How One Memorable Line in Dennis Potter's 'The Singing Detective' Stayed With Me for Thirty Years

Almost thirty years ago, I saw a brilliant British TV mini-series and musical by Dennis Potter called The Singing Detective that is considered a classic today. Michael Gambon played a bitter and darkly funny mystery writer hospitalized with a severe form of psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis. His name was Philip E. Marlow (!) and he often fell into fantasies about being a suave detective, but when he was awake in his hospital bed, he made life miserable for everybody around him.

At one point, one of the doctors had the guts to ask Marlow why he was so angry. What did he want from life when he was a younger man? For the first time Michael Gambon's character softened up and whispered, "I would have liked to have used my pen to praise the loving God and all His creations ... I would have liked to have seen hosts of translucent angels climbing on spinning shafts of golden light deeper and deeper into the blue caverns of Heaven."

I remember how those lines hit me in my thirty year old gut, even more than the dark humor, the melancholy, and the hilarious fantasies. It was surprising because I was an atheist back then - but ten years later I understood why. Even though I've never been bitter and hospitalized (at least not hospitalized), I was an extremely frustrated writer in my early thirties. I wrote humorous TV-plays and sketches for national Danish TV and radio and didn't like it, even though I thought I should. I sensed there was more to life and me than satire and one liners, but I couldn't find out what. It was only when I became a novelist and gave my books a spiritual angle, I felt proud of my work.

So why do pieces of dialogue stay with us for decades?  Do I want to praise God and all His creations in my work?  Do I see hosts of translucent angels climbing on spinning shafts every time I reach for my notebook?  

I wish, but today I am a mystic who wholeheartedly believes in the good as the guiding force in the universe. I want my novels to be uplifting and quirky without being sappy. Like the world, my work is full of drama, conflicts, and sadness, but they always have hope. I refuse to write fiction that is cynical. Even The Tsar's Dwarf that has a darkly funny protagonist leaves the reader with a sense of hope - at least I hope so. The dwarf Sørine has been abused all her life, but she slowly opens up and starts to trust others. That's how real life begins - by trusting other people and by consciously choosing not to become bitter.

The Singing Detective is a very funny masterpiece about self-discovery through imagination, reliving and editing the past, and rising above adversity in unexpected ways. The video above is a scene from the first episode of the mini-series. It's not spiritual in any sense. Actually, at first it's just sad, but if you watch the whole scene you'll be rewarded with one of funniest musical numbers of all time.

PS.
The Singing Detective was later turned into a Hollywood movie with Robert Downey Jr. in the lead, but as most people agree, it didn't capture the magic of the original starring Michael Gambon.

 *****

Hi, Hermann Hesse, I'm Right Outside Your House. Why Don't You Come Out And Play?

1.
I'm visiting the great novelist and poet Hermann Hesse.

Frankly, I haven't been invited, but I don't really care, and Hermann probably doesn't, either. I'm in his house in Montagnola in the Italian speaking part of Switzerland. Hermann Hesse lived here from 1919 until his death in 1962, and I can't say I blame him. The area is absolutely gorgeous, overlooking Lago di Lugano and the majestic Alps. If I'd lived here I would have written Siddharta, too.

Right now I'm walking around the first house Hesse lived in. It's called Torre Camuzzi and is a museum for the great German/Swiss writer who won the Nobel Prize in 1946. One Nobel prize is too little if you ask me. The man should have won two! I mean, have you ever read Demian and Siddharta? Hesse wasn't just a great writer, he was also a mystic, a philosopher, a pacifist, and a humanitarian who stood up against the Kaiser, Hitler, and the nationalism of the day.

When I read Demian the first time I was totally blown away because the novel is a spiritual manifesto and a visionary masterpiece that easily could have been written today. I mean, can you mention any writer in the world who had such insight, such language, and used spiritual symbolism in a way that would have made Confucius, Krishnamurti, and Jung proud? Actually, Hermann Hesse was inspired by Jung as well.

2.
I have a lot in common with Hermann Hesse, except for the small fact that I'm not a genius.

I'm as heavily influenced by Indian mysticism as he was. I'm in love with Francis of Assisi, and I'm a nomad and pacifist as well. So Hermann Hesse holds up a mirror for me. All great artists do. When a reader loves a writer it's never only the writing he or she connects to; it's something deeper - a vision shared, a voice in the wind, a sense that we were downloaded from the same celestial sphere.

Hermann Hesse even had a younger partner as I do, and he loved traveling in Italy - a country that always has been a great inspiration for me as a novelist and soul. Funnily enough I never knew anything about Hesse's personal life until a few months ago. In 2001 I read Siddharta and loved the prose and the wisdom, but it's only this summer I've started to read the rest of Hesse's books, and what a great journey I'm on. Narcissus and Goldmund is another gem dealing with the struggle between the spiritual life and the earthly pleasures.

It's also quite a journey walking around Hesse's home, admiring his straw-hat, the glasses he wore, the ancient typewriter he wrote on with the uneven keys - not forgetting the private pictures of the novelist/poet/painter sunbathing in the nude. (Yes, Hermann was German after all and Germans like to take off their clothes). I almost feel as if I'm stalking a ghost, but that's okay because I love stalking, and I enjoy every minute I spend in the small, quaint museum.

3.
The last thing I do is sit by Hermann Hesse's tomb a kilometer away from his house in a beautiful cemetery, surrounded by cypresses and bird song. His gravestone is simple and humble contrary to most of the others. A small Buddha is sitting on top, and Hesse's third wife is lying next to him. After all, he was just another soul passing through, guided by forces so much greater than him, and it's in that knowledge true humility is born.

I'm very moved by the stillness and the presence at the small cemetery. However, I know that Hermann Hesse wasn't a saint during his life. His work was everything to him; he often suffered from depressions and felt like a misfit in this dualistic world, but I'm extremely grateful for the art and the insights the weird German Steppenwolf gave to the world and me.

So danke, grazie, thank you, Hermann. I enjoyed stalking you, and I'll continue reading your novels, your poetry, and your fairy tales until there are no more left.  Why wouldn't I because sometimes, for a second or two,  I sense you around me, even though that's most likely my imagination.

Writing at Lake Lugano the day after I visited the museum in Montagnola.