Monday, 19 February 2018

Hello Old Bean

For the first time, I have grown climbing beans, as opposed to dwarf beans. For a while, my climbing beans were entirely focused on climbing and not at all on beaning - despite producing masses of pretty red flowers.

Luckily, I remembered my much loved Uncle Colin and his practice of walking past trees that weren't behaving, carrying an axe. He claimed that the trees in question invariably got down to the job of flourishing, after glimpsing him and his axe strolling about handle-in-hand.

I wasn't going to take an axe to a beanstalk, of course, and I understood that they would recognise I wasn't serious if I started brandishing one nearby. Instead, I stood within their hearing and talked threateningly about pulling out plants that called themselves beans but did not produce any. Sure enough, they all instantly started five-year-plan levels of bean production, (that is five-year-plan projections, rather than five-year-plan real outcomes, needless to say). As a result we now have to go out there daily and pick heap upon heap of the things.

Which is great, provided you keep on top of the job and never miss a day's harvest. But I let things slip last week when we went off to Sydney for a couple of days. While we were away, the beans devised a new way of being naughty, camouflaging themselves behind leaves and secretly growing very long and hugely fat and, I suspect, stringy:

I bet they hoped I wouldn't pick them or eat them, but little did they know I'd actually been waiting for just such a think to happen, so that I could try out this method. I didn't want to experiment with tender young vegetables but tough, fat, overgrown ones I thought should be ideal. As soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to the kitchen to start the slow process.

Meanwhile, my favourite story about beans comes from The Vegetarian Option, by Simon Hopkinson, which I mentioned the other day*. This is it:

Really it is a story not about beans but about the difference between English and French culture. While I admire care being taken about food - concern about where it comes from, how it is prepared et cetera - I am sufficiently Anglocenteric to think that weeping over the tails on very tiny beans is the sort of thing that only Johnny Foreigner would countenance. Perhaps the opportunity for our youth to avoid this kind of contamination by effete practices is enough on its own to justify Britain's decision to renounce its membership of the European Union, with all that that entails.

*The Vegetarian Option is a really good book and always comes in handy at this time of year. Last night, having a surfeit of tomatoes, I made its recipe for "baked stuffed tomatoes, Paella style"; the night before, I made its "Squash and tomato masala"; both were wonderful. No recipe I've tried from the book has ever turned out to be anything else.

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

The Creativity of Twitter

Decades ago, when my aunt bought a colour television, my cousins and my brother and I would cluster around the thing and watch documentaries about how paint was made. That uncritical mesmerisation didn't last long, but I do think the Beatles's Magical Mystery Tour could have been boring had we not watched it in colour, (all right, I admit, I found it really quite boring, if mysterious, even with the addition of colour [in fact, I wonder if the secret to quite a lot of modern art isn't simply that it is mysterious; Beckett, for example, is almost entirely dull, but almost hypnotically peculiar).

Oh dear, as so often, I am getting off the point.

Back to my aunt, who quite quickly became concerned that, sitting there in front of the box, staring at its multicoloured pictures, we were allowing our brains to rot. Afraid of the power of her new possession, she began sweeping in and turning off the set. "Let's revive the art of conversation", she would announce as she did so, triggering a mass stampede upstairs to our separate beds.

Lately I've noticed an alarm about "screens" being expressed that reminds me of my aunt's worried cries about her colour telly. One example that springs to mind is the article I read yesterday in which someone described going into a university common room he used to frequent some 20-odd years ago. Then, the place had been full of the noise of talk and laughter; now it was quiet - although he counted 34 students in there, all of them were "staring blankly into their screens".

The assumption being made is that all 34 were passively absorbing the dreaded "social media", comparing themselves with their 367 Facebook "friends"'s uploaded version of their lives, or plumbing the depths of troll world on Twitter. It didn't cross the writer's mind that any of the people in that room might be a) learning Hungarian on their telephone; b) reading the Irish Times, the UK Telegraph, the Spectator or any other publication; c) taking a MOOC on history, music, art or anatomy (or any of the other countless subjects available on-line).

I've spent quite a lot of time waiting for a friend who is having medical treatment lately - and, as invariably happens with medical treatment, the doctors are ALWAYS running late.*  What strikes me about this is how different being kept waiting is these days, now that I am in possession of a dreaded "screen".  In the old days, if you were organised, (not me, not always), and you remembered to bring something to read, it helped, but, if you found what you had brought was actually quite boring, you had no alternative.  You couldn't carry around the enormous variety of time passing activities that, thanks to the telephone in your pocket, you can today. On my telephone, I have language learning materials; countless books, magazines and newspapers; music; audiobooks; and even some downloaded video programmes. It is impossible to become bored, and surely that is nothing but absolutely great. Waiting time is no longer wasted - I cannot see a downside.

Oh, but what about that horrid thing called social media, I hear you counter. Well, I only know about Twitter, and as I've mentioned rather often before, for me it is usually a source of delight.

My latest story of the benign side of Twitter happened last week. I found this absolutely charming article in my favourite newspaper, viz The Irish Times. I tweeted it and, inspired by that article, a Twitter friend sent me their own response:

"It sits, sturdy and proud, on its own table. The imitation brown wood covering looks much as it always did, and the sheer size of the thing means it cannot fit into what should be its home. It’s my National microwave oven, and it’s just turned 31 years old.
We go back, my National and I. Purchased by my parents not long after I was born, it was a pleasingly modern convenience in our brand new house, presiding over a kitchen that also boasted a Vulcan dishwasher. Learning to tell the time by our analogue kitchen wall clock, I found the National exciting. Its changing green numerals were the promise of the future. When I became old enough to appreciate such things, its touch button control panel elicited questions my mother hadn’t herself considered. Was she not stunned at its ability to count in minutes, tens of seconds, to powers of variable intensity, to ‘sense’, all with no apparent mechanical connection between finger and result? Like the pink frilly dress lady with the nice smile inside the National Microwave Cookbook, I was captivated by its abilities.
Thanks to its tank-like construction, the National survived its journeys with the family, from city to country to city, between five houses. An introduction to computers and games consoles meant the National’s technical wonders diminished for me, and it regrettably became just part of the furniture. Quietly and dutifully, it cooked peas for all, reheated the leftovers, and made a wondrous chocolate self-saucing pudding. Thanks to its impressive height, it swallowed the largest of dishes and made a larger pudding than the recipe stated. There were always leftovers.
Its size was its eventual undoing. The house to which my family moved, and in which my parents still live, had a space designed for a lesser oven. Its successor from the same Matsushita parent, a Panasonic, had more features in a slightly smaller size. What the Panasonic lacked, however, was Japanese manufacture. Nothing could make up for that, and all grieved the National’s passing into the garage.
A few years later, after the Panasonic had burned through its third light bulb (which could only be replaced by the service centre, of course), I fell ill; deeply and catastrophically ill. With the Panasonic still at the service centre (they didn’t hurry about fitting a new bulb), the National made its triumphant return inside, to the only place it would fit: the laundry bench. Even after its successor came home, it stayed. The irrationality that drove me at the time would not permit using the same microwave oven as everyone else. Too many germs, you see. Living on microwaved custard and porridge, I asserted ownership over the National. My parents didn’t mention sending it back to the garage; they were simply too relieved to have an eating son once more.
Several years later, I took the National with me. We left home forever, together, and set up in a flat. The supplied combination microwave and conventional oven, its cheap and nasty origins plain from first sight, could not touch the now elderly giant. The National has now sat, imposing and grand, on its table for nearly five years. In that time, it has witnessed more suffering, despair, human change, and triumph than any kitchen appliance should see. Once hidden from others in the secrecy of my home, it is now admired by new friends, who mistake it for a conventional oven. Its black door, with the 'Genius' pressed in silver on the lower left corner, has an air of mystery. As much mystery as a microwave oven can possess, of course. Not all of it, though, has survived intact. Last year, the interior light expired. It had never been replaced, and the only available (Chinese) substitute globe will die before the rest of the National does. As with all good design, the fix was simple. A screw, a flap, a twist, and there was light to lighten the platter once more.
It is trite and lazy to remark that things aren’t made as they were. Obviousness doesn’t diminish truth, though. Its duties these days are light; reheating only. I tell myself it’s because I’m a good cook, and good cooks use cooktops and conventional ovens. If I’m honest, part of the reason is an attempt to prolong life. It might be slowly killing me with excess radiation, but there will not be another microwave oven like my National. I will miss it when it goes."

Thanks to Twitter this lovely piece of writing came into being. How can that be bad?

*Don't the medical profession understand that their casualness about our time is what makes some of us avoid them wherever possible, for fear of having our entire lives subsumed by their hopeless time keeping and demands for punctuality on our part?

PS I should add that I have my Twitter friend's permission to include this enviably beautiful piece of writing here.

Monday, 12 February 2018

Peeling Groovy

I forgot to include Gerard Beaumont in yesterday's rogues' gallery. He was a Frenchman who stole an opera cloak and other clothing from the room of a woman he fancied but was acquitted after he argued that he stole the clothes to stop her dating his love rivals and asked the jury to think like a passionate Frenchman:

I have no sympathy, personally, especially as he already had a long "history of 'flashing' women", according to the museum's caption. You can't help admire him for cheek, I suppose, (if there is a double entendre there, it is entirely unintentional).

The two Barry McKenzie lookalikes on the left of this line up were arrested for breaking into a shop and stealing 25 pairs of boots, but acquitted because they were teenagers and first time offenders. Also possibly because they were rather adorable, if thick as two short planks?:

This young woman had the unique advantage of being the only woman in Sydney who managed to look even faintly attractive while wearing the appalling hat and clothing dictated by flapper fashion, (I've spared you the pictures of other less successful flapper cult members that were on display in the exhibition; the horror, Mr Kurz, the horror):
Unfortunately, the wicked creature used her good fortune for evil ends, seducing wealthy married men, who then were blackmailed by the man beneath her, (in the pictures, in the pictures - oh for goodness sake, you and your filthy minds). He had many irons in many fires and was all in all a very rough diamond indeed, nicknamed by the police, "the Grey Shadow", which is pretty poetic, for policemen.

And at last we come to the potato peeling conmen, William Papworth Willia O'Brien and Michael Keith Konz: 

They hatched an elaborate, if slightly ludicrous, plan whereby they set themselves up as something called "The Climax Agency", whose entire business was the flogging of potato peelers. The agency's targets were suburban shopkeepers who were appointed agents for "Climax", (please stop sniggering). Mr Konz effected this part of the business, persuading shopkeepers that it would be a huge boost for their business to sell potato peelers. This was quite a feat, if you think about it.

After he had managed his part of the transaction, O'Brien and Papworth would go into the shops, masquerading as "customers". They would order huge quantities of potato peelers. Konz would then collect money from the shopkeepers and supply the potato peelers. The customers, (O'Brien and Papworth) would, of course, never return, leaving the shopkeepers with a surplus of overpriced peelers.

If only it had been this time of year and the shopkeepers had had a bit of enterprise. Then they could have offloaded all those implements onto customers like me, grown desperate with the over supply of zucchini (courgette to English readers) arriving from their vegetable gardens on an hourly basis.  The shopkeepers could have told their customers about the brilliant way to use up those vegetables that involves a potato peeler, that is:

take zucchini, use potato peeler to slice it into numerous thin strips, scatter the lot with salt and lots of lemon juice. Leave to stand for as long as possible, possibly overnight. Add olive oil, ground pepper, lemon thyme, if you feel like it. Crumble over some Persian feta. Bob's your uncle.

The essential thing from the "Climax" agents point of view is this - you need a potato peeler. And the result is very good.

I think I will call it a Konz salad from now on. Or perhaps a Climax?

Sunday, 11 February 2018

The Specials

We went to the Museum of Sydney yesterday and saw an exhibition made up of photographs called "specials", taken of suspects by the Sydney Police in the 1920s. The photographs were taken on (with?) glass plates and, possibly as a consequence, they are very clear, as if you are looking through a window, not back into the past.

One thing that struck me was how well dressed everyone was then. For instance, there is a shot of four complete rogues, taken outside Central Station in Sydney:

They are Thomas Craig, Gregory Leonard Gaffney, ("Gaffney the Gunman, alias Raymond Neil), William Thompson and Francis Wilson. The picture was taken on 25 January, 1926, when as the caption puts it "These four thugs were picked up during a police raid on a gathering of underworld figures. Gaffney has his arm in in a sling, probably as a result of a fight with the police, Craig and Thompson had once assaulted a tram conductor, simply because he had asked for their tickets, Wilson was quick with his fists and was the only one of the four to be convicted of assuaulting police." They were arrested on suspicion of "being in a house frequented by reputed thieves"

Despite their roguishness, they all wear good suits, very good hats and polished shoes. I think it must have been much harder to distinguish who was trustworthy and who not in those days, if you were trying to use clothing to help you make your judgments.

Mind you, I could easily have succumbed to the lefthand man in this picture, even though he wasn't particularly well dressed. He was part of a trio of confidence tricksters, if memory serves me right:

He looks amusing and totally unreliable, always an attractive combination, when you are young.

Another man who I suspect may have posed a danger to young women looking for an object for their affections is this chap:
His name was Timothy O'Connell, alias (never a good sign, an alias, surely, let alone two), Tim F Connell, Timothy Trengrove. His picture was taken on 6th March 1920, when he was arrested for possessing housebreaking tools. O'Connell was, as his name might suggest, an Irishman. He came to Sydney via Western Australia. He was convicted of the charge and appears to have left NSW as soon as he was released from prison.

Many of the photographs are mysterious but hint at possible sadness:

This man, Harry Burston, was photographed in 1922. His offence is not known, but I find myself wondering if he was gay before you were allowed to be and possibly worried that his double life was about to unravel. Of course, he may have been a violent robber, for all I know, but his expression suggests to me that he is doing his best to hide a feeling of humiliation.

Other pictures just tell straightforwardly sad stories:

This is Julius Friedmann (alias G Cohen, Louis Ferry, Gordon Leigh, Robert Stevens, Robert Wilson, but let's give him the benefit of the doubt). His picture was taken on 27 February, 1922. The museum's caption explains that Friedmann was a German theatrical manager who "lived with his family in a furnished apartment in the harbourside suburb of Neutral Bay. During an inspection, the apartment owner discovered that most of the furniture had been removed. In court, hoping for leniency, Friedmann said he had pawned the furnishings to buy food for his family. He was sent to prison, where he died shortly afterwards."

But let's talk about happy - or happier - things.

There is the slightly ludicrous - or should that be admirable in his refusal to give in to disability? - Henry "Lightning" Hastings,  a pickpocket whose right arm was partially paralysed, which must have added considerably to the difficulties of his chosen career:

There is Albert Raymond Clarence Fulton who was arrested on 9 August, 1921, after "luring a young female typist to his office with a fake job advertisement and dictating an extract from a pornographic publication entitled Sadopaideia, which he then asked her to read back to him":

There is this trio, whose central figure was suspected of stealing a large number of possum skins:
Even he seems aware that the charge is comic.

Best of all though, for amusement (the exhibition had numerous pretty dark exhibits, but you will have to go to the museum or buy the very good book that accompanies it to see those), was the section devoted to confidence tricksters.

First up was this character who looks a compete dill to me, but obviously fooled quite a few people so may have had more charisma when you met him in real life:

His name was Alex Westland Robertson, but his alias was Mountbatten. In 1923 "he was arrested for stealing from his employer, but he was better known as a confidence man. He specialised in swindling women, convincing them he was single, rich and related to Lord Mountbatten, when in fact he was married, poor and had no connection to the aristocracy. He impressed his targets with 'diamonds' that he claimed were from a South African mine he owned - they were actually pieces of glass. Robertson persuaded many women to lend him money, having assured them that he was expecting to receive £30,000. He even became engaged to one rich heiress

Then came this trio, who "convinced their target to place bets on horses that Reid, supposedly a jockey, would be riding. The victim happily handed over his money but eventually realised that Reed was not riding in the races. At trial, the target was reluctant to explain what he was paying for (probably to fix the race) and all three men were acquitted".

Next up was Barbara Turner Taylor, (alias Barbara Bradley, Edna Gillespie, Edna Florence Gillespie, Florence Gillespie, Barbara Taylor, Barbara Tiernan, Barbara Tierney, Barbara Turner):

Turner Taylor was described "by police as the cleverest confidence trickster in NSW. She manipulated her victims with ease. She targeted businessmen and lawyers with tales of hardship, convincing them to lend her money. Compounding her victims' humiliation, Turner Taylor later wrote a book about her exploits, naming and shaming those who had fallen for her scams. She hoped her life story would one day be turned into a movie", (and I'm guessing it could still be an opportunity for a caper film or even a television series).

The world was full of dangers from scams in those days, and Henry Marchant (alias Henry Burke, Henry Joubert, John Marchant, Henry Wilhelm), was a master of one called the 'Dutch watch' scam:

Apparently, Marchant "would befriend a stranger, before his 'Dutch' accomplice approached, offering to sell Marchant a watch at a fraction of its supposed value. Marchant would ask his new friend to lend him the sum, promising to pay him back. He would then head off to fetch his wallet, leaving the watch as security. Merchant would not return and the victim would discover he had been left holding an almost worthless watch".

My absolute favourite of these stories in the exhibition relates to the Climax Agency, a group of three men who made large sums of money with a confidence trick involving, of all things, potato peelers. I will save them for my next post though, when I will explain how those swindled might have managed to recoup some of their money, provided they were swindled at exactly the right time of year.

In the meantime, I highly recommend a visit to the Museum of Sydney or, failing that, ordering the book that goes with the exhibition. Unfortunately though, with my usual thoroughness, I never noticed what the exhibition was actually called. Shame on me.

Monday, 5 February 2018

I See It Clearly

I met a friend at the National Library of Australia  the other day. The National Library is probably my favourite post-1960 building, and the day I was there the abstract stained glass windows by Leonard French were radiant, huge jewelled sections inserted into the building’s walls. I’d never seen them glow quite like that before.

There is also an abstract sculpture over the front door of the Library. When my children were small, I worked at home, transcribing oral history interviews, and Tom Bass, who made the entrance sculpture, was one of the people whose interview I typed up.

In his interview, he mentioned his distress about that piece of work of his. It is made of bronze, I think - certainly some kind of metal whose appearance changes with exposure to outside air over time.  He had designed it with the idea that its effect would derive quite significantly from its weathering, but the people in charge at the Library coated the whole thing in a glossy dark brown varnish, which makes it look heavy and ugly.

Anyway, my friend and I went to the bookshop, after drinking some coffee in the café, and I bought some books (my friend, shockingly, suggested I should note the books’ names down and go home and order them from Amazon - this is the way the world ends).

One of the books I bought was The Best Australian Poems 2017, which I’ve been going through bit by bit ever since.

In all honesty, I was beginning to wonder whether I’d invested in a dud though. Then I came to a poem by someone called David Brooks and suddenly the purchase seemed worthwhile. I so admire the way he creates a vivid scene with such economy. Alhough I am sitting on my verandah on a sunny 28 degree centigrade afternoon, I can see the thin rain, the mist, the cockatoos settling, and almost feel that cold:

The Night Coming by David Brooks

I was thinking it was cold, the heater
struggling against the draught,
and that there was nothing I could say, how
empty my mind was,
but then looked up and saw you
working in the paddock in the thin rain in your              
jacket against the almost-
evening of the trees
with the white dog at heel
and the four sheep grazing about you
and the sounds, through the mist, of the                      
settling in the high branches,
the woodshed in its winter sleep,
the five wild ducks
moving in single file through the grass.

If I came across that poem far from home, it would have me booking an urgent ticket back to Australia, overwhelmed by  homesickness

Sunday, 4 February 2018

Weird Little Marks

Lots of my friends like Cormac McCarthy. I have tried to read his novels, but I find them portentous and woolly-minded, (the two things often go hand in hand). If I needed confirmation that McCarthy is not all he is cracked up to be when it comes to writing, then this piece, which reports that McCarthy despises almost all punctuation, provides me with just that thing.

 I think what I find most shocking in the article is the fact that McCarthy is so arrogant that he boasts about removing punctuation and:

'paring down an essay “by Swift or something”'

when nothing written by McCarthy is going to last a tenth of the time that Swift's work has already - and it, unlike McCarthy's work, will, I'm sure, endure, (ideally without his tinkering).

People who proudly say they don't use punctuation, clearly don't understand what punctuation is for. Punctuation is not a decorative optional extra, it's not some kind of doily; punctuation improves clarity, and writing without clarity is not worth doing.

It may have been the woman who copy edits at the New Yorker who pointed out that commas are stepping stones that guide the reader through the river of a sentence. Whoever it was, she is absolutely right. Ambiguity is always ready to drown meaning, especially in English, which is a language that seems to lend itself particularly to ambiguity. Take the sentence that begins the paragraph before this one: if I'd written 'People who proudly say they don't use punctuation clearly don't understand what it is for',  it would have been ambiguous or even downright misleading. I actually don't much like the comma I have put there - my inclination would be to expand the whole sentence and say 'Those people who proudly say they don't use punctuation only say so because they clearly don't understand what it is for', but in the end I decided that that would be unnecessarily long and that placing a comma before 'clearly', even though it is a bit inelegant somehow, does indicate that the people I'm referring to are declaring their pride in not using punctuation, rather than their pride in using punctuation in an unclear manner.

Similarly, in the following two sentences, the absence of one of those things that McCarthy regards as a  'weird little mark' in the first leaves the meaning ambiguous, while its presence in the second makes only one meaning possible:

'I could tell she’d been crying because her face was red and ugly.'

'I could tell she’d been crying, because her face was red and ugly.'

After reading about McCarthy and his stupid ideas, I went off and started reading recipe books to calm down. Not any old recipe books, mind you; I turned to one of the best writers I know.

His name is Simon Hopkinson. He hasn't won any prizes for writing, I don't think, perhaps because he only writes cookery books. Even so, to my mind he is a great stylist and better than most of the feted authors of today. This tiny example of his prose, taken from The Vegetarian Option, exhibits Hopkinson's care with words and his meticulous use of punctuation. In the space of one sentence, he conveys a piece of information he has been given, while also making it clear that he has quite serious doubts about whether it is reliable or not:

Okay, it isn't earthshaking, but it also isn't ambiguous - and that's good enough for me.

Saturday, 3 February 2018

Book 4, 2018 - The Improbablilty of Love by Hannah Rothschild

Just after finishing The Improbability of Love I read an article in the Washington Post by Garrison Keilor, in which he describes accompanying his teenage daughter to a dance. When they arrived, he found that the kids were dancing to Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and Fats Domino. "It dawned on me", he observes, "that when rock-and-roll got all progressive and artistic and inward, something you listened to and tried to figure out what the lyrics meant, it lost the power to make people jump around and have a good time".

It seems to me that a parallel thing happened to the novel when Virginia Woolf and James Joyce and Proust and even the - to me - faintly baffling Henry Green got hold of it. Experimenting with plot, attempting to convey the flow of time and existence in all its glorious tedium became a marker of higher artistry, regardless of whether the results had the power to provide a good time.

One problem with this - leaving aside the thing I don't really like to admit, which is that I find Woolf and Joyce and Proust extremely boring (but, in my defence, I don't find Henry James boring, although most do; in addition, I believe he wrestled far more energetically with the problem of conveying experience than many of those writers I've mentioned, but that is probably an argument for another day) - is that writers who are immediately entertaining tend to be discounted, seen as of lower value than their experimental brethren. In my opinion, this is extremely misguided. Writing in a way that is accessible to many, if done well, is a great deal more difficult than the most "difficult" fiction. Easy reading is not necessarily easy to write, if it is any good. Creating characters that live in a reader's imagination, thinking up plots with resolutions readers care about, conjuring up whole imaginary worlds - and also writing without cliche but with perception and wisdom - is something remarkably few people are capable of. When it is done right, one of the best kinds of novel is the really entertaining easy-read.

And Hannah Rothschild has done it right. Somehow she has produced a book that could be recommended as a beach read while: being very well written, (no repetitive hackneyed turns of phrase or girlie nonsense); portraying nuanced relationships - most particularly that between the protagonist and her mother; raising difficult questions, (Nazism and Jewish reparations is one of the book's main themes; Rothschild's ability to introduce such dark and weighty topics without either treating them with lack of respect or destroying her book's tone is remarkable); maintaining a romantic plot line you care about; and providing quite a lot of art history to boot. The novel is highly imaginative and often funny. When I finished and looked the author up and discovered that she is Chair of the Board of Trustees of the National Gallery in London - in other words, writing fiction is just a sideline, rather than her day job - I was awed. Mind you, the article I read did mention that this novel took ten years to finish. That shouldn't be surprising though as, unlike so many novels these days, The Improbability of Loe gives the impression of having been created with great attention. I enjoyed it very much.

Wednesday, 31 January 2018

Words and Phrases - a Continuing Series

I am beginning to think that “with all due respect” is one of the most aggressive phrases in the English language. Any rival suggestions or opposing views, welcomed, (with, naturally, all due respect).

Sunday, 28 January 2018

Reasons to Tweet - a Continuing Series

The heading for this post is slightly misleading since my aim is to demonstrate what fun it is to be on Twitter, rather than what fun it is to Tweet, which I think is something that you should be very careful about doing very often, particularly late at night or after a drink or ten. My point is that, while Twitter is a much sneered at area of so-called social media, I think it is quite a good source of interesting information and quite a bit of harmless humour. Used with caution, it can be a great way of discovering interesting things, getting to know nice people and having a moderate amount of fun.

I have already included a few accounts of Twitter silliness on this blog - records of games played, in which participants thought up silly film names and so forth. Today though I want to write about an account that is very informative, (especially for someone who is geographically dyslexic, as I am), and simultaneously contains many amusing bits and pieces. It belongs to someone called Simon Kuestenmacher. He lives in Melbourne and on Twitter he calls himself @simongerman600. His account consists almost entirely of maps. Most of them are anywhere between moderately and extremely interesting. The example I'm going to talk about is at the trivial end of the spectrum I suppose, because I am a rather trivial kind of person. It is a map of the world that Simon tweeted recently, showing the tourism slogans each country uses to promote itself to potential visitors.

If you want to see the map itself, go to Twitter and search for @simongerman600. Below I have listed most of the slogans, with my own reactions in brackets beside them. They range from the totally inadequate and unimaginative, through many lame attempts at jokes to slogans that are unintentionally funny and onwards to those that are out-and-out mystifying:

Mexico: Live it to believe it (not necessarily positive)

El Salvador: the 45-minute country (????)

Ecuador: All you need is Ecuador  (unlikely, given I've lived this long without it)

Panama: Panama surprises (ambiguous)

Honduras: Everything is here (patently untrue)

Haiti: Experience it (not necessarily promising, I'd have thought)

Belize: A curious place (raises so many questions)

Dominican Republic: Dominican Republic has it all (See Ecuador and Honduras)

Bolivia: Bolivia awaits you (is it just me, or does that have a faintly threatening ring to it?)

Chile: All are welcome (well that's the migrant crisis solved)

Paraguay: You have to feel it (bossy and not necessarily positive

Argentina: Beats to your rhythm (as someone who entirely lacks rhythm, this is no recommendation)

Suriname: A colourful experience, exotic beyond words (rather verbose and the phrase "a colourful experience" sounds faintly euphemistic)

Venezuela: Venezuela is your destination (not exactly a sales pitch)

Brazil: Brasil - sensational (as is an electric shock)

Portugal: Europe's west coast (statement of the bleeding obvious)

Ireland: Jump into Ireland (is it possible to come by anything other than parachute?)

Switzerland: Get natural (so it's a nudist colony, is that what you are saying?)

Algeria: Tourism for everybody (Hmmm)

Gambia: The smiling coast of Africa (actually this is rather sweet)

Tunisia: I feel like Tunisia (it's a country, not a takeaway food chain)

Hungary: Think Hungary more than expected (come on, you lot are so clever, you can easily master English grammar, this means nothing and you know it)

Luxembourg: Live your unexpected Luxembourg (sadly I've been there and it turned out that what was unexpected was that it was a lot less picturesque and a lot duller than I'd imagined)

Netherlands: The original cool (but of course nothing that thinks itself cool ever is cool)

Italy: Made in Italy (there is a logical flaw there)

Slovenia: sLOVEnia (the Slovenians do love playing around with English and I suppose this is more successful than the Slovenian watch and clock company that calls itself SLOWatch)

Denmark: Happiest place on earth (they don't mention that it is also the country with the highest consumption of anti-depressant drugs, but there you go)

Belgium: the place to be (I don't know where to begin)

Austria: Arrive and revive (while it rhymes, it also makes a beautiful country sound like a motorway stopping station and a road safety campaign all rolled into one)

Slovakia: Travel in Slovakia - good idea (this is faultless although lacking entirely in sophistication)

Finland: I wish I was in Finland (who is speaking? Why do they wish they were there?)

Belarus: Hospitality beyond borders (once again, I sense menace, because I know enough about the regime there to suspect they might pursue me after I leave the country should I neglect to pay my bills or offend them in some other way)

Serbia: My Serbia (well fine, I won't come, I will leave you to possess it in peace, if that's how you feel about it)

Albania: Go your own way (once again, the fact that I have travelled quite a lot in Albania may be colouring my reaction, which rather tends to thinking that this is good advice since the roads are so lousy that you might just as well go cross-country)

Syria: Always beautiful (in current circumstances this is almost tragic)

Jordan: Yes, it's Jordan ( all right, keep your hair on, there's no need to snap at me, I'm not very good at reading a map and I thought it might be Lebanon)

Saudi Arabia: Experience to discover (again leaves so much to be read between the lines)

Tanzania: the land of Kilimanjaro, Zanzibar and the Serengeti (possibly the most sensible slogan of the lot - explaining exactly what you will get)

India: Incredible (do you see what they're doing there - In/In?)

Kazakhstan: the land of wonders (if they have them, why not take a leaf out of Tanzania's book and tell us what they are)

Russia: Reveal your own Russia (that could have been written by one of those academics who encourages you to believe that anything is a text and all texts mean whatever you want them to mean)

China: China like never before (puzzling, plus leaves you wondering whether it is getting better or worse)

South Korea: Imagine your Korea (I can do that while staying at home, possibly more effectively than if I've got the reality right in front of me)

East Timor: Being first has its rewards (are they implying that no one has ever gone there as a tourist before and they'd like to use me as a guinea pig, but therefore it won't cost much?)

Japan: Endless discovery (does that sound tiring, or is it just me?)

Papua New Guinea: A million different journeys (does that sound even more tiring?)

New Zealand: 100 per cent pure (is this an exciting prospect?)

Australia: There's NOTHING like Australia (thank the lord, can we please go home now)

Saturday, 27 January 2018

Book 3 - 2018: Reservoir 13 by Jon McGregor

I listened to this book in an unabridged Audible edition, and it is a book that very much suits the audio form. It is less a narrative than a flow of words, in which the author chronicles, in a tone that is not quite indifferent, the life of a village over a period of thirteen years, starting from the year in which a teenage visitor goes missing. The author's intention seems to be to present the ebb and flow of life in a small community, building up an understanding of the way in which time rolls on, demonstrating the insignificance of individual lives in the scheme of things and the mystery of human behaviour.

The writing is beautiful, and the book has a slightly mesmeric effect - at least if you listen to it; were I making the effort to drag my own eyes across its pages, rather than having it read to me, I suspect I might have grown bored with the novel's attempted refusal to get involved with any of its imagined characters. Leaving aside questions about why a novel that keeps its characters at a distance might be a novel worth writing, the attempt to do so is not successful anyway. Despite his efforts to remain at arm's length, the author cannot avoid favouring some characters over others, providing glimpses of some internal landscapes, while still barring us from the majority. For example, while Mr Wilson is never allowed an instant of inner reality, his neighbour Cathy is afforded that privilege in their interactions, which at crucial moments are described not from the lofty narratorial position that the author is usually aiming for but very much from her point of view. Similarly, only a small number of the village's occupants are actually given individual life at all. We are aware of a shadowy mass of others, via the regular passive statements of their collective awareness of who is seeing whom and what is going on.

One suspicion I had as I listened was that the author might actually find characterisation something that lies outside his range of talents. This suspicion was reinforced by a listen to some of the Reservoir Tales he has written for BBC Radio 4, in which he does provide closer looks at individual characters from the book; the ones I listened to struck me as flat and banal, detracting from the strange, enigmatic beauty which is the book's achievement.

In short, it seems to me that the author is almost completely successful in realising his ambition for the book, which is to portray life - both human and natural; the life cycles of fox families, the flowering patterns of wild flowers recur across the years - in a small community, but to eschew all effort to explain it. Whether such an ambition is worthwhile, I am less certain. The book seemed to me to have something in common with hyper-real painting, in the sense that it is hugely impressive, but shallow, detailed but lacking in depth. Despite the width of its canvas - the timespan of the novel is more than a decade - the book lacks sprawl and occasionally it crossed my mind that this might be how a novel written by artificial intelligence might turn out. McGregor can describe things beautifully; I hope in his next project, he will let his imagination run a bit freer and produce something a little less icily schematic and controlled.

Thursday, 25 January 2018

Half Seen

There used to be someone who wrote a really funny column about television for the Sydney Morning Herald. The piece of his that I have always remembered included the wish that there might exist (have I used the subjunctive correctly here? Such a worry), a piece of equipment that you could wear on your head while watching television; its function would be to shield you from things that you did not want to see.

The contraption the columnist imagined was something that would frame your face in much the same way that curtains frame the stage at older theatres. It would have a drawstring that dangled beside your temple - to the left or the right, depending on which you preferred.  When something you did not wish to be traumatised by seeing appeared on your screen, you would be able to tug on this drawstring, and instantly a pair of tassled brocade drapes would swing across in front of your eyes, protecting you until the horror interlude had passed.

I don't know what happened to that columnist; maybe he is off somewhere making prototypes of that excellent viewing aide that he dreamed up. I am fairly sure that what prompted him to come up with  the idea was his experience of watching possibly the most excruciating interview ever broadcast - that between Libbi Gorr and a drunken Chopper Read, which went to air live in 1998. The invention certainly would have been a useful thing to have with you, if you'd happened to be in front of the television that night.

Where it would be even more handy these days though would be at the cinema, where the indiscriminate portrayal of violence seems to occur more and more often and in contexts where you are least expecting it. A light comic film now will more often than not contain quite a lot of hitting and kicking - or depraved vulgarity, as in a film from a few years ago about bridesmaids, which included a scene in which one of the female characters crapped in the street. The latest offering to mix humour and hideous violence turns out to be  Three Billboards outside Ebbing, MissouriI went in expecting black comedy but I didn't understand that some judge scenes where humans are kicked and hit and chucked out windows or half burnt alive or have blood coughed over their faces to contain humour. My misjudgment meant that I spent quite a lot of the film's running time with both my hands in front of my face to hide the screen, wishing I owned the headgear imagined by that columnist all those years ago.

Friday, 19 January 2018

Things I Never Knew about Hergé

These is a lovely bookshop called Sotherans on Piccadilly in London. It is an institution, established in 1761, but it is also able to hold its own in the digital age, running one of my very favourite Instagram accounts.

Today on that Sotherans Instagram account, I discovered a whole lot of things I didn’t know about Hergé and Tintin in Tibet. It has always been one of my favourite Tintin books and this background only adds to my interest in it:

Thursday, 18 January 2018

Book 2 - 2018 The Fact of a Body by Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich

This book has two parallel threads - the story of the murder of a small boy by a pedophile neighbour - or rather the story of the pedophile himself - and the memoir of the author, who herself was sexually abused by her grandfather. I don't actually know how I came by this book, as its subject matter is not something I would have chosen; I'm guessing it was a present or left behind by someone who had been given it and couldn't face the subject matter. Anyway, despite the unpromising and far from appetising content, the narrative is quite gripping, even though finally not quite a success.

Despite Marzano-Lesnevich's best efforts to persuade us otherwise, there isn't really any strong link connecting the two threads of the book's narrative, beyond the fact that she is involved with both. The thing that sparks her interest in the murder element of the story is that, while training to be a lawyer and believing herself opposed to the death penalty, she comes across the case of the boy's murder and realises that, perhaps because of her own experience as a victim of sexual abuse, her instinctive reaction is that she does want the murderer to be given the death penalty.

She then abandons law school and pursues the story of the murder and the murderer instead. It comes to dominate her attention - and the story of the murderer's conception and life is truly remarkable and at times what I suppose might be called gothic. Placed beside it, the story of the author's family life is less interesting, perhaps partly because the author is unable really to get any insight into the various strange elements of her parents' behaviour, being possibly too close to be able to gain a clear perspective. However, the thing that is conveyed well, even if not entirely intentionally, is the damage sexual abuse causes, the way in which Marzano-Lesnevich is dragging this weighty pain around her, caused by a betrayal of trust at the heart of the family, the place where all children ought to feel safe.

Marzano-Lesnevich writes very well; it is the book's structure that does not work. There are hints early in the book that her family and that of the murderer are directly connected, which meant that I kept expecting some amazing coincidence to be produced - the murderer having been a classmate of hers or her siblings, or having mowed their lawns or been her grandmother's unknown bastard child. This would have justified the braided narrative. It becomes clear eventually that there is no amazing coincidence, that the connection is nothing more than the fact of the author's own abuse and her reaction to the possibility of a death penalty for a pedophilic murderer. She hopes, I suspect, to cast light back and forth between the two elements of the text, producing an insight into the phenomenon of sexual abuse from this juxtaposition. However, by the book's conclusion, sexual abuse remains as mysterious as ever, and her attempts to draw parallels where there are none - or only very tenuous ones - just become laboured.

I'm not sure if I regret reading this book. I feel slightly polluted by having thought about the various pedophilic acts described within its pages, but I suppose one ought not to hide one's eyes from reality. The vignettes Marzano-Lesnevich gives us of the crusading anti-death-penalty lawyer Clive Stafford-Smith are interesting and reinforce my suspicion that he is not without flaws. An examination of the philosophic arguments for and against the death penalty is not really forthcoming in this volume, which I found disappointing. But it was not a dull read and, although this achievement is often underrated, I think it is harder to beguile readers to keep going than many people realise and, if a writer has the gift for it, they should be saluted.

Wednesday, 17 January 2018

Sell Shells

It turns out that seashells are not such a bad bet after all.

Tuesday, 16 January 2018

There Should Be a Word For It

Lest anyone accuse me of only ever wanting to expunge new words from English, I've decided to start an occasional series of posts on words that I think are lacking in our language - and I'd welcome any suggestions from others, if they feel there are inadequacies in the vocabulary of our tongue.

The word that does not spring to mind today is the one that should exist to represent the all too regular, (for me at least), experience of visiting a place and seeing through a shop window a thing that I would really, really like to buy but being unable to because the shop is closed while the owners are off on holiday, or because it's Maria Himmelfahrt or early closing day.

So many treasures I couldn't have are piled up in my memory, more lustrous than they ever would have been if I'd been able to go into the stores where I saw them and pay and carry them off. Perhaps there should be a word for that too - the mind's gift for inflating the value of things it can't have. But perhaps that is covered by "nostalgia" or "longing" or "nostalgic longing" or "covetousness" or "romanticisation" or "idealisation" or "delusion".

Many would say that, however you describe the desire to possess things, that desire itself is just foolish, as possessions mean nothing, (you can't take things with you et cetera, et cetera). Those people though ignore the pleasure of living with things that you think are beautiful, things made long ago by skilled, patient, mostly unsung craftsmen and artists.

In addition, if you follow the logic of the "you-can't-take-it-with-you brigade", where exactly do you end up, because you can't take anything with you, including intangibles like love and learning and success? All human activity, from this perspective, is worthless and futile. While I'll happily agree that human activity, including -or especially- blog writing, is absurd, I don't think that means one shouldn't plunge on absurdly in whichever harmless way we choose.

Sunday, 14 January 2018

Things We Might Be Able to Do Without - I

Do we need the word 'functionality'? I believe it is quite new - or perhaps it was just rarely used in my youth, (or I was well sheltered). Possibly - fingers crossed - it is still not in favour, outside  bureaucratic circles. But is that actually much comfort? With the rise of the managers - eurgh, bleurgh, scourge of modern life - bureaucratic circles are spreading ever wider, especially in government towns like the one I half call home.

In this place, which overflows with civil servants, 'functionality' is considered a very acceptable piece of vocabulary.  Passing the pub on the corner, I overhear it uttered in conversation among drinkers. In the aisles of the local supermarket, clerks, meeting each other unexpectedly, prop themselves against the shelving and compare notes on the 'functionality' of their - I suspect often totally unnecessary - schemes.

Does it mean efficiency? Does it mean feasibility? Does it mean anything? Is the problem the functionality of functionality or the functionality of my brain?

Saturday, 13 January 2018

Close in Affection*

We were burgled a year or two ago, and still there are things that we are struck with the loss of; not  the big much-loved objects - the paintings especially - that shocked us immediately with their disappearance, but tiny silly things that had only sentimental value and that it's taken us this long to think of and start to miss.

Since the burglary, my older brother has died, and since his death I've noticed that something similar is happening in connection with my loss of him. It turns out that bereavement is another kind of robbery, except that you have something more precious than objects taken - and, sadly, as time progresses the sense of loss does not get smaller. Instead, you are struck more and more by the many different tiny ways in which your daily life has been diminished and what exactly has been removed.

Grief I now understand as a longing, a perpetual, truly felt "wish-you-were-here". Life continues, of course, you talk and read and eat and generally keep going. But sadness is there, at your shoulder, taking the place of the person who has gone away.

*"We had always been very close in affection" - my brother, writing about his relationship with me in his memoir, Light & Shadow, by Mark Colvin, published by Melbourne University Press

Friday, 5 January 2018

Something Lovely

In an article about why there will be no more series of The Detectorists (something I very much hope is not true), this lovely piece was mentioned. I think it is beautiful.

Thursday, 4 January 2018

Book 1 - 2018: Henry Green, Loving

My younger brother once recommended Henry Green ridiculously highly, which is why I chose this book. Not hating it, but not overwhelmed either. Will go into more detail about how it struck me when I have more time, but in the meantime would hugely welcome comments from others who have read the novel.

Wednesday, 3 January 2018


The other day I had to telephone the tax office to find out my tax file number. I spoke to an absolutely exceptionally nice girl called Huong. She gently pointed out to me that I did not file a tax return in 2010 and I should have done. Instantly I became panic stricken. "What will happen to me?" I shrieked at her, "I haven't got any papers from that far back; how will I be able to file anything that will satisfy the tax commissioner?"

"Don't worry", she told me, "we have all the information, here at the tax office; I can call up your details on our computers and give you everything you need in order to fill out your form." She proceeded to do that, and we spent a happy (?) forty-five minutes together running through my various taxable sources of income for the year in question. She supplied me with all the figures and details I needed and then posted me the form the tax office needs me to fill in.

It was only as I was laboriously copying onto the form the information that Huong had kindly provided that it occurred to me to wonder whether this was a sensible use of anybody's time. Providing the tax office with information that I am only in possession of because the tax office has been kind enough to give it to me is a task of such circularity that Escher's Ascending and Descending springs to mind.

Tuesday, 2 January 2018


I have thought for a long time that writing is all about decisions - what to include, what to exclude, how to position each word and phrase. Therefore, I reason, people trying to fill jobs that call for "proven decision makers" should certainly consider writers, regardless of whether or not they hold MBAs from Harvard Business School.

While moving house recently, another parallel between writing and real life struck me. I discovered that the best way - at least for me - to approach the dreary business of unpacking was simply to dump in a particular part of the house all the things that more or less belonged in that approximate area. Once that had been done, I could begin to sort out the muddle, to transform the chaos into something approaching order. 

It strikes me that a similar approach to writing projects can be effective. When I faff around, afraid to get started on an assignment, sometimes the only thing that works is simply to dump all the things I think I want to say roughly where I think I want to say them on my piece of paper and then go back and sort them out. While the first draft is then a horrible semi-articulate jumble, it is at least something with which to work. If instead I try to arrange things perfectly from the very beginning, I never get anything finished. I don't know why this is or whether it is just something that happens to me, but it certainly seems to be a pattern that works well in my situation. Does anyone else find the same - that it is necessary to make an untidy heap at the beginning, which can then be sorted through, to create a beautifully orderly room or argument?

Or faintly orderly in my case, in both applications, to be honest.

Incidentally, before I finish, I should like to make clear that I do not approve of any sentence that suggests that anyone should "unpack" an idea. And no, I would not like to unpack my reasons - I just don't.

Monday, 1 January 2018

New Year Puzzle

As it is the first day of a new year, I am feeling more than usually conscious of time. Perhaps that is why, when I heard someone say “back in the day” this morning, I found myself wondering:

1. How far back? Just over the threshold into the recently finished year, the one before this one, or actually a long way back, back in the mists of time?

2. Which day? When you say “the” day, do you mean the day you were born, the day you started school, the day you moved out of home, the day you got married or had a child or got a job, or what?

3. And, while we're at it, "in"? "In the day"? What? Do you mean "during the day" (and here I return to question 2, with renewed bafflement).

Clarity. Meaning. Am I asking for too much? I’m sure I remember that we used to take such  things for granted. Back in the day.

Thursday, 28 December 2017

Words Matter

After On Body and Soul, with its scenes of long suffering cattle, waiting to be slaughtered, this poem by Les Murray seems perfect.

The poem and students' reaction to it is mentioned in this interesting article, which, despite its use of the Marxist term "capitalism" (I would substitute "business practices where profit is the solitary motive, rather than the triple bottom- line", but I acknowledge that that is less catchy) makes, among other things,  an excellent argument for the great importance of ensuring that everyone has the opportunity to be taught how to read, write and think.

Tuesday, 26 December 2017

Channeling My Inner Mary Whitehouse

The gentle men over at Nigeness have been worrying their baffled way toward some understanding of the behaviour uncovered via Weinstein and #metoo. Their conclusion is that the death of manners is to blame, which may be partly true. Certainly, vulgarity is applauded and even encouraged now, so far as I can see, and vulgarity is the antithesis of good manners.

But, looking specifically at the Weinstein-esque actions that so many people are now describing and abhorring, it strikes me that the forward rush toward crassness over the last 50 or 60 years, especially the depiction in much televisual/film entertainment of sex as a pastime, something without psychological resonance for the participants, may have been one thing that triggered the behaviour that is now beginning to be revealed as widespread.

The American film industry portrays sex more and more graphically, blurring the private and public, suggesting this intimate activity is one more element in the life-as-performance approach we are increasingly encouraged to adopt, rather than a wordless form of communication conducted between two individuals at a psychologically somewhat mysterious, because inarticulate, level. In pursuit of providing us with this particular form of explicit "entertainment", the film so-called "industry" has increasingly required its actors and actresses to possess unusual, possibly unreal, degrees of beauty and fitness. The fact that there is always a supply of actors and actresses willing to slim themselves and dye bits of themselves and do whatever else it takes to comply with those requirements is an indication that there are always lots of people who are willing to accept their own objectification and become complicit in a fraudulent game that makes many feel inadequate. Which is not to say that the various actrines who are now giving us blow-by-blow accounts of how and where and when they have been pawed, by whom et cetera didn't suffer or did deserve their treatment; it is, merely to say that the whole set-up within which they chose to work was at least mildly exploitative already, even if they were not quite bright enough to join the dots.

In this context, one of the many reasons I like Ildiko Enyedi's film On Body and Soul is that it presents another view of sexual love than that thrust upon us by Hollywood. The Hungarian director's tale describes a love between a man and a woman that is both bestial and tenderly romantic. Glamour in this movie is in marvellously short supply. For more, I wrote a brief review and posted it here.

Monday, 4 December 2017

Battered Penguins - The Last Tresillians and A Use of Riches by J.I.M. Stewart

For a long time I have had a couple of novels by an author called J.I.M. Stewart in my bookshelves. I bought them out of interest, because someone in my family used to know Stewart - or at least was taught by him.

Stewart was a don at Oxford - and also, I now discover, a professor of English at the University of Adelaide for many years before joining the English faculty at Oxford. He is best known as Michael Innes, which is the pseudonym he used to write a series of charming whodunnits about a policeman called Appleby, a character who, perhaps unsurprisingly, strikes the reader as rather more a don than a copper.

The books that I have read that were written under Stewart's actual name are novels of ideas, slightly reminiscent of Angus Wilson, (who he refers to at one moment), with a faint element of Aldous Huxley's non-dystopic novels. They are dated now, in the sense that the Britain that they portray is mono-cultural, peopled almost exclusively by characters who are upper middle class - artists, academics, senior civil servants and art experts - with the occasional aristocratic Continental thrown in for a bit of colour. A statement such as this one, which appears in A Use of Riches:

"From late spring to early autumn spans the Englishman's Italy"

would, at the time, it was written, only have been true of a very small proportion of Englishmen. Thus, it reveals the breadth - or lack thereof - of the author's canvas; the majority of the English population in 1957 were not in a position to get to Italy at any time of year.  Similarly, when it is related that a character reflects on an old friend's observation about him that "like all Wykehamists, he regarded virtuous discomfort as the summum bonum achievable by man", there are so many assumptions about what the reader is familiar with that it is hard to know where to begin.

I mention all this utterly without resentment - I find the atmosphere and milieu of the novels very soothing, conjuring up the world of my childhood - and only because reading such a book makes me notice how much has changed. Having a novel with such a narrow social perspective published these days would, I suspect, be out of the question. I suppose the same could be said of Middlemarch or Anna Karenina, but Stewart's books are very nearly contemporary - a mere 50-odd years old - and yet they seem very much to have been written in another era.

The books that I have had for so long and have now got around to reading are A Use of Riches, published in 1957, and The Last Tresilians, published in 1963. Neither was unentertaining. Neither was entirely satisfying. Each, peculiarly, turned on the idea of an artist losing their mind in the later part of their career. More broadly, both were preoccupied with art itself, its function - (at one point a character in crisis goes to see some frescoes by Piero della Francesco, to see whether they were any use to "a London banker in a great state of personal anxiety" and discovers that they aren't) - its meaning, whether producing it allows a personality to transcend the bounds set for non-artists.

The first of the two I read was A Use of Riches. It concerns a couple who are happily married until the wife's first husband turns out not to be dead after all. The first husband is an artist and he has become blind. The second husband, Rupert Craine is profoundly unartistic; this is how we are introduced to him:

"Ruddy and iron grey, clipped and brushed and polished, he might have been a general who had made the common move from commanding regiments to directing companies."

However, he is very intelligent, perceptive and a highly sensitive consumer of beauty, "he possessed a flair that way", although he is a little ashamed of it: "The Medici, he ... thought, were the last bankers not to look absurd when operating at all noticeably on such territory".

The twists and turns of the story are myriad and I won't go into them here as the book, although not entirely resolved is a pleasant read and I don't want to spoil it for anyone. However, I will quote some of the more memorable moments, including that in which Stewart points out that the feeling Craine and his wife feel most strongly after receiving the news of the survival - or resurrection, at least into their lives - of the first husband is "excitement", something Craine distrusts, even though, as Stewart points out:

"It might be called, in either of them, a biologically healthy response to their new situation. When anything firm comes unstuck, when the static turns fluid, when not the sun but a question-mark sails up over the horizon one day then this undertone of excitement, distinguishably pleasurable, even if what one largely faces is calamity, represents simply the wholesome knowledge that one isn't dead, that one has powers to call up and perhaps even quite surprising possibilities to explore."

As well as being an interesting dissection of a feeling, I think this passage reveals the dense and serious tone of Stewart's writing, as strange today as the clipped accent of a newsreel commentator from the 1940s or '50s.

I also enjoyed the distinction Craine makes between musical talent and the talent of a visual artist:

"'You see', Craine went on, 'the ordinary man doesn't, as he moves about, ever hear in Nature something uncommonly like a fugue or a symphony. But he does from time to time see something uncommonly like a picture.'"

and the recognition, already in a way raised in the reference to the Medici, that money and art are more interlinked than most artists care to admit:

"innumerable works of art would never have been executed if rich men had no fondness for possession".

There is a scene reminiscent of Dostoevsky in which a character sees a horse being beaten with a shovel and then later being given a nosebag and left in peace. When it ends the character thinks to himself:

“From beating to beating the creature carried, conceivably, no more than a dim sense that the universe has its unkindly moments. In humans … we call that displaying a good nervous tone. It's how one gets along – more or less ignoring or forgetting until the great shovel is again about one's head and flanks.”

At the time I read it, I had just witnessed someone going through great physical trials and this made a great deal of sense to me.

There is a description of a train journey that reminded me how pleasant travel by rail can be:

"The train was luxurious, and the dinner timed to occupy the greater part of the smooth swift run through darkness to Florence. He ate it conscientiously, and exchanged a few sentences in his careful Italian with an elderly man in the opposite seat. When the train stopped at Picaenza, he could glimpse on the platform people still buffeted by the wind."

The Last Tresilians contains a charming love story, sent awry in part by events in the past. It centres again on an artist, although this one has been dead for some time. I found it more disturbing and less straightforwardly enjoyable than A Use of Riches, because it has sexual elements that I found troubling. However, once again it is intelligently written and full of well imagined characters;  JIM Stewart was very talented in his ability to conjure up characters and also in his descriptive powers. An example of the latter is this imagining of a London apartment, that reminds me vividly of the depressing one I used to go to sometimes with my father to visit my great-aunt Nell:

He "found himself in a cavernous hall. It was compounded of Turkey carpeting, chocolate-coloured paint and massive bronze objects - these last preponderantly human, substantially unclothed, and frozen in gestures which seemed part athletic and part inspirational. From the ceiling there depended a chandelier ..."

I'm glad to think that such places no longer exist.

Similarly striking is the description of a don's view of punting students: "undergraduates in their touching ephemerality."

While I don't think in either book JIM Stewart quite resolves the questions he poses, he does throw up some stimulating ideas - does the assertion put forward by one character that "Good writing is rarely a matter of tenuous differences" have any basis, for example? When he gets onto something he really knows about, such as the inner workings of the minds of dons, he is fascinating, as when he has a character called Littlejohn muse thus:

"Dons are inherently conservative. And, equally, they are inherently Philistine. It is a thing chiefly to be remarked - he added grimly to himself - among some of those who give themselves airs of taste. The speculative intelligence - it comes down to this - is radically inimical to the imaginative and aesthetic. The thing is evident in the current architectural chaos. It has long been evident in those university disciplines that march, willynilly, along with any manifestation of the creative mind. Consider - Littlejohn told himself - the university's senior litterateurs, steeped since childhood in an education conceived precisely as Addison or Johnson conceived education, who so ludicrously back the wrong horses in every department of the contemporary and developing artistic or literary scene."

I am glad to have read both books, I enjoyed the process. I may well seek out other JIM Stewarts, if I find them for under £1. Perhaps not a resounding cry in favour of literary resurrection but not as feeble as it may first appear - I am after all stating that I am happy to spend many more hours in the company of this forgotten novelist. And time, after all, is a precious commodity, especially when one is as ancient as I am.

Sunday, 3 December 2017

Stuck Up

I have a pair of earrings that I bought on impulse, which is, by the way, something that I almost never do. I am of the, "Hmm, I think I like that, but I need to think about it" breed of person. Mostly I come back two weeks later and look at the thing I've thought I might like, and then a month after that I visit it again and then, at last, six and a half months after first seeing the object, I wake up gripped by a desperate urge to buy whatever it is.

As you can imagine, this method saves a lot of money, as very few things remain in shops for such a long time - and, indeed, in the case of these earrings I'm going to tell you about, the shop itself - one of those all round knick-knack businesses that sell nothing anyone actually needs, but on the other hand it was on Bong Bong Street, (yes, really), the main street of Bowral, which is a town where people are so wealthy they are no longer in the realm of actual "needs" when out shopping - vanished.

I think my hesitancy about taking the plunge and laying out hard cash in shops arises from a time when I was very young and working in a fairly miserable job in a dole office, while finishing off a degree in Russian at Melbourne University. Perhaps I could say that it arises from a trauma I suffered while doing all of the above? Perhaps.

Anyway, trauma or no, while I was definitely not poverty stricken, I also wasn't paid very much, and I greatly disliked the work that brought in what money I had. Despite this - or maybe because: was unhappiness the motivation; who knows, the human mind is a very strange thing - on my lunch break one day, when I saw a pair of jeans with red piping sewn onto them in a pattern, I bought them immediately.

As I say, I wasn't left poverty stricken; nevertheless, when I took the trousers home and tried them on I immediately realised I'd made a blunder and wasted money that I'd actually earned the hard way. I have no idea what I can have been thinking at the time I bought them as I don't even really like denim - too stiff and heavy - and I certainly don't like wide leg trousers and these were so wide that each leg seemed almost to be competing to see if it could measure the same side to side as from top to bottom. I can only think that somehow I'd allowed myself to be seduced by the scarlet piping pattern that some jolly seamstress had spooled all over the wide blue sea that spread out from knee to ankle on each side.

I never ever wore those trousers, not even in private. I kept them for years though, and every time I glimpsed them at the back of the cupboard I became more reluctant to make a shopping decision quickly. When they finally vanished, victims, I imagine of one of my mother's unauthorised clear-outs, (and thereby hangs a tale), it was too late; they were embedded in my being.  To this day, they still haunt me, despite no longer existing - or at least not existing in my possession. To be truthful, I am shuddering slightly even as I write about them now.

Shakes self. Where was I? Oh yes, the earrings that I bought on impulse. Yes, they became two of my favourite possessions, of all time - and that despite the sneaking suspicion that they are not actually elegant nor fall within the category that includes things that are deemed to be good taste. Somehow this doesn't stop me liking them. I think it is their colour, (could there be a pattern emerging - the red of the piping fooled me and now the blue of the shiny crystal on my earrings beguiles me to forget about elegance and good taste, when generally I am at the vanguard of those two things, hem hem). Loving the earrings as I - rightly or wrongly - do, imagine my sorrow when the other day I trod on one of them and the little gem that hangs from it broke off.

The earrings were cheap, I should point out, but their price was irrelevant. They were cheap, but to me they were invaluable. Therefore, there was no choice: I needed to fix them; I couldn't live without them in my life - or, more accurately, my ears. So today I finally got to a hardware shop and bought some glue to stick metal surfaces together. As soon as I got the stuff home, I got out the broken earring and followed the glue's instructions, trying to refasten the sparkly blue jewel part to the bit that hangs it off my ear. Almost immediately, I struck a problem. It turned out that there was no instant bonding to be expected - the two surfaces needed to be left together, undisturbed over several hours, so that the glue could set and they would be permanently (barring further idiocies on my part) rejoined.

How was I to manage this? Try as I might I couldn't find a way to get the wiry hanging bit of the earring to sit in a position where the gem I was trying to glue back onto it didn't get pushed off to one side or the other.

But years of watching Blue Peter came to the rescue. I may never have managed to create a truly successful Dougal from the Magic Roundabout (an empty Fairy Liquid bottle, plus scraps of wool were the basic ingredients), but at least I absorbed the make do and mend approach. Remembering that this morning I had thrown away a mandarine that was getting a bit inedibly squashy on one side, I retrieved it, took a knife, made a slit, and hey presto, I had a perfect holder for my earring while the glue dried. Just in case the mandarine should roll in any direction, I also retrieved a hard plastic case that had contained some Medjool dates and wedged the fruit securely into one of its sections:

Let no one ever say that watching television is a waste of time.

Monday, 27 November 2017

True Crime

I love the crime fiction of what is called the Golden Age - the books by Margery Allingham and Dorothy Sayers especially. Of course, I've always known, vaguely, that they have nothing whatsoever to do with anything that happened or happens in the actual world I live in. I've also been vaguely aware that there are many people now who have a passion for another kind of crime narrative called "True Crime" but until I looked at a couple of BBC documentaries about detectives working in the Manchester police, I didn't realise how sad and complex true crime stories can be.

In the two documentaries that I saw, the Manchester police were working on two cases. The first involved trying to work out who had killed a young homeless man who was found bashed to death in an area underneath some arches in the city. There he and various others of about his age who had somehow lost their way in life and succumbed to idleness, drugs and drink, had established something they thought was a kind of home. None of the people involved seemed irredeemably depraved, just lost and so hopelessly misguided that getting back to anything approaching a stable existence seemed unlikely. They were people's children but, for whatever reason - either never having themselves had stable homes or perhaps just wilfully - they had tumbled out of normal life. Yet they imagined they had established some kind of little tribe or team, a band of brothers (and one sister), until one night violence broke out, pointlessly, senselessly, and one of them was savaged to death by the others.

The second case also involved homeless people but the victim was not homeless, just extremely confused. He was a young student who, for whatever reason, began to try to hang round some drunks who spent their time in an open space in the city centre. The student told the drunks he had started to like wearing women's clothes. Possibly he also came along dressed in women's clothes - this wasn't made absolutely clear.

Anyway one of the drunks became very angry and chased the student away, with threats of violence. The student disappeared for a while but, when he turned up again, the drunk who had chased him away decided to pretend not to mind him and even asked if he could come to his house for a shower. When the student agreed and the two went to the place where he lived, the drunk murdered him. He then gave himself up to the police, explaining that he knew he would do it again and he wanted to be locked up.

This murderer was a wretched soul, but he had the redeeming quality of being able to stand outside himself. He had done a terrible thing but I found it astonishing that he was able to recognise that there was one part of his personality that he couldn't control and, puzzlingly, given the deeply immoral thing he had just done, to make a moral choice to prevent himself from ever doing such a thing again. The film included a poignant sequence in which we saw this man talking to his mother on the telephone, comforting her, telling her that she must always have known this would happen, that he'd always been a wrong 'un, persuading her that he had to be locked up as he didn't want to kill again and knew he couldn't stop himself.

This was so puzzling - a man who was capable of great evil, who had committed an act of great evil, who believed he could not prevent himself from repeating that act, but who also did not want to commit evil. Thus, in the same body, there existed two contradictory impulses, and he was attempting to overcome the evil that was part of him by having himself locked up.

These were not entertaining stories, there was none of the sense you get in Agatha Christie of a perfect world, its calm shattered briefly by violence, but by the end everything mended and made orderly again. This was reality, not escapism, this was the messiness of human beings and our strange nature. These stories were much more intriguing, of course, than the entertainments featuring Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. All the same, an evening on the Orient Express was, on the whole, the more enjoyable experience, while I recognise that all we were being given was a beautiful pantomime.