INSIGHTS FROM A PERSON OF QUESTIONABLE SANITY

A tragic climax: the horrifc murder of the popular fiction writer Arnold Baffin

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 15:02:00 +0000

By Opti

The murder of the prolific popular writer, Arnold Baffin, has shocked the nation. ‘Who?’ you may ask but those who knew him and liked his work are intense in their devotion. Among his titles are: The precious Labyrint, Tobias and the Fallen Angel, A Skull on Fire and my personal favourite – Mysticism and Literature.

What made this murder of the ‘wonderful’ writer all the more chilling was that it was committed by an intimate friend. Bradley Pearson, a 58 year old retired tax inspector and a failed writer with a fixation with Hamlet, has been arrested for the murder of his friend, his literary rival and protégé. The police found Arnold Baffin dead in his home, his skull slightly indented by a large fire poker. They found Arnold’s blood and hair on the poker, and Mr Baffin’s blood on Bradley Pearson’s shoes which places him at the seen of the crime.

Rachel Baffin, the unhappy and unfulfilled wife of Arnold, in an interview revealed how Bradley Pearson was a rather dull and rude person, envious of Arnold’s success as writer and constantly critiqued Arnold’s work. This short paragraph from a recent review of Mr Baffin’s work, by his friend and murderer (what an oxymoron!) reveals their different attitude to art:

"Arnold Baffin is a fluent writer. He is a prolific writer. It may well be this facility which is his own worst enemy. It is a quality which can be mistaken for imagination. And if the artist himself so mistakes it he is doomed. The writer who is facile needs, to become a writer of any merit, quality about all; and that is courage: the courage to destroy, the courage to wait."

From the outset the police could not understand why anyone would want to hurt Arnold Baffin, a man who was as ‘harmless as a fly’. Mr Baffin’s wife, Rachel Baffin, provided the police with two motives. She claims that though Mr Pearson was a cold and distant man, he was never violent and that he must have been driven to this horrendous act out of not only envy, but vengeance.

Vengeance for what you may ask.

Bradley Pearson, 58, had a love-affair with Julian Baffin, 20, daughter of the victim. It was Mr Baffin who tore the lovers apart, revealing Mr Pearson’s true age; Mr Pearson had told Julian he was ten years younger.

However, it was not the revelation of his true age which killed their relationship but rather the revelation that Mr Pearson had sex with Julian Baffin – who at the time was dressed as Hamlet, for the first time immediately after he heard about the suicide of his mentally distressed sister, Priscilla Saxe; a death for which Mr Pearson is partly responsible because of neglect. What a piece of work is a man! Naturally the naïve and foolish Julian Baffin fled the very next morning after having refused to leave Bradley Pearson the night before when her father had revealed some home truths. To flaming youth let virtue be a wax.

Did Bradley Pearson truly love Julian? His diaries and his letters – which we were granted an exclusive look at, revealed an intense love for Julian, but how much of this was just simply lust misunderstood? After all, his diary revealed that on their first ‘proper’ date at the restaurant in the Post Office Tower that a sort of giddiness filled him, locating itself primarily in the genitals.

Far more important is the question did Bradley Pearson really the commit murder? A deep throat source has suggested that actually Bradley Pearson had undergone a transformation because of his love for Julian; that is he became a better, a more generous man than he was. This deep throat source has also revealed that Mr Pearson has been framed for the murder and is only keeping silent to protect someone he loves. A final shocking revelation from this deep throat is that our beloved Arnold Baffin was not as ‘harmless as a fly’ but rather a violent man, as his wife’s often bruised face and eyes testified.

Could this be true? Could Bradley Pearson actually be innocent? The mind boggles. Is this a grave miscarriage of justice?

To find out, please read ‘The Black Prince’ by Iris Murdoch, available from Vintage Classics.

Fooled you.

For never was a story of more woe than this of – sorry, wrong play.

Famous Frontal Development ...

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 15:14:00 +0000

The doorbell rings.

A semi –drunk (who could tell the difference?) Phil Mitchell slouches off the couch and looks outside through the window. Like a bad horror movie no one is outside. He assumes it is kids playing tricks.

The doorbell rings again.

Frustrated, he opens the door and shouts ‘I know who you are!’ in a drunken stupor. He wobbles down two steps, ‘I know who you are the next time I see ya, I’m gonna turn ya backside, do ya hear me?’ Half of Walford probably did mate.

He turns his pack and wobbles up the steps and …imitating some sort of 70s spy movie, the head of a gun peaks out of some leaves.

The gun is fired by someone hiding,

Cut to Phil Mitchell leaning against the wall. He touches his chest, his face twists in agony, he rolls down the steps and falls on his face. He convulses a little, raises his head and with blurry eyes looks about him – does he see the killer run off? Is he dead? The sound of a train gets louder before it mingles with the iconic theme tune which to me has always sounded like somebody using the bald head of the Mithchell brothers as drums.

An epic moment in Eastenders? Probably the last decent storyline in it.

Who shot Phil Mitchell? Come on, out with it, which bugger messed it up and didn’t finish the job?

What I can tell you is that it wasn’t Becky Sharp.

WHO?

Because Becky Sharp isn’t the kind of girl who would mess up a job like that, she’d do it properly, she’d blow him to pieces of chunky raw meat in blood gravy and feed it to her spaniel. Atta girl!

Vanity Fair, an epic triple-decker bus length , contains the essential ingredients for a good soap; from morally corrupt characters to ridiculous self-important oafs to murders and plenty of sex. Becky Sharp, regardless of whether Thackeray intended his audience to like her, is perhaps the most memorable character in any medium of fiction – on paper, on screen (as long as she is not played by the cute Witherspoon) and stage. Not provocatively clad in leather, latex and boots but in Victorian style dress, Becky Sharp possess the brains, ambition and ruthlessness that few women are blessed – or plagued, with. And of course add to that combination - her infamous looks – ‘Green eyes, fair skin, pretty figure, famous frontal development’ (chapter 19). Famous frontal development? With all due respect to her - why did Witherspoon play her I wonder.

It is ‘a novel without a hero’ because almost every character has a ridiculous fault within their nature. Even the insipid and passive but sweet and virtuous Amelia Sedley, who still loves and grieves over her dead and worthless husband. She, however unconsciously, selfishly exploits William Dobbin, the only gentleman in the novel and who has been passionately in love with Amelia Sedley since the moment he sets eyes on her. But he is indeed a true gentleman and never acts on his feelings because Amelia is in love and engaged – and then married through his help, to his close friend George Osborne. But I find that Dobbin has faults too, he is a bad judge of character - he fails to see George Osborne for what he truly is; and then he wastes his affections on Amelia and by the end of the novel realises that he has wasted his entire life pursuing someone who is not worthy. And if I'm completely honest his perpetual self-sacrifical attitude annoyed the hell out of me sometimes. Maybe it's the 'modern' woman in me but he should have been a bit more...'manly'. That's it. He should have declared his feelings much sooner and just generally be a bit more dominant and forceful. Women like that sort of that thing - just read any self-help book.

Amelia is juxtaposed against Becky Sharp throughout the novel, even from the opening chapters. In the first chapter both girls leave Miss Pinkerton’s school for ladies with a very different future ahead of them. Amelia was loved by all and treated as an equal whereas Becky was isolated and disliked because of her social status – the orphaned daughter of an opera singer and a poor artist. The difference? Money of course. Becky herself thinks half way through the novel that with five thousands pounds a year she could be - could be - could be - a good woman.

Rebecca Sharp, the indomitable quintessential anti-heroine, sacrifices all in her path, from husband to friend to son, for her ambition, for money and a place in society. Without a mother to secure her future (as so many mothers found their daughters a rich husband – who must be in want of a wife), Becky Sharp must secure her own future. She almost snares Joseph Sedley, brother of Amelia, early in the novel. Failing that she begins to work a governess to Sir Pitt Crawley’s daughters. His sister, Miss Crawley, is my second favourite character, after Becky, in the novel and one of the few people in Vanity Fair who see through her act. Thackeray out-classes even Dickens in his caricatures. Miss Crawley is a rich old hypochondriac, morally rebellious and has an irrational fear of death – not surprisingly when all her relations are waiting for the moment she keels over so they can have her money. Becky acts as a nurse to her and during that time the old woman becomes attached to her charms and wit and her constant mocking of others. It is during her contact with the Crawleys she meets her future husband – Rawdon Crawley, the son of Pitt Crawley; the heir and favourite of Miss Crawley. He falls in love with Becky Sharp, however, on her part she feels nothing but secretly marries him because his aunt will leave him all her fortune.

However, Miss Crawley is somewhat of a hypocrite. She praises unequal marriages but becomes angry when her nephew makes an unequal match with Becky Sharp. Although she dotes on Becky Sharp and think she is good enough for her brother Sir Pitt Crawley (after Lady Crawley dies), she thinks Becky Sharp is not worthy of her nephew, of her favourite. She becomes outraged when she hears of their clandestine marriage,; that her favourtie should marry a penniless governess and right under her nose too!

Her quasi-rise and success, and her subsequent fall and demise mark Rebecca Sharp as a truly remarkable character. She redeems herself a little at the end of the novel in her only selfless act - towards her old friend Amelia by exposing George for what he truly was. Amelia, under Becky's revelation about her quondam lover, can now let go of the past and stop hero-worshipping her husband; and is able to grasp with both hands her last chance of happiness. Even at the end of the novel the stark differences between the two girls stands. For example, Amelia is younger, and as Gilbert K. Chesterton remarked in 1909:

she has not lost her power of happiness; her stalk is not broken [...] But the energy of Becky is the energy of a dead woman; it is like the rhythmic kicking of some bisected insect [...] The life of the innocent, even the stupidly innocent, is within; [...] Thackeray’s thought is really suggestive; that perhaps even softness is a sort of superiority; it is better to be open to all emotions as they come than to reach the hell of Rebecca; the hell of having all outward forces open, but all receptive organs closed (Bartleby).

Thackeray weaves several plots together like a master craftsman with one common purpose – to expose human folly. Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, despite its length, never gets dull and is a must read, not just for the cheap thrills that a soap can provide you but - far more importantly - for the lessons we can deduce from the text. He removes the thin fragile shroud characters use to cover their true motives and nature to expose a selfish and morally corrupt set of people who fail in their aims in the end; who under false labours pursue what they think they want the most - what they THINK they want the most - after all – ‘Vanitas Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? Or, having it, is satisfied?’

My magic white chair which holds an ongoing scrumptious pile of books

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 14:38:00 +0000

Contrary to popular belief, I have a very large bedroom. Filled with - what I call valuable treasures, what my dear mother calls clutter. The nerve! I'm always worried that I will go home, up the stairs, open the door and wham! It's tidy and empty. It's very tidy, believe me. Just not her version of tidy. If she had her way I'd be left with minimal furniture and no computer or bookshelf, if she's in a good mood she might leave the bed alone!

Next to my dressing table is a magic chair. Forget magic beans, you want this chair. It's white, rickety (is that a word? Should it be crikety? Someone should let me write the dictionary). Where was I - ah, my magic chair.

This magic chair is really vulnerable which is why it is never in use. When you sit on it you always get the impression that any minute now, really, any second now the legs will give away and scenes from your childhood movies will come alive. But it's a magic chair.

It can take the weight of about twenty books.

But not human weight.

I pile books, a handful I don't own (but not stolen), I want to read sometime soon on this chair. And I work my way through it. The problem is that this pile gets bigger and bigger every week. And still the chair does not give away. They must have a mutal understanding, the books and the chair. Sounds like a Chekhov short story doesn't it? 'The Books and the Chair'.
'You're staring to get too heavy for me.' The chair said one day to the books.'Blame it on Dickens' Plath moaned as she looked down from the top of the pile. Should she jump? It's not a bad way to go. Maybe the guy - what was his name? James something, Henry James - maybe he would catch her. Their paths crossed yesterday. They had a brief conversation about the weather. But when she'd got back to the top she got the impression - like she always did after a conversation with him, that he meant something entirely different. She wished the silly man would just say exactly what he meant.

Here's what the pile looks like on 20th January ('R' means I've read it before but I don't feel like I've 'finished' with them - ever get that feeling?) :

Vanity Fair by W. M. Thackeray (R)
The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky
The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch
The Time of the Angels by Iris Murdoch
The sea, The sea by Iris Murdoch (R)
The sea by John Banville
Loitering with Intent by Muriel Spark
The Driver’s seat by Muriel Spark
Memento Mori by Muriel Spark
The Ambassadors by Henry James
Wings of a dove by Henry James (R)S
aturday by Ian McEwan
Atonement by Ian McEwan
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Espedair Street by Iain Banks
The Bridge by Iain Banks
The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
A passage to India by E.M. Forster
The world according to Garp by John Irving
The story of Edgar Sawtelle by D. Wroblewski
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemmingway
A thousand splendid suns by Khaled Hosseini

The Guardian 1000 books everyone should read series

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 12:59:00 +0000

1000 novels everyone must read: Love
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...-love-part-one

1000 novels everyone must read: Crime http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...crime-part-one

1000 novels everyoone must read: Comedy http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...omedy-part-one

Breaking News: Angelina Jolie, too busy reading 'Great Expectations', to have sex with husband

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 16:02:00 +0000

Gotcha!

There were rumours - of doubtful veracity - that Angelina Jolie used IVF treatment because she couldn't wait for Brad Pitt to do his part like a dutiful husband but I doubt that act of desperation was because she was too busy reading Great Expectations to have sex with her husband; Hard Times maybe but certainly not Great Expectations. Whether they're having sex or not is not really our business - however important that impotent knowledge may be to our meaningless existence. I've got to be honest - I don't see what is so attractive about Brad Pitt (except maybe in Meet Joe Black) but Angelina Jolie on the other hand - not the 'hottest' in Hollywood in my humble opinion but....*wolf whistle*. That's something for another post, or another blog altogether.

I know instant gratification is the norm and that you came here to read some salacious sensual account of Jolie and Pitt's sex life - which turned out to be rather anti-climactic but you're here now so you might as well stay till the end. Do you really want this to be yet another thing you never finish? I won't be long, promise.

Recently I had a copy of Great Expectations on my desk at work. A colleague remarked 'Great story' and nodded her head with such force that Mr Wemmick's 'aged parent' would be proud of. I, delighted that here was someone who had read such an amazing book and we could share our mutual admiration for it, asked her quite innocently I assure you, 'Have you read it?'. And then came the not so funny punchline - 'Oh no, but I've seen it. And loved it. Wasn't Ethan Hawke just amazing?'

And we left it at that.

If she hadn't mentioned Ethan Hawke and let me thought she meant the 1946 version rather than the buffed up modern version I might have held her in higher regards. So she hasn't got round to reading the book, I would have reasoned if I was in a good mood, but at least she's seen the movie, a true classic in its own right, but no, she'd seen the dumbed down modern version - which is tolerable at best. And I thought to myself how awful it was that people were missing out on a true gem here.

Those who know me intimately will laugh that I of all people am championing the case for Dickens. We've not always had an easy relationship to say the least. In my worst mood I'd call him a show-off (true) and a man who wrote excessively, far more than necessary - also true. Why wasn't he more busy trying to fight off the many illnesses which plagued people at the time? And he is a rather peculiar looking man with candy floss hair but let's not get personal.

However, in a good mood though I would call Dickens a prolific writer, the master of eloquence, in possession of an excellent sense of humour and a most vivid and original imagination. Believe me when I tell you, like Jane Bennet (and Darcy of course) my good opinion is rarely bestowed (like all worthless pseudo-critics). In light of that revelation my compliments may seem more complimentary.

I know his books are long. But worth the read. I know there are words you don't understand - but that means not only is it entertaining but also educational - spoken by a true geek. I don't mind people who have a read a few of his novels and not enjoyed them; you'd probably escape with a few fingers missing but we've got too many anyway. What I do mind is when people call him a bore without ever reading any of his novels. What I'd like to know is how they came to that conclusion. If you've not read anything by Dickens then Great Expectations is a fantastic place to start. I've read it so many times I've lost count. And each time I'm reading it I'm trying to work out what is it exactly that makes this book as good as it is. It's like magic. You try and try to find out how the magician did the trick but try as you might just can't.

The novel is written in first person and charts the life, the 'great expectations' of a 'nobody', of Philip Pirrip, self-named Pip. His parents died when he was an infant, as well as his five siblings - 'who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle' - just an example of Dickens' wit. He was 'brought up by hand' by his silly cruel sister and her kind husband. One day in the marshes he meets a convict who threatens to kill him unless Pip feeds him and helps him escape. Pip, though consumed by guilt, does so but the convict is caught soon after this incident.

Pip is taken by his Uncle Pumblechook to Miss Havisham's gothic house to 'play'. Miss Havisham is a weird eccentric who stays only in the dark, wears an old wedding dress (now slghtly yellowy) and keeps all the clocks in the house stopped at the same time. She deliberately exists 'out of time' in that she has no knowledge of what month or day or time it is. There, at Satis House, he meets Estella, the adopted protege of Miss Havisham. She is beautiful, proud and cruel. Exactly what Miss Havisham teaches her to be. Later on in the novel it is revealed that Miss Havisham was jilted by her lover on her wedding day and that Estella, wanted and admired by all, is her weapon of revenge against men. Miss Havisham teaches her to be cold and distant, to flirt and trap men, like a spider (fitting then that she marries the man Mr Jaggers calls 'Spider') but never to be intimate and loving. What is remarkable is to the extent to which Miss Havisham succeeds.

Estella is cruel and merciless in her treatment of Pip. She knows he idolises her and at one point even makes him cry. Miss Havisham, pleased by her protege's progress, watches on and encourages by drawing his attention to her beauty.

Pip dreams of being a gentleman one day and being worthy of her. He is miserable with or without her, miserable of his life at home because he knows it will only repel Estella and confirm her opinion of him as common.

By a strange reversal of fortune, Pip is adopted by an anonymous gauridan and all dealings are conducted through the lawyer Mr Jaggers. He is taken to London, educated and spent upon by his anonymous guardian to make a gentleman out of him. Pip at first assumes it is Miss Havisham who is his mysterious benefactor; that she is making a gentleman out of him because she has intentions for him to be with Estella. So you can imagine the extent of his despair when he finds out that his mysterious guardian is not Miss Havisham. My lips are sealed now, anymore would give too much away and ruin the novel for you.

I think Great Expectations is one of those universally relevant novels which will always be relevant. Like Miss Havisham, it exists out of time. I think we've all felt inferior to someone we've admired at one point or another and looked for ways to be make ourselves more 'appropriate' for them. A modern example would be pretending to like something we don't in a desperate attempt to impress them. We've all felt quite content and happy with our existence until an event or a person has made us open our eyes and from that moment all that which held colour previously becomes black and white and disgusts us. Like Pip, we've all dreamt of being more than we are, of social mobility, of money and all its 'virtues'. Pip's enduring hope in the face of harsh reality is admirable and human. Even at the end - the revised ending and not the original, which I found ambiguous but more comforting than the original, Pip hopes for something ('no parting' from Estella) which is in no way confirmed. But he hopes and perhaps deceives himself - like we all do - and continues to have 'great expectations' - like we all do. I may sound sentimental but this is sentimental stuff! Note I said sentimental and not corny. A little sentiment here and there might do wonders!

And who knows, Great Expectations may do wonders for Pitt and Jolie's s life, it may not help Jolie get pregnant but three volumes in length it is guaranteed to satifsy her for longer - can Pitt make that claim? Methinks not.

In depth book review of Paul Auster's 'The Music of Chance'

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 11:44:00 +0000

The Music of Chance will always be one of the most memorable books I have ever read. Why? Because I've never found a book so disturbing (not even the likes of Ellis' American Psycho) that I had to stop reading it. I can even pin point the exact sentence I snapped shut the covers of the book and with it a most terrifying world, one that even Brave New World couldn't compare to.

But I did go back to it – noteworthy because I am rarely faithful. Like the protagonist of the novel, Jim Nashe, by the time I understood what was happening I was past the point of wanting it to end. It was only after many brave attempts and a two week lapse that I managed to muster the courage to face the ending. In that two week lapse I read - I'm ashamed to say - a romantic novel by Jude Deveraux. I loved the happy ending, the gorgeous hero and even the soft porn. Forgive me, I have sinned.

Both the elusiveness of the text and the elliptical narrative style will be familiar to fellow Auster fans. If you're looking for a compact novel with neatlty wrapped ribbons at the end, this book or anything by Auster for that matter, isn't for you. If however you're looking for a mental challenge, shivers down your spine (excuse the cliche, I doubt it will be the last) and an agonosing frustrating feeling which will trouble you even when you're trying to sleep then this novel is the book version soulmate for you.

What it all comes down to is chance and the order of events. ‘Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you don’t’ (p2). It’s interesting that ‘chance’ means both good fortune/luck as well as its opposite - risk/hazard. If Jim Nashe hadn’t inherited by chance a substantial amount of money from his estranged father’s death then there would have been no chance of backing a poker player with a lumpy sum from the inheritance. What is at first good fortune becomes a hazard.

But if he’d only inherited that money just a month before his wife, Therese, left she wouldn’t have walked out on him; leaving him no choice but to take his daughter to his sisters. Free from responsibility he would not have quit his job, taken the wrong ramp on the motorway and therefore he would never have met Pozzi, the poker player. But even if hadn’t inherited the money at all she would never have left him if all his money wasn’t tied up in the rest home his mother had died in. And so on.

Chance meetings and occurrences, we are told, is quite common in Nashe’s life. Even his job as a fireman was the result of a chance encounter with a man he met in his job as a taxi driver. He talked Nashe into the taking the fire exam and he does so on a whim and achieves the highest grade that year. The other man was turned down but Nashe was offered a job. If we’re going to be very obvious and analytical the very essence of his job is governed by chance – you go on a job as a fireman and there is 50/50 chance you will return. It’s a risky business. Which he packs in and takes to travelling around America, just him, his car, his music and the open road and all its tantalising promises. The similarity to Keruoacs’s On the Road ends there, I promise. Actually I liked On the Road but that’s a journey for another time.

Jack Pozzi

A year and two days into this new lifestyle and with just over fourteen thousand dollars left he meets Jack Pozzi. Although generally Nashe refused to help hitchhikers (for obvious reasons) he cannot resist slowing down to observe this small, thin limping figure. It becomes apparent that Jack Pozzi isn’t drunk like Nashe first assumed but just badly beaten. ‘His clothes were torn, his face was covered with welts and bruises, and from the way he stood there as the car approached, he scarcely seemed to know where he was.’ (p19, Faber and Faber, 2006).

Despite what his instincts tell him, Nashe offers him a ride. And Pozzi accepts.

In case you’re thinking ‘this sounds familiar’ let me assure you that Pozzi does no turn out to be some psychopath who ties Nashe between two moving vehicles and rip him apart. That memorable scene is from The Hitcher – the 1986 version. Pozzie doesn’t butcher and decapitate Nashe. You’re wrong. So sit tight and read on.

Actually – talk about chance - I’ve just remembered Jim is the name of the man who offers the hitcher a ride and Nash is the pretty waitress he meets who is torn into half. Jim Nash(e). Wow. This can’t be a coincidence. Has anyone noticed this? Remember you read it here first! I think this calls for a separate post on some sort of comparison between the two. Maybe sometime next year. Sigh.

In the car, Pozzi and Nashe strike up an easy conversation. Pozzi explains that earlier in the evening he was in a poker game with lawyers and corporate hot shots. Towards the end of the game their poker game was hijacked and the thugs left with their money. Pozzi is blamed –

‘It’s just like I told you, Gil, you can’t bring riffraff into a game like this’
‘What are you talking about George?’ Gil says and George says ‘Figure it out for yourself, Gil. We play every month for seven years and nothing ever goes wrong. Then you tell me about this punk kid who’s supposed to be a good player and twist my arm to bring him up, and look what happens. I had eight thousand dollars sitting on that table and I don’t take kindly to a bunch of thugs walking off with it’ (p27)

Playing for seven years and not once anything out of the ordinary. The one time Pozzi comes along they are robbed! Is Auster making a point or what.

Pozzi informs Nashe that the day after tomorrow he has a poker game – one of the biggest games of his life. Now with no money and little potential money he’s going to have to pull out.

Now what do you think happened next? I mean here is a young man who claims to be an excellent impeccable poker player but has no money to enter the big game. Next to him you have Nashe, who has been on the road for quite a while, has quite a large lump of money left but not enough to continue funding his life on the road. Is the suspense killing you?

If it isn’t already obvious Nashe offers to help. Pozzi needs just under ten thousand pounds. Nashe tells him it’s a big risk, there is always the chance of losing to which Pozzi replies confidently ‘Sure there’s a risk. We’re talking poker here, that’s the name of the game. But there’s no way I could have lost. I’ve already played with those clowns once. It would have been a piece of cake.’ (p28).

The ‘clowns’ he refers to are two reclusive millionaires, Flower and Stone, ‘a regular comedy team’. Six or seven years ago they shared a lottery ticket and won twenty seven million dollars. Pozzi calls them Laurel and Hardy because one is fat and the other is thin. Seems fair enough to me. Nashe offers to help him out providing they split the profit 50-50. Pozzi agrees.

So ends chapter two. Chapter two I hear you exclaim. I write too much.

Nashe feels a change come over him immediately. Chapter three begins with the following words: ‘Nashe understood that he was no longer behaving like himself.’ He realizes that putting most of his money behind a foul mouthed impudent kid is risky but the risk motivates him: ‘It was a crazy scheme, perhaps, but the risk was a motivation in itself, a leap of blind faith that would prove he was finally ready for anything that might happen to him’ (p33). I love the idea of being ready for anything/something that MIGHT happen to you. Pozzi was simply a means to an end. Nashe was just going to use him and once that job was finished they would go their separate ways. What actually transpires is that Nashe becomes a fatherly figure of sort to the young man; they develop a close bond. But they do go their separate ways in the end. If you can call it that.

In New York they stay at the Plaza Hotel. Nashe pays for accommodation and food and takes Pozzi shopping for clothes.

Once Pozzi is safely tucked in bed, Nashe settles down with Rousseau’s Confessions. This is probably my favourite part of the novel. Just before he falls asleep he comes to the passage where the author is standing in a forest. He throws a stone at a tree, telling himself that if it strikes the tree his life will be better from this moment. However he misses. He moves closer to the tree and tells himself the same thing and throws the stone. Again he misses. He tells himself that was just a warm up and moves closer to the tree just to make sure he doesn’t miss. Again he reassures himself that if he strikes the tree his life will be better from that moment on. Now only a foot a away from the tree he strikes the tree. He doesn’t miss this time. Success! From this moment on life will be better, so he tells himself.

Nashe is moved and embarrassed by such naked self-deception and then falls asleep and dreams he is in the forest in which the wind sounds like shuffling cards.

By pinning his hopes on Pozzi is he deceiving himself like Rousseau? I’d say yes. Though he ‘tests’ Pozzi’s skills he is not entirely confident that they will win. He is deceiving himself and he knows it. Perhaps each stone Rousseau throws is like each hand at poker. You’ve lost this hand but never mind, you’ll win the next hand, or the next, or the next. And then everything will be fine. So you reassure yourself. I’m sure more can be said about this but I lack the eloquence.

Flower and Stone

On their way to the grand residence of the Flower and Stone they lightly banter with each other and Pozzi decides he will introduce Nashe as his brother. Some 'hireling', Murks, opens the gate and in they go.

Once inside they are taken to a ‘self consciously masculine room’ (p62) and Flower and Stone are dressed in white summer suits. The two men seem to be opposites of the same coin. Flower is talkative with a blustery humour whereas Stone is silent and observant. Stone, as his name implies has more gravitas.

Once all four mean are seated Flower tells them the story of how they struck it rich, with Stone adding a comment here and there. The turning point in the conversation comes when Flower informs Pozzi that they have been practicing everyday and night since they last played and have even taken lessons from a man called Sid Zeno – ‘one of the top half dozen players in the game’(p69) according to Pozzi.

Pozzi and Nashe are given a tour of the house and by the second room Nashe becomes annoyed by the boorish vain Flower who rarely neglects to mention what each thing cost – true to his quondam profession (accountant). They move onto the second floor and are ushered into a large room to show Stone’s creation, inside the room is a miniature model of a city with fastidious attention to detail. ‘It was a marvelous thing to behold, with its crazy spires and lifelike buildings, its narrow street and microscopic human figures, and as the four of them approached the platform, Nashe began to smile, astounded by the sheer invention and elaborateness of it all.’ (p77).

Stone called it ‘The City of the World’ and it reflects the way Stone would like the world to be, his ‘utopia’. For example, prisoners working happily at various tasks because they are glad that they are being punished for their crimes and hope to find their inner goodness again through hard work. It appears to be a pleasant enough place to live in.

Whereas Stone liked to make and create things, Flower liked to collect things. Flower’s half of the east wingo on the second floor is the exact opposite of Stone’s. Instead of one large open area he had divided the area into a network of smaller rooms. Each room is ‘choked’ with a plethora of collectable items, such as furniture, books cases, rugs, plants etc. Flower, immensely proud of his collection, fails to realise how silly it all looks, what he calls ‘gems’ and ‘treasures’ might be junk and worthless to another. It strikes me as a selfish thing to do, to consume and collect objects for a private collection (which I’m guessing he would rarely have time to admire) and thereby depriving others of a chance to see such treasured objects.

Most amazing item in his collection is a fifteenth century Irish castle destroyed by Oliver Cromwell. Yep, you read right. When there were on holiday there Stone and Flower came across the ruins of the castle, no more than a heap of stones. Flower had decided to buy it and it was shipped to America. Over ten thousand stones loaded on to a truck and then on to a ship. No wonder if cost a ‘bundle’. It now sits in their large back garden.

Nashe asks ‘you’re not planning on rebuilding the thing, are you?’ (p77). The idea seems grotesque to him. They can’t rebuild the castle because too many pieces are missing. Instead they plan to build a grand wall with the stones, ‘A Wailing Wall.’ Poor Nashe. Unbeknown to him it will be him and Pozzzi who will be building the ‘waling wall’. But more of that later.

The Poker Game

Once the ground rules of the poker game are settled the poker game begins. Nashe takes a seat behind Pozzi. The first few hands are undramatic. Flower and Stone have improved as poker players but Pozzi’s patience prevails and finally he is sitting on a large sum, twenty seven thousand dollars to be specific. As they begin to open a new deck of cards Nashe uses the interruption for a bathroom break. He feels like he can relax and let Pozzi out of his sight, the kid knows what he is doing.

He intended to go straight back to the game but instead ends up taking a stroll around the house. He spends nearly an hour looking at the ‘City of the World’. Now that he has time to take a closer look at this utopian city it takes on a sinister atmosphere. Especially the prison. ‘In one corner of the exercise yard, the inmates were talking in small groups, playing basketball, reading books; but then, with a kind of horror, he saw a blindfolded prisoner standing against the wall just behind them, about to be executed by a firing squad. […] For all the warmth and sentimentality depicted in the model, the overriding mood was one of terror’ (p87). The earlier admiration disappears and to him it appears to be a city of war, not utopia but a sort of totalitarian state.

He is just about to leave the room but then on impulse he turns around and walks back to the model. Without feeling any guilt he jerks at the miniature wooden version of Flower and Stone until it snaps and then shoves the ‘souvenirs’ into his pocket. It was the first time he had stolen anything since he was a little boy, but it was absolutely necessary and he knew that in the same way he knew his name.

Nashe returns to the poker game to find Pozzi losing. Later on Pozzi blames Nashe for his change of fortuune. His break effected Pozzi's momentum and later when Nashe shows him what he stole Pozzi becomes convinced it was that act which turned the tide for them. Logic tells us that Nashe's decision to take the miniature dolls should have no effect on Pozzi's game. The two are not connected in anyway. Clearly Auster is showing how people connect and make meaning out a seemingly meaningless act or event, exactly what Auster is guilty of in this novel.

Pretty soon Pozzi loses all his chips and Nashe sells his car to the millionaires for five thousand chips. However the ‘emergency transfusion’ doesn’t work and Pozzi loses that too. Now they have nothing, not even a car to get out of there. They strike a deal – despite Flower’s warning not to make things worse – that if they win the next hand they win the car back, if however they lose Nashe and Pozzi then owe the millionaires ten thousand pounds. A sum that matches the number of stones to the Irish castle which seems to foreshadow what will happen next.

Pozzi loses that final hand.

Nashe and Pozzi must now come up with a plan to clear their debt. Stone makes them an offer – that they build the ‘wailing wall’ mentioned earlier, ‘honest work for an honest wage’ (p97). I thought it was quite fitting that it is Stone, the maker of the city who should propose this idea. The whole idea of working for your freedom stinks of the Nazis and the Third Regime – arbeit macht frei, just the sort of totalitarian doctrine Stone would approve of.

Though outraged at first they accept and a contract is drawn up. In the meadow they have a fully equipped mobile home, work clothes would be provided as well basic essentials such as food and if there was anything else they desired all they had to do was ask. At ten dollars each for an hour’s labour they would earn twenty dollars an hour. If they worked ten hours a day that would come to two hundred dollars a day. It would then take them fifty days to make up the ten thousand dollars. Nashe offers a way out for Pozzi, that he would be happy to do the work alone but Pozzi won’t hear of it. The contract is drawn up and all four sign it. The maid makes them a meal, whereas before she was pleasant and welcoming this time she is rude and even aggressive. Nashe realises that whereas before they were guests they were now reduced to hired hands, not worthy of the maid's respect and endeavour.

The Wailing Wall

And so the labour begins. The hireling, Murks, who had opened the gate earlier supervises over them. Murks assists with the move to the mobile home and they make a list of essentials, food, newspapers, cards etc. With no phone in the house and no view of the Flower and Stone residence they really are cut off from the world. Anything could happen and no one would be any wiser.

The slow labour begins. And by slow I mean excruciatingly slow. First the foundation must be laid, then one stone at a time and on top of each other to build the height. And it was monotonous. Their task parallels the task of Sisyphus. Though the stones do not roll back a sloped hill, it is essentially the same task over and over again. It is absurd. Perhaps it typifies the absurdity of the human condition far more than Sisyphus' example does because unlike Sisyphus, Pozzi and Nashe are sentenced to this punishment out of chance, they are sentences to this punishment because of something out of their control. Chance events brought each of them on that road for the fulfillment of a chance encounter, followed by defeat in a game governed by chance. Like human life, events which appear out of their control make them bear the consequences. All is not well.

The wall is menacing and all that it connotes, a barrier, a restriction. The closer the become to finishing their ‘time’ and therefore to escaping the more they close themselves in. It is slightly poignant that they are building the very wall which prevents their escape, like when victims are forced to dig their own graves. I can’t even begin to imagine what that would feel like.

Things become slightly sinister when Murks starts wearing a gun after a brawl with Pozzi. Now they are in ‘real’ danger. Whereas before the danger was never visible, never real but just a feeling they had, an atmosphere created, it is now very real in the shape of a gun.

The end of fifty days arrives but Pozzi and Nashe decide to stay on a bit longer to make a little money for themselves. They decide to have a celebration on the night they would have left and no expense is spared – caviar, lobster, cake, champagne and a prostitute for Pozzi. Murks informs Nashe that though Flower and Stone didn’t approve they accepted and would get them everything they needed for the party. Nashe’s instincts tell him that Flower and Stone are not the sort of people who splashed out for other people’s party and it puts him on his guard.

The party is eventful, to say the least, for Pozzi.

After a small period, in which they accumulate money for themselves, their ‘release’ day arrives. Pozzi is excited beyond words. Nashe, on the other hand, just felt empty and numb. Murks arrives with a single sheet of typed paper.

On reading the contents of the paper and realising in less than a second what it meant I closed the book very slowly and left it on my desktop out of sight for a period of two weeks.

What was on the paper?

I’ve not mustered the courage to talk about it yet so you will just have to read it for yourself.

Random

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 15:20:00 +0000

The Nation's favourite 'concave' crisp is not actually 'concave' as Paul Merton once assumed on Have I got News for You. Nope, it's 'hyperbolic paraboloid'. What am I doing?? I feel a rant coming on, early mid-life crisis. Quick, sign off.....

YES WE CAN - History in the making

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 12:46:00 +0000

A friend of mine was up all yesterday night to see the outcome of the United States presidential election 2008. She text me in the early hours with the results. Thanks Rookie. Barack Obama is the new president of America. A small step for him, a giant leap for the rest of us. And ever since I've had this of feeling of elation and of hope. I feel like anything is possible. To walk around in ignorance and pretend that what happens on the other side of the world doesn't affect us is not only wrong morally but just plain stupid. With impending problems such as global warming, global financial crisis and even the possibility of world wars I think it's high time we all came out of our insulated cardboard boxes. You should know by now a butterfly flaps its wings in some remote forest and the repercussions can be felt on your cardboard box.

I've seen and read his acceptance speech in full, which can be found here http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/nov/05/uselections2008-barackobama.

Needless to say it 'moved' me. Me who is far too young to be this cynical; me who never thought it possible that America would vote for a Black president; me who is cautious of people who talk as nicely as Barack Obama does.

There's lots I don't understand or know about. I'm not familiar with all his policies. I'm not sure what his future plans are and if there will be a disparity between his plans and reality. I don't know if his plans for American will impact us here in Britain or even the rest of the world. I don't know if I will still be rooting for him at the end of his first term.

What I do know exactly this minute on 5th November 2008 at 1.10 p.m and what I've written in bold on my facebook profile is that whatever the outcome in the future I'm glad I've seen history made, I'm glad America has risen above all its prejudice and I'm glad we have someone in Obama who is not willing to follow Bush-policies. Whatever he does or doesn't do, it can't be as bad as the last eight years. And yes, I've read Chekhov's Champagne so I can say it with confidence.

I am slightly worried that I've never been this excited about any British elections. I've never been 'moved' by any speech by a British politician. But British elections lack the charm, the wit, and the endearment that American elections possess. I've never felt empowered by British politicians. Perhaps our stiff upper lip needs to be slightly more limb and our British wit slightly more foreign.

In short, we need to be a bit more like Obama. Better dressed and groomed; more eloquent and charming; more honest and caring with a final sprinkle of charisma.

In Obama I find a rare honesty in his appearance and speech that has been missing in politicians for as long as I can remember. In Obama I see he is not only thinking about the life expectancy of his cardboard box. In Obama I see that he cares, genuinely and passionately, and that he won't sit in the white house and make decisions with an olympian detachment, decisions which affect not just people of America but people throughout the world. In Obama I see a change for the better. Or perhaps I am fooling myself and hoping too much. After all, when you take those pretty snow globes by the hand and you give it a good mighty shake the snow flakes still fall back in the same place as before, more or less.

I just hope he doesn't crack under the pressure or fail to live up to all our high expectations.

Barack Obama, can we fix it? YES WE CAN.

The Danger of F7

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 15:14:00 +0000

This poem, by Dean Hunt, made my day - it's about relying on the spell'chequer' too much and not using the good old fashioned dictionary:

Eye halve a spelling chequer

It came with my pea sea

It plainly marques four my revue

Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word

And weight four it two say

Weather eye am wrong oar write

It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid

It nose bee fore two long

And eye can put the error rite

Its rarely ever wrong.

Eye have run this poem threw it

I am shore your pleased two no

Its letter perfect in it’s weigh

My chequer tolled me sew.

(http://deanhunt.com/mi-speal-chequer-doos-nut-werk/)

Noboby leave the room, everyone listen to me, we had ten tampons at half past two, and now there's only three...

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 09:18:00 +0000

Prepare yourself for a new generation of perverts, drug abusers, teenage pregnancy, STD carriers and nymphomaniacs. Slightly hyperbolic I know but desperate measures calls for desperate rhetoric. What am I on about? I'm on about the government's ingenious idea of planning to make sex education compulsory in primary schools.

Yesterday's Guardian article quoted a spokesperson for Life Education: 'If we want to make a real and lasting difference to teenage drug and alcohol misuse, we must reach them early - at primary school'. Evidently the government has not had time to review the adverse effects of sex education in secondary schools. Minette Marrin in a recent Times online article points out:

[...] sex education has been an utter failure. The increase in sex education here in recent years has coincided with an explosion of unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted disease (STD) far worse than anywhere else in Europe. Since the government’s teenage pregnancy strategy was introduced in 1999, the number of girls having abortions has soared. You might well be tempted to argue that sex education causes sexual delinquency.

It begs the question then that faced with such startling statistics why the government want to make sex education compulsory amongst children who still believe in mythical figures like the tooth fairy and Santa Clause.

My generation will be familiar with the science modules on human biology and how babies are made. I remember boys throwing about tampons and menstrual pads - shouting 'Here have a pillow' and sniggering. I'm not saying primary school kids will do this but something similar and more childish. Hitting each other with pads and using tampons as weapons - the latest James Bond gadget, may just be the norm. At the end of the school day teachers won't be asking where have all the scissors gone - but - nobody leave the room, everyone listen to me, we had ten tampons at half past two, and now there's only three. And so the search will begin. One tampon may be amongst the crayons, pretending to be a white crayon; remains may be found of one in the pet cage - what the hamster couldn't swallow and one in the teachers' tea - for scientific purpose of course, to see how much it can absorb.

Concern has been expressed by the sane about sexualising children by teaching them sex education but how do you desexualise sex? Perhaps we will be rigorously scientific and use scientific terms. A child who struggles with remembering and spelling difficult words is expected to take on board terms like vagina, placenta, fallopian tube, uterus, scrotum, prostate gland - need I go on? Maybe to help them learn we can have song-like-poems, like in Matilda - you know - Mrs D, Mrs I, Mrs F F I, Mrs C, Mrs U, Mrs L, T Y - spells difficulty. Mr T, Mr E, Mr S T, Mr I, Mr C, Mr L, Mr Eugh - spells trouble.

I'm over reacting as usual. We're going to teach them BASIC sex education. What is 'basic' sex education? Where do we draw the line? You don't think curiosity will get the better of them? That you can tell a ten year old that a sperm penetrates an egg in the ampulla of the fallopian tube and he or she will simply note it down and that would be all? That's 'basic'. What about all the follow up questions? Teaching little kids is difficult enough without having to teach them about sex.

The problem with a 'basic' and scientific description of sex and how babies are made is that it is bereft of all human emotion. Isn't that the very problem we are trying to overcome? That sex isn't treated as a wonderful way to express human emotion but a competition, a league table of how many you've scored.

And no one is thinking about the teachers! What about the teachers? Teaching a classroom of ten year olds the basics of sex could have a detrimental effect on their sex life! Little money, no peace, and now no sex. There goes a generation of potential teachers. Think of the hot flushes in the classroom. The staff room gossip - 'My year 4s asked me to demonstrate penetration'. And I guarantee you one cheeky ten year old will ask 'Sir, do you have sex? How often?'

Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm not modern enough, maybe I'm too old-fashioned, maybe I need to get with the times, maybe I'm prude or worse yet naive. But every fiber of my being and the little logic I possess vehemently and passionately tells me that teaching sex education at primary schools is wrong, wrong, wrong. Wrong morally, wrong ethically, wrong politically. Period. Oh and good luck explaining that to a ten year old boy!

Willaim Hazlitt - the first modern man?

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 14:49:00 +0000

Below is a Sunday Times Review by John Carey on Duncan Wu's 'vigorous' biography of William Hazlitt- a biography of doubtful veracity it seems. The article doesn't really review the book but offers interesting details about the life of Hazlitt, a great over view for those, like myself, who know very little about - perhaps - the severest critic of the Romantic period.

It can be found here:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/non-fiction/article4954754.ece

William Hazlitt: The First Modern Man by Duncan Wu

The Sunday Times review by John Carey

William Hazlitt's collected writings fill 22 volumes. He was a literary critic, an art critic, a theatre critic, a philosopher and a polemicist, and his works The Plain Speaker (a collection of essays) and The Spirit of the Age (a survey of the writers of the Romantic period, most of them known to him personally) used to be revered as classics. Nowadays he is scarcely known, and Duncan Wu's vigorous biography, the fruit of 10 years' labour in the archives, is an attempt to put that right. The Hazlitt he brings to light, however, is unlikely to win a place in his readers' affections. He was a tormented, bitter man, who excelled at resentment.

His father, an Irish dissenting minister of heretical views, had taught him to hate all institutions, whether of church or state, and since human society is based on institutions this was an important first step towards his son's unhappiness. Born in 1778, young Hazlitt greeted the French revolution with frenzied enthusiasm. He idolised Napoleon, and was filled with hope that the victorious French would put an end to Britain and its constitution, an event that, Wu tells us, both Hazlitt and his father had long wished for.

The defeat of his hero at Waterloo was a devastating blow. He did not wash or shave for weeks and got drunk every night. As a teenager he had much admired Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey, and sought their friendship, joyful that they shared his revolutionary ardour. However, the reign of terror, followed by the imminent threat of a French invasion, drastically modified the three poets' political views. They supported the British government's repressive measures against suspected revolutionaries, and Wordsworth even enlisted in the Grasmere volunteers, a unit that was fortunately not cast in a combat role.

Hazlitt never forgave them. He denounced them as turncoats and pursued them with derision and vituperation. Reviewing Coleridge's poems in 1816 he dismissed Kubla Khan as “nonsense verses” and Christabel as “utterly destitute of value”. Wu says that he knew perfectly well they were works of genius, but lied about them to get his own back on Coleridge - behaviour that Wu is inclined to condone. It seems questionable, though, whether changing one's political allegiance is necessarily as heinous as Wu seems to feel. In the last resort, the poets' sin was merely that they were less keen to see the end of Britain and its constitution than Hazlitt was.

However, Hazlitt's rancour was implacable, and its source was not only political. In 1803 a strange episode took place that permanently poisoned relations between him and his former friends. He was staying in Coleridge's house at Keswick, and went out one evening to the local tavern, where a girl he tried to chat up made an impudent remark. His response was, Wu says, “characteristic”: “He threw her over his knee, lifted her petticoats, and spanked her on the bottom.” He then fled to Coleridge's house, where news arrived that a gang of locals was on its way to wreak vengeance. Coleridge and Southey rapidly smuggled him out of Keswick to Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth took him in, supplying him next morning with money and clothes so that he could get away.

Since the three poets quite possibly saved his life, it might be expected that he would repay them with thanks. On the contrary, he began to feel that he had been unnecessarily humiliated, and came to see himself as the victim, and his rescuers as malicious persecutors. As usual, Wu takes his side. “Hazlitt was not an embittered or grudgeful man,” he maintains, “but the treatment he suffered at the hands of Wordsworth and Coleridge was to rankle for the rest of his life.” Hazlitt's extraordinary capacity for feeling hard done-by was also apparent in the matter of his first marriage. His wife was the sister of a successful barrister, John Stoddart, and since Hazlitt was a penniless journalist, and often in debt, Stoddart generously set up a trust to make the newlyweds an annual allowance. Far from being grateful, Hazlitt saw this as a “mammoth humiliation”. It “filled him with disgust for years to come”, Wu testifies, and was one of the “corrosive forces” that destroyed the marriage. Hazlitt repaid his benefactor by describing him, in a newspaper article, as a “stupid, senseless, vulgar person”, and likened The Times, of which Stoddart was editor, to a “water closet”.

Another corrosive force that destabilised the marriage was Hazlitt's fondness for the company of prostitutes. He gave them free run of his lodgings, which inevitably fuelled scandal and also distressed his young son, who was so appalled on one occasion by the noises coming from his father's bedroom that he intervened physically. Pathologically shy and tongue-tied in company, Hazlitt seems to have found sexual satisfaction only with women he felt superior to socially. He fell madly in love with his landlady's daughter, Sarah Walker, who was, apparently, willing to engage in lengthy petting sessions, but refused to have sex. He persuaded his wife to divorce him, in the hope that this would win Sarah over, but she still resisted, and he vented his thwarted lust and rage in a detailed account of the affair published in 1823 as Liber Amoris, which mingles feelings of contempt based on social class with sexual loathing and hysterical denunciation. He describes himself as “glued to a bitch, a little damned incubus”, and Sarah as “a common lodging-house drab” with “an itch for being slabbered and felt”. Wu endorses Hazlitt's judgments. Sarah was, he assures us, “exactly what he feared: a snake, a succubus”, and feminist critics show their “stupidity” by accusing Hazlitt of sexual harassment. All the same, they seem to have a point. When Sarah finally rejected him he persuaded a friend to move into the Walkers' lodging house with the express intention of seducing her. The friend reported back to Hazlitt, who noted his accomplice's progress in a diary. He appeared naked before Sarah, and kissed her on several occasions, but apparently got no further.

Publishing Liber Amoris was an act of self-destruction. The Tory press seized on it with delight, execrating its author as a libertine and whoremaster, and Hazlitt's reputation was in ruins. He died in poverty. Wu's biography is, like its subject, passionately partisan, and throws objectivity to the winds. He gleefully applauds Hazlitt's “rabble-rousing” tirades, and lambasts his enemies as blackguards and liars. At times he verges on fiction by inventing conversations that he feels must have taken place, but which do not occur in the historical record. This may attract scholarly frowns, but it undoubtedly livens up his writing.

For all that, the claims he makes are wildly extravagant. The reader blinks to learn that Hazlitt possessed “laser-like intelligence” and “an almost godlike perspective”. Such estimates cut no ice unless backed by the kind of analysis that Tom Paulin attempted in The Day-Star of Liberty, and Wu never gets near that critical terrain. The samples of Hazlitt's essays, art criticism and lectures that he offers seem verbose, far from incisive, and not always notable for intelligence. What sort of intelligence concludes (in Characteristics) that “Women have as little imagination as they have reason; they are pure egoists”? Nor is it clear why Wu considers Hazlitt the first modern man. All it seems to amount to is that Hazlitt was a journalist, so foreshadowed the power of the mass media. But, to qualify as modern men, competitors must have had ideas we still use in our thinking. Among Hazlitt's predecessors Montaigne, Newton and Rousseau all did that. Among his contemporaries, Wordsworth and the protosocialist Robert Owen, whom he dismissed as insignificant, did so, too. Hazlitt did not.

Next on the never-ending reading list....

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 18:36:00 +0000

(In no particular order of course)

Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

Experience by Martin Amis

Perfume by Patrick Suskind

Unpacking the Face

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 19:17:00 +0000

"We are such creatures of language that what we hear
takes precedence over what is supposed to be our primary
channel of communication, the visual channel"

The Naked Face, published in New Yorker, August 2002, by Malcolm Gladwell is a tantalising article on reading other people's facial expression.

Gladwell writes about Paul Ekman, a San-Francisco psychologist, who first discovered that facial 'expressions were the universal products of evolution' - not culture as it had been previously assumed.

Not only do our emotions create facial expression but what Ekman and a colleague discovered was that 'expression alone is sufficient to create marked changes in the autonomic nervous system' - so it's true what they say, smiling can make you feel better! They discovered this accidentally. Whilst trying the facial expression of anguish/distress they found that they both felt terrible. 'Emotion doesn't just go from the inside out. It goes from the outside in.'

Wonderfully written and dealing with interesting concepts, this article is well worth the long read. It can be found here along with other Malcolm Bradwell articles: http://www.gladwell.com/2002/2002_08_05_a_face.htm

Here is a taster from the beginning of section 2:

'All of us, a thousand times a day, read faces. When someone says "I love you," we look into that person's eyes to judge his or her sincerity. When we meet someone new, we often pick up on subtle signals, so that, even though he or she may have talked in a normal and friendly manner, afterward we say, "I don't think he liked me," or "I don't think she's very happy." We easily parse complex distinctions in facial expression. If you saw me grinning, for example, with my eyes twinkling, you'd say I was amused. But that's not the only way we interpret a smile. If you saw me nod and smile exaggeratedly, with the corners of my lips tightened, you would take it that I had been teased and was responding sarcastically. If I made eye contact with someone, gave a small smile and then looked down and averted my gaze, you would think I was flirting. If I followed a remark with an abrupt smile and then nodded, or tilted my head sideways, you might conclude that I had just said something a little harsh, and wanted to take the edge off it. You wouldn't need to hear anything I was saying in order to reach these conclusions. The face is such an extraordinarily efficient instrument of communication that there must be rules that govern the way we interpret facial expressions. But what are those rules? And are they the same for everyone?'

Perhaps what interests me so much in this article is that I've always thought I was really observant and a very good people/face reader. Wish I could take the test Ekman devised!

The dreaded apostrophe 2 - an example of apostrophe abuse

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 14:35:00 +0000

What is up with this sign??!

If you've read the post below (part one of the dreaded apostrophe) you should spot the mistake easily!

The dreaded apostrophe ( ' ) (one eyed alien)

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 13:52:00 +0000

The apostrophe is the most misused punctuation in the English Language. Trust me. You see people putting it anywhere and everywhere without thinking about it, even adding it to pronouns – ‘Hi’s’ – no, that doesn’t say ‘hi’ with apostrophe ‘s’, it is meant to be ‘he is’. See what I mean? There is a blog dedicated to apostrophe abuse in public signs and institutions. It is worth checking out if only for a little laugh.

The apostrophe has two uses:

1. To show the omission of letters (the apostrophe of elision)
2. To form the possessive of nouns.

The omission of letters

When words are contracted (shortened) apostrophe is used to indicate the omission of a letter. Contractions are common in informal speaking and writing. However, with formal writing you should avoid contractions. Don’t be lazy! Do not be lazy.

For example

Who’s - Who is

Shouldn’t – Should not

Didn’t – Did not

It can also be used in numbers – for example ’08 = 2008

Forming possessive of nouns

You can’t form possessive of verbs. So if the word is a verb , a ‘doing’ word don’t even think about adding an apostrophe.

Rule of thumb – to check if you need an apostrophe to make it a possessive noun – try to put the phrase ‘of the’ in the sentence. For example

the man’s car = the car of the man = you need an apostrophe.

So you’ve decided you do need an apostrophe. Follow the simple rules below and you won’t go wrong.

Add ’s to the singular (just one) form of the word
For example the man’s bike.

Add ’s to the plural (more than one) forms that do not end in ‘s’
For example the children’s biscuits.

If the plural form does end in ‘s’ then just add the apostrophe (') without the ‘s’
For example: the five friends’ house.

Apostrophe is never used to denote plurals (more than one). So in the above example it is ‘friends’ (more than one friend) rather than ‘friend’s’. Because we are trying to show possession of the house by these friends we add an apostrophe after the ‘s’, like we would if we said ‘the man’s bike’. But why not apostrophe ‘s’ (’s) - because there is already a letter ‘s’ in the word ‘friends’ so an apostrophe ‘s’ just wouldn’t look or sound nice – try saying ‘friends’s house’. :-)

If there is joint possession and nouns are used then add the ’s at th end of the second/last noun. For example, Jane and Daniel’s dogs. Not Jane’s and Daniel’s dogs. Not Jane’s and Daniel dogs.
Why is there no ’s in dogs? Because we never use ’s to imply more than one. Dog – singular, one. Dogs – plural, more than one and therefore no ’s is used because apostrophe is not used to denote plural form.

If I discover more rules to help I will update this post so keep checking.

Remember, don’t use the apostrophe with pronouns.

Don’t use the apostrophe to denote plurals – for example ‘Apple’s on offer’ is wrong wrong wrong. You mean apple plural therefore it would be ‘Apples on offer’

Best way to avoid apostrophe error is to proofread your work.

You can practice what you’ve learnt here- even if you’re (contraction) an expert you’ll be surprised. http://www.bristol.ac.uk/arts/skills/grammar/grammar_tutorial/page_52.htm

And here : http://owl.english.purdue.edu/handouts/interact/g_apostEX1.html

Guardian Article: The art of avoiding plagiarism

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 20:17:00 +0000

The art of avoiding plagiarism: how to be a student

'The best way to avoid plagiarism is to avoid reading anything
written by somebody else. Unfortunately, this is not really what
higher education is supposed to be about.'

The above article which offers tips on how plagiarism can be found here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2008/oct/07/students.highereducation

Very handy if you're a student. If not ....well, still useful.

Remember, imitation is suicide.

Emerson?

The Links Section

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 21:15:00 +0000

I've just spent a great deal of time adding blogs and websites worth checking out if you're like me and interested in language and grammar. BUT I bet if you went through each my posts you'd find countless mistakes. I'm not dumb. I'm lazy. Really lazy. The lady doth protest too much? Maybe. I think I will focus on a bit of grammar and language in my next few posts. I need to improve a lot if I'm going to be a secondary school English teacher in two years (apostrophe?) time. The sad thing is I get a buzz out of grammar and language. But only if it is done right.

In case you're wondering, the links section is on right hand side of the screen, at the bottom. Happy browsing!

These are hard times for romance - so lose yourself in 'Lost in Austen'

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 16:35:00 +0000

These are hard times for romance

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=E5Q-FcWhEEE

Amanda Price with a copy of Pride and Prejudice in her hand
(image from fanpop)

Contrary to that truth which is universally acknowledged – Elizabeth Bennet does not end up with Fitzwilliam Darcy in this modern time traveling version of Pride and Prejudice. I’m sorry – I couldn’t resist beginning with those words! For those of you who have stumbled upon this article looking to buy Impulse body sprays I must disappoint you – you won’t find any here.

ITV’s mini-series, four parts in total, is about modern girl Amanda Price who escapes the mundaness of everyday life each night by losing herself in the world of Pride and Prejudice. By a sheer stroke of luck (and coincidence of course) she finds Elizabeth Bennet in her bathroom. A secret locked door in the bathroom is a portal to another world – and what do you know, it is the world of Pride and Prejudice. Amanda becomes trapped on the other side of the door – in the world of Elizabeth Bennet, whilst Elizabeth is in modern day England. The mini series follows Amanda Price and how her presence affects the well-known plot of Pride and Prejudice.

My rather simplified version of the plot does no justice to the series. It does not mention, for example, that Jane Bennet in a desperate attempt to save her family financially marries Mr Collins, that Caroline Bingley is actually …well, how to put this delicately – Miss Bingley prefers the company of woman, nor does it mention Lydia’s elopement with Mr Bingley.

The most obvious and striking deviation from the novel in this mini-series would have to be in the character of Wickham. I hope you’re sitting down because in Lost in Austen Wickham, the very man who attempted to seduce Darcy’s sister – is a ‘goody’, an honourable man. And not only that, dare I say it, I’ve grown quite fond of him!

However, much remains the same. The writers have wisely preserved the original character of Mrs Bennet. She is as wifty as ever and I spent a great deal of time wondering how the Bennet sisters’ repressed their matricidal urges. Pride and Prejudice meets Psycho would perhaps be a hit one day.

Darcy is as ‘insufferable’ as he is in the book and Amanda responds to him much in the same way Elizabeth does in the novel. Amanda is determined to keep the central plot of Pride and Prejudice intact – the story of Darcy and Elizabeth. However, being a hapless frustrated romantic in our modern world (these are hard times for romance) she quickly falls in love with the honourable gentleman Mr Darcy. The absence of Elizabeth means Darcy soon reciprocates Amanda’s feelings.

I loved the character of Mr Bennet played fantastically by Hugh Bonneville and I was pleased to see that he was portrayed to be as silly as Mrs Bennet, an impression I’ve always had from reading the novel.

Of course we must mention the cultural clash. For example, at Bingley’s ball Amanda drinks too much, pops outside for a fag (you breathe fire?) and ‘necks’ Mr Bingley. Oh the shame. At one point she asks for something to brush her teeth with and is provided by what looks like twigs from my local park! Perhaps the most amusing cultural clash depicted in this mini-series is when Darcy retracts his proposal to Amanda Price on the grounds that she is not a ‘maid’. That had me in fits.

But all is well that ends well. I won’t spoil the ending too much but I can tell you that somehow most of the plot of Pride and Prejudice is restored and both Elizabeth and Amanda get what they desire most.

I think there are some who have taken this mini series far too seriously. It is a bit of fun. I thoroughly enjoyed it and thought it was very imaginative. Those savage critics who dug into this deeply should be wary of succumbing to the defects of Darcy and Elizabeth – in the former a propensity to hate everybody and in the latter to willfully misunderstand everybody. In the words of Jane Bennet – laugh as much you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion!

Thinking of having an affair? Of leaving your partner? Think again. Think of Nabokov's 'Laughter in the Dark' (Book Review)

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 16:09:00 +0000

'ONCE upon a time there lived in Berlin, Germnay, a man called Albinus. He was rich, respectable, happy; one day he abandoned his wife for the sake of a youthful mistress; he loved; was not loved; and his life ended in disaster'

Thus begins Vladimir Nabokov's novel Laughter in the Dark. I love the no-nonsense-style of this exposition. More importantly, on a simple plot level, as a reader you know what will occur during the duration of the novel - leaving all this 'thinking space' which would have otherwise been occupied with the one million dollar question: 'what happens next?'

It is the story of a man called Albinus. He has fulfilled his version of the 'American Dream' - except of course he is German! Albinus has achieved success (ish), recognition amongst his group of friends, wife, kid, family home and so on. As the exposition states, he throws it all away for a young woman (16 years old?) called Margot Peters.

Margot is vulgar, from the wrong side of the social scale and uneducated. Now these are faults we could easily overlook had it not been for her manipulative and vicious nature. Yes, if you've not realised it yet - the characters are somewhat stereotypical and perhaps it is for this reason that I did not care about the fate of any of the characters.

For Margot, Albinus abandons his wife and daughter. His daughter dies of pneumonia, a cruel punishment for his actions. Margot's former lover, Rex (as superficial as she is) befriends Albinus. Rex tells him that he is only interested in men and in light of this 'truth' Albinus trusts him. More fool him because not only do Rex and Margot sneak around behind his back but they also almost succeed in robbing Albinus of every penny he has. I may or may not tell you the ending, it depends on how cruel I feel. :-)

Rex accompanies Margot and Albinus on holiday. Out of sheer coincidence - missing the bus back to the village and a chance encounter with an old acquaintance, Albinus discovers that Margot has been unfaithful with Rex. Albinus' first reaction is to kill her but Margot convinces him (sort of) that it isn't true, she hasn't been unfaithful to him with Rex. Albinus orders Margot to pack and they speed of into the sunset without Rex. And live happily ever after.

Not quite.

The viewpoint suddenly changes and the next chapter describes an accident an old woman witnesses - one that she would be telling years to come. Whilst trying to speed off, Albinus crashes the car. Both survive.

But Albinus loses his sight, he is blind. Hands up if you saw this coming - you know, Oedipal punishment, symbolic castration, too much sex makes you blind - and so on.

Margot and Albinus move to Switzerland. Albinus, because he is blind is completely reliant on Margot. Rex also lives with them and likes to tease the blind Albinus by his presence.

Back in Germany, Albinus' brother-in-law and friend, Paul, receives a bank statement and sees that Albinus seems to be withdrawing and signing large amount of money. Convinced something 'shady' is going on he decides to investigate.

He arrives at Albinus' home one day, to find Rex sitting naked in front of Albinus and teasing him by tapping him and the blind man assumes it is a fly or a bodily sensation. Paul calls out to Rex. Albinus becomes agitated as it dawns on him the full extent of Margot's deception - and his stupidity. Paul and Albinus leave together for Germany.

Perhaps it is in the final 'shoot-out' that this novels best resembles Lolita. Back in Germany Albinus is living with his (ex?) wife and brother-in-law. One day he discovers Margot is back at their old 'love nest'. He decides to pay her a visit - with a gun. The perspective changes beautifully - Nabokov only tells us what Albinus can see, which ironically is very little. He tries to sense Margot's movements and fires in different corners and walls. There is a struggle for the gun.

Does Margot finally get what she deserves? Or is Albinus put out of his misery?

I'm not telling you! I've done most of your homework!

Would I recommend Laughter in Dark? Definitely. It is beautifully written, not too lengthy and some great comical moments. One such comical moment that sticks out in my head is when Margot and Albinus are on holiday and he is playing with her in the sea. An Englishwoman reading Punch remarks to her husband 'Look at that German romping about with his daughter. Now don't be so lazy, William. Take the children out for a good swim' (p73, Penguin Classics edition). Ha ha. Its laughter in the dark ar right.

Post - Uni Angst

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 17:48:00 +0000

This isn't just a normal erratic life, this is a specially selected colossaly erratic M & S post-uni life. Like my driving, life is rather erratic at the moment. What a corny metaphor I know but trust me, it is true. I must rant or compliment those M & S adverts sometime soon but now isn't the place or time. Now we're going to focus on the downhill slump into a shark-inhabited quayside: POST-UNI life. See the thing about post-uni life is that it isn't as bad as 'life' in general for lots of reason - for example, you go from a busy tight-schedule - a work and play oriented lifestlye to being a sloth. A couch potato. Far too lazy to even click a button to change the channel.

Ok, so perhaps I am exaggerating a little.

There is just far too much to do. And far too many expectations.

Boo hoo.

Take job hunting for starters. It would help if you knew for definite what you wanted to do. I have some ideas - become Prime Minister, astronaut, Cinderella ( I think this is an occupation) and so on. Nothing set in stone. Experience is the most important factor in all jobs I've come across. Now I've got my share of that with a proven track record that I can adapt and learn quickly. But there are those, like many of my peers, with limited or no experience mainly because they've been focusing on their studies. I don't see a problem with that. If employers won't give NEW graduates the opportunity to gain experience - well, in that case stuff the education system, you may as well secure yourself a job as a school leaver and work yourself up from there. But - there are jobs which require you to have a degree or a higher qualification. In which case we are stuck in a vicous circle where students are busy studying to gain qualifications to secure a job and perhaps doiing the odd job here and there - but only to graduate with no experience - but they can't get into that job without that qualification in the first place. What a vicious circle it is.

Post-uni life has its quirks - one being this huge portal of free time. I know, I know, I seem to be contradicting myself - there is so much to do, how can there be any free time. But there are days in this parallel world which is spent doing nothing at all. No job hunting, no commitments, no appointments, no one to see, no one to save, no one to mourn - hang on, scrap that. You get the point. All this free time means more time to think about life, how on the larger scale it is moving too fast and about to colllide with something, but on the simple day-to-day level it is moving too slow. And of course the devil makes work for idle thumbs.

'Go out, do something' I hear you say but with my bulimic bank balance it is best to stay indoors, that way I won't spend what I don't have. And everytime I seem to save a little, put a little in, it just vomits itself out.

I'm often reminded of a line in the incredibly-teen-romantic movie called Chasing Liberty starring THE gorgeous Matthew Goode. He plays some kind of secret agent looking after the first daughter (some girls just have all the luck). Anyway, there is she ranting about all the restrictions on her life, how the back garden of the White House isn't big enough, and how there aren't enough Gucci bags in the world (I maybe lying here). 'I want real life where real things happen' she remarks to our hunky hero. Who responds - witty as ever - 'REAL LIFE IS OVERRATED. IT'S A LOT OF ODD SMELLS AND DISAPPOINTMENT'. Bingo!

Crikey, forgot about this blog!

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 23:30:00 +0000

What a (pleasant) surprise, I knew I had an old dusty blog somewhere but.....well, life got in the way. But I intend to tell (bore?) you all about university (now that its over) and the joy (sarcasm?) of post-uni life (soon).

Book Review: Martin Amis - 'Money'

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 17:13:00 +0000

Can we call the title eponymous? I think so, money certainly makes many appearances in this novel and all that it can buy - namely sex.

(unfinished)

Copyright regulations for content on this blog

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 11:12:00 +0000

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noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 23:38:00 +0000

Villanelle.

noreply@blogger.com (N-onymous) — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 12:09:00 +0000

A rather shameful attempt at a villanelle but believe me its not easy at all! I was listenting to 'Asleep' by The Smiths as I wrote this yesterday evening.

Where have all the years gone, gone by?

Where have all those years gone, gone by?

Afraid of what is next, will I be

flown high, recycled in the sky.

I have come so far, from being shy

playing with dolls to drinking tea.

Where have all those years gone, gone by?

Sing me to sleep, Sing me to sleep

Won't you sing a last one for me?

Flown high, recycled in the sky.

We had moments, low and some high.

Here ends our long journey.

Where have all those years gone, gone by?

I'll die counting not years but sheep.

I will take with me your heart's key.

Flown high, recycled in the sky.

Hold my wrinkly hand as I lie

here, dry your eyes, let me free.

Where have all those years gone, gone by?

Flown high, recycled in the sky.