ONE MUST ALWAYS have a mantelpiece. That, at any rate, is my considered opinion. It is a focal point where one can place random objects of vague significance upon it as a salutary reminder of the varied importance of the numerous sectors of one’s life and the gentle interplay therebetween. In my admittedly brief (yet increasingly less brief) existence, I have had several mantelpieces. Indeed, I was even for a year at university in possession of a listed mantelpiece though, sadly, it was abused by the presence of an interloping non-functioning electric heater. But my current riparian London residence is augmented by a number of mantelpieces, one of which fortuitously sits in my own bedroom. While I generally prefer to leave things unexplained, here is a little guide to my mantel as it now stands.

Behind the entire tableaux hangs a French map of Africa I picked up during the summer I lived in Oxford. The recent independence of South Sudan renders it inaccurate, in addition to two or three vexillological changes in its corner display of flags. From left to right, we have the pennon of the Order of Malta in Scotland; the piece of the Berlin Wall my kindergarten teacher brought back from Germany for me; a Rackham postcard from Don Riccardo illustrating depicting a scene from Baron Foqué’s Undine (“Soon she was lost to sight in the Danube”), to which Don Riccardo has added the cryptic line “The fate, it seems, of all Cusack’s loves”.

Next is the glass flask with leather covering I picked up at an antiques place in Millbrook when wandering around hunt country with the Gills; a postcard of Bonnie Prince Charlie sent by the Cap’t as a thank-you note for hosting lunch at Rocca with our favourite ancient veteran of King’s African Rifles; the order of service from the University of St Andrews Alumni Club London carol service; a small bottle of Unicum brought back from Hungary by E.W.; a Marian prayer card from Tom & Alice; a little unpretentious triptych some relative bought; my Order of Malta Lourdes pilgrimage medal; an Infant of Prague retrieved from my grandparents’ house; a St Benedict medal (perhaps obtained at Downside).

The bottle of Boplaas Port was kindly (and perhaps unintentionally) left by one of the previous South African residents of our flat. It was finished off by our Continental correspondent Alexander Shaw and I late one night when he had just alighted the Eurostar and not yet had time to drop his bags off at his grandmother’s place a few minutes up the river on Chiswick Mall. Cornelius Bear is dressed in the red gown of a St Andrews undergraduate. Behind him is a Quebec automobile numberplate and a prayer card from St Philip’s Day 2012 at the Oratory. My Magister Artium diploma is rolled up in its tube next to an empty box of Dunhills purchased in Milan — “Il fumo invecchia la pelle” it warns. Surmounting all is a palm from Palm Sunday at the Oratory.

A child’s imagination can transform the humblest construction of pillows into a fortification to equal the Krak des Chevaliers. On the grounds of my old school, there was a shack in a state of advanced dilapidation which I decided was an old slave cottage. I knew there was absolutely no chance of this being factually accurate — it probably didn’t date from any earlier than the 1910s — but one could easily picture Aunt Jemima living an abject poverty within its slowly crumbling walls. The shack was in one of the more peaceful corners of the school grounds, and there was an old rope hammock nearby, to which I would occasionally repair for a brief nap after a lunch of particular vivacity.

Despite its advanced deterioration, I found it a charming little structure, and it always saddened me that every map and plan I shuffled through in the Headmaster’s Office featured the parenthetical “(to be demolished)” atop the building’s outline. Indeed, it may have been destroyed already. (more…)

Robert Harrington recently insisted on interviewing me, taking many of his questions from a previous interview years ago which had been available at andrewcusack.com but which has since inexplicably disappeared into the ether. (Such are the mysterious ways of the internet). Mr. Harrington unconvincingly insists that the previous interview provided an interesting insight into the mind of Cusack, and no doubt he hoped to gain further useless insights with this period of interrogation. We will leave it to the reader to judge. What follows is an only barely edited version.

You’re known as an architecture fan. What’s your favourite city?

Edinburgh. Finest city in the British Empire.

Finer than London?

Oh, I’d say so. London has a great deal going for it — better clubs, for example — but it’s become incredibly vulgar. And foreign. Edinburgh is ten times as beautiful. What is more beautiful than an Edinburgh sunset, with the waning light reflecting off the stone buildings and the various spires and towers? The topography of the city is its saving grace, but can also be an incredible hassle. If you want to walk along George Street or Princes Street or the Royal Mile, you’re fine. But any perpindicular perambulation becomes a matter of climbing hills and stairs and such. Yet it makes the city all the more worthwhile somehow. It’s very striking.

Your favourite building though, the old Irish Parliament (now the Bank of Ireland) is in Dublin.

Dublin also has a great number of brilliant edifices, great buildings. Not just the Bank of Ireland but Trinity College, the Castle, the Four Courts, the Custom House, the King’s Inns and Henrietta Street and all those Georgian buildings. And two medieval cathedrals! But no, Edinburgh is still finer, and unsullied by republicanism.

But the ugly Scottish Parliament building is in Edinburgh.

True, true. A recent goiter upon an old friend though. Surgery can remove such things, if the patient is willing and a surgeon can be found.

(more…)

The Fourth of July, we are told, is a day for celebrating the love of one’s country. Robert Harrington and I were sitting around one evening when we decided to found a guerrilla group. First, it needed a name; Front pour la libération de notre terre sacrée Amérique (or the FLNTSA) was a runner-up but we settled on the Village Green Preservation Society. Frowning upon the camouflage fatigues of most groups of this nature, we decided that our uniform would consist of tweed jackets, flat caps, and balaclavas.

But as our conversation continued we discovered, to our chagrin, that though we thought we were both from the United States of America, we were actually from entirely different countries. Robbo’s country is the nicer, rather horsey part of New Jersey near Princeton, whereas my homeland is mostly the part of New York between the Hudson and the Sound. We discovered we were fighting for the preservation of entirely different Village Greens, and that ma terre sacrée Amérique was entirely different from sa terre sacrée Amérique.

This is one of the problems of a “country” as large as the United States. I love my country, but what do I care about Montana or Texas or Alaska? I wish them well, to be sure, but they hardly seem to have much to do with my country. I once started to read a scaremongering article about the growing Mexicanization of California but I had to put it down after a few paragraphs because it didn’t seem to be anything I had to worry about. If southern California secedes and tries to join Mexico, well good for them! I’ll send them a bottle of champagne and get back in my hammock.

In The Napoleon of Notting Hill, Chesterton wrote:

In that spirit, I present to you below a map of my country, from Sleepy Hollow in the north, to Governors Island in the south. It is a mere approximation, as the borders are both indefinite and ever-shifting. Though highly populated, it is a bit on the small side, and I think I agree with Chesterton that that’s a good thing.

Fallen Sparrow, a denizen of the Queens neighborhood of “Côté du Bois“, gives the low-down on the blessing of Matt Alderman’s apartment and unveiling of a new graphic work last Saturday. I acted as acolyte, which pretty much consisted of holding the bowl of holy water.

Herr Sparrow also covered the Dominican Saints Party that Matt threw at his place a little while back, in which partygoers nearly came to blows over which was better: the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Montréal or the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Québec.

When I was a kid, The European — the weekly broadsheet that billed itself as “Europe’s national newspaper” from 1990 to 1998 — was my favourite newspaper and was an indelible part of our Sunday routine in the Cusack household. First Mass, then a trip to the pastry shop, then pick up The European at the newsagents next door, and back home to read and munch al fresco.

The paper was fiercely Euro-federalist until Andrew Neil took over, so I suspect were I to look back on a few copies now, I would probably strongly disagree with its politics. The late Peter Ustinov was a columnist, and he was not just a European integrationist but indeed a major supporter of world federalism (i.e. the abolition of nations and the rule of the planet by a single government; in theory democratic but inevitably a dictatorship of course).

Nonetheless, it was a very broad paper, with news from all across the continent from Cork to Constantinople, and I have no doubt its coverage played at least some role in the formation of your humble and obedient scribe.

(more…)

Judging by the evidence (yours truly, left, in Connecticut late last fall*), I quite agree with the fellow who wrote in The Field this month:

At the Queen’s Birthday Parade on Saturday, the colour was trooped by none other than a friend of mine and fellow St. Andrean who is now an officer in the Welsh Guards. He is seen here, at right, in the costume of Field Marshal the Earl Haig (sometime Lord Rector and then Chancellor of the University of St Andrews) for the annual Kate Kennedy Procession.

(more…)

What can one say about Fred Henzer? Fred was a man of some contradictions. The very first time I ever met him, back in high school (it seems eons ago), he tried to beat the living daylights out of me because I had mistaken him for a particular enemy of his. Luckily for me he was restrained by his friends (indeed, my friends) who vouched for me and urged him to forget such an innocent error. I didn’t think much of him and made a mental note not to get involved with such a character. But of course it was hard not to come across Fred often if you were born in 1984 and hung around Bronxville. Our introductory incident was quickly forgotten and we soon became friends (though admittedly never close), mostly because we had friends in common.

Fred was charming without being a cad. It was no doubt why and how, despite his many flaws, he managed in those days to have a girlfriend as pretty and immediately endearing as Alana (who flew across the country to attend his funeral today — her birthday). And while his friends were his friends (and indeed being his friend was something that mattered to Fred), he did have his enemies as well — more out of pride and anger, I think, than out of a genuine hate.

He was an inveterate moocher. Of course the man whom he mooched off of the most was Frank Powers. Frank, without a doubt the most respected and admired man of those our age in Westchester, was probably the best friend he ever had, but as Frank said when once asked of Fred, there’s only so much you can do for a friend.

Fred found some of the slight restrictions the rest of us take for granted quite irritating, and sometimes he in turn became an irritation to others because of it. I remember once driving back from some party or gathering at 2:00 in the morning when we stopped at a red light. Sitting in the passenger seat, he found the red light unbearable and begged me to pass through it, there was no one behind us, nor in front of us, not a single car in sight, he pleaded. No one would notice, it wouldn’t hurt a fly, just run this light! But I was as stubborn as he, and it was not long before it turned green anyhow and he shut up.

But his flaws were always excused, weren’t they? He was Fred after all. In hindsight, there is an obvious and quick temptation to call ourselves to account for his ultimate downfall. Could we have done more for him? Were we too tolerant? Too forgiving? Couldn’t we have somehow intervened? I doubt it. Fred was his own master. He made his own decisions; he made good ones and he made poor ones, but they were his. As Frank (who would know more than anyone else) said, there’s only so much you can do.

His end did not come as a surprise to those who knew him, but this does not negate the tragedy of his death, and indeed his life. We must restrain ourselves from romanticizing the life and death of an addict. It was undignified. Fred was a human being — a son, a brother, a friend — he deserved better. It is saddening that someone as vivacious and lively and indeed loving as Fred did not have enough of that most necessary love, the love of life, to keep himself in order and his bad habits in check.

What has he left us in this world? Bits of laughter and hilarity, some very amusing times, moments of lightness and indeed even wit, too many to even attempt to record here. These may sound like light and ephemeral things, but there was an underlying goodness to Fred that animated them, and it is that underlying goodness that I hope we will all recall in years to come when our minds turn back to the man we used to know, Fred Henzer.

We will remember him.

I have just checked my results on the Student Portal and it turns out that I have passed every single course this term. “Big deal!” you cry? Well it is a big deal for we, the generally disinclined to work. Especially since I took one more course than usual each term this academic year to make up for the failures of my first year.

This means that I have passed my first two years of university and am now into honours. Thus, God willing, in two years time I shall be Andrew K.B. Cusack, M.A. (Hons) St Andrews.

I’d like to thank all my staff, most especially my secretary, Miss Alexandra Jennings, and my cook, Miss Jocelyn Archer, for selflessly contributing to the Cusack effort and ensuring that Candlemas Term 2004 was a resounding success.

Instagram: @andcusack

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