English science fiction writer Michael Moorcock recalls that his mother always protected him to the last, explains why he no longer worries about death, and shares the secrets of raising children and grandchildren.
My mother was a chronic liar. I realized early on that her truth was always far from what others were saying. As they say in Texas, where I now live: «She would rather climb a tree to lie than stay on the ground and tell the truth.» She talked about traveling to places she had never been, and appropriated someone else’s experience.
My mother firmly believed in freedom. And her mother, by the way, too. Mom was an ardent defender of individuality. Once I stuck a dead rat down someone’s drainpipe, the police came. Mother followed the officer and asked endlessly: “Why did you come and waste time here? Have you never been a boy yourself?” She was amazing, protected me to the last.
I had to be the father of my own mother — it was very strange. But I didn’t mind playing the part because I had a strong sense of responsibility for it. From time to time she tried to manipulate me, but I quickly learned to assert my rights.
My father left when I was four. His mother never spoke badly of him, except to say that he loved motorcycles more than we did. And it was true. In fact, they were the only ones that interested him. Once he even traded my railroad for a motorcycle. After his death, I went to his house and was terribly surprised to notice that all his tools were laid out in perfect order. I am his complete opposite: completely disorganized, like his mother. I have trash everywhere.
I was an only child, but I had cousins. Our family covered an incredibly wide social cross section. I remember I enjoyed visiting my Uncle Jack, who worked at the Prime Minister’s official residence. During my childhood, there was no gate in front of the building at 10 Downing Street, and tourists came close to the front door. I liked to pull back the curtain and watch them raise their heads at the same time, as if on command, hoping to see Winston Churchill.
I had a close friend, Brian Alford, who was like a brother to me growing up. He often lived with us, because his father — our neighbor — did not particularly care about the boy. My wife Linda invited him to my 60th birthday party in Texas, which she hosted while I was traveling to England to bury my mother. When, two days after the funeral, I got to this grand celebration, Brian was the main surprise for me. It was so wonderful to see him again! That party was a success: everyone was there. Just like I was at my own funeral. So now I don’t have to worry about death anymore.
- Family dinner: small performance around the table
My mother’s boyfriend was a married Austrian, Dr. Jelinek, who became her friend and mentor. At home, he was engaged in scientific research, but left because he was half Jewish. Until 1939, he traveled between Germany and Austria, buying Jewish prisoners from the Nazis and transporting them to safety. He himself never told me about it. The best thing that happened to me was the passing of my father. In second place is the appearance in my life of Dr. Jelinek.
With my first wife, Hilary, we had two daughters, Sophie and Kate, when I was not yet thirty. Max showed up a little later. When we broke up, I moved across the street to take the kids to school. Now my son works as a director of a kindergarten, one daughter is a teacher in an elementary school, the other is a journalist specializing in the legal field.
I support egalitarianism. Everyone has the right to walk, breathe, defend their opinion, live their own mind. We did not prohibit children from alcohol and drugs. When they were teenagers, we often went to a bar together. And if they asked for beer, they got it. Thanks to a liberal upbringing, the children got an idea of uXNUMXbuXNUMXbthe “forbidden” things and, having matured, treated them quite calmly. None of them had problems with alcohol and drugs.
I really liked being a grandfather — this is power without responsibility. I have three grandchildren: Alex is 14, Tommy is 11, Bobby is 10. Now I live in the States, and therefore I don’t see them often. Perhaps the only thing I regret when I left England is that I don’t see how they grow up.
As a grandfather, I am a little different from myself as a father. At a family dinner recently, one of my grandchildren said, «Grandpa, please don’t give your mom any more marijuana!» To which I replied: «My boy, I never gave your mother marijuana — I always only sold it to her!» My children are used to this sense of humor, but my grandchildren are not. My eldest remembers being taken backstage at concerts by the rock band Hawkwind, with whom I worked as a lyricist and lead singer for a while. One day during a performance, I heard someone shout from the front rows: “Old hippie bastard!” And when the concert ended, the children asked: “Did you hear us? We were screaming!»
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