It’s 1989 – the year I returned to the UK after a long stay in Italy. After 13 years of seeing children treated like Jesus himself, the first thing I see in England is a piece of white trash walloping her little girl on the legs and shouting, „Shuddup you f…. Little bleeder.“ Rain in August was shocking too.
You start wondering where the friendly policemen are, not to mention the nice old ladies you can help across the road. Why isn’t the music of Elgar playing over rolling green hills around you? In place of these dreams is the supermarket car park near some motorway exit. Oh yes, and who the hell is Margaret Thatcher? International TV was not available in the 1980s, and can someone tell me what FMCG Marketing is?
Why am I writing this now in 2025? Because I just read an article on reverse culture shock. For me, the article comes 35 years too late. Now, apparently, it has become recognised as a problem for companies who send their „people“ on overseas assignments. Long live Capitalism.
Reverse culture shock is a serious problem. Deciding to go „home“ after many years in another culture is not to be taken lightly. „Home“ may no longer feel like home. You can feel isolated and misunderstood. After all those years in Italy, an English interviewer said to me, „Ah, Italy, Mr Goddard. Sunshine, sports cars and beautiful girls! Why do you want to come back to the UK?“
I asked the same thing myself but, unable to answer his question, I decided not to accept his job offer.
Initially, I did not recognise the individual in the photo. Nonetheless, I was curious as to which friend or relative had thought about me enough to send the letter. But there was no letter – at least, not a letter in the sense of a written message on printed paper and sent to me in an envelope. However, there was a blank sheet of paper folded around the photo of an Adonis glaring at the camera. Imagine my surprise then, after a slow dawning, that the Adonis was me. When I say „me“, I mean me as I had been some 35 years ago.
A little earlier, I had been minding my own business (as they say) when the envelope slid through the letter box and fluttered towards the floor. I picked up the envelope and scanned it for clues. French stamp, hand-written address but no information about the sender. I ran a finger over the stamp and wondered which friend or acquaintance from my home town in Germany was now on holiday in France. But I knew of no-one who had recently travelled to France and it was November – not a month I would usually associate with France in general or with overseas visitors in particular.
Slipping my finger under the flap, I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a creased sheet of blank paper. As I did so, a photo, hidden in the paper’s folds, swayed downwards and landed on the floor with the faint sound of wind. Vaguely familiar eyes looked up at me from the floor, locked on to mine, and seemed to ask: „So – who am I?“
Imagine my surprise then, after a slow dawning, that the face of the Adonis in the photo was mine. It was not my „mine“ as I know it to be now, but „mine“ as I had known it to be over 30 years previously. I hardly recognised him!
However, I knew immediately who had sent the letter. Although I had not seen or heard of her for thirty years, I admit I had often wondered about her from time to time. After all, we shared some good times together. The relationship had fizzled out and that, dear reader, was that.
There may well be people out there who disassociate from old loves and lovers and neither see them nor think of them again. I am not one of those people. If I say that I miss a person, it does not mean I still love them. Nor does it mean I am not over them. I will remember all my girlfriends when I am older and greyer than I am now. My own experiences suggest that even if I never see old flames again, they never go away completely.
So – what does the letter mean?
My vanity tells me that she misses me. Reality tells me the letter means nothing at all. Who knows? The human heart is a complicated thing. No wonder it is frequently the topic of films and books. Here are four stories about love and second chances that might interest you.
Initially, I did not recognise the individual in the photo. Nonetheless, I was curious as to which friend or relative had thought about me enough to send the letter. But there was no letter – at least, not a letter in the sense of a written message on printed paper and sent to me in an envelope. However, there was a blank sheet of paper folded around the photo of an Adonis glaring at the camera. Imagine my surprise then, after a slow dawning, that the Adonis was me. When I say „me“, I mean me as I had been some 35 years ago.
A little earlier, I had been minding my own business (as they say) when the envelope slid through the letter box and fluttered towards the floor. I picked up the envelope and scanned it for clues. French stamp, hand-written address but no information about the sender. I ran a finger over the stamp and wondered which friend or acquaintance from my home town in Germany was now on holiday in France. But I knew of no-one who had recently travelled to France and it was November – not a month I would usually associate with France in general or with overseas visitors in particular.
Slipping my finger under the flap, I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a creased sheet of blank paper. As I did so, a photo, hidden in the paper’s folds, swayed downwards and landed on the floor with the faint sound of wind. Vaguely familiar eyes looked up at me from the floor, locked on to mine, and seemed to ask: „So – who am I?“
Imagine my surprise then, after a slow dawning, that the face of the Adonis in the photo was mine. It was not my „mine“ as I know it to be now, but „mine“ as I had known it to be over 30 years previously. I hardly recognised him!
However, I knew immediately who had sent the letter. Although I had not seen or heard of her for thirty years, I admit I had often wondered about her from time to time. After all, we shared some good times together. The relationship had fizzled out and that, dear reader, was that.
There may well be people out there who disassociate from old loves and lovers and neither see them nor think of them again. I am not one of those people. If I say that I miss a person, it does not mean I still love them. Nor does it mean I am not over them. I will remember all my girlfriends when I am older and greyer than I am now. My own experiences suggest that even if I never see old flames again, they never go away completely.
So – what does the letter mean?
My vanity tells me that she misses me. Reality tells me the letter means nothing at all. Who knows? The human heart is a complicated thing. No wonder it is frequently the topic of films and books. Here are four stories about love and second chances that might interest you.
Is it worth attempting to learn a new language in retirement? Of course it is! But I would add that unless you are a sociable person who actively seeks to converse with others, your oral language skills will not develop as fast as you might like. Yes, you will be able to learn enough of the language to get by, for example, and you will learn enough to ask for something in the supermarket. You might even learn enough to read the newspaper, but learning to speak fluently with native speakers might well prove difficult.
Why is this?
Well, my own experiences as a pensioner in Germany suggests that unless you make friends with other pensioners you won’t have much contact with native speakers. Why is this? Let me say at once that I am not going to criticise Germans here. They are no more or less friendly than other nationalities. However, my experience suggests that older people in general are not as sociable as younger people. And that includes me! When I worked in Italy in 1976 I learned very good Italian in a few months. Why? Because I was out every night in the pizza houses with my students. They wanted the opportunity to speak English but we all ended up speaking Italian, and within 6 months I was fluent.
I am now 72 and living in Germany. I no longer go out to eat every night. I also realise (much to my sorrow) that now I am older I am less inclined to tolerate or adapt. Another problem is that many (but not all) Germans are black and white in their attitudes. You speak German or you don’t. There seems to be little appreciation of „intermediate“ language ability.
My guess is that older people (like me) become less able to adapt. In other words, it is not Germans who are the problem here but the years that bog you down in an unwillingness to change.
So – what are the experiences of others who have chosen to live abroad? Here are some well-known novels on the topic.
Driving Over Lemons: An Optimist in Andalucia – Chris Stewart
Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy – Frances Mayes
And, no, that problem is not senility! I think I have a good memory although I have also met people who claim that their memory has worsened with age. Whatever I, or other people, say, it is highly likely that one’s memory probably isn’t as good as one thinks it is – and this is not necessarily due to age. Consider, for a moment, how important memory is. How often do you depend on memory to share stories about your upbringing or past experiences? How often do you begin these stories with words like, when I was a boy or before I got married or let me tell you about the first time I kissed a person? Clearly, we rely on
our memories not only for sharing stories about past events but also for important things like creating our sense of identity. Despite this, there is plenty of evidence to show that our memory is not as accurate as we think it is. Worse than this, we humans are apt to change facts or add false details and we don’t even know we are doing it.
Look at the pic on the left. It shows the author and his best friend in Thames Ditton school playground in the cold winter of 1963 (or was it 1962?). I tell myself that I remember the occasion well and other memories tag along with this one, for example: memories of icy slides, snowball fights, forcing snow down someone’s back, and a warm open fire on my return home. But evidence suggests that although I might think that I remember the event (and its aftermath) recorded in this photo, the very presence of the photo, and having it to hand, has probably already triggered a sense of disengagement with the actual moment so that the brain has encoded the moment less deeply. And the events that tag along with the original event, the slides and the snowball fights, for example, probably belong to another place, another time or to imagination.
And that is not all! Consider for a moment the game of Chinese whispers. In the game, one person quietly whispers a message to the person beside them, who then passes it on to the next person in line, and so on. Each time the message is relayed, some parts might be misheard or misunderstood, others might get innocently altered, improved, or forgotten. Over time the message can become very different from the original. Well, the same thing often or usually happens with memory. For one reason or another, mistakes or additions happen every time we recall past events. These may range from what we believe to be facts or wish to be facts, to what we were told about the past event or what we want the audience to think about us. The point is that whenever these changes occur, they can have a long-term effect on that memory in the future.
For the writer working on his/her autobiography, artistic license might well be used to create a slightly a different story from the original in order to suit the impression needed or to please the intended reader. The writer may ask him/herself whether it’s vital to get the facts straight in the first place. Perhaps the writer wants to change details to suit his intended readers‘ attitudes or political leaning. Research indicates that when we describe our memories differently to different audiences it isn’t only the message that changes, but sometimes it is also the memory itself.
Old photos have always been an inspiration to me. Who were the people in the photo below? What are they doing there and what happened to them? Their clothes give the impression that the day is warm and the three of them are, at least, acquainted. The caption beneath the photo reads: Molly, Joan and Hans.
The caption to the photo below reads: Picnic by the Lautersee with Wolffe and Hans. A little research tells me that the lake is about 1000 metres above sea level and above Mittenwald. The girls at the picnic are Molly and Joan and the fact that they have WW2 German army tunics over their shoulders suggests that the altitude is cooling the air more than they anticipated.
So – who were Wolffe, Hans and Molly and Joan? Well, I must come clean here and admit that my question was a rhetorical one and that I know who these black-and-white people were.
One of the girls is my aunt. The other girl is the daughter of my grandfather’s gardener. Both girls were on a trip to Germany in August 1939. One person is not shown here. Perhaps, he was taking the photos. That man was my father and he was 19 on this trip. The captions in the photograph album tell us very little about these people or about their relationships.
In fact, one could read anything into them and, like many writers do, that is exactly what I have done. Reflections on these distant figures and what might have happened to them was the inspiration for my novel, Feeling the Distance. The ambiguous nature of the title is, of course, deliberate.
Writing fiction has a variety of side effects. Jumping at will out of the head of one character and into the head of another and asking yourself questions concerning how a person feels or how a person might react in a certain situation has made me develop empathy to a much greater degree than before my writing life.
But I had to reach the half century before I realised how intricate is the relationship between thoughts and words.
„If you’ve got nothing to say, keep quiet!”
„Your writing is sloppy and should never have been written by a university student.“
Both of the comments above miss the point. The point is that our thoughts are very often formed in the process of speaking and writing and not before. In other words, we sometimes only discover what we really think and feel in the actual process of writing or speaking. Thoughts come through the pen, the electronic keyboard or are formed in the mouth.
This relationship between thoughts and words is important for writers because it stresses the necessity of the rewrite. You often hear writers say, „I don’t write books, I rewrite them.“ This is certainly true for me. I work on my chapters in the same way that a sculptor works with a block of stone. When I have finished a book, I usually wonder how on earth it came into being in the first place. Certainly, I never really know what I want to say or argue or present in a book until the first draft is out. Then, I might discuss it with friends and so begins the rewrite.
There is another point here. Discovering one’s thoughts through speech or writing can also help individuals discover who they are by expressing them. It is this relationship with others that is vital here. In other words, I am what I think I am through my relationships with other people. No wonder we can get hurt when bad reviews come in or people tell you the book was rubbish! It can feel like a very personal attack.
For those readers who want to know more about this most interesting topic I suggest s/he reads the last chapter of Lev Vygotsky’s Thinking and Speech (1934). A word of warning, however. This chapter is not for the faint-hearted. It is a long chapter with a complex argumentative structure in which Vygotsky gives his view on the relationship between thinking and speech. As a writer myself, I would not be surprised if Lev wrote innumerable drafts before producing something he was satisfied with. Perhaps, like many creative people, he was never satisfied with what he had written. Capturing those thoughts and expressing them through words or music is a formidable task.
This is a very simple blog. It is a blog about my favourite books. I read them in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Although I keep copies of these books at home, I will never read them again. So, why, I ask rhetorically, do I give them space on the bookshelf?
I like to think that the international aspect of the writers suggests I was already (by the late sixties) finding the UK rather small and stifling and that I was looking to the rest of the world for more mental space and intellectual legroom. The writers in question represent 5 nationalities – English, German, French, English/Polish, and American. The American’s house is shown below.
I suppose it is only natural that, 50 years later, I look at these books and wonder if they have anything in common. It is a good question because, as we saw above, the writers emerged from a variety of backgrounds. One was (originally) a Pole. He wrote in English even though his spoken English was heavily accented. This should come as no surprise given that he did not learn English at school. He was a sailor in his youth and leaned the language “on the job” if you get my meaning. He assumed British nationality in 1929.
Another of „my“ writers was English. His mother was German, and the young author spent many happy holidays in Germany before 1914. I once took time out from a stay in Spain to visit his house (where he lived until his death) on Majorca.
Of the other writers, one was German, and the other two were American and French respectively. So – 5 books, 5 nationalities. Do these books have anything in common? Possibly – yes! But only in retrospect do I see what that „something“ is. This “something” can be reduced to two words – „loss“ and „searching.“
The „German“ book sees Gustave von Aschenbach’s decision to create literary works based on emotions rather than on form, and this decision leads him to a dangerous place of extremes. Aschenbach’s obsession with a young boy is an allegory of the decision mentioned above rather than a homosexual fantasy, and should be read as such. If you have never seen the 1970 film of the book, do so! It is wonderful.
The Polish/English book concerns a journey down the Congo river to a deep-in-the-jungle trading station run by an individual named Kurz. This trip should be read as a trip into the human subconscious and what might be waiting for us at the bottom of it. The book inspired Francis Ford Coppola’s film “Apocalypse Now.” It will, I am sure, be available on Netflix.
The American novel captures the tragic search for perfection and the conflict between reality and dreams. The novel has inspired four film versions – 1926, 1949, 1974 and 2013. Both the 1974 and 2013 versions are superb.
The French book tells the story of lost love and the search for a happiness that seems to have disappeared forever.
The English book is a little different from the other four books. I would say that it is a great self-portrait of the early years of one writer whose life and works have always fascinated me – Robert Graves. So, what are the titles of these books?
I have enjoyed going for walks since I was a child. As an adult writer, I have discovered that the relationship between writing and walking is a close one but, until today, I have never given much thought as to what, exactly, that relationship is. It was, perhaps, no accident that I chose to live in a place where a wide variety of walks were available from the doorstep of my house. There are walks on the flat and walks in the hills. Today, I spent a couple of hours walking uphill to a 12th century ruin of a castle from which great views are to be had.
Needless to say, it is not always the castle or the views that bring rewards but the walk itself.
I used to think that it was the process of walking that gave me space to think but, to be honest, the walk uphill to the castle does not really allow me to focus my thoughts on anything except where to put my feet and how to control my breathing! Nonetheless, there seems to be a link for me between walking, thinking and writing and it reveals itself to me when I arrive back home behind my writing desk.
I have concluded that walking must somehow enhance the creative process. Walking must stimulate different ways of thinking and help me approach problems from a different perspective. Certainly, some of my best writing has occurred after a walk in the hills.
A quick search on the internet reveals that walking can enhance divergent thinking, and that is exactly the type of thinking that feeds creativity and generates innovative ideas. So, when you next feel in need of inspiration, lace up your shoes and head for the hills. Research suggests that your creative output might increase by an average of 60 percent.
By the way, the photo shows the castle to which I referred above. It was taken from my son’s drone.
I started learning to dance about 3 years ago and, until now, I have not used this new joy of movement in my books. One of my favourite dances is the Tango and I am considering using its steps, turns and rhythm to suggest sexual attraction between the two principal characters in my latest work in progress entitled „…because it was you…“ Here is a draft extract. Tommy and his Italian love, Carla, are almost alone in the lobby of a hotel in the Italian Dolomites. It is early September 1939 and war is on their doorstep.
The evening news sounded dramatic and Carla told him that the reader was reporting mobilisation for war in England and reports of trouble on the Polish-German border.
“It is starting,” she said. “We have so little time.”
Tommy opened his mouth to speak but Carla grabbed for his hands before he uttered a sound.
“Don’t talk,” she said. “Let us dance, while we have the chance.”
She led him to an area that had been cleared of tables and chairs and where one other couple were shuffling around the floor to the crooning of a singer.
“Tango?” he said.
He did not understand Italian but he heard the word “scrivemi” over and over and was wondering what it meant when he felt her hand on his waist and her leg resting on his. He had been told by his dance teacher at school that tango dancers danced to touch and to feel, to be held and to hold, and to dance out their desperation and their desire to the tango rhythm and to make it all look both easy and elegant. Tommy had found it all very difficult to follow.
“Tango,” she said.
With her free hand, she grabbed his and, leaning deep into each other, they allowed their thighs to touch and their knees to slide up in invitation. Tommy wanted to pinch himself. It was the beginning of September 1939, and he was simulating love-making in a public place with this beautiful woman. And, come what may, he was going to have these few minutes of intimate public passion with her, even if he was going to fall over her feet, trip and lose the rhythm. Slow…slow…quick-quick-slow… Tommy said to himself. The night deepened. The lights went out but the music went on. She leaned into him, her hand playing with his back and resting her head against his chest. She raised her eyes to his and said rather breathlessly:
“He is telling her to write to him,” she said. “Scrivemi.”
She paused as they held each other tight and span round.
“Write to me, he says. Don’t never forget me and if you don’t have nothing special to say, don’t worry, I’ll be able to understand, for me it is enough to know that you are thinking about me even for a minute because I’ll be satisfied even with a simple greeting. It takes little to feel closer. Just write to me.”
She buried her head into his chest while the music played and they danced. Spinning in the corners, promenading past the chairs and tables, weaving their world into the dance and holding each other closer and closer, and tighter and tighter, they danced until the moon rose and the music stopped.
Thoughts and Words 