(30 March 1926 - 7 July 2014 )
“Nothing happens unless it is written down.”
My
name is Anthony Smith, my age is 86, I live on my own
within one small room, think I still possess most marbles, have five
children and am busily writing my 31st
book.
I
have a
four-page CV that, in grandiose fashion, lists most of the antics
experienced
in the 25,000 days since I reached adulthood, such as flying in the
RAF,
exploring qanats in Iran (these being small, man-made, underground and
frightening water channels), had a fish named after me, worked on the Manchester Guardian, Drum and the Daily Telegraph (as science
correspondent), motorbiked from Cape Town to the UK, gas ballooned over
the
European Alps and East Africa (first to do so), created and flown a
pressure
airship, motorbiked back to Cape town with a son, examined every
British
mainland beach, filmed widely for the BBC, given 215 'Sideways Looks'
for Radio
4, worked for one reason or another in 70 countries and - on the flip
side of
such positive happenings - been divorced twice, each most painfully.
People
tell
me I have led an interesting life. I say the activities have
led
me. They have arisen from the blue, emptied my purse (almost
always) and
were often dangerous, making me wish they would cease, but there is
some
demanding and internal maggot more in charge of me than the me which is
myself. For example, the subject of this latest 'oeuvre' is
rafting
across the Atlantic. This could only be achieved by
squandering all the
compensation cash (received after being run over by a very faulty
driver) but caused
me to spend much time - 90 days in all - with good friends plus an
assortment
of others possessing zero merit. It also nearly killed me -
try
travelling on a reef when storm and darkness are so prevalent - and
certainly
led to several intensities (to borrow T.S.Eliot's term). He,
most
strangely, wrote that 'old men ought to be explorers' and I obeyed him
to the
letter, loving and loathing the experiences that came my way.
Both he and
the maggot were in charge.
Have
I done
good in all those days and years? I have driven some 2
million miles,
consumed oil and hydrocarbon, eaten happily of produce from around the
world
(as if this was my right), relished the company of numerous souls,
these the
salt of the earth on which I have lived, and have also watched their
steady
disappearances. I know they all did good and (almost) wish I
was still
in their company. They shone bright lights in what it was
they achieved
in all their days. They were fireflies, dazzling meteorites,
warm-hearted
(without effort) and excitingly straightforward. Why I have
survived so
much longer I do not understand and this extra time is difficult to
justify. The people without merit on the raft have no such
doubt; they
too consume but are not worried by this fact and passed their doubts to
me.
I
would
love to believe in spirits, in the essence of one's being somehow
existing
beyond three score years and ten (or even four score years and
six).
Where would these vaporous entities exist - in other creatures and
other places
or in other human beings, guiding, instructing, and demanding just as
they did
to me? I do feel a little old in years (with senescence
taking its toll)
but my internal dynamo, running smoothly or driving wildly, has
centuries in
its wake. It has not always been wise - far from it - but has
been
dominant and has led to the interesting life.
This
is not
side-stepping on my part, refusing responsibility, but the steadfast
realisation that one's brain is shared with something else - but now I
must get
back to the book. Over 50,000 words have been done so far,
leaving 30,000
more to do, with cunning necessary (when describing the malcontents on
board
the raft), with determination to tell of the intensities that occurred,
and
with sufficient truth to make it all convincing. I ought to
be better at
writing books, having first put pen to paper with a view to publication
61
years ago, but it is nothing like so easy nowadays.
Perhaps
the
alter ego - or whatever name it goes by - is already packing up its
bags in
preparation for departure. It always was ahead of me, even on
the day of
birth. 'Typical of you to arrive early when there was no one
around to
help' said my mother afterwards. I think she had a point.
Anthony
Smith, writer and something more.