Anne Frank and us

The challenge of preserving art for posterity

Miep Gies, who died on Monday at the age of 100, was one of the few remaining people who had known Anne Frank. It is thanks to her that Anne's diary survived, after she collected the pages when the secret annexe was discovered and hid them, in hope of Anne's return, until Otto Frank came back. As The Diary of a Young Girl has never been out of print since, has sold millions of copies and has become a wider symbol of the Holocaust, it is difficult to imagine that, but for Gies, it could have easily been lost.

Many famous works have entered posterity by the skin of their teeth. Part of a Sappho poem was reused as an Egyptian mummy bandage. Diego de Landa and Bartolome de Las Casas preserved Mayan and Aztec oral culture by getting it down on paper. John Heminges and Henry Condell determined the way Shakespeare's plays have been handed down to us by having them included in the First Folio. By choosing The Marriage of Figaro for a performance, Joseph II prevented Mozart from carrying out his threat to burn the score. The Marquis de Sade's 120 Days of Sodom was missed by the rioters who stormed the Bastille where he wrote it. Kathleen Noonan stopped her father, Robert Tressell, from incinerating The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists after three publishing rejections by keeping the 1,600 hand-written pages in a box under her bed. The environment has also acted as a preservative; the Dead Sea Scrolls survived in dry desert caves for over a thousand years. Because of this, valuable links remain, through which we may reconnect with the past.

In the age of e-books, which lack the fragility of paper, but also their preciousness, and the Espresso Book Machine printing thousands of titles on demand in a few minutes, it may look as if the danger of literary vandalism has passed. But new threats to world's literary legacy and future will emerge. In a quiet act of friendship, Gies demonstrated how fundamentally fragile art is and how both its creation and survival depend wholly upon us.

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The radio station where the loyal listeners are chickens

Emma Hills, the head chicken trainer at Giffords Circus, knows what gets them clucking.

“The music is for the chickens, because of course on the night the music is very loud, and so it needs to be a part of their environment from the very start.” Emma Hills, the head chicken trainer at Giffords Circus, is standing in the sawdusty ring under a big top in a field outside Stroud as several rare-breed chickens wander freely around boxes and down ramps. They are the comic stars of the summer 2017 show, and Emma is coaxing them to walk insouciantly around the ring while she plays the early-morning show on Radio 1.

It’s the chickens’ favourite station. There seems to be something about its longueurs, combined with the playlist, that gets them going – if that’s the word. They really do respond to the voices and songs. “It’s a bit painful, training,” Emma observes, as she moves a little tray of worms into position as a lure. “It’s a bit like watching paint dry sometimes. It’s all about repetition.”

Beyond the big top, a valley folds into limestone hills covered in wild parsley and the beginnings of elderblossom. Over the radio, Adele Roberts (weekdays, from 4am) hails her listeners countrywide. “Hello to Denzel, the happy trucker going north on the M6. And van driver Niki on the way from Norwich to Coventry, delivering all the things.” Pecking and quivering, the chickens are rather elegant, each with its fluffy, caramel-coloured legs and explosive feather bouffant, like a hat Elizabeth Taylor might have worn on her way to Gstaad in the 1970s.

Despite a spell of ennui during the new Harry Styles single, enthusiasm resumes as Adele bids “hello to Simon from Bournemouth on the M3 – he’s on his way to Stevenage delivering meat”. I don’t imagine Radio 1 could hope for a better review: to these pretty creatures, its spiel is as thrilling as opening night at the circus. Greasepaint, swags of velvet, acrobats limbering up with their proud, ironic grace. Gasps from beholders rippling wonder across the stalls.

Emma muses that her pupils learn fast. Like camels, a chicken never forgets.

“I’ve actually given up eating them,” she admits. “Last year I had only two weeks to train and it was like, ‘If they pull this off I won’t eat chicken ever again.’ And they did. So I didn’t.” 

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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