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352 pages, Paperback
First published August 22, 2013
I think you are endeavouring to defend something that is historically outdated: the tinker and the wanderer. There may be places for them in other parts of the world, but there isn't in an industrialised urban communitySince I and the political class issuing such statements live inside a sedentarist industrialised colonial mindset it can be difficult for us to notice that there is very little left of community in the context we have built. One of the most wonderful things in the book, although it is compromised by Quarmby's rather conservative, objective tone (she strives to be even-handed) is the description of a large community of Eastern European Roma that moved into Govanhill in Strathclyde. They spent their evenings 'shooting the breeze' singing, making music and dancing in the street. (A local Chief Inspector opines 'if you are a middle aged white female and you have lived all your life in Govanhill, then... all you see is foreign faces, your natural reaction is. "I don't like this"'. I'm enraged by this standard use of the white woman as frail creature to be defended (in which white feminism has all too often been complicit and worse) in order to justify racist attitudes and associated excessive policing and surveillance). Of course, it would annoy me, I need to sleep, I need to go to work in the morning, but doesn't that reveal unambiguously how deeply my very emotions and physical needs are structurally and forcibly invested in an economic model that deprives me of communal leisure and ways of knowing and being in mutuality?
The Roma are an ethnic group of some twelve million people who say that they don't want a patch each, just somewhere to liveAnd that may just be the height of radicalism in the days of late capitalism and the nation state as economic unit.
The Act
A chorredo has burreder peeas than a Romany chal
(a tramp has more fun than a Gypsy)
Wisdom swings to his feet as if pulled by an invisible hand.
'I shall show how this world wags without making one sound.'
And the Gypsy transforms himself first into a lawyer. He bends
a burning eye on invisible jurors. He simpers. He stands on his head
as the Judge and thunders silent sentence. Then Wisdom levitates
to tip-toe in pity and pride as a Reverend bent over his Bible
while an invisible scaffold gasps and bounces from a rope's recoil.
The Gypsy hangs kicking until hacked down by invisible blades.
The world grinds to a stop on invisible springs, bearings and axis.
'Do you ever tell lies Wisdom?' 'All the long day through, brother,'
laughs the Gypsy. He lights his long pipe beneath his hat's brim.
'But the brassiest of lies' - the Gypsy plucks - 'are like this heather:
a charm against visible harm and' - he crushes it - 'invisible harm.'
And the friends look at each other across the invisible stage of grass.