Against England

He has things to tell me, W. says when I meet him at Birmingham New Street. Great things! But first he needs a pint. He needs to regroup.

There's no city more revolting than Birmingham, W. says. But there's no city he understands as well as Birmingham, he says. Wasn't it to Birmingham that his family fell to earth after their years in Canada? Wasn't it Birmingham that saw his first intellectual adventures in the library of his grammar school? Wasn't it there he was dazzled by the bright orange dustcovers of the Schocken editions of Kafka?

Perhaps we need something to think against, W. says. Would he ever have needed to think, if they'd stayed in Canada among the pine trees and the lakes? Of course not. His body and soul would have been one. He'd have known fellowship, harmony. But as it was, falling to earth in Birmingham, he had to think against the city. To think against it, which meant to think against England, this ridiculous country, he says. To think against England from the city at the geographical heart of England.

And isn't that why we've travelled here from opposite ends of the country, from our cities on the periphery, from W.'s Plymouth and my Newcastle? Isn't that why we agreed to speak here of all places?