We Can Never Go Back to Manderley Now

By Kurt Silverfiddle

It is much easier to understand Franco if you understood his considerable talents, and the era he came from: Where literary giants like Norman Mailer, William F Buckley, Gay Talese and Gore Vidal thrusted and parried, as did poets, musicians and denizens of various artistic communities, jealously guarding their reputations in the clawing, catty, neverending fight for recognition, celebrating success, and celebrating the failures of your rivals.

He was a man of many talents and a fiery ego, although in person-to-person conversation he was gentle as a purring kitten.  His voice reminded me of a more baritone, less nasal Mark Steyn, and he had the wit to go along with it.

He was also incredibly generous.  He supported at least two families and people suffering from cancer, and his generosity extended to undocumented immigrants.  He went so far as to seek legal aid for a family he had grown close to.  He could argue vociferously on principles, but he loved people and pulled considerable amounts of money out of his bank account to help those who needed it, including the widow of our departed friend Jersey McJones.

He told me back in August he was ready to go.  Failing hands, failing eyesight, his disgust at the cultural rot encircling us…

I’ll close with my favorite poem by him, made more poignant upon his death.

We Can Never Go Back to Manderley Now

Should I care if I get cancer

In this wretched, troubled, world

Where all seems swiftly headed towards the rocks?

Since we live with devolution,

Marred and poisoned with pollution

Cancer gives us absolution,

Since our kids don’t care enough to wear their socks.

As towards The End we’re whirling

With flaming batons twirling,

And last night’s dinner hurling towards the rug

And no one seems to notice

As they take positions lotus

To escape the awful bother,

Despite demur from failing father,

To remove the dreadful stench, at which they shrug

And each, emaciated limb

Grayish, pale, translucent, slim

Flailing in St. Vitus’ Dance

Keeps death watchers in a trance

As with dead, unseeing eyes they watch and long

With fading final song for their ultimate demise

I’d be grateful to have cancer

It has given me an Answer

In this wretched, troubled, world

Where my life now lies unfurled

Wherever I have travelled

All behind me lies unravelled,

And backward glances give me naught but shocks.

As I see we’ve ALWAYS headed towards the rocks.

~ FreeThinke