People who have been educated sometimes forget this. Ideas come to them in processed and prepackaged forms, as courses, presented by professors, and if they show they understand them, they too become professors. But ideas are not originally like this.
They can show you yourself as a fraud, as a liar, a whitened sepulchre. The book is indeed the good book: but many who read it are illiterate. Uncomfortable ideas, we too often think, must originate with madmen.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
Nancy began as anthologist, with three great publishing ventures. She gathered together and contributed to some of the best contemporary poetry of the WWI years. Wheels was finally edited by the Sitwells, a group of poets protesting at the tragedy of the Great War. Then, while living in France Nancy learned typography and how to operate a printing press and became a publisher. And in came Negro. Negro was an immense book published by Nancy Cunard which was a statement of African achievement in politics and the arts, inspired by her association with Henry Crowder, who had been her lover since Crowder was an unsuccessful black musician from Atlanta Georgia USA, and what he had to tell Nancy about the condition of black people in the southern states of America changed her life.
Negro was not significant for its publication alone. For five years Nancy corresponded with black leaders around the globe asking for contributions for her book, and with white writers asking for their reactions to what she was sent. Nancy at this stage of her life had a large circle of friends and acquaintances. She knew hundreds of people. What she was attempting became both celebrated and notorious long before it was published.
It was the first book of its kind, almost the first attempt of any kind, to show African achievements across a wide spectrum.
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Nancy corresponded with leaders such as W. The book was accompanied and preceded by another, an attack on the British upper class and its racial prejudice; and on her mother Lady Emerald Cunard who had made derogatory remarks about black people. For a white aristocratic woman known to be living with a black man this was reckless behaviour.
Nancy had in many circles of her acquaintances burnt her boats. That was the way she wanted it.
She was an all or nothing kind of person. Far from being a politician, she was passionate and committed about her beliefs. Nancy Cunard was a martyr to a cause just as much as Lord Byron was. Byron puzzled and outraged his contemporaries before sacrificing himself for the independence of Greece from Turkish rule Byron was in fact killed by his doctor who bled him for a wound not necessarily fatal.
With Italy and Germany in the hands of the Fascists, it was vital to stop them in Spain. In Spain Nancy worked as a reporter. In Madrid she met the Chilean ambassador Pablo Neruda, who was to become a close friend. The union of courage and vulnerability in her was noticed, not for the first time. Orwell arrived in Spain about the same time in Later, he was to document the split within the Communist factions supporting Trotsky and Stalin in Homage to Catalonia For Nancy it was much simpler: Fascism was the enemy. Back in France in Nancy organised a statement in support of the Republican forces by almost eminent writers and public figures.
The French government at this stage was not sure how to handle the situation. Nancy persuaded the Guardian to start a subscription fund for the relief of the refugees. She spent time near the firing line at risk to her life, exposed to machine gun fire and bomber raids, giving what care she could to the sick, leaving herself at times without money, clothes or food. Help was now given by many countries; and the fund she helped start led to medical attention and food supplies arriving in France which saved thousands of lives. Talk about quixotic! Nancy Cunard knew people, hundreds of them.
She was wealthy, aristocratic, fashionable.
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Some loved her, some admired her, some thought she had social cachet or snob value. She herself was curiously uninvolved. She viewed herself with uncommon detachment. She seems to have loved causes, poetry, justice, freedom, more than she loved people, even herself. This was part of her allure, her charisma. This attitude led to some self destructive acts. In she attacked her mother publicly for racism, and had her allowance drastically reduced. From onwards, in Paris and elsewhere, she adopted an anarchic lifestyle, drinking to excess, taking little food and experimenting with various drugs.
In lieu of long term relationships she took more and more to casual sex initiated by her.
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This behaviour in a young man would seem normal. In a young woman during the s it was shocking. In a middle aged woman it began to seem eccentric. Towards the end of her life she refused to eat at all. There were several instances where she may have attempted suicide. She was tarred with the brush of insanity, and her friends stayed away, as they still do from this ignominy.
Few stopped to think her heart might be breaking, her courage faltering. She was still magnetic, still took lovers half her age. But she was ceasing to savour life. She was lost without a cause. The origin of her attitude to life lies in her relationship with her parents: parents are the source of all our neuroses. Not their actions so much, but how we interpret them.
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He was well meaning, but probably puzzled Nancy a good deal when she was a child. Her mother Maud, or Emerald, was polite, gracious, generous and vapid. Non threatening to a degree, she approached silliness, and was loved by just about all the guests she entertained in her career as society hostess. She was benign but not affectionate. Perhaps Nancy hated her for that affable neglect.
She grew up wayward, wilful and defiant.
In Nancy married an Army officer called Sydney Fairbairn, perhaps under the cloud of war, perhaps just as much to defy her mother, who was against the match. On the 3rd of May, , while the Salsette was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, accompanied by Lieutenant Ekenhead, swam across the Hellespont from the European shore to the Asiatic-about two miles wide. The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, that it is impossible either to swim or to sail to any given point.
George Gordon Lord Byron
Lord Byron went from the castle to Abydos, landing full three miles below his meditated place of approach. He had a boat in attendance all the way; so that no danger could be apprehended, even if his strength had failed. His lordship records, in one of his minor poems, that he got the ague by the voyage; but it was well known, that after landing he was so much exhausted, that he gladly accepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for severial hours. He was then very ill; and as Lieutenant Ekenhead was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was left alone.
The Turk had no idea of the rank or consequence of his inmate, but paid him most marked attention. His wife was his nurse; and at the end of five days he left this asylum, completely recovered. When about to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a cheese, a skin filled with wine, and a few paras about a penny each , prayed Allah to bless him, and wished him safe home. When his lordship arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Stefano to the Turk,- with an assortment of fishing nets, a fowling-piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve yards of silk to make gowns for his wife.