A very nice radio researcher contacted me, wondering would I like to endorse on air the idea of removing Cathal Ó Searcaigh's poems from the Leaving Cert syllabus.
Frankly, for this teacher, it was like being asked if I would support book-burning, so I politely declined. Not only are the poems currently on the syllabus innocuous, but where would we end up if we started banning people's work on the basis of their actions or beliefs?
Should we stop studying DNA in Leaving Cert biology? After all James Watson, who won a Nobel prize for the co-discovery of the double helix DNA, once opined that he was "inherently gloomy about the prospects of Africa" because "all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours - whereas all the testing says not really". He also said that although he hoped everyone was equal, "people who have to deal with black employees find this not true".
This is a deeply offensive and perhaps even incendiary viewpoint. A museum in Britain did cancel a talk by Watson, but that is entirely different to banning his work. Scientists may be far removed from poets, but poets can give us pause, too. Milton was a propagandist for Cromwell. On occasion, he used his considerable literary talents to defend the indefensible. Perhaps that is why his Lucifer in Paradise Lost is such a powerfully drawn figure.
Let's face it, even Gandhi apparently was despised by his sons, and had a deeply dodgy habit of sleeping alongside virgins in order to test his willpower. Yet does that mean no student should ponder his sublime version of the modern seven deadly sins? They are: wealth without work, pleasure without conscience, science without humanity, knowledge without character, politics without principle, commerce without morality, and worship without sacrifice.
If saying that his poetry should not be removed from the syllabus sounds like excusing Cathal Ó Searcaigh's actions, nothing could be further from my mind. Admittedly, we have but one version of the story in Fairytale of Kathmandu, but the evidence appears conclusive that he engaged in sexual relationships with dozens of vulnerable boys. He did so while blithely ignoring the fact that his relative wealth and experience would obliterate any real notion of consent.
In an excellent commentary here on February 9th, ("Ó Searcaigh's Kathmandu controversy is about ethics and responsibility") Quentin Fottrell points out that trust, unconditional charity, ethics, and protection of the young are central issues here. He also says that it is not clear that the young men are even gay. Aside from the difficulty of dealing with an exploitative first sexual experience, there is no doubt that an extra layer of confusion would be added if they were not gay. That would be true in any culture, but particularly so in a culture that has no acceptance of homosexuality.
Perhaps we have resorted to a discussion about banning Cathal Ó Searcaigh's poetry because it is much easier to ban someone's work than really to engage with the pivotal questions. Allowing the poetry to remain will spark fruitful discussions in many classrooms, discussions that perhaps we should be having as a society.
For example, some commentators have implied that Ó Searcaigh is being punished for being gay. He certainly has not helped his case by referring to the transactions in Nepal as his "gay lifestyle". Yet it is much more than a question of gays or straights. Trust, giving with no strings attached, and being conscious of the special vulnerability of young and naive people pertain no matter what the sexual orientation of the person is.
One of the boys apparently asked the poet, "But what is sex?" The poet replied, "It is complex." Quentin Fottrell comments, with some justification, that it is not that complex, and gives a standard definition of sex in our culture. "It is a physical act of intimacy, or love, or simply pleasure between two consenting adults." It would be folly to believe that there will never be occasions when sex is merely an exchange of pleasure, but when that becomes the dominant understanding, it erodes, sometimes beyond repair, the connection between sexuality and love.
That is what is happening in our culture. So determined were we to throw off the shackles of the past that we have found it increasingly difficult to say that any form of sexual expression is wrong, or that it cheapens human beings. Our few remaining boundaries seem to be age disparity and consent. Yet to use another person for pleasure, even if the other person is cynically doing exactly the same, surely diminishes the humanity of both.
The Victorians found sexuality a taboo subject. We find passing judgment on other people's sexual behaviour an equally potent taboo. The result is that sex as an expression of real love is just one option among others, and no longer a standard to which everyone should aspire.
Among other things, Cathal Ó Searcaigh appears to confuse his benevolent feelings towards the boys with love. Would that love were only a matter of warm feelings. It is a great deal more demanding than that. Real love means a commitment to the wellbeing of the other, to standing by the person when the warm feelings flow and when they do not. It means accepting that there are times when the good of the other person demands that an opportunity for pleasure must be passed up.
Our culture has made a virtue of one of Gandhi's seven deadly sins: pleasure without conscience. In our naivete, we thought liberating sexuality from constraint would enhance all our lives. Instead, it has reduced sex to something banal, a mere pleasurable exchange of bodily fluids. Yet in one sense, the poet was right. Sex is complex. We cannot so easily divorce the body from the spirit, without paying a price.
Ironically, one of the prices our culture has paid is the loss of poetry in sexuality. Just like crafting a poem, a life-long sexual union that is a union of mind, body and spirit demands skill, effort, focus, and a kind of burning, dedicated love.
The result can delight forever. Instead, we have reduced sex to the level where it is as disposable as a used condom. The boys in Kathmandu are obvious victims - but we wealthy westerners have wilfully wounded our own souls, too.