In this "sidebar" from his memoir Moab Is My Washpot (1997), British actor, author, and humorist Stephen Fry explains why he harbors no anger toward the teachers who beat him--frequently, with great swats of a cane--during his years at Stouts Hill School. Although he does not argue in favor of corporal punishment, Fry insists that "the men who beat me were not swine" and the punishments "at least had the virtue of being over quickly."
On Corporal Punishment
from Moab Is My Washpot, by Stephen Fry*
We are living in a statistically rare and improbable period of British life. The last twenty years are the only twenty years of our history in which children have not been beaten for misbehaviour. Every Briton you can think of, from Chaucer to Churchill, from Shakespeare to Shilton, was beaten as a child. If you are under thirty, then you are the exception. Maybe we are on the threshold of a brave new world of balanced and beautiful Britons. I hope so.
You won’t find me offering the opinion that beating is a good thing or recommending the return of the birch. I frankly regard corporal punishment as of no greater significance in the life of most human beings than bustles, hula-hoops, flared trousers, side-whiskers or any other fad. Until, that is, one says that it isn’t. Which is to say, the moment mankind decides that a practice like beating is of significance then it becomes of significance. I should imagine that were I a child now and found myself being beaten by schoolmasters I would be highly traumatised by the experience, for every cultural signal would tell me that beating is, to use the American description, a "cruel and unusual punishment" and I would feel singled out for injustice and smart and wail accordingly.
Let’s try--and God knows it’s hard--to be logical about this. If we object to corporal punishment, and I assume we do, on what grounds is this objection based? On the grounds that it is wrong to cause a child pain? Well, I don’t know about you, but when I recall childhood pain, I don’t recall the pains of toothache, a thrashed backside, broken bones, stubbed toes, gashed knees or twisted ankles--I recall the pains of loneliness, boredom, abandonment, humiliation, rejection and fear. Those are the pains on which I might and, still sometimes do, dwell, and those pains, almost without exception, were inflicted on me by other children and by myself.
I have paused on this subject of corporal punishment because the issue is so culturally loaded today as to be almost impossible to inspect. It comes in so many people’s minds very close to the idea of "abuse," a word which when used within ten spaces of the word "child" causes hysteria, madness and stupidity in almost everybody.
I know that had I dispassionately described to you the use of the cane without any comment, without summoning counsel for a conference in chambers, then many of you would have wondered what I was up to and whether I was entirely balanced. You will have to form your own judgements, but try to understand that when I think about being caned for repeatedly talking after lights out, or for Mobbing About In The Malt Queue, and other such mad prep-schooly infractions, I feel far less passion and distress than I do when I think about the times I was put into detention for crimes of which I was innocent. If it should so happen that you could prove to me that one of the masters who beat me may have derived sexual gratification from the practice, I would shrug my shoulders and say, "Poor old soul, at least he never harmed me." Abuse is exploitation of trust and exploitation of authority and I was lucky enough never to suffer from that or from any violation or cruelty, real or imagined.
It is a cliché that most clichés are true, but then like most clichés, that cliché is untrue.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will always hurt me.
Bones mend and become actually stronger in the very place they were broken and where they have knitted up; mental wounds can grind and ooze for decades and be re-opened by the quietest whisper.
Selected Works by Stephen Fry
- The Liar, novel (1991)
- Paperweight, nonfiction (1992)
- The Hippopotamus, novel (1994)
- Making History, novel (1996)
- Moab Is My Washpot, memoir (1997)
- The Stars' Tennis Balls [titled Revenge in the U.S.], novel (2000)
- The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within, nonfiction (2005)
- Stephen Fry in America, nonfiction (2008)
* Source: Moab Is My Washpot, by Stephen Fry, published in the U.K. by Hutchinson (1997) and in the U.S. by Soho Press (1997).
