
drills of the crews of his own ship, and also of the _Marion_, which has
long been on the Hawaiian station.

At the time the news reached him, the crews were ashore drilling.

The Admiral sent an order for them to hurry back to their ships and be
in readiness to prevent any such action on the part of the Japanese.

When the Japanese minister heard of the matter, he made light of it, and
declared that there had never been any idea of landing marines from the
Japanese warship.

The people of Honolulu say that the report was true nevertheless, and
that the prompt action of Admiral Beardslee prevented it from being
carried out.

It seems that the Japanese minister in Hawaii is maintaining that he has
not yet received any reply to his letter to the Hawaiian Government.

He absolutely declines to regard Mr. Cooper's letter, which was
published in the papers before it reached him, as a reply to his
official communication.

* * * * *

Prince Henry of Orleans has arrived safely at the court of Menelik of
Abyssinia, and has been received by him.

Menelik is described by Prince Henry as an intelligent, good-humored
man, of about forty years of age. His skin is dark, but not nearly so
black as has been stated.

The Prince found him an agreeable person, much interested in foreign
affairs, and he asked so many intelligent questions about the government
of foreign countries that his visitor was astonished. This savage
monarch knew all about the struggle between Japan and China, and
realized the immense progress the Japanese had made since the war.

Menelik questioned the Prince about the French President, and seemed
fully acquainted with everything concerning him. He had also heard of
the Prince's voyages, and was extremely interested in his Chinese trip,
asking many questions about the way the people lived in China, their
manufactures and their food.

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Under the Sun: The Letters of Bruce Chatwin

We all want to be happy, we want our children to be happy, and there are countless books advising us how to achieve happiness. But is this really what we should be aiming for?

"A fly bothers me, I kill it: you kill what bothers you. If I had not killed the fly, it would have been out of pure liberalism: I am liberal in order not to be a killer."

Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes

'He was not to be described as a happy person," Diana Trilling wrote in a memoir about her husband, the critic Lionel Trilling. "Indeed, he thought poorly of happiness and of people who claimed to be happy or desired happiness above other gratifications in life . . . seriousness was the desirable condition of man." It is easy to make all sorts of assumptions about why an unhappy person would not value happiness; and indeed why seriousness might be seen as an alternative to happiness; or just to say that it was seriousness that made Trilling happy. One of the ways in which happiness is made to seem like an inclusive ideal – the ways it charms us – is by our asserting that by definition the things that matter most to us must make us happy, that that is how we know they are good. It's as though one word could do the work of the moral imagination.

Or can we just say that if happiness is one's aspiration, then learning about the history of the slave trade, say, or watching the news, or indeed ageing are all to be avoided. And yet learning about the terrible things people can do to each other, and the history of the terrible things people have done to each other, is important – we can't imagine a life without it – and gives some people a great deal of pleasure; pleasure, as psychoanalysts might say, of various kinds. Anyone who has or knows children, or remembers being a child, will know how happy it can make them tormenting their siblings. And so if we value happiness we can't help but wonder what morality it entails, what kind of morality it might involve us in.

It is not surprising, in other words, that happiness has always had rather a mixed reception. No one in their right minds we might think, especially now, would be promoting unhappiness; and yet the promotion, the preferring of happiness – the assumption of a right to happiness – brings with it a lot of things we might not like. And the desire for happiness may reveal things about ourselves that we like even less. "A people who conceive life to be the pursuit of happiness must be chronically unhappy," the anthropologist Marshall Sahlins wrote.

What are we going to have to do, what are we going to have to become, what are we going to have to renounce or ignore if we want to be happy? Or if we are to propose happiness, or its pursuit, as some kind of right? We tend to make rights of things we assume to be in short supply, things perpetually under threat. Wherever there is scarcity now human rights are asserted; and the assertion of rights is reactive to a sense of scarcity deemed to be needless. Or, to put it slightly differently, calling something a right can be a way of rhetorically enforcing an important wish, a way of making a wish sound important.

I want to begin with three fairly obvious propositions that are also misgivings about the right to happiness or its pursuit. And I'd like to suggest that the right to frustration may be more useful and interesting – more enlivening – than the right to happiness. That's to say I want to waylay the common, all-too-plausible idea that the solution to frustration is satisfaction, or that happiness is the answer to unhappiness, or that if we get rid of the bad things, the good things will start happening. Happiness and the right to pursue it are sometimes wildly unrealistic as ideals; and, because wildly unrealistic, unconsciously self-destructive.

Because happiness is not always the kind of thing that can be pursued, we should view it, more often than not, as a lucky side effect but not a calculable or calculated end. Making it such an end all too easily brings out the worst in us. If this is a version, to rewrite John Lennon's famous line, of "happiness is what happens to you when you are doing something else", it also suggests that scarcity is integral to a sense of reality; that we should be thinking of what Philip Larkin in "Born Yesterday" called "a skilled, / Vigilant, flexible, / Unemphasised, enthralled / Catching of happiness" rather than the engineering of it.

Our relation to happiness often betrays an unconscious desire for disillusionment. The wanting of it and the having of it can seem like two quite different things. And this is what makes wishing so interesting; because wishing is always too knowing. When we wish we are too convinced of our pleasures, too certain that we know what we want. The belief that we can arrange our happiness – as though happiness were akin to justice, which we can work towards – may be to misrecognise the very thing that concerns us.

My three fairly obvious propositions are: first, in Freud's formulation from Civilisation and its Discontents, "happiness is something essentially subjective" (subjective I take it, in the sense of being not only personal but idiosyncratic). We can be surprised by what makes us happy, and it will not necessarily be something that makes other people happy. This has significant consequences not least in the area of our lives that is sometimes conducive to happiness, sexuality. And this makes happiness as a social or communal pursuit complicated. We have only to imagine what it would be for someone to propose that we had a right to sexual satisfaction to imagine both how we might contrive this and what terrible things might be done in its name.

Second, bad things can make us happy – and by bad things I mean things consensually agreed to be unacceptable. It clearly makes some people happy to live in a world without Jews, or homosexuals, or immigrants, and so on. There are also what we might call genuinely bad things, like seriously harming people and other animals, that gives some people the pleasure they most crave. I remember a very unhappy boy of 10 telling me in a psychotherapy session that he was only happy when he was cutting the feet off rats that he had caught. He said it made him feel "really awake", that it was like "turning on the light in your favourite room in the world". Cruelty and humiliation make some people happy, perhaps lots of people happy some of the time; and this issue is not dealt with merely by saying that they are not really happy or that they are in some way perverse or sick. We tend to pathologise the forms of happiness we cannot bear. If we are to have a right to happiness or to its pursuit – two different things – we must then acknowledge the full range of things that make people happy. This means taking them at their word. Cruelty can make people happy. And we might then want to think about what problem, or rather problems, happiness is deemed to be the solution to. It is not, for example, incidental to our predicament that so many of our pleasures are, or are felt to be, forbidden (this is what Freud's account of the Oedipus complex is a way of thinking about). So put briefly – as every child and therefore every adult knows – being bad can make you happy. Happiness is subjective, it takes many forms, and one of its forms is immorality.

Last but not least – though the least exciting – is the third point: some people like being unhappy. Indeed for some people their lives can be construed as the pursuit of unhappiness. It is astounding the lengths to which some people will go to be unhappy, to contrive their own misery, as though happiness itself were a phobic object and held terrors. And we don't talk of the right to be unhappy, when we should. Unhappiness can, after all, among many other things, be the registration of injustice or loss. At its best, a culture committed to the pursuit of happiness might be committed, say, to the diminishing of injustice; but at its worst, the culture of happiness may proscribe a whole range of feelings and perceptions.

It is sometimes said that psychoanalysis is one of the last places in the culture where people are allowed to be unhappy. And clearly psychoanalysis protects, if it does not actually foster, a person's right to be unhappy. The subjectivity of happiness, what it is that the individual really loves and gets pleasure from, the immorality of pleasures and the lure of transgression, happiness as a perversion, the fear of pleasure and the masochistic solution – all this is the material of psychoanalysis, and not only of psychoanalysis.

Yet, historically, psychoanalysis is the inheritor of a set of political propositions it would seem to be at odds with; or at least at a very odd angle to. If Freud and happiness doesn't sound like a very promising subject, Freud and rights seems even less so (there's only one reference to the rights of man in Freud's work). Rights, like class, have never really been the thing for psychoanalysis; omissions, one would think, of some significance. Don't have much confidence in the so-called rights of man, Freud seems to say in his New Introductory Lectures; they are no match for the ferocity of inner morality – the super-ego, or "conscience". The whole business of rights only turns up when the individual, the melancholic individual, is briefly released from his internal regime ("For after a certain number of months the whole moral fuss is over, the criticism of the superego is silent, the ego is rehabilitated and again enjoys all the rights of man till the next attack.") Morality, at least in these patients, is periodic, as are the rights of man, the gift, as it were of a higher power.

"Our normal sense of guilt," Freud writes, "is the expression of the tension between the ego and the super-ego". This translates as: our happiness depends on the distance between who we are and who we should be according to the dictates of our internalised morality. We are mostly unhappy because we are rarely as we should be. When the internal authorities are so implacable and sadistic — over-severe, abusive, humiliating, as Freud writes — what are the possibilities for happiness?

The right to happiness, or to its pursuit, would mean the right to a generous super-ego, the right to a super-ego that was on the side of one's pleasure: one that promoted the view that feeling alive was more important than being right or good. It is one of Freud's more horrifying ironies that the pursuit of pleasure incites, calls up, the super-ego. And, of course, when and if pleasure is forbidden its pursuit requires punishment. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Virtue has to be its own reward. To pursue pleasure is to be pursued by punishment. There is no one more moralistic, more coercive, than a hedonist.

As the right to happiness or its pursuit is my subject, and I am by training a child psychotherapist, all this is by way of a lengthy preamble to putting together the famous sentence from Thomas Jefferson's Declaration of Independence with something from the paediatrician and psychoanalyst DW Winnicott's story about child development. I want to ask what, if anything, the right to happiness or its pursuit has to do with the child's development; whether Jefferson's founding declaration has anything to do with the declaration of independence that is the child's personal development.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness". Some of us might not believe in the Creator part now, and some of us might find more and more difficult the idea that people are born equal when the conditions in which they are born are manifestly so unequal; and most of us would want to assume that by "men" Jefferson meant "people". And yet, as many people have noted, the pursuit of happiness – something not mentioned in the French Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, nor in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights – seems peculiarly salient; it is the only one of the things listed that is a pursuit.

What exactly might it mean to have an "unalienable right" to "the pursuit of happiness", given that it is fairly obvious that the pursuit of happiness is so morally equivocal – could be, among other things, a threat to the society that promoted it? At first sight it seems to be a pretty good idea; if we are convinced of anything now we are convinced that we are pleasure-seeking creatures, who want to minimise the pain and frustration of our lives. Or at least a "we" could be consolidated around these beliefs. We are the creatures who, possibly unlike any other animal, pursue happiness. But the pursuit of happiness, like the pursuit of liberty – the utopian political projects of the 20th century – has legitimated some of the worst crimes of contemporary history across the political spectrum.

In Jefferson's Declaration, the art critic Dave Hickey has noted, "Happiness is not assured, but its pursuit is protected . . . the government will act to ensure our safety, and it will stand back as we act on our own behalf in the 'pursuit of happiness'. When that pursuit putatively threatens our safety the government invariably steps in. Safety trumps happiness, the government always wins." It is not too much of a stretch here to see, in this account, the government as the parents, and the citizens as adolescent children; the governmental parents protect the pursuit of happiness, but prioritise safety. The developing child pursues his own happiness under the rules and conditions provided by the adults. Children cannot bring themselves up, and children cannot bring up children (in Lord of the Flies the question recurs: "are there any adults?").

If it is said, or written, that we have a right to be happy or to pursue happiness, it is assumed that happiness is something we are capable of, something that is available, if certain obstacles are removed. If liberty is there when tyranny is taken away, happiness is there when whatever makes us unhappy is removed. From a pragmatic point of view the art of a good life involves removing the obstacles to happiness; the picture, if we visualise it, is of something looked for, something looked forward to, and of there being something in the way. And this something in the way could be called an unavailable mother, a prohibitive father, competing sibling, not having enough brains or beauty, or charm, or money, or education, or luck. We would get closer to our happiness were these things acquired; and a reality sense would be something to do with acknowledging which of these things cannot be acquired. It is all about, in short, our relation to obstacles; our distinguishing the intractable from the changeable, what we have to acknowledge from what we can influence; whether our desire is forbidden or not – whether we want a cream cake or another man's wife. It is, in pragmatic terms, about knowing what is possible. And everybody, it seems, is shadowed by an imaginary other person, a lucky counterpart, who gets all the happiness going; Lacan writes of "the jealousy born in a subject in his relation to an other, insofar as this other is held to enjoy a certain form of jouissance or superabundant vitality". This other person presumably enjoys his happiness, his super-abundant vitality with no conflict, with no thought of safety, with no consideration of the rules and conditions required by the good of the rest.

A right to the pursuit of happiness must be a right to remove the obstacles to happiness. This, at least, is the logic of the case. The man called the happiness tsar, Lord Layard, says we now know what makes children happy (the book he co-authored last year is called A Good Childhood). What, then, are the obstacles to the child's happiness, and why can't we set about trying to remove them? And some of them we can remove. But what if the so-called obstacles to happiness are, or sometimes are, among the things that matter most to us? If, say, we love both luxury and justice? What if two mutually exclusive things make us happy, and one has to be abrogated? And what if some obstacles are immovable, untransformable into anything other than obstacles?

There is something about the sexual drive, Freud suggested, that makes it intrinsically unsatisfiable. There are not infinite resources of food, of energy, of medicine. It is, for example, true, as every mother knows, that the mother cannot give the child everything that he wants, and that if she could it wouldn't be what he wanted. That everyone feels left out of something. It is misleading to think that one's parents have been the obstacle to one's happiness, even if they have radically thwarted it. Indeed we might end up thinking that a right to irresolvable conflict might be the most realistic right we could come up with. That the attempt to resolve at least some conflicts was a distraction from finding better ways of living them; that the right to pursue happiness has seduced us into pursuing happiness when we could have been doing something better.

If the alternative to happiness is not, in the binary way, unhappiness; and if happiness has become so insidious, so hypnotic a single end for a good life, why have we wanted this strange narrowing of our intent? What have we lost, or forgotten, or ignored, or paid insufficient attention to, or protected ourselves from by wanting happiness? Happiness, it would seem, is the most plausible of our aims in life. But what psychoanalysis can chip in with here is that we are at our most defensive when we are at our most plausible.

One of the other things we most want is to be able to feel frustrated; to register what we feel deprived of. Frustration issues in many things only one of which is happiness; and happiness can be, at its worst, a pre-emptive strike against frustration, a refuge from it rather than any kind of productive, unpredictable transformation of it. If we want to talk of a right to pursue happiness there needs to be a prior right, as it were, to feel frustration; to be able to bear and to bear with a sense of what is lacking in one's life. And not simply because frustration makes satisfaction possible in the way that hunger can make a meal delicious. But because frustration and satisfaction do not only or always have a logical, a causal, a pragmatic relationship with one another. Or to put it rather more obviously, what we are lacking when we are unhappy is not always happiness, any more than what an alcoholic is lacking is a drink. And proposing a right to the pursuit of happiness may seduce us, by a kind of word-magic, into thinking that happiness is just the thing.

It is of interest that when Winnicott writes about deprivation in children he too talks about rights. "Let us consider the meaning of the anti-social act," he writes in a paper called "The Deprived Child": "for instance, stealing. When a child steals what is sought . . . is not the object stolen; what is sought is the person, the mother from whom the child has the right to steal because she is the mother. In fact every infant at the start can truly claim the right to steal from the mother because the infant invented the mother, thought her up, created her out of an innate capacity to love."

For Winnicott, the child makes the mother he needs and gradually, through disillusionment and hatred, disentangles her, to some extent, from the mother she happens to be. But it is "the mother from whom the child has the right to steal because she is the mother" that I want to consider. Because the thing stolen is not quite or even nearly the thing wanted – which is not a thing, but a mother – it can never satisfy. What we have is a picture of the right to pursue happiness getting stuck, something I think it is prone to do; as though there is something about the pursuit of happiness that sponsors and endorses addiction. In this sense, consumer capitalism is a system tailor-made for deprived children.

The theft requires communicable translation; it requires, as it were, someone to be able to say, or otherwise communicate what it is that is really being pursued. In Winnicott's declaration the child has a right to the pursuit of a mother to get what he needs for his development. He is entitled to a mother; she belongs to him in the sense that his own development belongs to him. A good-enough mother or parents might give you the wherewithal for your pursuit of happiness; they might have backed your desire, helped you to believe in and not only be fearful of your pleasures. But it is more complicated than this. Lives are not the kind of things that can be guaranteed by mothers. And this is where the idea of a right to pursue one's own happiness becomes more interesting.

Do children want to be happy? And if they don't want to be happy what else might they want to be? This would seem to be of some importance because they are growing up in a world in which their parents mostly want them to be happy, or at least don't like them being unhappy, admittedly for a variety of different reasons. And by a world I mean the particular cultures for whom happiness has become the preferred object, or the preferred fetish. Children are supposed to be anti-depressants for their parents.

Happiness is something parents often demand of their children; we, as we say, want our children to be happy; we were once children who's parents wanted us to be happy. And that means the whole spectrum, from not being a worry to them, not making their lives more difficult, being curative of their woes, to the pleasure our parents could take in our pleasure and our wellbeing. We are more dependent on our children than they are on us; and we are dependent, in brief, on their happiness. What makes the child happy is not going to be unlinked to what makes the parents happy. Clearly if a parent lives as if their child has a right to happiness, or a right to its pursuit, and that they are the guardians of this right, they are going to have a difficult, an even more difficult, task on their hands. Lovers often feel that they should be making each other happy when they are in fact making themselves a problem to each other.

So by way of conclusion I want to suggest that a right to the pursuit of happiness is asserted when a capacity for absorption has been sabotaged, when there is a loss of confidence in people's passions. Happiness becomes important when the possibility for absorption is under threat. That the child does not want to be happy – or perhaps, more exactly, the child doesn't want only to be happy – the child wants first to be safe, and then to be absorbed. There are, for example, only two reasons for children to go to school – apart, that is, from acquiring the werewithal to earn a living: to make friends, and to see if they can find something of absorbing interest to themselves.

There is an interesting moment in Lord of the Flies when Henry, one of the "littluns", wanders away from the main group of children. "He went down to the beach and busied himself at the water's edge." William Golding writes: "There were creatures that lived in this last fling of the sea, tiny transparencies that came questing in with the water over the hot, dry sand. With impalpable organs of sense they examined this new field. Perhaps food had appeared where the last incursion there had been none . . . This was fascinating to Henry. He poked about with a bit of stick, that itself was wave-worn and whitened and a vagrant, and tried to control the motions of the scavengers . . . He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things."

The adult narrator can see Henry as in some way identified with these rudimentary scavengers; and the narrator intimates that without adults the children feel how much is out of control or under-controlled. And then there is the remarkable sentence: "He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things." He feels himself exercising control, but he is not, and his absorption is beyond, in excess of, mere happiness. Something else is wanted more than happiness by Henry, and it seems to be the exercise of control over living things, one of which is himself. It would be easy, and partly true, to say that what Henry is absorbed by here, what is beyond mere happiness, is power, control over living things. But Golding is clear about two things; it is an illusion of power – Golding refers to Henry having "the illusion of mastery" – and it is also the absorption itself that is beyond mere happiness. "He became absorbed beyond mere happiness." It is an illusion that absorbs him beyond happiness; in other words, he is playing. Absorption is not in and of itself a moral good; in the novel the tyrannical, sadistic Jack absorbs the attention of a lot of the children who do his bidding. But in proposing, in the context of the novel, that there is a beyond to mere happiness, something else or further that is wanted; and that indeed happiness may be a poor substitute for something else, that happiness may be something that can get in the way of whatever is beyond it; by proposing this Golding is saying something about what can override the pursuit of happiness, and what may be lost in its pursuit. For better and for worse, being able to feel our frustration is the precondition for becoming absorbed. When this is impossible the pursuit of happiness tends to take over. The right to pursue happiness may be, at its worst, the right not to feel frustrated. And if frustration is not allowed to take its course, to take its time, there is no absorption, only refuges from unhappiness. The child is fobbed off with happiness when what she really wants is to get her appetite back. The right to the pursuit of happiness can be a cover story for the wish to hide.


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What Ever Happened to Moderism? by Gabriel Josipovici

Bruce Chatwin's letters are as much a performance as anything else he wrote, says Blake Morrison

Does anyone read Bruce Chatwin these days? His friend and biographer Nicholas Shakespeare reports a conversation in Australia in 2001, when a young journalist asked: "Who was Bruce Chatwin?" And another generation has since emerged who are even less likely to have heard of him.

In the late 80s, such a fate would have been unthinkable. Blond, good-looking and charismatic, Chatwin was at the height of his reputation. The Songlines (17 years in the making) topped the bestseller list in 1987; Utz (completed in a few months) was shortlisted for the Booker prize in 1988. His mysterious death the following year, at 48, only added to the allure. Tom Maschler, who also published Salman Rushdie, Ian McEwan and Martin Amis, thought him a greater talent than any of them.

Why has Chatwin's star faded so quickly? Allegations of coldness, snobbery, humourlessness and fabrication haven't helped. Nor have the disavowals of those, like Barry Humphries, who were once his friends. Shakespeare is baffled, nevertheless, that a man whose work was a precursor of the internet – "a connective superhighway without boundaries" – should have fallen into neglect. His hope is that this collection of letters – put together with Chatwin's widow, Elizabeth – can turn things round.

"Chatwin's correspondence reveals much more about himself than he was prepared to expose in his books," he says. Elizabeth agrees: "The letters are the only unreworked writing of his." An unguarded writer certainly ought to be a more knowable writer. But Chatwin enjoyed being an enigma ("I don't believe in coming clean"), and his letters are as much a performance as anything else he wrote, just less polished. When he does let the mask slip to reveal, for example, how eager a socialite he was ("lunch with Noël Coward on Friday", "Escorting Mrs Onassis to the opera next Thursday"), the effect isn't very endearing. Born in a well-to-do Midlands family, Chatwin was sent to boarding school at the age of seven, and the first letters here, to his parents, date from that time. Though he was no precocious literary talent, there are already signs of his consuming passions: a demand for a Romany travel book and an anthology called The Open Road at eight; enthusiasm for a film about Australian cattle-drivers; and later, at 17, the purchase of a Louis XVI chair. More surprising is his talent for boxing. But then Chatwin was always tougher than he appeared, not least in matters of the heart.

He was a tough bargainer, too, "a rather hard-nosed business pro", as he put it; that and his love of objets d'art made Sotheby's a logical career choice. He worked there for seven years, travelling widely while he did. When he isn't gushing over his latest acquisition, his idiom might be that of any other gilded youth. "Had an amusing time in Paris & Rome"; "Weather marvellous"; "This island is absolute paradise". Only in an account of a trip to Afghanistan is there a hint that travel writing might be his forte.

It was at Sotheby's that he met Elizabeth. He proposed to her in Paris, in the Louvre, a romantic gesture. But there isn't much romance in the letter he sent telling a friend about it ("The deed is done and in about three months I'll no longer be a free man"), or in his letters to Elizabeth herself: "My dearest Liz" is about as amorous as he gets. "You do not find pining lovers among the Gypsies," he once wrote, and even during their engagement his approach was briskly practical: "Give up all this nonsense of a deep freeze, do not deprive me of the pleasure of eating fresh food in its due season," he urged, letting her know whose job it would be to run the kitchen.

The marriage came as a shock to friends and colleagues, some of whom supposed that the affluence of Elizabeth's American family must be a factor: as a wedding present, her mother gave them £17,000, enough to buy a Gloucestershire farmhouse set in 47 acres. But Chatwin himself wasn't poor, and his friends were full of largesse ("We are invited to Glenveagh for the stalking in Oct. Or would you prefer Sir James Dundas's fishing lodge opposite Mull?"). Perhaps the real attraction was the emotional security she offered: like his mother, she loved listening to the stories he told when he returned from gallivanting about the globe. "People used to ask me how I felt about his endless absences from home," she writes, "but I knew he was working; he had to be free."

Within a year of marrying he'd quit Sotheby's to read archaeology at Edinburgh University: "Change is the only thing worth living for," he explained, before abandoning the degree halfway through. He couldn't stick anywhere for long, not even London: "I find it fine for three weeks, but thereafter WHAT IS THERE TO DO?" Until Francis Wyndham found Chatwin a place on the Sunday Times magazine he was (as one friend put it) a compass without a needle. He left that job, too, after three years. But in the meantime he learned to write. "He is running away from himself by travelling," his archaeology professor, Stuart Piggott, wrote. But in running away Chatwin was also being true to himself and true to his vision of the nomadic nature of human beings. Travel didn't mean roughing it or embracing an alternative lifestyle. "I am fed [sic] to the back teeth by happy hippie hashish culture (jail is the answer)," he wrote, dismissing 60s dropouts as mere vagrants. He was a home-owner, after all, with a country farm and a London flat, and when travelling he liked to be put up in style: whether Tuscan towers, Greek villas or Indian palaces didn't matter so long as he was properly catered for. "When's lunch?" he'd ask, and when he moved on would offer some token sum to cover his expensive telephone bills.

More serious offence was caused when he stayed with his cousin Monica in Peru and copied pages of her father's journal for his book In Patagonia; he claimed, with some justice, that she had given him permission, but he knew a good story when he saw it and wasn't altogether frank in telling her how much of it he'd lifted.

By 1980, Elizabeth's patience with him had also worn thin ("I was furious with him, totally fed up and exasperated that he took me for granted") and they separated. How much she knew of his affairs with men isn't touched on. Nor do we learn anything about them here: his letters to lovers were either destroyed, or were never written, or where they've survived are blandly circumspect. Sex is the great void here, along with passion. Which isn't to say that Chatwin lacked feelings: his grief at the death of his friend Penelope Betjeman was genuine, as was his attachment to his parents. As for Elizabeth, theirs has not been an easy marriage, he told her mother, "but it survives everything because neither of us has loved anyone else".

In 1986 he was diagnosed with Aids. In letters to friends he claimed to have caught a rare fungus of the bone marrow "known only among 10 Chinese peasants and the corpse of a killer whale cast up on the shores of Arabia". Much less was known about Aids in those days, and Chatwin was desperate to protect his parents from the truth. But what also terrified him was the thought of dying a stereotypical death, one that would identify him as just one more casualty of the Aids epidemic. His frantic tales about killer whale corpses or fungal dust inhaled in a Yunnan bats' cave were a way of exoticising himself, much as his books exoticise the places he visited and the people he met.

At best, a disdain for ordinariness strengthens his writing. But at worst it just seems silly, as when he reports what he's been up to in Patagonia: "I have sung 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' in Welsh . . . I have dined with a man who knew Butch Cassidy . . . I have discussed the poetics of Mandelstam with a Ukrainian doctor missing both legs." Would discussing Mandelstam with someone who isn't a double-amputee be any less interesting? For Chatwin, clearly, it would.

This is a handsome book, full of informative passages from Shakespeare, illuminating quotes from friends and wonderfully laconic and deflating footnotes from Elizabeth. But the Chatwin who wrote the letters is no truer or more candid than the Chatwin who wrote travel books and fiction. And the books are more engaging and more alive.

Blake Morrison's The Last Weekend is published by Chatto & Windus.


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