Stephen Fry, Moab Is My Washpot

Moab Is My Washpot, Stephen Fry

I am incandescent with rage at the idea of horoscopes and of crystals and of the nonsense of ‘New Age’, or indeed even more pseudo-scientific things: self-help, and the whole culture of ‘searching for answers’, when for me, as someone brought up in the unashamed Western tradition of music and poetry and philosophy, all the answers are there in the work that has been done by humanity before us, in literature, in art, in science, in all the marvels that have created this moment now, instead of people looking away. The image to me … is gold does exist, and for ‘gold’ say ‘truth’, say ‘the answer’, say ‘love’, say ‘justice’, say anything: it does exist. But the only way in this world you can achieve gold is to be incredibly intelligent about geology, to learn what mankind has learnt, to learn where it might lie, and then break your fingers and blister your skin in digging for it, and then sweat and sweat in a forge, and smelt it. And you will have gold, but you will never have it by closing your eyes and wishing for it. No angel will lean out of the bar of heaven and drop down sheets of gold for you. And we live in a society in which people believe they will. But the real answer, that there is gold, and that all you have to do is try and understand the world enough to get down into the muck of it, and you will have it, you will have truth, you will have justice, you will have understanding, but not by wishing for it.

Stephen Fry

Great writers, I discovered, were not to be bowed down before and worshipped, but embraced and befriended. Their names resounded through history not because they had massive brows and thought deep incomprehensible thoughts, but because they opened windows in the mind, they put their arms round you and showed you things you always knew but never dared to believe. Even if their names were terrifyingly foreign and intellectual sounding, Dostoevsky, Baudelaire or Cavafy, they turned out to be charming and wonderful and quite unalarming after all.

Stephen Fry, January 28 2012, The Times, extracted from The Library Book

I should have known better, it was a Tuesday in February. Many of my life’s most awful moments have taken place on Tuesdays, and what is February if not the Tuesday of the year?

Moab Is My Washpot, Stephen Fry

Stephen Fry singing “When You Wish Upon A Star” to the tune of “The Lambeth Walk”