Deeply Uncomfortable

What's the opposite of comfort viewing? I'm not sure there's a term for it, but I suspect it's what I feel watching Ken Burns's documentary series on The Vietnam War. I'm now up to 1965 and the worst is to come, which is saying something after the horrors so far. Mind you, possibly the most horrifying aspect of the whole thing, made very obvious in the first two episodes, is that the Americans just didn't need to have been there. Any number of sensible observers knew that essentially Ho Chi Minh was leading a nationalist movement and in some ways was appreciative of American help. The tragedy lay in an inability to act rationally based on that knowledge.

We sometimes talk of the benefit of hindsight, but watching the tragedy play out makes hindsight feel like a curse.

Resistance Is Futile

I've been making heroic efforts to avoid dipping into the new, expanded edition of Sid Smith's In the Court of King Crimson, one of my recent purchases from the Book Depository - part of the order I thought lost that thankfully arrived eventually. The new material on the latest version of the greatest band in the known universe is easy, compelling reading for a fanboy like me, and I really shouldn't be browsing it so totally out of sequence.

What prompted me to dip in like this, aside from my usual excited curiosity, was a bit sad. I wasn't entirely surprised to read of the death of Bill Rieflin, one of the trio of drummers making up one of the most extraordinary line-ups of any band ever, due to his unexplained recent absences from touring and a general sense that something wasn't quite right there. And following the rich tributes paid at DGM I felt I needed to know a bit more about the guy and his contribution to this version of Crimso, and, indeed, his connections with Robert Fripp over quite a number of years.

As I suspected, there's a lot of enlightening material in the enhanced toxic tome on Bill Rieflin and, indeed, everyone who ever served at the Court. It's going to be a great read, but I really need to put it to one side for now.

Worth Noting

When I first heard of the American writer Alfred Hayes, through Fifi late last year, I was taken by surprise. It's not that I claim to know about every writer of note that's ever been, but I was puzzled as to why Mr Hayes had somehow gone completely under my radar despite being quite highly rated in literary circles. I decided then that I would make the acquaintance of at least one of his novels, encouraged by the fact that the one Fifi had purchased was very short, coming in at around 100 pages or so. Also in broad terms the critics seemed to see him as a successor to Scott Fitzgerald, so that helped reinforce my decision.

I made good on my promise over the last two days, and I'm heartily glad I did so because the guy can really write. My Face for the World to See from the late 1950's proved a delight in terms of its evocation of the Hollywood of the period without in any way going over the top. If I hadn't known Hayes had worked as a screenwriter I think I would have guessed it. The novel aches verisimilitude and is wonderfully economical in style. The mastery of the short chapter alone makes it a worthwhile read and the ending is just stunning in its power.

But I'll not be in a hurry to read another of the writer's works, despite the many virtues of this one. I'm not exactly sure of the reason, but I suppose it relates to the fact that I have no great love for movies of that period, though enjoying them for their craft. The concern with what might loosely be termed romance, the focus on the narrator's confused and complex relationship with the enigmatic girl he rescues at the beginning (who, I think remains unnamed throughout) is intended to fascinate but didn't quite work for me. I found myself very much admiring the writing but from a distinctly uninvolved distance.

Out Of Nowhere

Count me as happily stunned upon reading the news this morning that His Bobness has just released a new, original 17 minute song. And, after two pretty intense listens it strikes me as unlike anything else in his considerable canon. I'm assuming, probably incorrectly, it's an outtake from the sessions for Tempest, but it just doesn't sound like the rest of the album.

Richard Williams at the ever excellent thebluemoment.com draws a useful parallel with Cross the Green Mountain, but I kept thinking of Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie, most likely due to the sense that Dylan is reciting here rather than singing and also due to the concomitant feeling of extremely free association - not that that is particularly out of the ordinary, of course.

Connections

It's far too early to start making claims that something good might come out of the dreadful situation most of the world now finds itself in, especially when so many are dealing with horrendous levels of anxiety regarding their personal situations and those of their loved ones. But it's heartening to see a generally heightened awareness of just how vital some seemingly mundane jobs really are for the well-being of us all. One obvious example: where would we be without the ancillary staff in hospitals - the cleaners and porters and the like who keep it all going? And are somehow continuing to do so when it could so easily fall apart - as we now realise. After this crisis - assuming there is an after - this will be something to remember.

As will those connections that go beyond the human, in an understanding that we are a part of systems and processes linking and intertwining all living things. Microbes included. And how we behave will necessarily impact the whole, for good or ill - including our own good or ill.

It's all so obvious isn't it? Perhaps that's why we don't see it.

Beyond Expectations

Just finished John Berger's haunting account of the life of a country doctor, A Fortunate Man. Though generally familiar with Berger's work I'd never heard of this book until I came across a fascinating article on it in the Graun late last year. It sounded like the kind of thing that I would enjoy and such proved to be the case, despite the fact that in some respects it's very much a book of its time - that time being 1967. But then the pressing concerns of a particular time, when fierce enough, can prove to be concerns which engage us in the here and now of human experience.

Must say, it felt a touch unnerving to find myself reading quite detailed references to two writers with whom I've been pretty intensely engaged in the last few weeks, namely Conrad and Sartre - and not just any Sartre, but his first novel which I only finished a week or so ago. Not at all expected and oddly synchronous.

And it also felt strange to read A Fortunate Man in the light of my knowledge (acquired through reading the Comments section following the article I referred to earlier) that the doctor involved, a thoroughly admirable man, took his own life some fifteen years after the publication of Berger's work. Knowing this significantly altered what would have been a more innocent reading of the text and seemed to deepen my reading - though I'm wary of being overly-presumptuous in that regard. I'm not sure I have the capacity to match the depth of Berger, even knowing what he couldn't have known when writing.

Spellbound

Haven't had that much opportunity for extended listening lately. Tried to right the balance by giving Messiaen's Des Canyons Aux étoiles a spin in the late afternoon. Completely gorgeous, but so much so I nodded off hypnotised in the fourth movement - though with a continuing awareness of surrounding bliss. Fortunately stayed awake right the way through John Luther Adams's Become Ocean playing free at Bandcamp. Impossibly beautiful.

Darkness Made Visible

It's taken me quite a bit longer to get to the finishing line in Dark Fire than I expected, and I'm still not quite there yet - with some 40 pages to go. Two reasons for this: working from home has kept me pretty busy; and I've been enjoying Sansom's novel so much that I've been deliberately slowing down my reading - mainly by reading other stuff at the same time.

Brilliant plotting and a wonderful sense of atmosphere make this a very special read, but the tale's genuine sense of the nature of evil and its relationship with a religious view of life and its meaning takes the book to a very high level. I wouldn't claim this to be in Wolf Hall territory (and how am I going to be able to resist the final volume of Mantel's Cromwellian trilogy at this point in time?) but it occupies the very height of what genre fiction can achieve.

Something Missing

The first day of a new term, and I really, really, really missed teaching in a classroom. Conducting lessons on-line is okay, but doesn't compare to the real thing for me. Strange how things change. In October 1978 I was desperate to quit the job. Mind you, that was a few decades ago.

Further Solace

Since being stuck in the apartment, the Missus and I have found ourselves taking refuge in episodes of Doc Martin, happily available on our recently acquired Netflix. Showing iron self-control we're managing to restrict ourselves to just two a day. In my terms that's real binge-watching, by the way.

What is it about gorgeous Cornish sea-side villages and other people's laughably eccentric problems that manages to put it all in perspective? I don't know - but somehow it does, and we're very happy about that.

Connectedness

Chatted on the phone a bit yesterday with Tony. Amongst other things, he updated me with regard to the current situation at the Christchurch Mosque, it being a year since the dreadful killings. He alerted me particularly to the excellent website they've developed, and the Christchurch Invitation thereon. We spoke much of community and it felt particularly appropriate to be doing so in a time of general anxiety when it's becoming ever more apparent that a sense of community is no longer to be seen as an irrelevant luxury.

Then today I got to thinking of Dickens's great novels of the 1850s, particularly Little Dorrit and Bleak House. Dorrit begins with a number of its leading characters stuck in quarantine in Marseilles, whilst the plot of Bleak House revolves partly around an outbreak of smallpox. In both novels, but most especially the latter, disease functions as a disturbing metaphor for our connectedness. Strangely prescient. A metaphor that lives again in very real ways, I'm afraid.

Vulnerabilities

Talked to John and, more briefly, to Maureen yesterday evening. I was wondering how they'd responded to the whole coronavirus situation and was reassured to find they were not unduly worried. I suppose they lead almost completely solitary lives now, apart from trips to hospitals and the like to deal with their numerous health issues, and so don't feel terribly threatened. In fact, I'm not too sure they've taken in just how vulnerable they are to the detrimental effects of the virus given precisely those issues.

Worryingly John raised the issue of the failures of my sister's short term memory. The question of whether she is suffering from dementia has been an open one for some time now, but the way he was talking suggests to me that this is the case and her forgetful repetitiveness isn't just the by-product of her other problems but is a real 'thing' in itself. He compared her to Mum in her final two or three years and that was jarring to hear.

As ever I felt the empty helplessness which is my usual state of mind regarding their problems. Which, in its turn, put me in mind of all those who must feel hopelessly vulnerable in the current circumstances. I know that my processing of all the information on the virus has been generally unpleasantly selfish as I've been chiefly concerned with assessing the risk to yours truly (which doesn't seem terribly high.) It's time to look beyond self for all of us, I suspect, if we're going to maintain a world worth living in.

On Leave

Was taken aback today to find out that I have to take an enforced Leave of Absence from work due to our Malaysian jaunt. I can only go in to teach again on 1 April and have to socially isolate myself until then. I suppose at one time I might have found this a bit irritating, but in the light of the unfolding crisis it's easy to see the logic of such an order and, therefore, easy enough to comply. Also there are platforms to keep in touch with classes and so the ill effects in terms of the on-going progress of students are somewhat mitigated.

I suppose it'll also give me time to read when I'm not dealing with work-related stuff since there'll be not much else to do. I'm more than happy to spend plenty of time in the world of Sansom's Matthew Shardlake, and Dark Fire continues to grip, but I must say I was happy to get away from Antoine Roquentin, having finished Sartre's earliest full length fiction yesterday. Nausea is a brilliant novel, I have no doubt of that, but Sartre's protagonist is such a misery-guts that you wouldn't want to spend too long in his company. And that sort of ex-girlfriend of his - Anny - surely she must be the least fatale of all the femmes in French lit? When I first read the novel several decades ago I suppose I thought of their dialogue in the one meeting they have in the novel as sophisticated. Now it seems painfully pretentious.

In contrast, the segments with the Autodidact have a genuine sense of humanity which I think I missed all those years ago when it was the ideas I was trying to wrap my head around. The bit where he is humiliated in the library for making advances to the young boys is powerfully sad and shows Sartre can write with genuine feeling when he chooses to and you don't need to be overly worried about the meaning of it all, all the time.

Uncertainties

One of the reasons I was able to remain fairly sanguine in the course of yesterday's travails was the obvious fact that I could have some reasonable certainty as to what the future might hold in contrast to the very obvious uncertainties fuelling the behaviour of the majority of those crossing over to Singapore from Malaysia. It was Noi who figured out what all the motorcyclists and bus passengers laden with bags and various accoutrements were up to. They'd crossed back to Malaysia in the afternoon to grab enough belongings to survive a couple of weeks in Singapore, hoping to outlast the period of lockdown and keep earning some money. I suspect most had experienced a very fraught day just to secure a bit of stability until the end of the month, after which nothing was predictable. We were enjoying the relative comfort of a car (with excellent music ready on tap!) whilst so many others must have felt weary and vulnerable - and faced getting up in the early morning for yet another tough day at work.

Today I was reading some of the interviews with various of the workers involved who'd been caught up in it all. Struck by their straightforward ordinariness and the capacity of so-called ordinary people to deal with the demands of the extraordinary.

Leaving

In the light of the travel restrictions which will kick in tomorrow, we're now clearing up the necessary here in Malaysia, ready for a move south this afternoon. Apart from anything else, we're a bit worried the Missus won't be allowed out of her own country if we delay too long. Wish us luck as we attempt to cross borders!

Postscript: And we're back. The roads were easy down to Tuas, but crossing turned out to be a minor epic. The traffic was backed-up for almost the entire bridge, and patience was the much-needed requirement of the very late evening. But it felt strangely worth it somehow to be part of the unfolding event. 

Solace

Call me naïve, but I was a bit surprised to see the obvious signs of panic-buying in two supermarkets in the Ampang area when we went out in the afternoon. It seemed so odd after the calm of the weekend when shopping centres looked pretty much deserted and there were no queues at all. The speed at which the broad crisis is developing and changing is wholly predictable yet I'm so used to the predictability of routines it manages to discombobulate.

As ever I find myself taking solace in my reading which seems particularly rich at this time. I find myself with no fewer than four books on the go. Now I admit that this seems to rub against my efforts in recent years to be rather more disciplined in terms of fixing a focus. But I'm in the happy position of being entirely unable to resist any of the four as things stand, so I'm sort of manoeuvring between them all, making sure I maintain genuine momentum through very frequent switching. This reminds me more than a little of how I used to deal with the four or five books I'd get from the library as a kid - a definite way of promoting a happy promiscuity of reading.

The happy four, by the by, are: The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume I 1909 - 1939 (at which I find myself in 1923, in the playful Spring and All, with the good doctor at war with anything remotely traditional, including the usual tropes related to Spring (and all that stuff)); the second volume of A. David Moody's biography of EP, Ezra Pound: Poet, The Epic Years 1921 - 1939, which those fine people at the Book Depository sent me in hardback, even though I ordered a paperback, fortunately for the cheaper price -yeh!; Sartre's Nausea, which seems a lot more interesting now than when I first encountered it as a callowly clueless teen; and Sansom's Dark Fire, for which the term gripping might have been invented, such is its narrative drive.

Busy, Not

Popped into the big Kinokuniya at KLCC just now to see if they had copies of C.J. Sansom's Dark Fire. I tried to get the follow-up to the excellent Dissolution at the equally large Kino on Orchard Road the other week but they were oddly Sansom-less. The KL branch proved superior in this respect, and I also took the opportunity to grab the third in the Shardlake series, Sovereign, thinking that this is likely to be hard to acquire in our usual Far Place.

The area round KLCC was a bit busier than Melawati Mall, but not hugely so. Fears of the coronavirus are keeping the crowds away and it's not difficult to practise a form of social isolation since there are so few folk around. We were wondering how the shops needing the crowds are going to survive. Devan, our part-time gardener was telling us that his business ferrying tourists from KLIA to the city has dried up. The economics of the crisis come second to the concerns over health, of course, but with livelihoods at stake, especially related to small businesses, the economic concerns are disturbingly real and current.

Relaxing

Birdsong mingling with Debussy for morning music.

Heat-struck afternoon. Five monkeys in the trees outside up to monkey-business. Good to know they're finding a way to live in the surrounding greenery.

Evening spent at the largely deserted Melawati Mall. A bit spooky.

So Routine

13.48

Now putting our stuff together for our journey north - where we'll be spending, as is usual, our holiday week. Agonising, as usual, over which books and CDs to take. Fairly sure that within a day at Maison KL I'll be missing something or other on the reading or listening front and wondering why I foolishly left it behind. Still, it's always good to have something you really need to come home to, eh?

Postscript (in the wee, small hours of the morning):

Broke up the journey with an evening stop-over in Mak's house at Sungai Petai involving several refreshing cups of teh tarik. Excellent music along the way provided by Steve Reich, John Adams, Stevie Wonder, Bill Frisell and Ennio Morricone. Nicely eclectic.

Not So Routine

The closing of all the mosques here for five days, and cancellation of tomorrow's congregational prayers took me by surprise, though it really shouldn't have. It was bound to happen some time given the current situation re the coronavirus. The implications of living with the pandemic for quite some time are in many ways obvious, yet the notion that the ordinary routines of life are about to be considerably shaken up takes a while to assimilate.

Must say, I'm happy to live in a part of the world in which decisive action is taken when necessary, even when it considerably shakes up one's cherished routines.

Not So Quiet

Just walked across the school in the very late evening, the night really, to lock up a couple of classrooms. The place almost, but not quite, deserted. (I'm not all sure it's ever fully empty.) You might expect something approaching silence as a companion on such a walk, but you'd be foolish to do. There's so much to listen to in the supposed quietness. Insect noises. Traffic sounds from afar. Electrical systems humming. The world busily speaking away, amplified by the emptiness.

I'm not entirely sure what it's saying, but it's comforting to listen.

Not So Ordinary

I've got precious little time to read at the moment in an increasingly busy final week of the term, but that hasn't stopped me reading The Secret Agent. I doubt that anything could hold me up for long given the hypnotic power of the novel. That same power accounts for why my reading has been slow - even now I've only just started the penultimate chapter in which Winnie Verloc meets the egregious Ossipon having run from the shop after killing the even more egregious Verloc. (But, then, who isn't egregious in this illuminatingly dismal tale?)

As I've been reading I've been trying to figure out in what ways Conrad's novel is so different from the rest of his work and, indeed, all other novels. I just can't think of an equivalent text in any sense. The closest I can get to identifying its very special character lies, I think, in the sheer ordinariness of the individuals represented. The thing is that somehow Conrad makes them larger than life, in an almost Dickensian sense, yet they remain entirely ordinary, drab, third-rate. Verloc is a monster, but a deeply shabby and unimpressive one. A novel centred around the exciting world of espionage contrives to be deeply unexciting, disappointingly tawdry, yet captivating.

I'm not at all sure Conrad knew what he was doing - the appended Author's Note of 1920 suggests not - but he did it with complete assurance from start to finish. There isn't a false note in the text. Genius at work.

Not So Comfortable

Since our unexpected acquisition of Netflix the main viewing for the Missus and myself thereon has been Doc Martin, the fifth series. Excellent late night comfort viewing. Apart from enjoying the comedy and bits & pieces of drama, just gazing at the Cornish seaside village in which it all happens is a guarantee of a jolly evening.

But I'm keenly aware the channel has a lot more to offer, and it was with this in mind that I had a look early this evening at the beginning of Ken Burns's documentary series on Vietnam. Being hard pressed for time I could only manage the first 25 minutes or so, but that was enough to convey the high quality of the series and to make clear that viewing the various episodes would be the opposite of comfortable.

I don't know why, but I find anything related to the war deeply evocative of my childhood and teenage years, yet I was half a world away from all the key players. What must watching this be like for those with real, direct involvement? Searing, I would guess.

Great News

For all connoisseurs of memorable headlines, today's online-Guardian came up with: Burning calories: pig starts farm fire by excreting pedometer. Difficult to imagine that one being outdone as my Headline of the Year in the coming months. Must say, the fire service's tweet on the topic is also worth commemorating.

Still On The Way

Progress on The Secret Agent has been excellently slow, with me now being around a third of the way in. I noted last Sunday that I thought I knew Conrad's tale of dark anarchism pretty well but I was deceiving myself. Every page has turned out to be full of forgotten surprises related to just how strange and disconcerting the novel is. I don't think there's anything else quite like it in the language for its cold detachment of observation and shifting perspectives. It manages somehow to be so completely different from anything else in Conrad - except, perhaps, Under Western Eyes.

I'd also forgotten just how coldly, unpleasantly, wickedly, funny the novel is.

Precautionary Measures

Woke to a somewhat itchy & scratchy throat and considered not going into work, given the current situation re the coronavirus - but checked my temperature which was okay and decided to don a face mask instead. Gosh those things are almost as irritating as a slightly sore throat. Also decided to give prayers at the masjid a miss following the directive of Muis. Didn't want to worry the poor guys who would be next to me with my very occasional coughing. The problem now seems to be easing, so I hope I'm on the mend, but I'm regularly checking my temperature, just in case.

Normally I have a talent for feeling sorry for myself when I get a bit under the weather, but this time round I'm more concerned not to upset other folks who sometimes seem a bit more panicky than it's really wise to be.

Still Figuring It Out

Slightly odd coincidence: a couple of days ago I was waxing lyrical on the genius of Frank Zappa in this Far Place and today, reading my journal for early March from twenty years ago, I found that I had Mr Zappa and his work on my mind way back then. On 4 March 2001 I note: I got a book on Frank Zappa from the library and it appears to be a worthy tome. Zappa is one of those figures you have to come to terms with. Or maybe he's too big to come to terms with so you have to foster some largeness of vision to stay reasonably comfortable with him around, or at the edges of your awareness. It's odd the way in which there seems something so sane and healthy about the man and his influence; and then two days later I refer to the book I'd been reading that had engendered these reflections: Surprisingly I have completed Neil Slaven's Zappa, Electric Don Quixote. It gives a lot of interesting basic information on Zappa, but is a little lightweight in terms of incisive comment on Zappa as an artist. The abrasive personality of Zappa is enough to provoke lots of thought though.

At a distance of two decades I can say that I still haven't really come to terms with all that FZ rather wonderfully represents, but if anything the music has become even more meaningful and splendid for me. And that's what counts. (By the by, I have almost zero recall of the book in question, which just shows how little I retain of what I read.)

So Very Good

Highlight of the day: the arrival of a long-delayed shipment of books from the good people at the Book Depository. I thought these had been lost in the post somewhere so it was both a relief and a source of intoxication to finally get my hands on the two handsome volumes that comprise the Collected Poems of the great Archie Ammons. He has for some time now been my official favourite American poet of the twentieth century and I'm seriously wondering whether a reading of the volumes in question might result in his ascension to the very pinnacle of all-comers fave of the 20C. Not that such crazy rankings matter in the slightest. What matters is the pleasure of the reading, but I'm afraid I'll need to put that off for a little while as I'm committed to WCW (and then TH.) Never mind, though. It's all good, as they say.

Not Dark Yet

Isn't it extraordinary that beauty is to be found even when all is Starless and, indeed, Bible black?

(And wasn't 1974 an extraordinary year for manifestations of such beauty?)

For Granted

It's rare for those living in a golden age to realise that this is the case, even when they have a sense that something interesting and unusual is going on. As a teenager I took it for granted that the making of music by extremely talented musicians at a popular level was a given. I knew, as did those of my friends who had ears, that Frank Zappa - for example - was a gifted player and composer, but it never struck me that something rare and precious was happening in my lifetime and it was imperative to get as much of it as possible. Truth be told, I was blasé about Frank and all his gifts, never feeling inclined to buy the albums since I couldn't relate to all the comic stuff.

Today I found myself watching his band from 1974, one of the greatest line-ups he put together (and how, exactly? - I mean, by what magic did all these extraordinary talents come together under his notoriously exacting command?) and wondering how it was I managed to take compositions like Inca Roads for granted, as if they were somehow to be expected. I'd be inclined to congratulate myself for being around when this stuff was being created except I contrived to have little idea how privileged I actually was at the time.

(By the by, amidst all the brilliance on display, isn't it wonderful that it's Ruth who shines above all.)

The Way Ahead

Popped out to the big Kinokuniya on Orchard Road this afternoon to purchase a few novels, generally stuff of a 'classic' nature that I've either never read or read so long ago and so badly that I've forgotten what's in them. Though that's not quite true of Conrad's The Secret Agent which I know pretty well, but felt I just had to read again after my recent foray into Heart of Darkness. (Actually there's some late Conrad I've never read and I really must put that right.)

I won't bore you with the list of what else made it into my shopping bag, but I'm guessing I won't need to shell out for much else this year.