Friday, 15 March 2019

Rediscovering the classics

My daughter at the art museum, some years ago

Take anything that makes us civilised rather than barbaric-- human rights, science, democracy, libraries, comedy, tragedy, a justice system, education, philosophy, history – and it mostly began in one time and place, Ancient Greece. And for more than a hundred human generations since then, across much of the world and from the Bronze Age until the 20th century, becoming an educated adult meant starting where the human race started, with the Greek and Roman classics.

Dark Age monks and American revolutionaries, pioneer farm-girls and Victorian schoolboys, all grew up with Hesiod and Herodotus, Sophocles and Socrates, Plato and Plutarch, part of a common cultural heritage. Thus Homer could inspire Aeschylus could inspire Shakespeare, and Socrates could teach Aristotle who inspired Aquinas -- each generation adding to the Great Conversation through the ages, each making the world better than it was. Only our modern culture thinks it can re-invent everything from scratch.  

To do that, though, people had to know and care who the ancients were, and for centuries they did. When Shakespeare wrote his plays he could assume his working-class audiences were familiar with Ovid and Plutarch, because they were. Now that I read the writings of Jefferson or Lincoln, I realise how much of their writings drew from the Greek and Romans of their education – Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, for example, seems inspired by Pericles’ funeral oration in Thucydides.

Nor were such references exclusively for the rich, either: Jonathan Rose’s excellent book The Intellectual life of the British Working Class describes how labourers formed their own reading and debate societies, often tied to their unions, to make sure everyone could read such books. The speeches of Lincoln and his contemporaries, moreover, swell with classical references, and were delivered to barefoot farmers. According to de Tocqueville, every pioneer cabin, no matter how rustic, had books to read.

Teacher’s journals or education guides from 19th-century America demonstrate an amazing breadth of learning, with even poor farm children learning Shakespeare or Plutarch at young ages. Of course we can’t know how much was absorbed, but it’s telling that children’s guides from that era are often beyond that of college students today. In teaching my daughter the Iliad I tried to use Rev. Alfred Church’s 1892 children’s version (“for Boys and Girls … in Simple Language.”), but its language would be quite advanced for even adults these days.  

Black-and-white films, old newspapers and novels from the 19th and 20th centuries made casual references to references from Cicero or Caesar, assuming everyone would understand what they meant. The 1948 memoir Cheaper by the Dozen, for example, begins with the line, “My father, like Gaul, was divided into three parts.” To readers in the 1940s the joke was obvious, for most people had read the journals of Julius Caesar, who famously began by saying that “All Gaul is divided into three parts.” Now, a few generations later, you would not find one person in a thousand who would get it.

Likewise, the famous sculpture of George Washington in a toga looks bizarre to us, since the Founding Fathers didn’t dress like that. To Americans at the time, however, the meaning was immediately clear; George Washington was Cincinnatus, someone who walked away from total power – or as my daughter once put it after reading Tolkien, “he put down the Ring and walked away.”

In the last few generations, however, our culture has abruptly, shockingly abandoned these most basic parts of education, making most of our cultural heritage opaque to young people today. Occasionally a home-schooler embraces the classics for their child, or I find a young person whose life was changed by discovering the Stoics. Such people, however, are specks of light in a new dark age, in which few people are familiar with works of art older than themselves, or can join the conversation of the ages.  

I took a few years of Latin and read a few classics, but not much – so when I wanted to introduce

them to my daughter, I first had to open them. The stories were intensely readable, filled with characters who were lusty, scheming, flirtatious, noble, self-destructive and dryly comic. The writing styles take some getting used to, granted, and the turgid translations often don’t help — so when I taught them to my daughter, I edited the text down, Reader’s Digest-style, and we acted out the characters.

When we read about Solon, for example — the man most credited for inventing democracy in Athens – we pretended to be Athenians in that time, when the city was ruled by dictators. With sticks for swords we re-enacted the Athenians’ battle for the island of Salamis, and their humiliating defeat by the Megarians. After that, I explained, the lords of Athens created an information blackout, forbidding any Athenian from mentioning Salamis – they didn’t want to be embarrassed anymore.

“What, so everyone pretended like nothing was wrong?” my daughter said indignantly. “When everyone knew otherwise?” Yes, I said – just like today.

“Couldn’t they complain to the rulers if they didn’t like the laws?” she said. No, I told her, lords and emperors didn’t need to take responsibility for anything. They had taken a step toward democracy a generation before, I told her, when a man named Draco created their first set of laws – but they were the original draconian laws, where the penalty for everything was death. To make the point we created a one-act play: Mr. Average Athenian litters on the street, meets Draco.

“Hey! That’s against the law!” she said as Draco. Oh, shoot, I said as the Athenian – can I pay a fine?

“No!” she said, as Draco. “The penalty is DEATH.”

That’s ridiculous! I said. “Complaining about it is DEATH,” she said.

Who hired you, buddy? I asked. “Asking who hired me is DEATH.”

As much fun as this was, the gravity of it began to sink in – Solon was ready to die. “What did he do?” my daughter asked.

He sat down and wrote an epic poem about the defeat at Salamis, I explained. He put on his hat, walked to the market, stood on a pedestal in front of everyone, and recited the entire story of the defeat. He might have even sung it, opera style.

“What happened to him?”

Pelopidas, from Plutarch
He persuaded a lot of Athenians that they should take back the island, I explained, and they pressured the rulers, who gave in — and Solon came up with a cunning plan to win this time. It was …umm … I hesitated.

“Yes?” she asked.

Well, I told her, you remember that part in Bugs Bunny where he dresses up like a woman, and his antagonist drops everything to come over and flirt with Bugs?

“Right?” she asked.

Well, I said, the Athenians did that.

There was a quiet pause. “You’re joking,” she said.

No, really, I said – according to Plutarch, they had their youngest, beardless soldiers dress up as girls and flirt with the Megarians, and when the Megarians jumped off their ships and ran onto the beach after them, the other Athenians leaped out with swords and yelled, “A-HA!” Or something to that effect.

***

After talking about the zaniness of these strategies for a while, I explained that Solon’s reputation continued to spread; he became so famous for his wisdom that he began attracting other great minds from nearby places. He became friends with Thales of Miletus, one of the first Greeks to come up with theories about how the world worked. He became friends with Aesop, who wrote the fables, and with Periander of Corinth – a group of them came to be known as the Seven Sages.

He even attracted the attention of a Scythian — Scythia included what we now call Russia, a world away in those days. The Scythian was Anacharsis, I told my daughter, who wanted to meet Solon so badly that he travelled all the way from Russia to Greece to meet him.

We acted out the scene: Solon hears a knock at the door, and opens it to find a strange foreigner greeting him. Solon! I said in a fake Russian accent. I have travelled all the way from Russia to meet you! You are famous there as great thinker – I am great thinker too! We should be friends!

“You know,” my daughter said, playing Solon, “around here we have a saying – if you want to make friends, you should start at home.”

Anacharsis slowly looked around. Is this your home? He asked.

“Um … yes,” Solon replied.

Then you can be friends with me! Anacharsis said exuberantly, hugging Solon.

***


Finally we got to how he created democracy. When the working-class people of Athens were suffering, and getting ready to revolt, the elites – unlike our elites today – decided they had to give up something to keep the peace. They turned to the one person everyone trusted – Solon – and made him dictator. What did he do once he came to power? I asked. Did he make himself king?

“No!” said my daughter emphatically, “He said everyone had to vote, create juries, and so on, and made everyone swear an oath to follow the rules of a democracy; no one could change them except him for ten years.

Then, after everyone had sworn, Solon said, ‘Good! Now I’m going on vacation – for ten years!’” Excellent, I said. And it worked – everyone was forced to work together, and no one could call on him to override the rules.

***

Before long there was trouble, though, I told her -- they almost lost their democracy when it had barely begun. Some Athenians wanted a local gangster named Peisistratus to be their ruler – remember that everyone was used to having a ruler, and not having to rule themselves.

“Piece-a-stratus?” my daughter repeated. “Did a Mr. Stratus have several kids, and he was one piece?”

Well, he was certainly a little piece-of-something, I said, and he came up with a cunning plan to take over Athens by force – three times.

My daughter looked perplexed. “You mean he came up with three plans, in case one didn’t work?”

No, I said – I mean he came up with a scheme to take over the city, and it worked, and he became dictator. Then the Athenians came up with their own plan to bring democracy back, and they kicked him out. Then Peisistratus came up with a second plan to take over, took over a second time, and they Athenians kicked him out a second time. Then he came up with a third plan …

“Um. Hang on,” she said. “He took over the city and became dictator three times in a row? And he
was never put in prison or anything?”

Prisons only became common recently, I said, and even now in most of the world they’re rarely used – the United States is an exception. Athens used to exile people if they got to be too much trouble, and everyone would vote on who to kick out of town. Except with Peisistratus it didn’t work – he kept coming back.

“Why did so many people let him take over?” she asked in disbelief.

The same reason people want strong leaders now, I said; if you just put your hero in charge, everyone can rally around the hero, and you can all just beat up the people you don’t like. Democracies, on the other hand, aren’t much fun – you have to listen to people you disagree with, and everyone has to make compromises that nobody likes.

“But if most Athenians wanted democracy, how did Peisistratus take over?” she asked.

By trickery, I said. First, he showed up with a shallow wound – Herodotus says he wounded himself – and said, “Oh, no! I’ve been attacked by my enemies! What kind of a people are we who let gangs with knives roam the streets!” I put the back of my hand to my forehead in a diva gesture.

“Why would he wound himself?” she asked.

Coriolanus, from a 19th-century children's version of Plutarch
It wasn’t a serious wound, I said, and it made everyone sympathise with him, so the Athenians let him walk around with bodyguards. Then Peisistratus hired fifty of his supporters, armed with clubs, to follow him around like an army.

“Fifty men!?” She said.

Yes, it was a bit excessive, wasn’t it? I said. Then Peisistratus showed up at the government building with his fifty armed men, and everybody let them in because they were his bodyguards. Then they took over the government office and made Peisistratus the ruler.

“They weren’t the brightest, were they, Athenians?” she said.

Well, they were a bit new at this, I said. Thankfully, they raised an army to defeat his bodyguards and kick him out.

***

“But he left the country and came back again?” she asked.

Well, he went off and made money somewhere else, doing basic gangster things, I said. Eventually he saved up enough for a chariot — covered in real gold, like gangster might have today – and started driving it back to Athens.

Again she looked dubious. “A gold chariot?!”

That’s right, I said. Then he hired a beautiful woman and dressed her up like Athena – patroness of Athens – and drove back on the road to Athens in the gleaming chariot, with the woman in front saying, I am Athena, your goddess – you should all have Peisistratus be your leader.

There was a pause. “You’re joking,” she said.

Seriously, I said, that’s what he did. It wouldn’t be the first time a politician said they had God on their side. And he took over again, and the Athenians kicked him out again.

***

“What about the last time?” she asked.

Well, I said, that time he and his supporters only had the power to take over the temple at the top of the hill, so they did that. The Athenians raised an army to stop him again, and they gathered around the hill, with Peisistratus and his men outnumbered at the top. Then Peisistratus came out to the front of the temple and said he had an announcement for everyone.

He stood at the steps of the temple, looking down the hill at the Athenian army gathered outside the temple grounds, raised his arms impressively, and shouted something that the Athenians couldn’t make out, I explained. So the Athenian army all shouted back, WHAAAAT? I always pictured it like the villagers in the film Young Frankenstein, talking to the police inspector.

I said, Peisistratus said, MUMBLE-MUMBLE-MUMBLE.

WHAAAAT? the Athenians all said. WE CAN’T HEAR YOU.

You’ll have to all come a little closer, Peisistratus said, so you can hear me. Come inside the temple grounds, and listen. I’ll have my men back off.

So Peisistratus’ men left, and the Athenians all left their weapons in a pile at the gate – they couldn’t carry weapons onto sacred ground – and all shuffled in and gathered around Peisistratus. Okay, they said, we’re here. What did you want to tell us?

What I was saying before, Peisistratus said, Is that we’re taking over the city. My men have just circled ‘round to the gate and taken all your weapons.

My daughter smacked her forehead. “D’OH!” she shouted, Homer Simpson style. “What a bunch of muppets! Please tell me they got smarter as they went.”

Everyone thinks they’re smarter, I said — wise people understand how little they really know.

We found these stories to offer comedy, intrigue and swashbuckling action, of course, but they offer something else. They show us a world where democracy, science and individual liberties had never existed even as ideas, and they show how difficult they were to create. They remind us that such things are not slogans, but acts, always fragile and often courageous.

By reading these stories, which inspired emperors and saints, soldiers and scholars through the ages, we create a lifeline between our troubled culture and theirs. We see them not as statues but as human characters in the great story, at least as foolish as we, and wrestling with some of the same dilemmas. When they find a way through their troubles, we realise that there is hope for us.


Wednesday, 27 February 2019

Old movies part 2: To Have and Have Not


A few weeks ago I wrote about black-and-white movies like Stagecoach, and how they often dealt with our modern, 21st-century problems in a way that modern media does not. It occurred to me, though, that someone reading that might ask the question I most feared as a reporter: So What? If a movie made nine decades ago had a timely message, you might say, how does that affect my problems now? I realised this warranted a whole series of posts, this entry focusing on the stories we tell each other about class.

Before any conservative readers go ballistic, I’m not saying that because class exists, we need to eliminate it; there will always be people who have more than others, either through hard work, inheritance or luck, and I think we should reward the first of those three. And before any socialist readers go ballistic, I’m not suggesting that all inequality is good, merely that it exists and shapes our lives, and we should stop pretending it doesn’t.  

Most of us in Europe or North America are seeing our cultures slowly unravel; unemployment, depression, mental illness, debt, homelessness, addiction, poverty and illiteracy are alarmingly high and rising in many places. Drive through once-prosperous towns in my native Midwest and you see decaying houses and crumbling infrastructure, peppered with the occasional Wal-Mart like a lord’s medieval castle on a hill. The gulf between the wealthy and poor might be greater now than in medieval Europe – certainly peasants then kept more of their earnings and had more days off than US workers today.

When I point this out, many people quickly respond that our ancestors also endured hardships we can’t imagine – most of the Depression-era audiences for old movies, for example, earned only a fraction of what Americans do today in straightforward numbers. That does not, however, tell the whole story.

Most people back then had the skills to make and fix things themselves, from homes to tools, and if they didn’t, they had parents or uncles who knew and could show them, or local boys from their club. If they lived outside a city, they typically had gardens to grow most of their food, and they knew how to preserve it whether they could afford electricity or not.

People usually had extended family to look out for each other, and they had clubs like Kiwanis and Oddfellows, they had book clubs and ladies’ societies, and they were more likely to belong to churches and unions. As different as these groups are, they all provided much-needed support; their members helped to pay each other’s bills, offered networks to find jobs, gave emotional support, shared intellectual ideas and gave the otherwise lonely elderly a chance to mentor the otherwise foolhardy youth. Today, however, all of these things are fading from our culture and even our memory, as their members age and the young never join.

Instead, we have become the first generations in history to spend our lives largely alone, staring at little screens. We are surrounded by media, all the time – films and television, Youtube and Netflix stare back at us from our phones and laptops, from the back seats of cars and the walls of restaurants. So if most people are to realise what their problems are and do something about them, what they see on those screens becomes vitally important.   

At a time when more and more people are struggling, our media --- let’s assume we’re talking about my native USA – shows almost none of that reality. This was bad enough when I was growing up in Missouri in the 1980s and 90s; we weren’t poor, but compared to us it seemed like every family in movies or television was from Planet Rich People.

The friends in Friends would have had to make millions every year to pay for their spacious apartments, even though they worked menial jobs or were unemployed. The families on Full House or Family Matters – and even on Rosanne, a show entirely built around the premise of a “working-class” family – lived in giant, palatial homes. 

Nor did anyone ever have to worry about getting their car to start, or paying a medical bill, or paying off a debt, or being able to afford groceries. Characters could pop off for a vacation episode to Hawaii or Las Vegas, whereas we’d never taken a vacation. Certainly no one on television lived in a trailer park, nor were sleeping rough.

I looked at popular shows of the last few decades and found that little has changed; from Modern Family to Parenthood, all the families live in homes that, like the average new house in America, covered more ground than the biblical Temple of Solomon. Even the family in Breaking Bad – a show entirely built around the fact that the protagonist must become a drug dealer to pay the bills – lives in quite a spacious house with no other families in it.  

As writer David Wong pointed out, even characters in a nightmarish, post-apocalyptic future typically have nicer apartments that most of us. The miserable slum-dwellers of Elysium, The Matrix Reloaded or Dredd have spacious flats that would thousands of dollars a month in New York, and don’t need a dozen room-mates.

You might point out that all these programmes are just entertainment, and that’s true. But Hollywood also created entertainment in the 1930s and 40s – hundreds of films a year -- and theirs often dealt with real problems. Also – as mentioned – people then had mentors and groups to show them how to cope with poverty or build a better future; the films showing them the same thing were just frosting on the cake. People today have more need for entertainment that teaches those things, because many of us don’t have anything else. 

Our “reality” media today is much the same as our fictional media, and doesn’t have much to do with our reality. What I’ve seen involves wealthy models arguing, or rich families buying wedding dresses for more money that the down-payment on my house. Meanwhile, programmes like Cops and the evening news show the threatening faces of street criminals from neighbourhoods most likely to be contaminated by toxic chemicals, but not the polluters who made the chemicals.  

We take the same approach with the media we exchange; viral video clips, circulated on social media as hilarious comedy, often show trailer park residents describing the tornado, or slum dwellers describing the robber, all poor people who were unprepared for national news cameras and were globally mocked for years afterwards. Whole web sites are devoted to mocking the unfashionably dressed “People of Wal-Mart” like they were animals at the zoo.

When you think about it, almost all our political insults are class-based. When conservative friends of mine mock campus “social justice warriors,” they say they and their philosophy degrees are destined for jobs at McDonalds. Feminist friends of mine say their critics are just men “living in their parents’ basements.” Democrats I know mock Trump fans as redneck “deplorables,” while Trump fans I know mock welfare families who don’t want to work. All these groups have more in common than they realise: they all sneer at their opponents for allegedly being even lower down on the ladder.

When struggling people are depicted seriously and sympathetically – say, a news item on homelessness -- it is almost always as objects of pity. The rare inspirational story that gives speaking roles to the poor – slum children adopted by a rich family, say, or a teacher who inspires their inner-city high school class – ends with the poor people leaving all the other poor people behind and becoming one of the winners. Wealth is seen as normal, poverty and misfortune bizarre and occasional, and the heroes are typically the rich who are “raising” others out of poverty.

Imagine stories told another way, in which having very little was assumed to be the norm, and in which everyone knew that tragedy and injustice took place. Imagine stories about people whose goal wasn’t to get a big break and leave their neighbours behind, but to make sure their neighbours had enough. Imagine stories that were inspirational not because the heroes won everything, but because they lost everything, dusted themselves off and heartily carried on. In a time when social roles, jobs, politics and the climate are all unpredictable, those stories could be actually useful for audiences.

Movies from the 1930s and 40s did show that, in ways that would feel alien to people across the political map today. For example, they presented poverty, misfortune, homelessness and failure as completely normal, which they are; millions of Americans have been evicted and become either homeless or must live uncomfortably with relatives, like the elderly couple in 1937’s Make Way for Tomorrow.

In fact, it would be quicker to list the films from that era that didn’t deal with class. I mentioned last time that the characters in Stagecoach were from the highest and lowest levels of society, forced to work together and show who they really were inside, and how the homeless of Our Daily Bread pulled a farm together. Likewise, swashbucklers like The Adventures of Robin Hood and Captain Blood and Westerns like Destry Rides Again focused on slaves, serfs and other victims people pulling together to overcome the lord, plantation owner or rancher attacking anyone who stood against them.

Even the down-and-out could be strong, these movies realised, if they stood together. The wacky family in You Can’t Take It With You always lived on the verge of eviction, but pitched in to support each other. The homeless protagonist of Meet John Doe inspires neighbours across America to form John Doe clubs and look out for each other.

Upper-class characters appeared too and not always as the villain, but sometimes needed to learn a few things. My Man Godfrey begins with a group of wealthy party-goers on a treasure hunt, charged with retrieving a homeless man as a prize. When they find one – the titular Godfrey -- sleeping in a garbage dump, he quickly humiliates them for treating him as an object of amusement.

Many films from that era show once-prosperous people losing everything and seeing first-hand how the other 99% live; the aristocratic refugees of Casablanca must pawn everything to escape Europe, the lords and ladies of Tovarisch must find a new life as butlers and maids, the runaway rich girl of It Happened One Night learns to hitchhike and live on carrots. Sometimes, however, the rich person puts their business talents to new uses.  

The hero of 1932’s Beggars in Ermine begins as a successful factory owner – but when he is crippled in an accident, he is reduced to selling pamphlets on the streets from a wheelchair. After talking to other itinerant vendors he realises that most of them have no ability to save money; by pooling their resources, however, they could pay for each other. Thus he uses his skills in finance and persuasion to form a guild and get people to pay a small fee to join, and together they can pay for old age pensions and doctor’s visits.

Some films even showed people living on the edges of society banding together in less wholesome ways. The street criminals of M form an underground network to track down and stop a child murderer, and once they catch him, they hold a trial themselves, telling him that “Every man you see here is a legal expert.”

Perhaps the most curious example came in 1933’s Gabriel Over the White House, in which the US President has a spiritual awakening, forgets his wealthy backers and takes bold steps to provide for the struggling populace – including holding a political summit with the “King of the Hobos” leading an army of homeless on Washington.

I’m not backing all the politics of the film – the president seizes power to do these things, in what could be seen as an endorsement of fascism – but the film treats the homeless with respect, as a genuine political constituency that needs to be won over.

None of this praise, for that matter, is necessarily an endorsement of all the politics of all the people who made these films. Film-makers then cared deeply about the problems of working Americans, but some of them thought fascism or communism would be good solutions to those problems. They were wrong, but I can admire their compassion and their public works of art without agreeing with their private solutions. 

Working-class sympathy became so normal that it was gently lampooned in Preston Sturgess’ brilliant Sullivan’s Travels, in which a Hollywood director wants to make a serious drama about the plight of the common man. In his search for authenticity he takes to the road in disguise, only to discover that only the wealthy care about pretentious Oscar bait – the genuinely suffering, he finds, want real entertainment to give them a few hours’ relief. Of course, it’s a meta-joke with many layers, for Sturgess made this very point in an entertaining comedy with a serious edge, portraying deftly the injustice he satirised other directors for portraying clumsily. 

The reason I’m talking about this – and will talk about how old movies are useful when thinking about democracy, refugees and climate change in future posts – is that humans think in stories, and we arrange our lives according to the stories that we know. When people talk about stories that changed their lives, they usually talk about the ones that made them realise something was possible -- “even though I was a girl, I could still be a pilot,” for example.

Movies from this era did not show audiences that they were failures for not being rich, or that they could do anything they want; rather, they taught that everyone is dealt cards, sometimes bad ones, but that no matter how low you’d fallen, you were still somebody, and your actions showed who you really were. They said that even the worst of us can get better, and even the greatest of us can’t do much by ourselves, but together even the homeless and forgotten can move mountains.  

They let us know that we could scrape by and still have a good life – because if you had enough to survive, life wasn’t primarily about money. All these are useful lessons in any age, but we move into an age of greater scarcity, they will be needed more than ever.







Friday, 15 February 2019

The world-changing potential of hot composting

Photo courtesy of Wikicommons.

As long as there have been humans, we have taken the parts of plants we don’t eat and thrown them back onto the soil again, knowing it would turn back into soil to create more plants. Until we modern people came along, that is. 

Now we take our food and seal it away in plastic, so that the only bacteria that can work on them are anoxic bacteria that generate methane – a greenhouse gas about 35 times worse than carbon dioxide. The least we can do, obviously, is to throw compostables into the compost, let the proper critters munch away, and let it alchemically turn into soil again.

Ordinary composting, however, has some disadvantages that every gardener knows well. One can’t simply add bones or meat – and some gardeners even avoid eggshells – for fear of attracting vermin. Also, plants that have gone to seed cannot be added, or the resulting soil will be peppered with the beginning of next year’s weeds. You can’t add diseased plants, or the diseases might remain in the resulting soil, ready to infect next year’s crops. Also, it takes a long time, and one loses much of the kitchen waste volume in the process of rotting down.

Imagine, then, a new kind of composting, one that avoids all these problems at once – no more weed seeds, no more disease, no more vermin. Imagine being able to compost almost everything, and keep the majority of the biomass. Imagine, finally, that it only takes a few weeks.

What makes hot composting work is bacteria; instead of the usual variety of bacteria that breaks down over several months, hot composters find the right balance of materials – more on this in a moment -- to attract aerobic, heat-generating bacteria. Then, they oxygenate the soil by turning the compost regularly, and making sure the compost has enough mass – at least 1.5 metres on each side -- to retain the heat it generates.

The bacteria generate heat just as your body does -- between 55 and 65 degrees Centigrade, hot enough to kill any weed seeds and diseases, hot enough to drive away most vermin, and hot enough to feed their fast action.

With this so-called Berkeley method, you first fill a container of the appropriate size with kitchen waste – that’s a lot of waste at once, so you might want to get all your neighbours’ materials together in a communal bin. Leave the compost for four days with no turning.

Then, turn the compost every second day for the next 14 days, making sure to turn it thoroughly from the outside in to get everything well mixed. By the 18th day, it should look like soil – but you still need to let it rest for several more weeks before planting in it.

I mentioned the right balance of materials to compost; the ratio one looks for is between 25 and 30 parts carbon-rich waste to one part nitrogen-rich waste, proportioned by weight. Carbon-rich materials are typically dry and brown, like sawdust, cardboard, paper, dried leaves, straw and other, similar things. Nitrogen-rich materials are typically moist and fresh, like kitchen waste, lawn clippings and vegetable scraps. Sometimes carbon-rich materials are called “browns” and nitrogen-rich materials “greens” for simplicity, but these terms can be misleading: coffee grounds and animal manure, whatever their colour, would also be nitrogen-rich.

If the carbon/nitrogen ratio is too high in carbon, the compost will not get hot enough or break down quickly enough, and one must add something like manure or grass clippings. If the mix has too much nitrogen, rather smelly bacteria will take over, and the mix might get slimy.

To get the right C/N ratio, keep in mind that all plants have more carbon than nitrogen, so virtually all materials have a ratio of at least 1/1. “Browns” like wood chips have a ratio of 400/1, newspaper has 175/1, and straw has 75/1. “Greens” like vegetable scraps have about 25/1, grass clippings 20/1, and chicken manure has about 12/1. Urine has a ratio of about 1/1, and is excellent to add to soil in whatever way does not violate your social anxieties or local ordinances.

Not everyone can use this method; while I have learned about this and seen it work, our household does not generate enough waste alone; an entire suburb, however, could incorporate the refuse from nearby grocery stores, lawn clippings, mulch and other compostables into the mix, and make this work.

Composting this way eliminates the harmful greenhouse gases that most of our food waste emits, cutting back on climate change. It also generates heat that some people can use to heat their homes or water supply – I’ve seen a functional and quite comfortable outdoor shower in County Tipperary, powered entirely by the bacterial heat of a hot compost bin. 

Households in Minnesota, where I used to live, could spend perhaps $2,000 a year on heating. Imagine homes with hot composters attached, which can use their heat -- perhaps in conjunction with an attached greenhouse. Such simple innovations, if handled rightly by the households, would turn their waste into soil quickly at a time when we need more soil to plant in. It would cut their emissions from garbage and at the same time cut their emissions from fossil fuels, since they would not have to burn as much gas or oil. It would reduce their debt, and their dependence on govenrment and corporations, all at the same time. Few inventions could have more of an impact on our society, if widely implemented.