Coronavirus: the truth. So far as we know

They say that the first casualty of war is truth. There’s no reason why the war against Coronavirus should be any different.

Generally, the problem is that governments are lying about what’s going on. You know, claiming to have shot down more planes than the enemy ever had, or claiming that a retreat is a strategic withdrawal to more defensible positions. Today, though, the mist over the truth is just the lousiness of the information.

For instance, we’ve been counting total numbers of infected cases. But we know that no country has the means to test every one of its citizens. So how can we know what the true figure is?

The number of infections in Germany is currently at about 70% of the number here in Spain. But the number of deaths stands at about 12%. Is that simply because they’re testing much more widely, and therefore identifying far more cases than don’t lead to death?

I’ve seen conflicting estimates of the true number of Spanish cases. Some authorities say they should be four times higher, others twenty times. Four times or twenty? How do you get anywhere near the truth with that kind of variation?

The same is true of the number of deaths. Some countries don’t count deaths in certain contexts. Maybe someone died outside a hospital and wasn’t tested. So they’re not included in the figures. On the other hand, if someone with CVid dies they may be counted as one of the deaths, even though they had underlying conditions, one of which may have been the real cause of death.

There are certain phenomena that are particular to certain nations. For instance, in the UK death figures can be reported over several days. The number of deaths reported for one day may therefore climb later.

In Spain, too, there’s a problem with weekends, when reporting may be delayed. That means figures may be low for Saturdays and Sundays, but exaggerated on Mondays. And that may or may not happen. 

That’s how exciting this all is.

Still, perhaps one can make a couple of assumptions, just as long as one remembers that they are assumptions and they are open to challenge as any assumption is.

The first is that however bad the figures may be, within a single country, they’re likely to be just as bad any day as they are on any other – or just as good. So if the case figures are a twentyfold underestimate on one day, then they’re likely to be a twentyfold underestimate on another. That means that comparing the figures over time may at least give a view of where we’re heading.

The second assumption is that the figures for a single day can jump about a bit. They may be up or down by chance. So it’s best to look at what happens over several days or a week.

Coronavirus cases (left) and deaths (right), by day, in Spain
Rolling seven-day average as dotted line
The black line marks the lockdown-start date

In the graphs, I’ve shown the daily figures for cases and deaths in Spain. I’ve also included a trend line based on how the average for the previous seven days has been changing. The trend line only starts on day seven, because no seven-day average can be counted before. The black line marks the day on which the Spanish lockdown began in earnest, 16 March.

Both lines show an uptick right at the end, but remember what I said about not putting too much weight on a single day’s figure. In any case, they’re for a Monday, so it’s possible they reflect late reporting at the weekend. Still, it’s possible there’s a real uptick. The lesson is that both figures can start growing again, whatever the prior trend may show.

That trend itself is at least a little encouraging. It does look as though both lines may at last be dipping. The deaths have not dropped as much as the cases, but that’s to be expected: patients dying today were probably first counted as cases a week ago.

It has, however, taken three weeks of strict lockdown to get here. Far stricter, for instance, than in the UK. As strict as Italy, where the figures also seem to be showing a tendency to drop.

This is, however, only the start of the drop. How long will it be until we get to figures so low that we can sensibly think about relaxing restrictions?

The Spanish government has started planning for that moment and one decision has already been taken: work regarded as non-essential, currently suspended, will start again on 11 April. But when will parks reopen? Or schools? Or bars and restaurants? That’s still unclear, but we do know that Wuhan, where the epidemic started, is only just beginning to relax, after eleven weeks of lockdown.

What this says to people in other countries is that lockdowns aren’t quick fixes. This is a long battle; restrictions have to be tough; they have to be in place for a longer period than any of us would like; and they can only be removed gradually.

Still, if we can trust the Spanish figures at all, they do seem to work.

Eventually.

Keir Starmer's challenge

Just twenty minutes before the results of the election for a new Labour leader were announced, I was still on tenterhooks. The signs had all been hopeful, but I’ve been disappointed by election results too often before. It was conceivable that the Party membership might have decided that the best person to replace Jeremy Corbyn as leader would be another Corbynist.

After two general election defeats under Corbynist leadership, it seemed insane to try our luck at a third. But was a presumption of sanity justifiable?

I’m glad to say that ultimately it was. Despite my anxiety, the new leader was Keir Starmer, elected on the first ballot with 56.2% of the vote. A comprehensive victory and a solid mandate.

Keir Starmer (right)
with Jeremy Corbyn, whom he replaces as Labour leader

Starmer is a former of Director of Public Prosecutions, leading all public criminal prosecutions in England and Wales, a role he played with great effectiveness.

Before that he had been a defence barrister, notably defending the McLibel case, where McDonald’s threw all its weight as a major international corporation, into persecuting two individuals who had protested against them.

He was elected to Parliament in 2015. That meant being caught up at once in the string of crises that started with Jeremy Corbyn’s election as leader, followed by the 2016 referendum that led to Brexit, general election defeats in 2017 and, crushingly, in 2019, and finally the Coronavirus pandemic. If Starmer had been hoping for a quiet life, he must have been badly disappointed.

He served in Corbyn’s team for three years, even though he’s no Corbynist. That’s a key quality: without being a member, he’s established that he can work with a wing of the party which, though reduced to a minority now, still holds massive sway amongst the membership.

Corbynists were keen to drive non-Corbynist MPs out of Parliament. It’s deeply unpleasant and damaging to the party, forced to focus in on itself and riven by factionalism. That’s why, though there are understandable calls within the new Labour majority to retaliate in kind, they need to be resisted.

No purges has to be the watchword, and I think Starmer is well-placed to issue it.

That isn’t only for ethical reasons. A pure, homogeneous party is far too narrow. The insistence by Corbynism on its own version of socialism has driven many out of the party. Much more seriously, it has driven voters away. As Phil Wilson, a former Labour MP who lost his seat in the December 2019 debacle, puts it:

There was no need for Corbynistas to listen to them [voters]; they needed to listen to the Corbynistas. Corbynistas knew what was best.

We need to reach out to voters. That means that we need to reach out to those who walked away from the Corbynist Labour Party, without losing those who stuck with it because of Corbyn. We need to embrace all wings of the party.

In other words, we need to rebuild Labour as a broad church. That means including the Corbynists. Ironically, the very expression ‘broad church’ was treated as practically obscene in Corbynist circles.

This is a paradox. Starmer has to rebuild the Labour Party with the Corbynists but in spite of the Corbynism. Why? Because it’s the hard Left, most recently represented by Corbynism, that has ensured that Labour has held power in only thirteen of the last forty years.

In my lifetime, I’ve twice lived through an experience I would have hoped not to live through even once. That’s Labour falling under the control of the hard Left. It happened first in the early 1980s. In the 1983 election, Labour won fewer seats in parliament than in any other election since 1935.

Making the Party electable again took fourteen years. The bulk of that work was done by a leader from the soft Left of the Party, Neil Kinnock. He had the misfortune of losing two elections himself, but at each of them he increased the tally of Labour MPs. That prepared for Tony Blair’s victory in 1997.

In 2015, Labour did it again. We let the hard Left take control. And, lo and behold, the result is that we’ve once more been reduced to the lowest number of Parliamentary seats since 1935. Worse even than 1983: 202 seats compared to 209.

Keir Starmer, like Neil Kinnock, is a man of the soft Left. He’s indicated his willingness to unite the party, claiming he would neither trash the achievements of the Blair Labour government nor those of the Corbyn period.

He has pledged to work with the government to combat the Coronavirus pandemic, but to oppose it actively when it does too little, or the wrong thing, or the right thing too late.

He seems to have all the right attributes. He could indeed rebuild the Party. Whether he can do it in time for the next election remains to be seen – Corbynism has left us low indeed. But he might.

What he, and the Party generally, must do, however, is learn from this experience as, apparently, we didn’t learn from the experience of 1983.

It’s important to keep the hard Left on board. They must be free to act as a ginger group, they must be able to influence policy, they deserve respect and cordiality.

But the hard Left must never be allowed to take sole control of the party again.

Once was an error. Twice was ridiculous. Three times would be suicidal.

Political magnanimity can be as effective as it's attractive

Imagine that you’re lost in a dark wood at night. You come into a clearing in which there are a pink Elephant, an honest politician and Boris Johnson. Who should you ask for directions?

The answer is, of course, Boris Johnson. He may be an inveterate liar, but the other two are figments of the imagination.

My favourite politician of all time, and any country, is ‘Honest Abe’, Abraham Lincoln.

He was mostly pretty honest, though that didn’t stop him resorting to downright skulduggery where he deemed it necessary. Have you seen the film Lincoln? If not, you should make a point of watching it.

Tommy Lee Jones as Thaddeus Stevens
thundering in the House of Representatives

At one point, Thaddeus Stevens, played with tremendous verve by Tommy Lee Jones, talks about the campaign to pass the thirteenth amendment, the one that bans slavery, as the means to ensure that “the Constitution's first and only mention of slavery is its absolute prohibition”.

He later describes it as “the greatest measure of the nineteenth century, passed by corruption, aided and abetted by the purest man in America”.

That pretty well sums things up: Lincoln, the purest man in America, got the amendment passed by bribery, pressure, bullying, basically any tactics necessary. But it was perhaps his finest achievement.

Dishonesty, it seems, is sometimes highly effective.

“Honest Abe” may not have been any more honest than he needed to be. What he certainly was, on the other hand, was generous. Or perhaps the right word is magnanimous. And, interestingly, it served him well that he had that rare quality.

In 1854, he stood for the US Senate. At the time, Senators weren’t elected by popular vote but by the legislatures of the individual states. Lincoln seemed well-placed in his home state of Illinois and, indeed, on the second ballot he received 47 votes out of the 51 he needed to win. His Democratic opponent had 48 and five votes went to an anti-slavery Democrat named Lyman Trumbull, whose campaign manager was a certain Norman Judd.

Seven ballots later, Lincoln realised he would never get Trumbull’s votes. The only way to stop a mainstream Democrat victory was for him to throw his 47 to the man who had five, eccentric though that might seem. He decided to do just that, and Trumbull was elected.

It’s sometimes hard to remember just how obscure Lincoln was before he became President. In 1854, his only role in national politics had been a single term in the House of Representatives. Most of the time, he was a ‘prairie lawyer’, ‘riding circuit’ around Illinois. This meant travelling with a judge and a pack of lawyers to deliver justice in all the little towns of an as yet lightly populated state.

He was good at the work, and popular, but this kind of work was never going to win him any kind of national stature.

It came as a welcome surprise to be invited, soon after the Trumbull debacle, to join a team of lawyers in a major patent infringement case, the so-called ‘reaper case’. The trial was slated to be held in Chicago, so the defence team wanted a local, Illinois lawyer to join them and Lincoln was chosen.

That was a break for him. The other side was led by a former Attorney General, a man against whom it would be a real challenge to measure himself.

Then the trial was transferred to Cincinnati, Ohio. Which meant that the team could call on the man they’d wanted to use in the first place, a successful lawyer called Edwin Stanton. No one, however, told Lincoln he’d been dropped. He kept working on the case and built up a powerful brief to deliver in court.

When he showed up in Cincinnati, however, Edwin Stanton asked one of the other lawyers, “why did you bring that damned long-armed ape here?” They never spent an evening with him, although he stayed for the whole of the trial, watching the arguments in court. Stanton didn’t even look at the papers Lincoln had prepared.

At the end of the trial, when asked what he was going to do next, Lincoln said he was heading home “to study law”. He explained that he was fine for ‘rough-and-tumble’ cases:

… but these college-trained men are coming West. They have all the advantages of a life-long training in the law… Soon they will be in Illinois… and when they appear I will be ready.

He received a cheque for his part in the case but sent it back on the basis that he’d made no contribution. However, his fee had been agreed in advance, so the cheque was returned to him. This time he cashed it.

Abraham Lincoln, outstanding President

These stories only receive their full meaning when we look at their sequels.

In 1860, Lincoln ran for the presidency. The decision to hold the Republican Party nominating convention in Chicago, on Lincoln’s home turf, was key to his success, as was the excellent organisation of the campaign on the ground. In both of these, a vital role was played by – Norman Judd. The man for whose candidate, Lyman Trumbull, Lincoln had made way in 1854.

Then, in 1862, Lincoln was looking for a new Secretary of War for his Cabinet. Numerous candidates were proposed, but the one he chose was – Edwin Stanton. The man who’d referred to him seven years earlier as a “long-armed ape”.

Stanton was excellent in the role. He was also by Lincoln’s bed as the murdered President died.

Some claim Stanton said, “now he belongs to angels.” Fairly trite, in my view.

Others claim his words were “now he belongs to the ages”.

The latter is my preferred version. It seems to do justice to an outstanding statesman. A man made all the greater for his magnanimity, an even more precious quality than honesty.

And, in Lincoln’s case, a highly effective one.

The joy of the self-deprecating smile

There’s something exceptionally attractive about self-deprecating humour.

That’s true even if we sense that behind it is something of a disguised boast – you know, “look at how self-deprecating I can be”. Did you see the pictures of Boris Johnson hanging from a zip wire? What might have been seen as a PR disaster was something he worked for all it was worth. “Look what fun I am,” he seemed to be saying, “happy even if I look the buffoon. I’m obviously the kind of fine fellow you want running the country, because someone you can share a laugh with is bound to be on your side.”

Look what fun!

Despite such self-serving examples, self-deprecation remains welcome. That’s particularly so in a world dominated by figures that take themselves far too damned seriously and who are far too damned inclined, with little justification, to think themselves good at what they do.

Did that immediately bring to your mind an image of the present tenant of the White House? It should have.

A few weeks ago, Trump was swift to claim success for a visit he made to the Centers for Disease Control, as part of his then non-campaign against Coronavirus:

“I like this stuff. I really get it. People are surprised that I understand it. Every one of these doctors said: ‘How do you know so much about this?’ Maybe I have a natural ability. Maybe I should have done that instead of running for president.”

Trump fascinating his hosts at the CDC with his scientific insights

While I think it would have been great if he’d done pretty well anything rather than run for President, I’m far from convinced that medical or scientific research would have suited him. Let’s not forget that this was the man who thought that Coronavirus was like the flu, and now thinks he’d be doing well if he kept US deaths to within 100,000.

As for his ‘natural ability’, it clearly doesn’t extend to being able to laugh at himself. He leaves it to the rest of us to laugh at him, although our laughter’s never wholehearted – we laugh more at how bad the joke is than at the joke itself.

Fortunately, there are examples of Americans who are, or were, much better able to laugh at themselves.

William Seward

William Henry Seward was a remarkable American politician from the nineteenth century, a rival for the presidency to Abraham Lincoln though he ended up serving him, with outstanding loyalty and ability, as Secretary of State. As a young man, he was less than effective as a public speaker, something he needed to correct, not only for his later career in politics but even for his first choice of profession, as a lawyer.

This was brought home to him painfully when he joined a group of trainee lawyers in New York that would conduct mock trials in front an audience who would evaluate their performances. Time and again, despite all the effort he put into writing his quite brilliant briefs, he would find himself winning less applause than one of his friends who seemed able to outperform him with ease.

The friend pointed out that it was nothing to do with what Seward said, and all about how he said it. He suggested they swap briefs for the next competition, which they duly did.

Seward delivered his friend’s argument with all the skill he could muster, to only mediocre results. Then his friend delivered Seward’s own argument, and according to Seward himself, the applause could have been heard all the way down Broadway.

A useful lesson. And a pleasure to me that it was Seward himself who later had fun retelling the story.

It reminded me of an anecdote of my mother’s.

She found the atmosphere in Britain in 1940 deeply depressing. Life was becoming highly restricted, a little like today with Coronavirus. After the surrender of France and with Hitler apparently unstoppable on the Continent, the future looked bleak for the country. It was badly in need of something to raise its spirits.

In these circumstances, the writer, singer and actor Noel Coward stepped forward. He persuaded a group of friends to come together to put on a variety show at ‘Underneath the Arches’, a club that was, indeed, underneath the arches behind Charing Cross Station. I went there myself a few years back and, for all I know, it’s still there today.

Noel Coward.
Not always the best at delivering the great songs he wrote

For that show, Coward wrote all the songs but had them all performed by his friends, except or one, which he did himself. To his disappointment, while all the others were well received by audiences, his and only his song flopped night after night. Until he developed a cough and sore throat and had to ask someone else to step in for him.

Yes, you guessed it. His replacement sang the same song to huge success.

Noel Coward decided that his rather special style of singing wasn’t as widely appreciated as he had hoped. It was better for him to write the songs than perform them. A bitter lesson but a useful one, and a story he retold in his autobiography.

Self-deprecation at its best. The genuine kind. Such a refreshing change.

Great way to binge through the lockdown

Unorthodox. Shira Haas in Berlin’s Wannsee lake

Even at the best of times, Danielle and I enjoy binging on TV series.

Obviously, it helps if they’re good. Or at least that we like them. But I have to admit that there have been occasions when, watching episode four of the third season of a series, one of us will turn to the other and point out:

“This really isn’t very good, is it?”

“No,” replies the other, “I can’t relate to any of the characters and I don’t care what happens to them next.”

Quite a discovery after 28 episodes.

This isn’t the best of times. During a Coronavirus lockdown, binge watching isn’t just an indulgence (OK, OK, if you prefer, an over-indulgence), it’s also an excellent way of spending evenings when you’re obliged to stay in.

For the moment, we’re still being fairly discriminating. If the lockdown goes on long enough, we may well be forced, as we start season 3 of something mediocre, to say, “well, we may not relate to any of the characters or care what happens next but, hey, there’s nothing else on that we haven’t already seen”. But recently, we’ve seen some pretty great things.

Billions was gripping, even if at times I couldn’t bear any of the characters. That, actually, was something the writers pulled off pretty cleverly, making one character or another off-putting for a while, and then making him or her sympathetic again. A smart trick if you can make it work. Which they did.

Paul Giamatti and Damian Lewis in Billions
A near-deadly rivalry. Except when it isn’t

For those who don’t know the series, it’s about a successful hedge fund manager (Damian Lewis) whose activities sail close to the illegal, if not right over the edge into the downright criminal, as claimed by a US attorney (Paul Giamatti) intent on bringing him down.

Just like our sympathies for the characters, the show’s writers keep changing the direction of the two men’s antipathies. Now they’re intent on destroying each other, then they turn their animosity onto someone else. Around them, in a first-class cast, stand some extraordinary characters, including an outstanding non-binary figure (“my pronouns are 'they, theirs, and them’”) played by a non-binary actor, Asia Kate Dillon. Just as good is Maggie Siff as the psychiatrist and wife of the US Attorney. All in all, it’s pretty enthralling.

Equally worth seeing is For All Mankind. This is an alternative-reality story, where the space race between the US and the Soviet Union goes on far longer, and extends far further, than actually happened. Again, there are plenty of excellent performances, as well as plenty of fine shots of rockets taking off or of explorers working on the moon, alongside plenty of tense sequences, mostly in space but sometimes also in the homes of the astronauts and other NASA staff we follow.

It’s gripping with its tension, and all the more watchable for the sense of plausibility it manages to create.

Working on the Moon, in For All Mankind

Far better than anything else, however, is Unorthdox. Based in part on Debora Feldman’s autobiography Unorthodox, the Scandalous Rejection of my Hasidic Roots, it’s a four-episode mini-series, about a young woman, Esty, brilliantly played by Israeli actor Shira Haas, from an ultra-orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn.

The central concern is whether she’ll be able to get away.

This is the first Netlfix series filmed predominantly in Yiddish, the language spoken by that community rather than Hebrew. Haas had to come over a month early to Berlin, where the series was filmed, to learn the language.

The series shows both the community, with its everyday existence and its rituals back in Brooklyn, in the form of flashbacks to Esty’s life there, spliced into scenes of the life she is now working to build for herself in Berlin. The flashbacks include her marriage and, in some poignant but intensely comic moments, the difficulties she has consummating it, difficulties considerably worsened by the fact that her husband tells his mother everything, and she insists on tutoring Esty on how to steel herself to have sex.

Sex is key because her fundamental obligation is to produce children. To her too, this is a sacred duty. “We’re rebuilding the six million lost,” she declares, “Jews killed in the Holocaust.” But that doesn’t make sex with the husband she married by arrangement any less painful.

Esty (Shira Haas) at the Wannsee, still dressed as a Hasid (left)
and as she begins to forge a new life for herself

In a key scene from the first episode, a group of student friends she has just made takes Esty down to the beautiful Berlin lake, the Wannsee. It’s a place where people go to walk or relax or swim. But in 1942, it was the venue for the Wannsee Conference which took the decision to wipe out the Jewish population of Europe.

When Esty first sees the lake, she’s left speechless. But then Robert, one of the students, says:

“It’s nice, right? But you see that villa? The conference where the Nazis decided to kill the Jews in the concentration camps took place in 1942. In that villa.”

She looks at the villa.

“And you swim in this lake?” she replies.

He laughs. “The lake is just a lake,” he says.

Esty water into the water, still wearing her skirt and one of her two long-sleeved shirts. She takes off the wig that orthodox Jewish women wear after marriage. Under the wig, her head is practically shaved. She drops the wig in the water.

That gesture reminds me of a Jewish friend of ours who told us of a moment when her children were playing with others in a local park. Another Jewish woman came over to remonstrate with her for letting them play with non-Jewish kids.

Infuriated, she went straight over to a bridge across a stream at the edge of the park and threw her wig in it. She never wore one again.

Throwing a wig into water speaks to me powerfully about bids for freedom.

Haas says that the story is “about the right to have your voice”. It certainly is. Indeed, if you watch it to the end, you’ll discover why that’s a particularly apt summing up.

Unorthodox is an excellent way of spending an evening. A great break from the lockdown. You might even manage to spread it to two, though we went through all four episodes in just one sitting.

It was that compelling.

A smile in the pandemic

An implacable disease has broken out. A silent enemy, its stealthy advance appears inexorable, as it leaves a trail of victims behind it. At first, many sicken, and then with terrible finality, they begin to die.

Italy is one of the first places struck. In Florence, where the ravages are just starting, a group of young people decide they will be safer outside the city than inside. They make for a villa at Fiesole, in the hills nearby.

Fiesole. Not a bad place to be locked down

A breach of the lockdown rules? Perhaps there were none at that time. But in any case, they are in that place alone, and they have to find a way to pass the time.

Seven young women and three young men. They decide that each day they will elect one of their number to be King or Queen. The monarch for the day will choose a theme. Then everyone has to tell a story on that topic.

The themes range widely. Some are noble and elevating, like those of the day devoted to acts of great generosity. Some can be fearsome, such as Isabella and the Pot of Basil, one of the fiercest revenge stories written. The majority, however, are funny, concerned with the clever way people get out of scrapes, or trick each other to achieve their aims. Often, at the core is love, in the widest possible sense, from the purest of loves to something, shall we say, far earthier.

And what could be more appropriate? Love and laughter. What better way to tackle the fear and depression that accompany a terrible illness?

Some of you reading this post, especially if you’re Italian, may be saying “I recognise this story”. You’d be right. This isn’t a tale of Coronavirus in 2019. It’s a story set against the background of a far worse affliction, the Black Death, in 1348.

What’s more, the story’s a fiction. The seven women and three men, noble and virtuous even when they’re telling stories bordering on the erotic, emerged from the imagination of one of the world’s greatest storytellers, Giovanni Boccaccio.

Boccaccio's statue in the
Uffizi gallery in Florence

The book, the Decameron, is a monument to his skill. He had never previously published a short story. There was no tradition of writing such pieces anywhere in Europe. And here he produced a hundred of them.

Most of the stories were not invented by him. Indeed, many were old folk tales, or traditional stories from different countries. But he had to collect them and write them up himself.

What’s more, he wrote them in a strange language. In the fourteenth century, there was no such nation as Italy. The name applied only to a geographic entity, the peninsula where people spoke a variety of languages, related though often very different from each other, and none of them called ‘Italian’.

However, half a century earlier, the great poet Dante had written his extraordinary three-volume poem, The Divine Comedy, in his native language, Tuscan. Another great poet, Petrarch, a contemporary and friend of Boccaccio’s, had also written poems in that language.

Boccaccio, as a Florentine, was also a Tuscan speaker. The huge influence of these three writers, using that language, is one of the major influences that led to Tuscan becoming the basis of today’s Italian, when Italy appeared as a nation at last, over five centuries later. That’s why anyone who knows modern Italian reasonably well can still read Boccaccio with no great difficulty.

But writing prose fiction in Tuscan? In his day, this wasn’t viewed as an appropriate activity for a learned man. When his friend Petrarch called on him, he made that point forcefully. Only women read prose fiction in the vernacular language, the poet admonished him. Tuscan was a ‘vulgar’ language. Women were uneducated. Writing in that language for such an audience was simply undignified.

Men like them, when writing prose, wrote the great noble language of all the best thinkers. They wrote Latin.

That’s all very ironic, today. The Decameron is still read widely, and enjoyed by anyone who likes hilarious, serious, sad, noble, raunchy, astonishing stories. Boccaccio’s Latin works are read by a handful of Academics and no one else.

Amusingly, I think Boccaccio knew that might be the case. The best manuscript of the Decameron – and this was still before the start of printing in Europe, so all books were handwritten – is held in a Berlin museum and it’s in Boccaccio’s own hand.

He produced that copy just two years before his death. So clearly, despite Petrarch’s reproaches, Boccaccio loved this peculiar work of his enough to go to the extraordinary length of writing it all out once more, by hand, even as he approached the end of his life.

He loved his work, as his readers today still do. And the work is a wonderful roller coaster ride through love and fun and laughter and astonishment. It amazes and amuses us. Above all, it raises our spirits.

What better antidote to the pain that comes in the wake of an affliction?

Even if we can’t retreat to the hills above Florence to enjoy his stories.



Just for fun, here’s a retelling, rather than simply a translation, of one of my favourite stories in the collection.

Chichibio and the Crane, from the Decameron

Currado Gianfigliazzi was a nobleman of Florence, a man known for his generosity and style. He led the life of a knight, often taking time away from his duties to go hunting with hawk or hound.

One day, he brought down a fat young crane, and sent it to a good cook he had, a Venetian called Chichibio, to dress it and roast it well for dinner that evening.

Chichibio, who looked as naïve as he was, trussed and dressed the crane and started roasting it over ther, with all the skill he had. When it was nearly done and giving out a wonderful odour, Brunetta, a young woman of the neighbourhood who Chichibio longed to make his own, came into the kitchen and when she saw and smelled the crane, begged him to give her one of the thighs.

He replied emphatically, “you won’t be getting any part of that bird from me, Brunetta, not from me you won’t”.

Irritated, she answered, “Well, too bad for you, if you feel that way. Just remember that if you don’t give me a thigh, you’ll be getting nothing to satisfy your desires from me either.”

They argued heatedly but, in the end, to avoid falling out with her, Chichibio cut off a thigh from the crane and gave it to her.

That evening when the bird was served up to Messer Currado and some guests of his, Currado was astonished to see a leg missing. So he had Chichbio called from the kitchen and asked him what had happened to the missing thigh.

The Venetian, an expert liar, replied without hesitation, “Sir, cranes only have one thigh and one leg.”

“What on earth?” stormed Currado, furious. “Only one thigh and leg? Do you think I’ve never seen a crane before?”

“Sir,” replied Chichibio, “that’s just how it is, and I’ll show you as much whenever you have the time.”

Currado, out of respect for his guests, chose not to pursue the matter just then, but simply said, “If you claim you can show me that they only have one leg, something I’ve never seen or heard before, I want to see it tomorrow. And if it’s like you say, I’ll be fine. But if not, I give you my word that I’ll give you something to remember me by, with regret, till the day you die.”

That was as much as they said to each other that night. But at first light the next day, Currado whose anger had not dissipated at all while he slept, got up and called for horses. Then mounting Chichibio on a nag, he rode off to a river where cranes could often be seen at dawn.

“We’ll soon see whether it was you or I who lied last night.”

Chichibio, seeing that his master was as angry as ever, and that he had to find a way to make good his lie, which he had no idea how to do, rode along behind him. He was terrified and would have made off if he could see any way of getting away with it. But, seeing no way of escaping, all he could do was keep going, haunted by images of cranes on two legs, in front, behind or on either side of him.

But when they reached the river bank, he happened to catch sight, before Currado, of a dozen or more cranes all standing on one leg, as they do when sleeping. Immediately, he pointed them out to Currado.

“Now, sir, look at those cranes standing over there. You can see that I was telling you the truth last night – they each have just one thigh and one leg.”

Currado saw them and replied, “wait. I’ll show you that they have two.”

Moving closer, he shouted “Hey! Hey!” at the cranes. They immediately put their other legs down, took a few steps and flew off.

Currado turned to Chichibio, and said, “so what do you say now, you miserable liar? Do you see that they all have two legs?”

Chichibio, frightened and not knowing where to look, answered, “Yes, sir. But last night you didn’t shout ‘hey, hey’ at the crane. Had you shouted, it would have put down the other thigh and leg, just like these ones did.”

Currado found that answer so funny that his anger simply evaporated and he burst out laughing.

“Chichibio, you’re right. That’s what I should have done.”

So, thanks to his quick and clever answer, Chichibio dodged his bad luck and made his peace with his master.

The Walking Dead, or has Sanders done a Corbyn?

‘Dead man walking’ is an overused expression. But I can’t help feeling it fits Bernie Sanders perfectly. Barring some kind of miracle, the only thing that stops his campaign for the presidency being over, is that he won’t admit it.

An analysis in the New York Times rang a bell with me:

While Mr. Sanders has not ended his bid, he has fallen far behind Mr. Biden in the delegate count and has taken to trumpeting his success in the battle of ideas rather than arguing that he still has a path to the nomination.

Supporters of Jeremy Corbyn, soon to be ex-Leader of the Labour Party, led us into two general election defeats. The second, in December, was crushing. His supporters now claim that he ‘won the debate but lost the election’.

How much worse would the defeat have been had we lost the debate too?

Lost causes both. However well read the campaigns may have been

All this reminded me of a note a friend of mine posted online some weeks ago.

I had been wondering how Momentum had been able to do so many things in the General Election that the Labour Party could not or did not do.

A friend in Momentum told me to read "Rules For Revolutionaries" by Bond and Exley.

My first reaction was, “if it’s an idea from Momentum, it’s probably best to stay well away from it”. Momentum is a faction inside the Labour Party that was set up specifically to back Jeremy Corbyn. So it shares responsibility for his failure.

When I expressed my scepticism, however, my friend responded that I should perhaps read the book. That was a reasonable reply, so I did – or rather, I listened to it, my preferred way of getting to know books these days (haven’t tried it? I suggest you do. You can listen while doing something else, which is particularly welcome if the something else is housework).

The book’s by Becky Bond and Zack Exley and it’s a fascinating read (or listen). It’s an American study, so it’s hardly about anything anyone in Europe would recognise as revolutionary. It’s about basic reforms, radical only for the States, such as healthcare free at the point of care or university education without fees.

Many intriguing ideas

It focuses above all on organisation and tactics, drawing heavily on the authors’ experience of the 2016 Bernie Sanders campaign. 

They have some excellent ideas. The biggest is the extensive use of volunteers, rather than paid staff. Volunteers can recruit others who can recruit still more, creating a spreading network of supporters actively working for your candidate.

The other, related to it, is to raise your money from huge numbers of small donations. That’s been very much a keynote of both of Bernie’s presidential campaigns, and it’s impressive: it leaves him beholden only to ordinary voters and not to the huge corporations or lobbying organisations that have been toxifying Washington politics for at least a century and a half.

Not all of this is directly transferable to the UK. For instance, a curse and an advantage of US politics is the primary election.

It’s a curse, as the Democrats are discovering now, because it leaves a party squabbling with itself as candidates vie for the nomination, while Trump sits in the White House trying to look presidential.

The advantage is that it gives candidates a long time to connect with voters to listen to their concerns and to communicate a response.

We have no such institution in Britain. Arguably, we should. I think it most unlikely that Corbyn would have led Labour into the last election if Labour voters, and not just members, had been consulted. But for the moment, we don’t.

However, it is perfectly imaginable that we organise discussions with voters about principles. For instance, in Corbyn Labour has had a leader who was a Brexiter without the guts to admit it. Without that handicap, the Party could have spent the time after the referendum explaining to its supporters that Brexit would harm their lives, even if they had voted for it. That might have kept enough voters on side to win an election, and even have built support to reverse the Brexit result.

So some of Bond’s and Exley’s proposals could certainly be applied in Britain. But surely not by Momentum. Bond and Exley are all about recruiting huge networks of volunteers and empowering them to campaign as they see fit. That means delegating authority, and accepting the small number of inevitable failures for the sake of the far greater overall gain.

Momentum, to give you an idea of how the faction operates, sent out a ballot to its members over the Labour leadership election. Did it delegate the choice to its members? Did it heck. It called on them to either accept or reject only one option, the politburo’s.

Sorry. Momentum has a National Coordinating Group. However it behaves, it’s not actually called a politburo.

None of this, though, is the biggest problem with the book. The real problem is that it was written by people associated with a losing campaign. The book drops a hint as to why Sanders lost.

Becky Bond wrote Rule 4 of the Rules for Revolutionaries. That’s ‘Fighting Racism must be at the core of the message to everyone’.

She describes a public meeting at which candidates were asked to react to the call ‘Black Lives Matter’. My transcription of the audio is:

… his [Bernie’s] response to protestors was to declare, “black lives of course matter. I spent fifty years of my life fighting for civil rights and for dignity.” Then he continued, “but if you don’t want me to be here, that’s OK. I don’t want to outscream people.”

It was in this way that Bernie missed a crucial, early opportunity to put race at the centre of the message to everyone.

One of the most remarkable aspects of Bernie Sanders’ campaign, particularly the current one, is his inability to gain traction amongst black voters. Like Bernie, Corbyn’s response to accusations of anti-Semitism, was to point at decades of campaigning against racism.

More fundamentally, however, Bond’s account of this moment provides a glancing reference to a much more serious problem that the book fails to address: it doesn’t matter how well you organise if the candidate’s no good. And he’s no good if he can’t put together a winning coalition of voters.

That’s Corbyn, but it’s also Sanders. Not only can Bernie not mobilise black voters, he can’t break out of the narrow circle of those who share his views. Here’s the New York Times again, with comments that apply as strongly to Corbyn:

Mr. Sanders proved unable to expand his base well beyond the left or to win over African-Americans in meaningful numbers. He failed to heed warnings from traditional party leaders, and even from within his campaign, about the need to modulate his message and unify Democrats.

Sanders rejects what he sneeringly refers to as the Democrat ‘establishment’, which makes it surprising that he’s angered by the failure of the centre and right of the Democratic Party to rally behind him. In the same way, Corbynists in Labour denounce anyone else as ‘Blairites’ or ‘Red Tories’. 

That doesn’t matter too much if the objects of their contempt are fellow Labour members. We voted for the Party anyway, despite Corbyn. But outside the Party, there was nothing like Party loyalty to oblige the huge numbers who mistrusted Corbyn to stick with him in spite of their aversion. So they voted against.

It can be invaluable to have clever organisational methods. Great campaigning tools are even more valuable. But if your candidate isn’t prepared to reach out to voters who don’t already share his views, well, he’s doomed before he starts.

Bernie. Jeremy. Walking dead both.