Deleted Notes & Queries Response: What qualities should we look for in a leader?
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The comment has since been deleted from the website.
This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented under the terms of fair use.
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What qualities should we look for in a leader?
Recently, Walter Searle sent me (and I would imagine others in his email address book) a Warhol-esque montage of the outgoing British Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, suffering from what he referred to as “tie wilt”.“Whenever he deigns to wear a neck tie, it inevitably comes to resemble a weed that has been strangled by the gardener who attempted to uproot it,” he added, by way of commentary.
I am unsure what he meant to achieve with this observation, beyond adding to an expansive list of competencies where Johnson has fallen lamentably short.
It actually rather depressed me, and made me ponder whether we were all more interesting people prior to the advent of social media. It seems as though our lives play out under a cloud of simmering rage, that we are given full means to vent whenever we choose, at the expense of more mindful and profitable ventures. Maybe it is simply that our old age - itself the enemy of originality and wide-eyed enthusiasm - compels us to chase our own tails in diminishing circles around the ominous rectangular hole in the ground that is fated to swallow us all.
How different it once was: Two decades ago, Searle had shown up to my flat in Tooting, excitedly brandishing a portfolio that he had purchased for some eye-watering price in the sub-basement of Foyles bookstore, which is where, he told me, “they keep all the really good stuff”.
The folder contained copies of letters dating to a period analogous with the 8th century, and originating from the kingdom of Húliàn, which has long been absorbed into what is now China. The identities of both the writer and the recipient are unclear, though the former was likely a tradesman of some description, and a resident of The City of the Eight Lakes, which was the capital of the region.
Searle laid the first three letters on my coffee table where they resembled stepping stones against the dark, rippled sheen of the wood. He went on to place the remaining correspondence on adjacent flat surfaces until the apartment had been transformed into a temporary museum. He was kind enough to present these documents with the English translations facing upward. I will relay the contents of one of the letters below:
I am unsure what he meant to achieve with this observation, beyond adding to an expansive list of competencies where Johnson has fallen lamentably short.
It actually rather depressed me, and made me ponder whether we were all more interesting people prior to the advent of social media. It seems as though our lives play out under a cloud of simmering rage, that we are given full means to vent whenever we choose, at the expense of more mindful and profitable ventures. Maybe it is simply that our old age - itself the enemy of originality and wide-eyed enthusiasm - compels us to chase our own tails in diminishing circles around the ominous rectangular hole in the ground that is fated to swallow us all.
How different it once was: Two decades ago, Searle had shown up to my flat in Tooting, excitedly brandishing a portfolio that he had purchased for some eye-watering price in the sub-basement of Foyles bookstore, which is where, he told me, “they keep all the really good stuff”.
The folder contained copies of letters dating to a period analogous with the 8th century, and originating from the kingdom of Húliàn, which has long been absorbed into what is now China. The identities of both the writer and the recipient are unclear, though the former was likely a tradesman of some description, and a resident of The City of the Eight Lakes, which was the capital of the region.
Searle laid the first three letters on my coffee table where they resembled stepping stones against the dark, rippled sheen of the wood. He went on to place the remaining correspondence on adjacent flat surfaces until the apartment had been transformed into a temporary museum. He was kind enough to present these documents with the English translations facing upward. I will relay the contents of one of the letters below:
'For eleven months the Kingdom prospers under the reign of the Emperor, who is as enduring as the sun and the moon, and who rules as a God, with broad strokes that are a reflection of his eternal might, and that change the direction of rivers, and turn the land to water, and the water to land.
'In February the red birds gather in the boughs of the trees, and it is as if Autumn has returned to the city [Searle and I believe that the writer is referring to the Asiatic Song Thrush, which has been extinct since the early 1900s]. The birds are an ill omen for the Emperor, who departs his palace and tours his Kingdom along canals that only he may use, where plants have turned the pristine waters the colour of jade. Chief among these is the Green Dragon Road that uncoils from the mountains and meanders to the foot of the Great Eastern Sea.
'As floodwaters rush to fill an empty space, in the absence of the Emperor, a new type of government emerges. Tradespeople set down their tools and rise to pre-appointed positions. The weeks that follow are a frenzy of activity, as each man attends to those small matters of administration that lie outside the concern of the Royal Court.
'I will not name my part in this great venture. I will only specify that my hours are determined by a sundial occupying a courtyard in the palace. At a certain hour of the evening it will reflect a beam of sunlight into my room that tells me that it is time to end my labours for the day.
'When the red birds depart, so too does the peoples' government scatter. Word is sent to the Emperor, who returns to the empty palace where he resumes his benevolent rule.'
'In February the red birds gather in the boughs of the trees, and it is as if Autumn has returned to the city [Searle and I believe that the writer is referring to the Asiatic Song Thrush, which has been extinct since the early 1900s]. The birds are an ill omen for the Emperor, who departs his palace and tours his Kingdom along canals that only he may use, where plants have turned the pristine waters the colour of jade. Chief among these is the Green Dragon Road that uncoils from the mountains and meanders to the foot of the Great Eastern Sea.
'As floodwaters rush to fill an empty space, in the absence of the Emperor, a new type of government emerges. Tradespeople set down their tools and rise to pre-appointed positions. The weeks that follow are a frenzy of activity, as each man attends to those small matters of administration that lie outside the concern of the Royal Court.
'I will not name my part in this great venture. I will only specify that my hours are determined by a sundial occupying a courtyard in the palace. At a certain hour of the evening it will reflect a beam of sunlight into my room that tells me that it is time to end my labours for the day.
'When the red birds depart, so too does the peoples' government scatter. Word is sent to the Emperor, who returns to the empty palace where he resumes his benevolent rule.'
“It's a ballsy move,” said Searle. “The Emperor is perceived as a God and must behave as such to maintain the charade. For eleven months of the year he issues grand edicts that may or may not be achievable. The arrival of the dreaded red birds grants him licence to temporarily vacate the throne. In his absence a people's bureaucracy steps in and makes small adjustments, works on the fine details of nation building, and neuters any policy that might be too destructive or lead to open revolt. The unspoken agreement is that the civilian government won't overstep the mark. In return, the Emperor pretends that they don't exist.”
“So he knew what was going on then?”
“How could he not? He knew when and how to delegate power while still holding the reins. Why would he run from a migrating flock of red birds?”
“Frances Murt's parrot was red,” I reminded him, referencing the savage macaw that she trained to squawk “Vote Labour”, and which continued to do so long after she relocated to Brighton and defected to the Greens.
“That bird,” muttered Searle, examining a faint scar on his finger.
“So he knew what was going on then?”
“How could he not? He knew when and how to delegate power while still holding the reins. Why would he run from a migrating flock of red birds?”
“Frances Murt's parrot was red,” I reminded him, referencing the savage macaw that she trained to squawk “Vote Labour”, and which continued to do so long after she relocated to Brighton and defected to the Greens.
“That bird,” muttered Searle, examining a faint scar on his finger.
I hope this is of help.
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