Howdy folks! It’s been a couple of months. I was surprised to see that my last post was in March. It’s now June. Oof, time flies. There’s been a lot on my mind, and I’ve been meaning to post, but, between teaching responsibilities and working on a new novel, I just…haven’t.

I must admit: the year started off a little gloomy for me. Back towards the start of the year, my sci fi novel almost sold…then it didn’t. This, in and of itself, was disappointing. Hopefully the book will sell to another publisher. My agent is confident; I am optimistic. But my personal disappointment was compounded by a general feeling of malaise, even helplessness, at the political situation in my home country of the US. Sometimes I still feel shocked, or speechless, at all that’s happened or that I fear might happen (just now as I write this in a coffee shop: there’s a table next to mine where they’re discussing the administration’s recent moves to revoke Harvard’s ability to enroll international students).

I grew up in Texas, and I’ve always had friends and family who are more politically conservative than me (I still do). I respect everyone’s right to their own opinions, and I’ve always tried to keep this blog, especially the Madeira Mondays, relatively “politics free”. Or, at the very least, a space where people who might think differently than me feel welcomed. I’ve always written here about American history, about books, about recipes, about fun walks around the city of Edinburgh and visits to historical sites. Things I like and am interested in. And while sometimes these things have a political dimension (for instance, highlighting female historical figures who might have been forgotten or marginalized), I don’t write them with the intention of “converting” anyone to my way of thinking (though I’ve never exactly “hid” the fact, especially if you talk to me in person, that I think Trump is a cruel bully, which is fine I guess for a reality TV star but not for a President).

Writing about American history right now…it’s been impossible. It makes me sad that the remit of this blog series started out, back in 2019, as an exploration of “early American history”. Right now, I’m so concerned about America’s future, I can barely think about the past. I know the blog’s focus has grown as I’ve grown and I’ve written about all kinds of world history, from ancient Egyptian mummies to Italy’s National Film Museum. But I’ve got so many irons in the fire at the moment, I’m considering pulling back altogether and putting a wee “hiatus” on the blog. At least for a little bit. Until I can figure out what I want this space to look like moving forward, especially as I continue to write science fiction (albeit science fiction that is heavily influenced by history – which you’ll be able to experience when one of my novels comes out. Hopefully in the not-too-distant future!).

Right now though, I wanted to go ahead and share something that really touched me this week. I’m still working for the University of Glasgow as a Creative Writing Lecturer and one of the student essays I was grading this week quoted from a poem by John Donne, the English poet (1572—1631). I vaguely remember Donne from my undergraduate degree, but I don’t think I’d read this particular poem before. I immediately recognized the familiar phrase though in the penultimate line (you’ll probably spot it too!). But the entire poem hit me hard so I wanted to share it in its entirety:

No Man Is an Island

No man is an island,

Entire of itself;

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

As well as if a promontory were:

As well as if a manor of thy friend’s

Or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

So, why did this poem make me cry when I read it? Was it because I was very tired from so much grading? Maybe! But also because it expresses so succinctly this idea of interconnectedness. “No man is an island” is a cliched phrase now, but it’s a cliche for a reason: it’s true. We live in wildly interconnected communities, and we really cannot survive on our own. We need help from other people, and also other people need OUR help. The message here is so humane and the central metaphor of “every man as a piece of the continent” is beautiful. “If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less”. To me this means: if one person dies, it impacts you because you are part of the human race. “Any man’s death diminishes me, / Because I am involved in mankind.”

But it’s the final two lines that really got me. Funeral bells used to toll, in Donne’s age, when somebody died. So here he’s saying: if you’re hearing those funeral bells ringing, don’t ask who they’re ringing for. They’re ringing for you (And yes, this is the quote that inspired the title of Ernest Hemingway’s famous novel). This has two meanings: the first meaning is that death will arrive for all of us. The second meaning is harder for me to explain in words, but I felt it when I read it. Clear as a bell. It’s something like: don’t pretend like this or that person’s life is isn’t connected to yours. Don’t pretend like you live alone, as an island. Our fates are intertwined. We need each other to survive.

In the context of our current political moment, it also made me think about a poster I saw in footage of a protest in the US that read something like: only caring about your own rights is how you lose them. To me, this links back to Donne’s line: “Any man’s death diminishes me, / Because I am involved in mankind.” If you are part of a shared project (be that humanity itself, or a country) then you are yourself “diminished” when other people are mistreated, are wronged, are taken away, are killed. Maybe your temporary safety is still intact, but something has been lost. The “continent” of mankind has changed.

And I know that it’s impossible to care on a day to day practical level about all the billions of people out there (many of whom are currently suffering). But I do think it’s useful to step back every so often and really think about what it would mean if we thought about the truth of Donne’s words a little bit more? What would it mean if we acknowledged, as Dickens says in A Christmas Carol, that we are all just “fellow passengers to the grave”?

How might we live differently?

Heavy stuff on a Monday morning, I know, but the poem really struck me and made me want to go back and read Donne again. Something I remember from my degree is finding his poetry really witty. All the more reason to return.

I hope you have a great week ahead.

Madeira Mondays are posted on the first Monday of every month and explore history and historical fiction. If you enjoyed this post please share it, subscribe to the blog, or you can support the blog by buying me a coffee on Kofi. Thank you so much for reading. 🙂