The Obituarists

I came across a poem bu UA Fanthorpe called "The Obituarist" recently, written to show how much is missed by a single point of view. 

The obituarist/genealogist is so concerned with facts and evidence that he misses the spiritual side of the life he is attempting to define.  The playwright jumps straight into the action.  Storytellers focus their attention on the shape of the whole, full of detailed characters, with side tracks and diversions all beautifully woven. The visionary, the idealist, is full of abstract images where facts play no part. But the essence of the man is in his small, quiet voice, always in danger of being overlooked.

The genealogist is meticulous.
He harries his subject back to Adam
(Forty-two generations – if you can believe that).

Scene 1: The playwright’s way in,
Smack in the middle of a river.
Enter a man wearing camel’s hair,
Chewing insects.

The novelist deploys more characters
Than Cecil B. de Mille: shepherds, angels,
Emperors, wizards, mother (a mute).
He keeps the hero up his sleeve till later.

Babies, bit players, aren’t part
Of the mystic’s agenda. He starts with aplomb
And a metaphor.

The subject himself: a man not much given
To writing things down. Once
He scraped a message on the ground with a finger.
No one seems to have noticed.
If they did, it was soon scuffed out.

The Obituarists ~U. A. FANTHORPE (2000)

The poem was written because UA Fanthorpe worked in a hospital, dealing with neuropsychiatric patients whose still, low voices were often not heard by the doctors in their pursuit of symptoms.  There are undoubted truths there, in the medical world, but there must be a wider truth.  We're often guilty of defining people by our own standards, from our own point of view.  We must take the time to listen to the quiet voice, to read the message before it is scuffed out.

Footnote
While I was looking for an image to use, I came across a seven step guide to writing an obituary using a word processor.  On looking further the internet is full of these guides, all reducing a life to a check-list.

People watching

I generally arrive early to work, well before I need to but far from being the first in. During the summer I can usually park fairly close to the building where I have my office, but at most other times I find myself in one of the far flung outer car parks, so I have to pick my way around and through other parking places.

The first set of people I watch (out of my peripheral vision so as not to be seen watching) are ones I see every morning sitting in their cars, apparently listening to the radio, occasionally reading. Today there was someone eating her breakfast. Why ever don’t they go into the office?

There are the ones who will go up and down each rank to make sure there are no empty spaces a little nearer to the path out. I dare say they think I’m odd too. If I’m expecting sunshine, I park where I know the car will be in the shade for a couple of hours before I leave, which sometimes means I’m all by myself and well away from the shortest walking distance crowd.

Then there’s the man who has a sleep every lunchtime in his car. I would find that odd enough if he parked in the midst of a large number of other cars with nobody walking past, but he chooses one of the very small number of spaces outside the library where there is a constant flow of people going past. Odd that he can’t get through the day without a sleep, more odd that he chooses such a public spot.

Today a man and a woman met and stopped to talk. Clearly there was an attraction between them. There was a little dance going on with one swaying towards the other, and back, then the other would sway. One would turn away slightly, the other would move around to be facing again. They would move a few steps in one direction, stop and resume swaying.

Then very suddenly there was a downpur, so heavy the raindrops were bouncing. Everyone started to sprint for cover, except for one security guard. He was tough. He swaggered along at his usual deliberate pace getting soaked to the skin.

I love it. It’s a good thing I have no view from my office window.

The office cleaner

When I’m in the UK I work in a proper office, not from home. I often work late. I feel I need to give them, the powers that be, their money’s worth in exchange for allowing me to work from home, when home happens to be France.

Because I work late I frequently see the cleaners. This trip back there has been a new cleaner, new to me anyway. He is an exceptionally pleasant man, I’d say in his 40s, and we always exchange a few words, have a short conversation about this or that.

Yesterday I apologised for having used two bins where one would have done. He replied that it was his job after all, and then added that it wouldn’t be for much longer.

It turns out that he is an aeronautical engineering lecturer at home. He’s in the UK with his wife who is just about to finish her PhD, and then they’ll return. He has found it difficult just filling in time, a three year holiday, something I can sympathise with after the three years we spent in Paris.

I find the story remarkable in several ways: first that he’s prepared to give up three years of seniority in his career to further his wife’s; second that his employer can let him have three years’ unpaid leave even though I know it’s easier in academic circles; and third that he’s prepared to take on a cleaning job for something to do.