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- Herausgeber: Lives and Letters
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
Following on the explorations of culture and politics in his previous collection The Good European, the writings in Zest delve into less obvious but important aspects of social life—into manual work and 'dolce far niente', into ancient vernacular craft traditions and the data stockpiles of modernity. Early in the book we visit the Garden of Eden with Hieronymus Bosch, where we share with him the first fruit. It takes us by way of writers, artists, philosophers, travellers, photographers, musicians and flavours into the world of Zest—how we can find it and what its discovery does to us. Bamforth's sensuous, richly nuanced essays affect us as stories do, each one creating a world in which its arguments live and breathe, laugh and explore. He has written extensively about medicine. He is, more than just a widely travelled European, a world traveller: his work as a hospital doctor and general practitioner has taken him to every corner of the planet, working as a public health consultant in various developing countries, especially in Asia. 'Zest' itself occurs in the South of France, with Tobias Smollett, as picaresque a writer and character as Dr Bamforth himself. He is provoking, digressive and often droll. His diverse interests, from Bible studies to communication theory, from photography to the impact of globalisation, and his shifts from botanising in the Garden of Eden to 'botanising on the asphalt' (Walter Benjamin) always keep in sight the philosophical issue that provides Zest's subtitle—'the art of living'.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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ZEST
ESSAYS ON THE ART OF LIVING
IAIN BAMFORTH
CARCANET
Contents
For my wife Cornelia, the true botanist of the family
Throughout the perishing occasions in the life of each temporal Creature, the inward source of distaste or of refreshment, the judge arising out of the very nature of things, redeemer or goddess of mischief, is the transformation of Itself, everlasting in the Being of God. In this way, the insistent craving is justified – the insistent craving that zest for existence be refreshed by the ever-present, unfading importance of our immediate actions, which perish and yet live for evermore.
Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality
Preface
One day I’ll write the book that brings my life together. But life is short, and there are always other things to do—like earning a living, or painting a house. Readers of this collection of essays (and one or two essay-reviews I wanted to preserve), all written in the fifteen years since my previous collection, The Good European—which floated around the idea and ideal of Europe—are going to find themselves veering from the sex life of ferns to the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s one serious affair of the heart, from the fifty-three gradations of the colour blue to the less than fifty-seven varieties of a famous condiment, from Lisbon to Leipzig and visions of ancient Rome in a contemporary film to ‘field-studies’ in the region of the world once known as the Malay Archipelago. If they feel inclined to recoil at such a dizzy assortment, I can only retort that any alarm they might feel is misplaced: these are sober versions of what the poet Louis MacNeice called ‘the drunkenness of things being various’ and, as it happens, entirely of a piece with my own lived experience, eccentric as it might be—at least in the geographical sense. But coherence, as Montaigne suggests in his essay ‘Of the Art of Discussion’, is principally a matter of character, not of theory or logic.
In the afterword to The Good European, I mentioned Nietzsche’s recommendation that his future readers, reading him against the grain, would have to be ‘monsters of curiosity’. The thirty-odd essays in Zest are curious in the old Latin sense of ‘paying careful attention to detail’, from the word’s root-sense of ‘cure’. Michel Foucault picked up on this half-forgotten etymological connection in his 1980 interview ‘The Masked Philosopher’ in Le Monde, in which he suggested that for him—contrary to the stigma it has attracted in Christianity, philosophy and even some kinds of science—curiosity ‘suggests something altogether different: it evokes “concern”; it evokes the care one takes for what exists and could exist; a readiness to find strange and singular what surrounds us; a certain relentlessness to break up our familiarities and to regard otherwise the same things; a fervour to grasp what is happening and what passes; a casualness in regard to the traditional hierarchies of the important and essential.’ This, then, might be a suitable quality to describe a physician with a horror of prescription, which is how I occasionally describe myself, and not always tongue-in-cheek.
The title of this book derives from my short, whimsical account of the travels (mostly ‘travails’) of the now almost forgotten eighteenth-century Scottish writer Tobias Smollett and his wife in the south of France; and zest hovers in the air of my realisation that the cultural fetish of the madeleine, that plump little scallop of a sponge, distracts from the fact that Marcel Proust’s famous instant of involuntary recollection in his grand novel À la recherche du temps perdu owed everything to the volatile elements in the lime blossom tea which had just moistened the morsel offered to him by his mother. The notion that a smell or taste can bypass years of forgetting and set off an explosion of recall is one I find very appealing, especially in a civilisation straining under the clutter of its paraphernalia—to use Steven Connor’s word. It is the scent of time abruptly restored, henceforth to linger. Zest is the piquant, outermost rind of a citrus fruit, but it is also, in Dr Johnson’s definition, ‘a relish; a taste added’, the topic of one of my Indonesian pieces at the end of the collection. It is the sharp, heady, almost metaphysical sense of meaningfulness that catches me off guard in the indefinitely ongoing task of describing (and redescribing) the living element in experience—the quality alluded to in the book’s epigraph by Alfred North Whitehead, the mathematician who became an academic philosopher late in life, and who claimed in his famous dialogues that ‘the meaning of life is adventure’.
In Zest, the focus—if such a word is appropriate for a book with so many things in mind—is on the author as ideal. Although it makes only one passing reference to Socrates, he certainly stands behind its scenes as the pre-eminent ‘life artist’. The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche—that most singular and nuanced self-made man—spent many years ‘doing battle’ with the figure whose example, as mediated by Plato, did much to establish the broad premises of the moral culture of which we are still a part, even if the modern forms of civilisation, as Balzac anticipated, have followed the money. Nietzsche’s ideal was to be the ‘poet of one’s life’, but he certainly didn’t believe that the way to be such a person was to listen for the divine voice (daimonion) that kept Socrates in the light, striving to be virtuous. Nietzsche even accused the rationalist Socrates of having destroyed the myths of Homeric art: the stamp of understanding could only be prosaic. What Nietzsche did think praiseworthy was Socrates’ dedication to philosophy as an ‘art of living’—a concept developed by the French scholar Pierre Hadot in his pioneering work on the ancient traditions of practical philosophical activity. But Socrates is ironically silent about how he became who he was—and this is what makes him, as Kierkegaard realised, the exemplary role model for the art of living. Nietzsche’s notion of self-empowerment (‘will to power’) is utterly foreign to Socrates, who understood his life as one of service to the gods, notably Eros, who drew him into conversation with others, questioning them all the while. Socrates didn’t say what constituted the good life; he showed it. In short, there is no general rule that can be applied to produce the unrepeatable fact of being an individual (which means that all ‘self-help’ literature is fundamentally mistaken about its vocation, although there is lots of money to be made from offering bogus forms of solidarity). Any discussion of the art of living can only reflect on previous attempts—failed and successful—to embody it; and we should not forget that the very notion of a ‘good life’, one cossetted in material comforts (and then not so short) has become widespread in developed parts of the planet only in living memory.
It strikes me, then, that a similar kind of ironic reflexivity exists in the fact that every piece of writing stands at the mercy of its readers.
*
I would like to thank the editors of the following journals and periodicals in which some of these essays first appeared, although in some cases the entries have been substantially modified and enlarged since their original publication: Parnassus (New York), PN Review, British Journal of General Practice, Times Literary Supplement, Quadrant (Sydney), Hidden Europe (Berlin) and Literary Review. Particular thanks are due to the late Les Murray, Ben Downing, Alec Logan, Tom Fleming, Jim Campbell and Maren Meinhardt, and also to Christine Thayer, who worked with me in Indonesia; the book owes its final form to the perceptive advice of Andrew Latimer and Michael Schmidt, my editors at Carcanet Press. I miss the wide-ranging discussions I used to have on German literature with my father-in-law Christian Schütze, who died in 2018; and appreciate my regular causeries with friends in Strasbourg—Gregory Owcarz, Jeremy Garwood and Raymond Bach—as well as the convivial warmth and generosity of two French friends, Patrick and Monika Garruchet, now displaced to Switzerland, who introduced me to the spectacular Fextal, behind the house where Nietzsche spent his summers in Sils Maria. Their motto has always been Charles Péguy’s: ‘philosophy doesn’t go to philosophy classes’. Last but not least, I am especially grateful to my designer children, Felix and Claire, who, disappointed at the rather dull baroque still-life I had in mind as a cover illustration, surprised me by coming up one weekend with their own very striking visual equivalent to the art of literary lemon zesting.
Zest
Essays on the Art of Living
I
Inklings
On the Good Life
What Leisure Really Means
…the organization of the entire economy toward the ‘better’ life has become the major enemy of the good life.
Ivan Illich, Tools for Conviviality, 1973
Nobody with intellectual pretensions, even the slightest, wants to be called a dilettante. ‘Dilettante’ is the very assassin-word of character and motive. It is a lexical curiosity—and perhaps more than just lexical—that related social characterisations such as ‘dandy’ and ‘flaneur’, all their solitary hauteur notwithstanding, evade social censure; not so ‘dilettante’, a term that suggests a mixture of privilege, arrogant superficiality and skittishness. The great G.K. Chesterton, for one, went to some lengths in ‘On Lying in Bed’ to avoid the taint of dilettantism, even though his essay’s Oblomovian title rather suggests he was one of the genus. His late father, he writes, ‘was in a hundred happy and fruitful ways an amateur; but in no way at all a dilettante’. He describes one of the characters in his Father Brown novels as a ‘great dabbler’, and again is quick to add that ‘there was in him none of that antiquarian frivolity that we convey by the word “dilettante”’.
Antiquarian frivolity is perhaps what did for dilettantes. As Bruce Redford observes in his Dilettanti: The Antic and the Antique: ‘from the early nineteenth century to the present, “dilettante” has been a deprecatory… term, connoting the sloppy, the second-rate, the superficial.’
It wasn’t always so. The Society of Dilettanti, founded in 1732 in London, was a sympotic club established by gentlemen who had been to Italy and were ‘desirous of encouraging, at home, a taste for those objects which had contributed so much to their entertainment abroad.’ Modelled on earlier societies like the notorious Hellfire Club and the Virtuosi of St Luke, the Dilettanti—motto: seria ludo—were nostalgists for the Grand Tour, that early anticipation of the gap-year. If they couldn’t stay on in Italy, it ought to be possible to introduce good taste to the burgeoning mercantile society of the British Isles. Two of the society’s more successful campaigns were to introduce Italian opera into the United Kingdom and to set up the Royal Academy. British watercolour painting also owes much to the support of the Dilettanti. Meetings in London were a mix of connoisseurship and carousing, offering a potent brew of ‘the Bacchic, the sexual, the classical and the sacrilegious’. The licentiousness of the Society repelled some figures who might otherwise seem to be obvious dilettantes: the virtuoso (i.e. ‘man of diverse interests’) Horace Walpole (1717–91), Fourth Earl of Orford—now remembered chiefly for having invented the word ‘serendipity’ as well as for his volumes of vivid and gossipy letters and the famous Gothic pile he owned at Strawberry Hill—kept his distance. ‘The nominal qualification [of membership],’ he advanced, ‘is having been in Italy, and the real one being drunk.’ But some Dilettanti became famous. There was Sir William Hamilton, envoy to the Bourbon court in Naples and the Two Sicilies, who collected and studied as many antiquities as he could lay his hands on, addressing letters to other members in London on phallus worship, the volcanic Phlegraean Fields near Naples, and contemporaneous archaeological findings in Greece. His distant cousin Gavin Hamilton was just as well known in Rome for his archaeological digs and recreations of antiquity, often under licence to the Pope. Bequeathed to the nation (or the Papal state), such personal holdings were to enhance the collections of many public institutions, not least the British Museum. Contemplating the last days of Pompeii is dilettantism at its finest. It is Hazlitt on the Elgin Marbles.
Dilettantism would acquire its current association with effeteness only as the nineteenth century wore on: dilettantes (and all those related social types who stole the show in the more theatrical eighteenth century) patently lacked the moral high seriousness of the Victorian legislator, social reformer or even plain businessman. The origins of dilettantism were too close to those of eighteenth-century libertinism, and dilettantes too fond of the republican tradition—the presiding officer at meetings of the Dilettanti wore a scarlet toga and occupied the Roman consul’s traditional seat of office—for them to be trusted patriots at a time when that ambitious Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte, was threatening to invade the British Isles and install one of his cousins as the new ruling monarch. The rise of the middle classes made the life of a gentleman-loiterer mightily suspect. Doing something for the sheer pleasure of it, which is the sense of the verb dilettare (Latin: delectare) from which the Dilettanti took their name, was a dubious activity when being moral was beginning to be seen as a strenuous business. This attitude had already surfaced at an earlier period in British history: Thomas Hobbes, remembering his puritan origins, insisted in his tract On the Citizen that ‘anything that has no purpose is Vain’.
Like Hobbes, the Scots were never very keen on dilettantes, although they did provide a good model—in Henry Mackenzie’s once-famous novel—of that related social type, ‘the man of feeling’. Work had been embraced by sixteenth-century culture as an escape from the terror of not knowing whether one’s soul was redeemed, while the peasants of an earlier culture had flocked to festivities as an escape from the very same work. Pleasure was ever after deeply suspect. Perhaps the only writer truly to emancipate himself from the grudgingly puritan aspects of the culture in which he was brought up was Robert Louis Stevenson, who even had the temerity to write a manifesto against the work ethic called ‘An Apology for Idlers’. Stevenson makes it shockingly clear that loafing and dawdling are synonymous for him with a heightened perception of being in the world. ‘Extreme busyness… is a symptom of deficient vitality; and a faculty for idleness implies a catholic appetite and a strong sense of personal identity. There is a sort of dead-alive, hackneyed people about, who are scarcely conscious of living except in the exercise of some conventional occupation.’ He observes that the industrious deeply resent the presence of ‘cool persons in the meadows by the wayside, lying with a handkerchief over their ears and a glass at their elbow’.
Compare Stevenson’s remarks with the lines written earlier in the same century by that other product of northern Calvinism, Thomas Carlyle: ‘Fundamentally speaking, all genuine work is religion, and every religion that is not work can go and live with the Brahmins, the Antinomians, and the Whirling Dervishes.’ Carlyle was blunt in endorsing a sense of cultural and racial superiority that was tied to the belief that dedication to work provides a pedestal for some peoples and nations: imperial rule by Britain was still being legitimised (and idealised) many years later as a combination of hard work and self-sacrifice in Kipling’s poem ‘The White Man’s Burden’ (1899). But by the end of the nineteenth century, Eastern religions were being imported lock, stock and barrel to overthrow the dominant Christian view of things. In 1890, Oscar Wilde criticised the society of his day in his article ‘The Critic as Artist (With some Remarks upon the Importance of Doing Nothing)’, in which he referred admiringly to Chuang Tsu (Zhuangzi) and claimed his ancient teachings were proof that ‘well meaning and offensive busy-bodies have destroyed the simple and spontaneous virtue that is in man’.
Dilettantism had other philosophical supporters. Although he was a contemporary of Carlyle, Arthur Schopenhauer was very clear about what he saw as a vulgarly exaggerated respect for the ‘professional’: he believed most city-dwellers were unable to conceive of working other than for gain. He defends the dilettante as a person of true moral seriousness: ‘The truth, however, is that to the dilettante the thing is the end, while to the professional as such it is the means; and only he who is directly interested in a thing, and occupies himself with it from love of it, will pursue it with entire seriousness.’ We acknowledge this implicitly when we call the fine arts the ‘pure’ arts. They have no social utility: they are gratuitous in the sense defined by Schopenhauer, and after him, by Friedrich Nietzsche.
Turn aside, take time, be still, go slow: those were the impish instructions of Nietzsche, in the preface to his early work Daybreak, where he remarked that he had decided no longer to write anything that did not reduce to despair ‘every sort of man who is “in a hurry”.’
One reason we still have a very Victorian respect for professionalism is that puritan values spawned our culture, and are so deeply ingrained within it that few even realise their principles are something functional—the kind of moral calculus that would have appealed to Hobbes. One reason for the reluctance to acknowledge these puritan values may be the 1960s’ spirited attempt to redeem dilettantism—we have only to think of the ironic career of the ‘bricoleur’, first spotted in Claude Lévi-Strauss’ The Savage Mind, and ever since an all-purpose imaginary hero for people in the humanities. W.H. Auden insisted in his jottings ‘The Poet and the City’ that ‘among the half dozen things for which a man of honour should be prepared, if necessary, to die, the right to play, the right to frivolity, is not the least’; and Michael Oakeshott—who in many ways was the philosophical accessory to Auden’s poetry—wrote in his essay ‘On Being Conservative’ that what we value most in life are essentially purposeless activities. That is their higher ethic. They are pursuits undertaken for their own sake. The concept of play was not a frivolous idea for Oakeshott, who died in 1990 and was spared the consumer society’s full blazon of inanity; it was the very possibility of an outlook that refused to treat things (and people) in manipulative or instrumental terms. It is only the puritan who needs frivolity to come kitted out with some hidden didactic purpose, an attitude still common among earnest British politicians and American film industry nabobs.
What Schopenhauer had identified as the deep seriousness of the dilettante is accompanied by a perfect disinterest about outcome. In every case, his mindset is hardly likely to be congruent with that of the rational economic actor who always acts with an eye on how his actions are likely to benefit him. ‘One thinks with a watch in the hand, even as one eats lunch while reading the latest bulletin on the stockmarket’, wrote Nietzsche; ‘one lives as if one always “might miss out on something”.’ Indeed, the word ‘activity’ is wrong-footed, because it suggests an active appropriation, an effort—the assumption that was drummed into philosophy by that northern protestant, Immanuel Kant. He saw philosophy as a ‘Herculean labour’; it ought to be strenuous. Yet true contemplation, grasping the essential nature of things, was to be receptive to inspiration. And the fact that inspiration was so often effortless made Kant suspicious. Goethe, who knew a bit about creative vision and didn’t care too much for the formulators of moral laws, asserted that ‘absolute activity’ of the Kantian type makes people hard-hearted, and unable to receive—it ‘makes one bankrupt in the end’.
The ancients Greeks had only a negative term to describe what they were doing when they were not at leisure. Being at leisure, educating yourself (in the sense still current, albeit vestigially, in the German idea of ‘Bildung’), was the very basis of their culture. It could even be said that for the Greeks leisure was an obligatory activity for anyone trying to live the good life. ‘Men without leisure’, mused that truly distinguished dilettante Count Harry Kessler in his book on the industrialist Walter Rathenau, ‘are men without hearts or souls and this is the most dangerous hindrance to culture. Precisely their competence makes them dangerous. The ancient Greeks called such a man Banausos and had excluded him quite correctly, whenever the most important questions of politics, religion, or art were discussed.’ The Greek distinction was absorbed into Latin: neg-otium became the term to describe the hustle and bustle of doing business. It was actually a perverse turn for the English language to take the positive term, otium, and make a negative adjective out of it, ‘otiose’, which means to serve no useful purpose. When Coleridge and Southey published the chapbook Omniana, or Horæ Otiosiores (About Everything, or Leisure Hours) with Longman in 1812, they saw nothing pejorative about conscribing it.
In his famous 1948 tract on the topic, the Thomist philosopher Josef Pieper insisted on reminding his readers that leisure is the foundation of any culture. It is work restored to its original, formative, sense-bestowing role. For Pieper, leisure is a kind of worship. It is an affirmation of life.
Yet the issue refuses to settle, at least in my mind. Ours is a highly technical civilisation, one that has exceeded all others in terms of the useful gadgets and contrivances it has invented; and we want to be helped, when in need, by people who are not just knowledgeable in their interests, but technically competent too. If you’re facing coronary bypass surgery you want it done by a cardiac surgeon who has done thousands of venous grafts, not a venal surgeon with a merely general interest in the dynamics of the heart. But while becoming a cardiac surgeon requires thousands of hours of technical training, knowledge of the other kind of heart, the figurative one we are all supposed to possess, can be acquired by anybody, though it is sometimes very painfully won. The general fear (as in the long-standing debate about ‘the two cultures’) is that the amateur is already hopelessly disconnected from the specialised jargon of technical knowledge, and lost in an idiom that is either untranslatable into anything concrete or, worse, has no bearing on reality at all.
Schopenhauer’s is an instructive case. Being able to rely on a substantial inherited fortune (like so many middle-class German intellectuals who were to make a cult of their inner need for freedom, including Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels), he was ultimately defending his own position. He was not obliged to work. And he was an outspoken defender of the autonomy of individual reason, the political programme for establishing which had first been set out by Kant. Indeed, Schopenhauer became celebrated (in the wrong sense) for having decided, in 1820, to set himself up as a university lecturer in Berlin and deliver a syllabus that coincided exactly with the schedule of Hegel’s principal course. Hegel was by then the most famous philosopher in town, and Schopenhauer ended up lecturing to an almost empty amphitheatre; shortly afterwards he threw over his entire ambition of becoming a lecturer and returned to his study.
While the privately wealthy Schopenhauer was right to identify the (nineteenth-century German) university as a place where dilettantism could flourish, the ideal of the university as a community of scholars pursuing and passing on learning for its own sake is one that barely survives in our day. Vocational training is inimical to education, which is what a dilettante is after. Indeed, perhaps the current institution that best corresponds to the old definition of the university is the five-hundred-year-old Collège de France, in the heart of Paris; it offers public lectures by some of the world’s most distinguished minds but has no student body at all and confers no degrees.
So perhaps the economic argument is a charge that can be levelled against dilettantism. However delightful its pleasures and unselfserving its ends, it encourages us to live off the capital in the manner of unreconstructed and superbly sensitive grands bourgeois—and not just the proceeds of our own trust funds but the accumulated delights and riches of the entire globe itself. It is as if we were called to consume the fruits of other people’s efforts all day long while concealing from ourselves the social importance of production. Hobbes took some relish in mocking the aspirations of those who seek to own and enjoy things prior to the contracts of civil society. ‘We would have our Security against all the World, upon Right of Property, without Paying for it… We may as well Expect that Fish, and Fowl should Boil, Rost, and Dish themselves, and come to the Table, and that Grapes should squeeze themselves into our Mouths, and have all other Contentments and ease which some pleasant Men have Related of the Land of Coquany.’ He was describing that ancient fantasy of living in Cockaigne, the land of plenty relished by the tide of beggars and vagabonds who were our medieval ancestors, and who so often had to chew on stale, ergot-tainted bread and mouldy bran-mash if they wanted to eat at all. Piero Camporesi’s Bread of Dreams relates all the Pantagruelesque wretchedness of an age in which thousands went hungry. The only surrogate for food was words.
That empirical check on the dreams of uninterrupted consumption was something that Hegel, who had read his Hobbes (and Smith) closely, absorbed into his philosophy of right, and his meditations on the mutual dependency of statehood and selfhood. If the essence of politics is not primarily to administer a given society but to represent its members to themselves individually and as a whole, then it is difficult indeed to imagine a polity and social ethics for a club of lubbers and self-pleasers. The effect of the global market—a shorthand way of saying that we have entered a dispensation where in order to consume we need to make or produce (and one that was already well under way in the rapidly industrialising Germany of Schopenhauer’s day)—is not to introduce us to the upholstered solidity of Weltbürgertum but, as Marx said, to proletarianise us. Being proletarian means being bound to the work process. That ugly verb can be interpreted as the abrupt realisation that even if we personally don’t ever have to get down and dirty, our material lives depend on vast impersonal structures relating us to the labour of tens of thousands of (mostly Chinese) people we are unlikely ever to meet.
Yet if our society persists in moving further into the total world of work—giving life a rigorously economic explanation, making ultimate meaning the issue solely of productivity and audit, and failing to see that the genuine desire to perfect a thing for its own sake is actually the mark of a true craftsman—then the only socially accredited dilettantes are likely to be the retired. And the present legions of retirees, at least in western Europe, are the generation that made common cause with the Situationist International in 1968, which was adamant that the economic and social forces of a consumerist society would merely allow citizens to recuperate in commodity form what the system needed as its raw material. And what did they do about it? Took to the streets, barricaded the Sorbonne, fought running battles with the police and urged the workers to go on strike, all for the sake of indolence and spiritual beauty.
It was the sweet life—what the French call la douceur de vivre—they wanted, not the good one. The terms are practically antonyms, though it (presumably) takes a dilettante to wonder if they should be.
First Fruit
Botanising in the Garden of Eden
The philosopher of the expedition was not a man to be silenced by referring him to the Garden of Eden.
Wilkie Collins & Charles Dickens, The Frozen Deep
There is more than a whiff of what the philosopher David Hume, following Thomas Hobbes, called ‘decaying sense’ in the story about self-knowledge in the Book of Genesis. It is rumoured, for instance, that the apple—‘a beautiful, banal, Eden-red apple’ as Nabokov put it in Lolita—was actually an apricot, the only thing of any value to be obtained by Christendom from the disaster of the Crusades, in the estimation of the historian Jacques Le Goff. Could the apricot and not the apple (Malus domestica) be the fruit of the ‘tree of the knowledge of good and evil’? Everybody knows that the climate in Mesopotamia, which is where the Garden of Eden is likely to have been situated, should it ever have existed as such, has always been too hot to allow the cultivation of apples: they are to be found on the cool hills of northern Lebanon, where the Romans grew them intensively, but not farther east.
There is a sticking point, however, with this revisionist account of the Creation: the apricot originally came from China, and was unknown in the Biblical lands until after the conquests of Alexander the Great. So perhaps it was another kind of fruit Eve offered to Adam, and not necessarily the pendulous fig, the leaves of which cover their genitalia in so many Renaissance paintings. As Gottfried Ephraim Lessing wrote in one of his epigrams, it could have been something as unremarkable as the grape, like the cluster Hermes dangles in front of the infant Dionysus in Praxiteles’ famous sculpture—ready to be pressed and fermented into the finest bottle of Château Musar. Then again, some fundamentalist Christians wouldn’t want you to have that much pleasure: they believe the tree of knowledge is now extinct, having been created by the Lord for the sole purpose of testing Adam and Eve. (They failed the test. ‘It is very unhappy, but too late to be helped, the discovery we have made that we exist’, wrote Emerson, spelling out the scoop. ‘That discovery is called the Fall of Man.’)
Ford Madox Ford had a bright theory that the tempting fruit was actually a pomelo, which he called a shaddock, after the English sea captain who in the seventeenth century brought it to the West Indies from the East. (In Indonesia, where it is known as jeruk Bali, it is cut into wedges and eaten with a little salt as a snack or appetiser.) Ford spent a lot of time in Provence, which he loved (and wrote a lovely book about). The locals, he noted, had never eaten of this ‘pompous lemon’—which they fed instead to their pigs—and had therefore never fallen: they were living in Paradise. There have been times in my life when I might have agreed too that Provence was Paradise, but quite frankly the thick albedo and weight of the pomelo, or even of the related grapefruit, make it, for me, a visually unappealing orb of desire, however delectable the juice.
More appealing, surely, is the persimmon, one variety of which (Diospyros lotus) is known in English as the date-plum. It grows around the Mediterranean, and was held by the ancient Greeks to be ‘the fruit of the gods’—hence its botanical name. It has also been identified with the lotus tree mentioned in The Odyssey: Homer’s persimmon was a fruit so delicious that those who consumed it forgot about returning home to their families and merely wanted to hang about eating lotuses. This kind of narcosis is most famously depicted in Hieronymus Bosch’s fantastic paintings, in which all the human figures are colourless, classless, almost sexless Adam and Eves: only the fruits are giant and voluptuous and spectacular, being the sensual appendages of those who have abandoned history for a world without consequences.
Perhaps the reader will have suspected at this point that for me too, fruit has a Biblical taste to it. Curiously enough, one fruit that was easy to find in the ‘greengrocers’ (fruit merchants) of my boyhood Glasgow—in season, of course—was pomegranates, imported from Israel in those pre-EU days when the United Kingdom still maintained trading links with parts of the world it had previously colonised. Because of my peculiarly Old Testament childhood (my parents were Plymouth Brethren who had decided to enter the spirit of the 1960s by withdrawing from the world around them in order to bring on the ‘End-Time’), pomegranates were swollen with meaning. For me, sitting as a small child in a cold, unadorned meeting hall learning and listening to the Psalms, the pomegranate was redolent of all the softer verses of the Bible. It was exoticism with a rind, something fresh from the Creation that might just outlast the Apocalypse. If there was a first fruit, it surely resembled the pomegranate. When my mother bought me one as a treat (and perhaps surreptitiously as a Bible teaching aid), I liked it just for the effort needed to consume it: the pith and membranes were sour and astringent and had to be avoided, but the pulp—or aril—around each seed was utterly delicious. I especially liked to extract a cluster of ripe seeds, bite on it, and let the red juice trickle down my throat.
A more intriguing possible first fruit is the quince (Cydonia oblonga), which will rapidly fill any room with its subtle yet distinctive scent. It seems that the quince, which belongs to the same botanical family as the apple and the pear, may actually have been cultivated in the Land of the Two Rivers (Mesopotamia) before becoming common in more temperate zones. Certainly it had a special status in Greek and Roman rituals, where it was often associated with marriage. The Greeks called it ‘chrysomelon’—the Golden Apple. Pliny the Elder even mentions one obscure variety that can be eaten raw, thus drawing attention to the problem facing anyone transfixed by its heavenly smell: the flesh of the quince is hard, sour and astringent. It is difficult to imagine Eve being tempted by a fruit she couldn’t bite into. Astringency in fruits is the effect of tannins, and they need to be bletted (overripened) to get rid of it. The taste of persimmons, for example, can be dramatically improved by leaving them overnight in the fridge. Cooking quinces has the same effect: thick strips of quince preserve or quiddemy—as the once-popular Victorian book of nostrums Herbal Simples calls it, claiming to have found the term in one of Francis Bacon’s writings—are a delectable confection: every autumn I make quiddemy myself, profiting from the quinces that grow in the Rhine Valley close to our house. In the neighbouring Black Forest, quince is also used to make a distinctive eau-de-vie, its distilled spirit hovering delicately above the clear burning shot of alcohol. Dualism, you might say, in a single draught. Cyril Connolly greatly admired the downy quince, and The Unquiet Grave contains half-a-dozen references to it. ‘I behold in it’, he writes, ‘an emblem of the civilization of Europe with its hard flesh, bright colour and unearthly savour.’ (His descriptions of fruit in general are almost ecstatic—‘there are some fruits’, he adds, ‘which awaken in me feelings deeper than appetite’—though he attributes his corpulence to his craving for them.)
While Connolly lists all the fruits of temptation in his famous book, he doesn’t mention one interesting fact about the culture of the Mediterranean basin: ‘golden apple’ is the Italian word for the tomato. Although strictly speaking a berry, and for culinary purposes considered a vegetable, the tomato is another heavenly fruit, a kind of succulent ovary, and perhaps the best thing to have come out of the Spanish colonization of the Americas (at least as far as frugiferous plants go). Because the tomato is a member of the poisonous nightshade family (it produces a toxic alkaloid in its leaves and stems), it was long regarded with the kind of suspicion that forbidden fruit ought to attract. Eventually the southern Germans yielded, and gave it the name it deserved: Paradeiser. The word is still to be heard in Austria, and in Serbia too. As the poet Charles Simic—an American who grew up in the Balkans and is as much a fruit-fancier as Connolly—writes, ‘A God who frets over his tomato plants makes more sense than the one who says, “Please don’t touch my apple tree”.’ Granted, but it would take an ingenious revisionist to have tomatoes growing in Eden before Columbus set sail.
If, like Simic, you’ve known the pleasures of eating a luscious sun-ripened tomato just picked from the vine (a pleasure which came relatively late to me in life), you’ll be inclined to agree with him. There’s no forgetting the day you discover how a tomato really tastes. Freshness is what counts. The same applies to the banana (one variety of which used to be called Musa paradisiaca). Bananas straight from the tree—especially those miniature varieties known in south-east Asia as ‘golden bananas’—are redolent of honey, lemon and cloves. (I have never enjoyed the same taste-experience while eating a Cavendish banana in Europe.) Bananas were the first consumer article East Germans sought out when the Berlin Wall came down in 1989—why shouldn’t they be considered a temptation too? The Toraja people who inhabit the mountainous parts of southern Sulawesi in Indonesia have a creation story which tells of a progenitor human couple who came to earth by sliding down a liana from heaven. When their Creator offered them the choice between a stone and a bunch of bananas as a source of nourishment, they understandably chose the latter. Thus they condemned themselves (and their descendants) to the fate of their chosen object: corruption and decay. The banana therefore has more claim to be a genuine first fruit than we might realise. In his entertainingly instructive overview of intercultural communication and translation Is That a Fish in Your Ear?, David Bellos notes that Albert Cornelius Ruyl, a trader with the Dutch East India Company who translated the Gospels into Malay, transformed the Biblical fig into the pisang or banana, having astutely concluded that where fig-trees don’t grow they can’t be ripe with meaning. He was in good company: in his famous fourteenth-century fantasy Travels Sir John Mandeville had already espied banana trees as figures of the Cross.
