Above All

Nice to see a piece in today's on-line version of the Guardian in celebration of the seventieth birthday of the Greatest Living Englishman. He and Dylan are the supreme examples of musicians whose genius has somehow deepened with age. And in RT's case astonishingly his voice actually got better.

All At Sea

Found myself in Wardah Books this morning attending a talk by my chum Tony (Jamal) Green on the publication of his very handsome tome Kapal Haji: Singapore and the Hajj Journey by Sea. The last time we spoke, in early August, Jamal told me quite a bit about the volume, which has been some years in the making and featured in even earlier conversations between us. Some of this was recapped in this morning's talk which, if anything, made it all the more enthralling as the various bits and pieces fell more easily into place for me, into more of a coherent whole.

Jamal had quoted to me something from a Brian Patten poem entitled The Betrayal back in August, as a way of explaining the obvious urgency he felt to capture something of the history of the pilgrims who endured so stoically, so heroically the journeys by sea he deals with in the book. When he read some of the poem again this morning, in his typically understated way, the lines floored me with their relevance to my own life, my own betrayals. It seemed somehow overwhelmingly important in that moment to acknowledge those whose fate it has been to be just the loose change of history.

There was another moment later in the talk, almost an off-hand one, when he paused to think of a word to describe how it felt to research the experiences of those undertaking the sea-borne hajj and came up with: humbling. Yes and I know it's going to be usefully, rightly, humbling to read of them.

A Little Learning

I thought I knew a bit about the history of Islamic thought and that's true, but not quite in the way I thought. You see I assumed the bit I knew was a reasonably big bit, but having embarked on a reading of Jonathan Brown's Misquoting Muhammad: The Challenge and Choices of Interpreting the Prophet's Legacy I've come to realise how much of a tiny bit the bit was. I could manage a broad summary of the Islamic scholarly tradition, certainly, but I was profoundly ignorant as to the details within that tradition. I could, at a pinch, tell you there are four major schools of law - madhhabs - in the Islamic world and name a couple, but I had no idea at all as to how they came into being and why Muslims could and can so easily (and sometimes, sadly, not so easily) agree to disagree on individual points of law. Now, some 50 pages in, I'm starting to grasp something of what took place in the formative centuries that shaped so much of the rich system of belief I inhabit.

I'm also coming to realise that, for all my appreciation of Islamic learning, I've always, somewhere in the back of my mind, assumed that the majority of scholars of the period in question were not terribly sophisticated thinkers. Prof Brown has a gift for making you realise otherwise.

It's a salutary thought that maybe most of those thinkers we sort of vaguely dismiss as mediaeval and, therefore, sort of backward, thinkers in all sorts of traditions - Christian, Judaic, Buddhist, to name just three - were a good deal more sophisticated than we give them credit for. Indeed, a good more sophisticated, more radically knowing, than ourselves.

Full

Replete with sausage & mash as the week ends. Even so, recalling times of need, times of emptiness. It's good to be full, but there are other ways of being. Good to have experienced them all.

Good Taste

For reasons best known to her enigmatic self The Missus provided me with three Jacob's Cream Crackers to munch at work today. It's been years since I had one. I ate them, without trappings, with my first cup of tea of the morning and, my goodness, they tasted good. Just like Jacob's Cream Crackers always used to taste, if you see what I mean.

Something I've never thought of before: Who was Jacob, actually? And what possessed him to put cream in his crackers?

A Real Pain In The Neck

I blame eight days of fairly heavy marking. But, having said that, my quota per day whilst tough was not excessive and allowed me plenty of breaks. Ironically the majority of scripts I marked looked pretty good too, so they certainly weren't a figurative pain in the neck. However, they've somehow caused a very literal pain, across my shoulders and creeping up the left side of my neck. And it really hurts.

Unfortunately I can't take a break to allow the problem to subside, so it looks like more of the same for days to come. Ouch.

Another Story

The great thing about getting to read someone else's story is the privilege of being reminded that, contrary to appearance, you are not the centre of the universe. The sad thing is that not everyone's story ends well, and so many are sad even in the telling.

Every loss diminishes us.

Keep Striving

Noticed in recent times the increasing usage of strive as a noun in students' work. As in: It was all part of his strive to success. Odd. It appeared in the (usually) excellent subtitles for the Suria series Kisah Tok Kadi the other week, so it's obviously well-established, even if relatively infrequent.

Where does it derive from? Is there some kind of false equivalence with strife? Has it crept into American English without me noticing? I've noticed it in evangelical contexts a couple of time. If it really takes off I wonder how long it will be before I stop bothering to underline it. I'm already considering on giving up on reveal as a noun, for which I blame the Property Brothers and their ilk.

Under Maintenance

I was distinctly ambitious in framing my resolution for the year ahead back in January. I knew I was aiming high, but perhaps didn't quite realise how high. Just keeping one's body ticking over in reasonable shape is quite a stretch at my advanced age, I'm afraid. I suppose that by the time we got to Ramadhan, back in May, I'd enjoyed some success in actually increasing my overall level of fitness if the numbers I posted in the gym might be trusted. But since the catastrophic problems presented by my iffy back in June derailed any regular programme of exercise, I haven't come close to achieving such results. Happily though, I am back to regular exercise and tonight's trip to the gym suggested I'm back to a sort of average performance. Unhappily, achieving the average has left me exhausted.

Perhaps I should re-cast the resolution: I am resolved to end the year as reasonably fit as I started it. When entropy stares you in the face I suppose that's as good a way as any of staring back, eh?

Words Of Wisdom

Just finished Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra in Kaufmann's The Portable Nietzsche. (Actually Kaufmann gives Spoke not Spake, but I prefer the archaism I grew up with.) Sort of enjoyed it for the weird vigour of the (very, very) purple prose, but can't say I ended up any wiser as to what FN is chundering on about. Can't help but sympathise with Jeeves's advice to Bertie at the end of Carry on Jeeves:

You would not enjoy Nietzsche, sir. He is fundamentally unsound.

In Wonderland

It's easy to forget how astonishing it is that we live in a world in which it's so easy to find wonderful things just by going on-line. I was reminded of this today when I came across this version of Unsuk Chin's brilliant opera, transporting me to Wonderland.

As I say, astonishing on every level.

Loosening Up

Given the fact that I thoroughly enjoy his poetry, I'm a bit puzzled as to why I've been making such slow progress in James Wright's Above the River - The Complete Poems. I seem to have been reading it forever, yet I'm not even halfway through, just approaching the end of his 1963 collection The Branch Will Not Break. I suppose this is something to do with just how demanding the early poems in his first two books are, but wonderfully so. They are uniformly brilliant in terms of the command of the formalities of metre and rhyme, and as uniformly dense in terms of depth and complexity. Most of them demanded at least three concentrated, intense readings, and usually required further detached analysis of individual bits to figure out how they were meant to fit into the whole.

The big surprise after that is just how loose Wright's work becomes (or seems to become) in his third collection. There are a couple of formally structured pieces but other than those most of The Branch Will Not Break reads like the work of a different poet entirely, one with a healthy contempt for regularity in any form. What happened? I don't know, though I suppose someone somewhere does - but I'm glad it did happen. Not because I think the poems are better in any real sense, but because they open up new ground, almost a new sensibility.

In fact, the first poem of Wright's I ever came across is from this collection, and it's one of those rare poems that instantly tells you the writer is the real thing. I reckon it's a useful test case for any reader in terms of whether you're capable of genuinely responding to poetry at all. If A Blessing doesn't send shivers down your spine instantly, I'm afraid you've got no soul.

Spinning Even Faster

Today Noi managed to get a work diary for me for the year ahead (the type that gives a week to a view, which I just can't function without.) This is ten days earlier than I managed to get hold of one last year for this year. I suppose that goes some way to accounting for the fact that it just doesn't seem possible a whole year has gone by since acquiring the 2019 version. I distinctly remember making a bit of a mess last year regarding the headings I routinely put in for each week, linking the particular week to the point reached in the school term, since I didn't realise that the Ministry of Education here would decide to create a 'Week Zero' at the start of the school year. I briefly considered trying to find another diary but, fortunately, managed to cope with my odd obsessiveness over these things and just crossed out the errant headings. I still feel an odd impulse to try and keep any on-going diary reasonably neat and systematic, an impulse I overcome by reminding myself that it won't take long before the thing looks inevitably messy and it makes far more sense to embrace the mess.

I wonder if there'll come a day when I abandon the keeping of such a diary. Doesn't look like that'll be any time soon though. And if I did how would I ever remember birthdays?

Peak Experience

My prediction for the day turned out to be eerily accurate. There I was at 9.30 this morning enjoying the cup that cheers more than somewhat down in SAC. To add an extra layer of delight I was listening to Macca's very fine Egypt Station (which had made the playlist on yesterday's journey from Melaka) with a specific focus, aided by my ear-buds, or whatever they call them, on some surpassingly excellent basslines. Of course, the day could only go downhill thereafter, but what a peak, eh?

The Usual Routine

We'll be making tracks along the highway to our usual Far Place in a little while. I've just been thinking through what needs to be done for the first day of work. The rather jolly answer is not too much. Having said that, my longer term to-do list is a bit scary, but I've learnt to not look too far ahead, just far enough to keep the wagon on the tracks. The result of my genius for burying my head in the sand is that these days I quite look forward to getting back in harness. It makes for a simple life, in its way.

The thing to do is keep focused on the good bits. Drinking tea down in SAC features quite heavily on the list of these. In fact, it's in first position. I reckon that by 9.30 am, Monday, that's just what I'll be doing - a most cheerful thought on which to sign off.

Fun Is A Serious Business

Now in Sungai Petai, Melaka and warm again after the chill of Genting Highlands. You may be wondering what took us up there, definitely out of my comfort zone, for one. Well it was Noi's idea and, despite the fact I was seriously cold all through breakfast at the hotel, it was a very good one. In case you're wondering why I was cold indoors I should explain that the hotels up there, at least the ones I know, cunningly avoid installing heating systems on the grounds, I suppose, that they are not necessary in the Malaysian climate. I suppose they also take into account that being cold is a sort of unusual holiday experience for most of their clientele, something that some folks actually look forward to (including The Missus, I'm afraid) so they actively seek to supply it at the same time as cutting costs. Now that's what I call a business plan!

In case you're wondering why Noi's idea can be considered a very good one, I should explain that the whole idea was to give a Zahira a break from a pretty dull routine of pawming around shopping malls with the two of us and provide her with a new experience (cold included.) I was a wee bit doubtful that she'd have a good time in the indoor theme park up there on her own, but I was happily very wrong indeed. She's the kind of kid who gives every sign of enjoying her own company and is remarkably self-sufficient - and wonderfully undemanding. On the Friday evening we arrived she tried out all the big rides there, some more than once, and wasn't in the slightest bit abashed at being on her own. I wondered if she might get a bit fed up when we went back for more today, but she continued to have a good time and somehow teamed up with a new friend, with whom she spent a good three hours recapping most of the rides of the previous day.

Genting Highlands, by the way, is more loud and brash than ever. When I first went up there it had a kind of ragged, run-down charm about it, but that's largely gone. I suppose huge injections of cash are responsible and I suppose the place is a huge money-spinner for those with huge amounts of money to spin. But it's difficult to be overly cynical about somewhere that so many kids in their small ways really do enjoy.

(Zahira's new friend was called Tammy, by the way. Her brothers are Tommy and Timmy. I was going to praise her for choosing parents with a keen sense of humour but, thankfully, decided to keep that comment to myself.)

Relocation

Temporally resident in the Genting Highlands. All part of a cunning plan to enjoy the fog and feel chilled. The winds are not exactly howling outside our room, but neither are they soothing. Don't see much haze around, but then I don't see much of anything to be honest.

Stuck Indoors

We'd vaguely planned to take Zahira out and about in our time here in the Malaysian capital, but the poor quality of the air has put a massive kibosh on all such intentions. It's the haze season with a vengeance. Nothing is to be seen of the city in the valley below our hill and we've had the feeling several times of looking out on a typical late-November day in the UK when gazing out of the windows of the shopping malls we've taken shelter in. There's a bit of a row going on at the moment between Malaysia and Indonesia as to which nation is to blame for attempting to suffocate us all, but if the steps taken to do something about it in recent years are anything to go by, the chances of the situation improving any time soon are negligible.

A Way Forward

Got away from FN long enough to enjoy the company of Matsuo Basho on The Narrow Road to the Deep North, and very glad I did. Why does Basho seem so contemporary? How is it I feel so much more at home in seventeenth century Japan than nineteenth century Europe? Come to think of it, than in twenty-first century Europe?

A Parting Of The Ways

I'm now approaching the end of the Third Part of Zarathustra and have decided to part company with Herr Nietzsche for a short while. Probably just a day. His work is never less than fascinating and he makes for intense company - but a little bit too intense on occasions, if you know what I mean. He's like that friend who gets just that bit too demanding, who sees a bit too much significance in just about everything and is just a bit too angry for his own good too much of the time.

I keep thinking it would have done him good to read some P.G. Wodehouse. In fact, I've got a feeling he's name-checked by Bertie Wooster somewhere, probably in relation to one of Bertie's horrendous girlfriends. Possibly Honoria Glossop. Now I come to think of it, it would probably do me good to read a bit of Wodehouse as a sort of corrective.

Nothing To Report

Now very happily installed in Maison KL after the best kind of journey. And what kind of journey might that be? you ask. One entirely without incident, I answer wisely.

The Right Place

We picked up niece Zahira this afternoon as she'll be accompanying us on our trip up to KL for the week's holiday - as she did at this time last year. We took her to Kinokuniya to 'spend' the book tokens I gave her (the ones I got at the Literature Seminar for services rendered. I split the spoils between herself, Fi Fi and Fa Fa.)

She picked up a sci-fi trilogy by some Chinese writer I've vaguely heard of - quite recently - and I must say it looked intriguing. If it proves too adult for her sensibilities I might just borrow the books myself. Actually she had a chance to change her mind over her choice as she picked up the books in question at the adult section before finding the shelves designated for Young Adult Fiction. I watched her there as she stood dazed and delighted at the sheer range of what was on offer, feeling something of the excitement of my younger self when first exposed to the possibilities of good bookshops.

To be honest, I feel pretty much the same excitement even now in the right place at the right time. Even a good library does it for me.

Real Numbers

There's something weirdly reassuring about the fact that we know the figures for the number of dead in the Bahamas following the devastation resulting from the terrible hurricane of recent days will inevitably climb. It will confirm the reality of the horror that's taken place, even if we're learning what at some level we already know. (Everyone seeing the film of that devastation will know what I mean.) In contrast, the lies about levels of casualties following Chernobyl, or those incurred in the invasion of Iraq in the early days of reporting, simply added another level of awfulness to the horror involved.

Having said that, the word unimaginable got thrown about on the news just now, so we'd better prepare ourselves for something deeply shocking. What we can't possibly imagine is the suffering of the victims, not at the reality of its intensity. We never can, no matter what the numbers.

Danger Ahead

Kaufmann's Portable Nietzsche is remarkably generous in terms of just how much of the philosopher it packs into its pages. The whole of Thus Spake Zarathustra being rightfully the centrepiece. I'm now having a good time being battered about the brain with the First Part. Bracing stuff and wonderfully poetic, even in translation. (Must say, I suspect Kaufmann's is brilliant given the fact that others I've encountered over the years didn't sound remotely like actual English.)

My big problem with reading Nietzsche isn't his fault, I suspect. I guess History is to blame. It's just that when I read stuff like Aphorism 283 from The Gay Science - I welcome all signs that a more manly, a warlike, age is about to begin, an age which, above all, will give honor to valor once again - I find myself becoming quite unreasonably angry with FN and sort of wish he'd never written this nonsense. Of course, nobody could know what dangerous nonsense this would prove to be circa 1882, and I've taken the words out of context. But that's the point: it's so fatally easy to strip away the context from a thinker who's discovered that the secret of the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously.

I suspect that most of those souls who find themselves living dangerously in a quite involuntary manner - sadly, so many of them - would readily settle for a peaceful, comfortable existence.

At Present

Reading my own words from some five years ago - and somehow failing to connect. 

Listening to Noi's laughter, a sound with which I am happily familiar and always happy to renew acquaintance.

Wondering how my nation came to this, and what shape it might take another five years hence.

Hoping to get a good lie-in tomorrow but suspecting I'll wake early and get up anyway.

Praying for those in adversity, and in thanks that no real adversity has been visited upon me.

Writing this.

Worrying about nothing in particular but everything in general.

Not Too Likeable

I suppose this is true for everyone, but I get the oddest emails sometimes. Today I was invited to attend a course going by the unlikely title: Increasing Your Likeability Quotient For Success.

One paragraph read:

Increasing our Likeability Quotient is one of the most essential skill (sic) we should develop because it helps us in developing relationships with our friends, colleagues, bosses, business associates and even with our customers.


Now it's true there's room for me to be a lot more likeable, but I must confess to being somewhat doubtful that some kind of skill is involved. And I must further confess that I'm not terribly keen on being universally liked. I'm more than happy to have most people I know prepared to put up with me despite everything.

Sadly, I won't be attending the course, so I won't be able to:

Apply the Mehrabian 7-38-55 rule to create lasting and powerful first impression.

A pity really. I have the feeling I'm missing out on material of glorious comic potential.

Reality Check

When the world shrinks to the size of you and the elliptical trainer and ten minutes to go, then you find out exactly what you're made of. Unfortunately the ingredients are not always as impressive as you hope they might be.

Cause For Concern

Last Saturday I found myself largely home alone as Noi went off for the day to a wedding in Malaysia. Fortunately she was back by the late evening, so life wasn't entirely bleak for the day - and I did manage to spin Marquee Moon at a highly satisfactory volume (as noted in an appropriate post) to take the edge off the marking which dominated my hours alone. I also toddled up to Holland Village to stretch my legs and quaff the cup that cheers once the marking was done, taking the opportunity to buy the latest Mekong Review and the August edition of The New York Review of Books at the nifty magazine shop on the corner.

Once established with my cuppa, happily gazing out upon the various passers-by, I thought I'd get acquainted with the opening article in the latter publication only to realise I'd read it already in NYRB's on-line version. And whatever sense of post-marking contentment I was feeling abruptly vanished as I remembered my original perusal of Alan Weisman's Burning Down the House, his review of two hard-hitting tomes related to climate change, had left me mildly depressed. For reasons I'm hesitant to fathom I read the piece again, with even greater attention than the first time round, and considerably darkened my afternoon.

Just lately I've noticed how real these environmental concerns have become for me. That's a spectacularly dumb thing to say, I know, but I also know it's true. They're beginning to leak into everyday conversations and I'm a bit worried that I'll start to sound like I think I have a right to preach on such matters. It's a minor saving grace that I'm aware my track record has established no such right.

I'm trying to think of something real and positive I might do in relation to all this. And I'm worried that I just might not be able to.

A Fresh Start

1 Muharram, 1441

We began the new year at the wedding of our former neighbour Nooraini's eldest son, Irfan. I suppose the young man and his bride will consider today in some sense the start of a new life for themselves. If the happy vibes of the occasion are anything to go by it will be a fulfilling one, insya'allah.

The funny thing about fresh starts is that it's possible to make them on pretty much any day of any year we choose.