Winter IV. London fog

Intro & Preface & Contents

Previous: Winter III. Personal charity

... I woke this morning to find the land covered with a dense mist. There was no daybreak, and, till long after the due hour, no light save a pale, sad glimmer at the window; now, at mid-day, I begin dimly to descry gaunt shapes of trees, whilst a haunting drip, drip on the garden soil tells me that the vapour has begun to condense, and will pass in rain. But for my fire, I should be in indifferent spirits on such a day as this; the flame sings and leaps, and its red beauty is reflected in the window-glass...

I think of fogs in London, fogs of murky yellow or of sheer black, such as have often made all work impossible to me, and held me, a sort of dyspeptic owl, in moping and blinking idleness. On such a day, I remember, I once found myself at an end both of coal and of lamp-oil, with no money to purchase either; all I could do was go to bed, meaning to lie there till the sky once more became visible. But a second day found the fog dense as ever. I rose in darkness; I stood at the window of my garret, and saw that the street was illumined as at night, lamps and shop-fronts perfectly visible, with folk going about their business. The fog, in fact, had risen, but still hung above the house-tops, impermeable to any heavenly beam. My solitude being no longer endurable, I went out, and walked the town for hours. When I returned, it was with a few coins which permitted me to buy warmth and light. I had sold to a second-hand bookseller a volume which I prized, and was so much the poorer for the money in my pocket.

... I recall another black morning. As usual at such times, I was suffering from a bad cold. After a sleepless night, I fell into a torpor, which held me unconscious for an hour or two. Hideous cries aroused me; sitting in the dark, I heard men going along the street, roaring news of a hanging that had just taken place. “Execution of Mrs.” -- I forget the name of the murderess. “Scene on the scaffold!” It was a little after nine o’clock; the enterprising paper had promptly got out its gibbet edition. A morning of midwinter, roofs and ways covered with soot-grimed snow under ghastly fog-pale; and, whilst I lay there in my bed, that woman had been led out and hanged -- hanged....

Alpha.

Smog is a type of air pollutant. The word "smog" was made in the early 20th century as a portmanteau of the words smoke and fog to refer to smoky fog. The word was then intended to refer to what was sometimes known as pea soup fog, a familiar and serious problem in London from the 19th century to the mid 20th century. This kind of smog is caused by the burning of large amounts of coal within a city; this smog contains soot particulates from smoke, sulfur dioxide and other components. Modern smog, as found for example in Los Angeles, is a type of air pollution derived from vehicular emission from internal combustion engines and industrial fumes that react in the atmosphere with sunlight to form secondary pollutants that also combine with the primary emissions to form photochemical smog. The atmospheric pollution levels of Los Angeles, Mexico City and other cities are increased by inversion that traps pollution close to the ground. It is usually highly toxic to humans and can cause severe sickness, shortened life or death.

-Wikipedia.

(I'm glad to say I had nothing to do with writing that Wiki entry. For one thing, I would have written that smog can cause severe sickness, a shortened life, or even death. But I do like the idea that severe smog can shorten death.)

It’s curious that he doesn’t mention London smog as being a reason for his moving to the country or, once again, about the smell. The thought of all those people building coal fires to cheer themselves up on especially smoggy days is more than a little depressing, though understandable. I lived in the San Fernando Valley (north of Los Angeles proper) during the mid-’60s when their smog was particularly bad. I’m sure people did drive even more on particularly smoggy days as exercise was even more daunting than normal. One summer I was taking a middle school class at a distant school. I had to ride a long way on my bike and often the smog was so bad it caused my eyes to burn. I would ride with one eye closed and switch off when the open eye started stinging too much. The smell of ozone was also quite strong. During our Indian Summer here, we sometimes will have a few days when the wind blows from the land toward the sea, instead of the usual other way around. On those days I can smell the ozone and am strongly reminded of those bleak days of my youth. And yet I still have a weakness for SoCal. In my mind I picture it a bit as Ryecroft does Italy, or the way Thomas Mann describes the Mediterranean in Hans' dream in "Snow." Actually, the dream in "Snow" works best, as SoCal is both an earthly paradise and a hellmouth.

And the next time someone laments the decline of print journalism, ask them when was the last time their paper bothered to put out a gibbet edition.

Next: Winter V. Self regained.