An exchange of e-cards marked the beginning of this privately auspicious day - 'real' cards being hard to come by in our present circumstances.
Along the hours I got to thinking of those who're locked-in with nobody at this time, or locked-in with somebodies they'd rather not be sharing their space with. There are such radical differences between people's experiences of being forced to socially isolate that it's just impossible to generalise about those experiences.
To be sharing this time with the person I'm sharing it with transforms everything.
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Saturday, May 30, 2020
More Bad News
Having completed the March issue of the NYRB I've moved on to the February - April issue of the Mekong Review. The first few articles have been excellent, but generally make for depressing reading. The first, a coruscating account of the plastic soup that has engulfed the world, by Robert Templer, set the grim tone. He makes a convincing case for the idea that pervasive pollution through plastics is possibly an even greater problem for mankind than climate change. And he suggests, convincingly, I must say, that it may be a problem with no actual solution. Oh dear.
After a number of insightful but worrying articles on protests in Hong Kong, I've now got as far as Benjamin Zawacki's piece on the genocide of the Rohingya people starkly titled Humanitarian breakdown, and had to stop reading after three bleak paragraphs. Of course, I'll get back to it. There's a kind of moral imperative to bear witness. But I'm not sure that feeling entirely hopeless is helpful to anyone.
After a number of insightful but worrying articles on protests in Hong Kong, I've now got as far as Benjamin Zawacki's piece on the genocide of the Rohingya people starkly titled Humanitarian breakdown, and had to stop reading after three bleak paragraphs. Of course, I'll get back to it. There's a kind of moral imperative to bear witness. But I'm not sure that feeling entirely hopeless is helpful to anyone.
Friday, May 29, 2020
Plurality
I've run out of novels to read. Novels I've not read before, I mean. I've never got into extended reading on-line, so any kind of e-book is out, and the bookshops and libraries are all closed. I suppose I could order something from Amazon or the Book Depository or the like, but somehow I can't be bothered. Of course, I've got one or two unread tomes about the place - especially with regard to various Collecteds on the poetry front - but not the kind of thing I'd regard as 'bread and butter' reading.
Over the last three days I've been filling in with the March edition of The New York Review of Books, which I purchased from the magazine shop on the corner at Holland Village just before the big shut-down. Reading it I was reminded of a feeling I've had before when going cover-to-cover through an issue: a sense of the variousness of the world and how little I really know about it.
I found myself fascinated by most of the articles, including stuff on Elizabeth Warren, cartoonists in the great 'screwball' tradition, the life and novels of Madeleine L'Engle, the development of armour in medieval Europe, the reputation of Mao Zedong and various manifestations of Maoism around the world, the life and dramas of Dario Fo, various demagogues in America, various 'post-traumatic' novels, assassinations associated with Vladimir Putin, the earliest known cities, and the parlous situation of adjunct teachers in American universities. Oh, and I missed out the piece that had the most intense effect on me - an article by Bill McKibben on climate change that left me almost entirely woebegone.
Quite a list, eh? The world remains incorrigibly plural even when we are in danger of sinking into abject singularity.
Over the last three days I've been filling in with the March edition of The New York Review of Books, which I purchased from the magazine shop on the corner at Holland Village just before the big shut-down. Reading it I was reminded of a feeling I've had before when going cover-to-cover through an issue: a sense of the variousness of the world and how little I really know about it.
I found myself fascinated by most of the articles, including stuff on Elizabeth Warren, cartoonists in the great 'screwball' tradition, the life and novels of Madeleine L'Engle, the development of armour in medieval Europe, the reputation of Mao Zedong and various manifestations of Maoism around the world, the life and dramas of Dario Fo, various demagogues in America, various 'post-traumatic' novels, assassinations associated with Vladimir Putin, the earliest known cities, and the parlous situation of adjunct teachers in American universities. Oh, and I missed out the piece that had the most intense effect on me - an article by Bill McKibben on climate change that left me almost entirely woebegone.
Quite a list, eh? The world remains incorrigibly plural even when we are in danger of sinking into abject singularity.
Thursday, May 28, 2020
Not Good News
In broad terms I'm sympathetic towards CNN. It's the channel Noi and I tend to first turn to when we're trying to follow events from the US, and I think they're at least trying to help us all keep a grip on the importance of facts in this weirdly post-modern phase of history. But there's one thing about the channel that really gets my goat, and that's the frequent ads they run praising their own journalists and commentators. It doesn't do anything for my appreciation of Christiane Amanpour to be told at fairly regular intervals how wonderful she is.
And whilst I'm letting off a small head of steam about this, I wish the anchors would stop telling the reporters in the field how excellent their reporting has been in those embarrassing sequences when they chat amongst themselves. If the reporting is good we are likely to recognise the fact, but the really important thing is that we get accurate and clear reporting - it doesn't need to be 'good' in any other sense. It isn't important that we listen to it being praised. It just needs to be done - to be there for us.
I suppose all this is part of the unhealthy concern with 'affirming' others, which as far as I can tell is an American thing. There's little or none of this on the main British news channels, thank goodness. Or perhaps there is, and I'm managing to tune it out.
And whilst I'm letting off a small head of steam about this, I wish the anchors would stop telling the reporters in the field how excellent their reporting has been in those embarrassing sequences when they chat amongst themselves. If the reporting is good we are likely to recognise the fact, but the really important thing is that we get accurate and clear reporting - it doesn't need to be 'good' in any other sense. It isn't important that we listen to it being praised. It just needs to be done - to be there for us.
I suppose all this is part of the unhealthy concern with 'affirming' others, which as far as I can tell is an American thing. There's little or none of this on the main British news channels, thank goodness. Or perhaps there is, and I'm managing to tune it out.
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
Waste Not
Noi is something of an expert at ensuring we don't waste food. I'm not sure why it is, but we always seem to have more than enough to eat in the house, despite buying in moderation. I suppose the phenomenon is partly related to the generosity shown by people in this part of the world in relation to the sharing of eatables in all circumstances. And since we both hate any kind of wastage, the Missus devotes considerable thought and skill to making sure it all gets consumed.
In contrast I recall from my childhood the opposite problem: the constant danger of running out of anything to eat and having to put up with knowing the most you could fill yourself with was a bit of bread (or a biscuit if one was left.) Don't get me wrong, there's was always food on the table for meals - but that was it. And it was the same for all the neighbours.
Something changed along the way. And I'm not sure it was necessarily for the better.
In contrast I recall from my childhood the opposite problem: the constant danger of running out of anything to eat and having to put up with knowing the most you could fill yourself with was a bit of bread (or a biscuit if one was left.) Don't get me wrong, there's was always food on the table for meals - but that was it. And it was the same for all the neighbours.
Something changed along the way. And I'm not sure it was necessarily for the better.
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
Exercise, Lack Of
The Missus is now Zoom-ing (if there is such a word) in our living-room with a group of ladies (in a virtual sense) exercising together. How splendid, and good for her! say I. In sad contrast I've managed to engage in precisely zero exercise for a whole month. My excuse, a poor one, is that in the peculiar circumstances of life in, what is termed in these parts, the Circuit Breaker, combined with the special circumstances of the fasting month, I just couldn't figure out a way of getting anything worthwhile done - so I didn't do anything. Doh!
Today I found myself going up and down a few flights of stairs since I was back at work for part of the day to do some consultations. Sadly, pathetically, I felt the strain. But at least I was doing something. And I'm now planning to get out on the streets in the next few days in order to set this sad, old frame in some kind of motion.
I suppose there's a kind of weak integrity in the fact I feel embarrassed writing this.
Today I found myself going up and down a few flights of stairs since I was back at work for part of the day to do some consultations. Sadly, pathetically, I felt the strain. But at least I was doing something. And I'm now planning to get out on the streets in the next few days in order to set this sad, old frame in some kind of motion.
I suppose there's a kind of weak integrity in the fact I feel embarrassed writing this.
Monday, May 25, 2020
Entertained
I finished A Gentleman in Moscow just before Hari Raya, distinctly speeding up in my reading of the second half of the novel. I notice there's quite a bit of buzz on-line for the novel with it featuring as one of Bill Gates's recommended reads for the summer. I can understand why. It's very well written and convincing in its evocation of Moscow, and Russia in general, after the Revolution and beyond, whilst somehow managing to tell a 'feel-good' story, unlikely as that may sound.
To be honest, I didn't entirely buy the character of the Count, but that didn't matter. I was happy to suspend my disbelief at the range of his accomplishments (and those of his sort-of daughter) just to enjoy the story. There's more than a suggestion of Amor Towles writing with the eventual movie in mind here and I suspect it will make an excellent and well-received film.
There's a kind of snobbery in literary studies about works that seek primarily, almost exclusively, to entertain that strikes me as being entirely misplaced. It's not easy to do, and it's rare that it's done as well as this.
To be honest, I didn't entirely buy the character of the Count, but that didn't matter. I was happy to suspend my disbelief at the range of his accomplishments (and those of his sort-of daughter) just to enjoy the story. There's more than a suggestion of Amor Towles writing with the eventual movie in mind here and I suspect it will make an excellent and well-received film.
There's a kind of snobbery in literary studies about works that seek primarily, almost exclusively, to entertain that strikes me as being entirely misplaced. It's not easy to do, and it's rare that it's done as well as this.
Sunday, May 24, 2020
Blessed, Again
Hari Raya Puasa, Eid ul-Fitr; 1 Syawal 1441
The fasting month accomplished, we are blessed with another Eid. If we are lucky, we'll be granted time in which to flower.
To all who are fortunate enough to celebrate this time: Eid Mubarak!
The fasting month accomplished, we are blessed with another Eid. If we are lucky, we'll be granted time in which to flower.
To all who are fortunate enough to celebrate this time: Eid Mubarak!
Saturday, May 23, 2020
Not Much Different
30 Ramadhan, 1441
Happy to have come through thirty days of fasting with reasonable success. In many ways a replay of Ramadhans past, but in other ways different. Of course, being involved in a lockdown meant that many of the expected features of the month were lacking, but the core of the experience didn't change, except it's an older version of myself fasting and at a somewhat different time of year than previously. In that sense there's always progression, always something unfamiliar to deal with.
I'm guessing that for Muslims worldwide the meaning inherent in the challenge of the fast will not have shifted much, if at all. Indeed, in a way it may have deepened as the challenges have been in some ways new ones, even as they haven't really changed much at all. It's salutary to bear in mind that this is the way things have been for centuries.
Happy to have come through thirty days of fasting with reasonable success. In many ways a replay of Ramadhans past, but in other ways different. Of course, being involved in a lockdown meant that many of the expected features of the month were lacking, but the core of the experience didn't change, except it's an older version of myself fasting and at a somewhat different time of year than previously. In that sense there's always progression, always something unfamiliar to deal with.
I'm guessing that for Muslims worldwide the meaning inherent in the challenge of the fast will not have shifted much, if at all. Indeed, in a way it may have deepened as the challenges have been in some ways new ones, even as they haven't really changed much at all. It's salutary to bear in mind that this is the way things have been for centuries.
Friday, May 22, 2020
Taking Shape
29 Ramadhan,1441
A final day of fasting to fulfil tomorrow. Time was, I would have felt an enormous sense of well-being writing those words. Now I feel something closer to simple acceptance of the ways in which I am being shaped by this experience and have been shaped by those of the past. Just hope the shape emerging is a coherent, worthy one.
A final day of fasting to fulfil tomorrow. Time was, I would have felt an enormous sense of well-being writing those words. Now I feel something closer to simple acceptance of the ways in which I am being shaped by this experience and have been shaped by those of the past. Just hope the shape emerging is a coherent, worthy one.
Thursday, May 21, 2020
Inside Out
28 Ramadhan, 1441
The circumstances of fasting cause one to turn inward during Ramadhan, but this is normally tempered by a strong sense of the communal - especially as the month develops. That sense of community has been lacking this year and, for me at least, I've missed the balance provided by that sense. For others, those old and alone, the lack must have been far more hurtful. As is so often the case, I find myself keenly aware of the good luck I experience, none of it deserved, none of it inevitable. Finding ways to share good fortune is the way forward, the way out of self.
The circumstances of fasting cause one to turn inward during Ramadhan, but this is normally tempered by a strong sense of the communal - especially as the month develops. That sense of community has been lacking this year and, for me at least, I've missed the balance provided by that sense. For others, those old and alone, the lack must have been far more hurtful. As is so often the case, I find myself keenly aware of the good luck I experience, none of it deserved, none of it inevitable. Finding ways to share good fortune is the way forward, the way out of self.
Wednesday, May 20, 2020
Not So Ordinary
27 Ramadhan, 1441
I would never have thought of reading Amor Towles's A Gentleman in Moscow had it not been vigorously recommended to me about a year or so ago. I had next to no idea of what kind of novel it was supposed to be and happily have discovered that in many ways it defies categorisation. The closest I can get is Bertie Wooster meets the Russian Revolution, though Towles's humour is not quite of the out-and-out farcical variety - not yet, that is. But Towles's Count does have that Woosterish sense of simple decency and stylistically the novel appears to be aiming for the uncluttered elegance of Wodehouse.
Many years ago in a time of some stress I turned to Wodehouse for comfort reading and I can imagine some readers losing themselves in Towles's world for the same reason. (Mind you, I'm not even halfway through so I may find myself reversing, possibly regretting, all these very temporary judgments.)
I would never have thought of reading Amor Towles's A Gentleman in Moscow had it not been vigorously recommended to me about a year or so ago. I had next to no idea of what kind of novel it was supposed to be and happily have discovered that in many ways it defies categorisation. The closest I can get is Bertie Wooster meets the Russian Revolution, though Towles's humour is not quite of the out-and-out farcical variety - not yet, that is. But Towles's Count does have that Woosterish sense of simple decency and stylistically the novel appears to be aiming for the uncluttered elegance of Wodehouse.
Many years ago in a time of some stress I turned to Wodehouse for comfort reading and I can imagine some readers losing themselves in Towles's world for the same reason. (Mind you, I'm not even halfway through so I may find myself reversing, possibly regretting, all these very temporary judgments.)
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Some Consolation
26 Ramadhan, 1441
We're too much protected against the reality of the suffering of others to be able to respond in any way fully to the misery generated by the coronavirus pandemic. That, in its way, is a good thing as the scale of affliction is stunning and we wouldn't be much good to anyone stunned and silenced. I think we all recognise a need to just get on with things in extreme circumstances, which requires something that may seem like indifference in a crisis.
But I also think it's important sometimes to try and take in the scale of it all - and, possibly, see some consolation in the fact that, for the moment at least, some parts of the world that one might have assumed would bear the brunt of the fatalities seem to have done not too badly. I'm thinking here of places like Greece. I lazily assumed in the early days of the pandemic hitting Europe that those nations with the most fragile economies would find themselves unable to cope and become disaster zones of the most extreme kind, so it's been salutary, to say the least, that the US and the UK seem to represent the greatest failures at that level of coping, something I didn't expect.
And I'm hopeful in a small way that Africa might not turn out to be the worst affected continent, which, again lazily, I assumed some two months ago somehow had to be the case. Of course, we're not even close to being able to assemble a full and convincing picture of the grim reality of a situation that is far from played out yet, but as of now I'm hopeful that my darkest fears and assumptions will prove happily empty.
We're too much protected against the reality of the suffering of others to be able to respond in any way fully to the misery generated by the coronavirus pandemic. That, in its way, is a good thing as the scale of affliction is stunning and we wouldn't be much good to anyone stunned and silenced. I think we all recognise a need to just get on with things in extreme circumstances, which requires something that may seem like indifference in a crisis.
But I also think it's important sometimes to try and take in the scale of it all - and, possibly, see some consolation in the fact that, for the moment at least, some parts of the world that one might have assumed would bear the brunt of the fatalities seem to have done not too badly. I'm thinking here of places like Greece. I lazily assumed in the early days of the pandemic hitting Europe that those nations with the most fragile economies would find themselves unable to cope and become disaster zones of the most extreme kind, so it's been salutary, to say the least, that the US and the UK seem to represent the greatest failures at that level of coping, something I didn't expect.
And I'm hopeful in a small way that Africa might not turn out to be the worst affected continent, which, again lazily, I assumed some two months ago somehow had to be the case. Of course, we're not even close to being able to assemble a full and convincing picture of the grim reality of a situation that is far from played out yet, but as of now I'm hopeful that my darkest fears and assumptions will prove happily empty.
Monday, May 18, 2020
Beyond Promising
25 Ramadhan, 1441
Now firmly embarked on a read-through of Ted Hughes: Collected Poems. Almost finished his earliest collection from 1957, The Hawk in the Rain, a book I know very well indeed. I can't remember exactly when I bought it as a paperback, but I do know that I thought extremely highly of it in its entirety. Not so sure I admire it in totality quite as much now. I suppose back then I was just intoxicated by the special, stunningly direct qualities of the verse and found something worthwhile in every poem. Now, more familiar with Hughes's voice, I'm a bit more picky and can see when he seems to be posing and just going through the motions.
But when whole poems work, and a remarkable number do, I find myself just as intoxicated as I ever was. Just think, in the first five poems of the collection we get four stone-cold, unarguable classics: The Hawk in the Rain, The Jaguar, The Thought-Fox and The Horses. Good grief - in his first collection!
Funnily enough, one poem that's a sort of personal favourite, the ballad-like Roarers in a Ring, seems rarely mentioned in the critical literature on TH. Reading it again after several years I'm struck by how it confirms the poet's mastery of rhythm and rhyme, his gift for which he rarely exploited in any obvious way (except, perhaps, in the verse he wrote for children - a reminder of his extraordinary range.)
Now firmly embarked on a read-through of Ted Hughes: Collected Poems. Almost finished his earliest collection from 1957, The Hawk in the Rain, a book I know very well indeed. I can't remember exactly when I bought it as a paperback, but I do know that I thought extremely highly of it in its entirety. Not so sure I admire it in totality quite as much now. I suppose back then I was just intoxicated by the special, stunningly direct qualities of the verse and found something worthwhile in every poem. Now, more familiar with Hughes's voice, I'm a bit more picky and can see when he seems to be posing and just going through the motions.
But when whole poems work, and a remarkable number do, I find myself just as intoxicated as I ever was. Just think, in the first five poems of the collection we get four stone-cold, unarguable classics: The Hawk in the Rain, The Jaguar, The Thought-Fox and The Horses. Good grief - in his first collection!
Funnily enough, one poem that's a sort of personal favourite, the ballad-like Roarers in a Ring, seems rarely mentioned in the critical literature on TH. Reading it again after several years I'm struck by how it confirms the poet's mastery of rhythm and rhyme, his gift for which he rarely exploited in any obvious way (except, perhaps, in the verse he wrote for children - a reminder of his extraordinary range.)
Sunday, May 17, 2020
Cleaning Up
24 Ramadhan, 1441
As we approach the end of this month of fasting, Noi is busier than ever making her biscuits and setting the house in order. I stirred myself from my lethargy to help out on the cleaning front over the weekend, focusing attention on getting our various bookcases and their contents shipshape. It felt good to sweat a bit getting something physical done, and even better to collapse afterwards.
Actually it's been brutally hot lately, which really accounts for all the sweat generated - the work itself being not exactly all that taxing. But a delicious storm just after Maghrib today seems to have cleansed the air.
As we approach the end of this month of fasting, Noi is busier than ever making her biscuits and setting the house in order. I stirred myself from my lethargy to help out on the cleaning front over the weekend, focusing attention on getting our various bookcases and their contents shipshape. It felt good to sweat a bit getting something physical done, and even better to collapse afterwards.
Actually it's been brutally hot lately, which really accounts for all the sweat generated - the work itself being not exactly all that taxing. But a delicious storm just after Maghrib today seems to have cleansed the air.
Saturday, May 16, 2020
Out Of Time
23 Ramadhan, 1441
One week of fasting left. It will pass quickly and it will pass slowly. Earlier today Noi was rightly talking about how quickly Ramadhan has gone, yet we seem to have been fasting a long time. That's the way it is when it becomes your normal state. No more moments of forgetfulness when you half get up to make a cup of tea. Your body has come to an understanding of the way things are and is at peace with those conditions. No more headaches - just occasional moments in which you realise just how weak you feel, but you're secure in the knowledge those feelings will pass, and pass quickly since strength lies in restraint. But it wouldn't matter if those feelings passed slowly since the point is to step out of time.
One week of fasting left. It will pass quickly and it will pass slowly. Earlier today Noi was rightly talking about how quickly Ramadhan has gone, yet we seem to have been fasting a long time. That's the way it is when it becomes your normal state. No more moments of forgetfulness when you half get up to make a cup of tea. Your body has come to an understanding of the way things are and is at peace with those conditions. No more headaches - just occasional moments in which you realise just how weak you feel, but you're secure in the knowledge those feelings will pass, and pass quickly since strength lies in restraint. But it wouldn't matter if those feelings passed slowly since the point is to step out of time.
Friday, May 15, 2020
Something Simple
22 Ramadhan, 1441
One of the peculiar things about going out to shop is how close to normal the world is out there, despite the fact we are living through strange times. On the way to the supermarket I'm frequently reminded of the simple yet profound pleasure of sitting down for tea and cake which, I suppose, is a typical feature of life during the fasting month anyway - the frequent reminders, I mean, not the eating and drinking. So, as in every Ramadhan I'm reminded of just how privileged I am to be able to enjoy an ordinary life (in normal circumstances) with its deeply satisfying rewards.
Must confess though, I'm looking forward to getting back some of those rewards soon.
One of the peculiar things about going out to shop is how close to normal the world is out there, despite the fact we are living through strange times. On the way to the supermarket I'm frequently reminded of the simple yet profound pleasure of sitting down for tea and cake which, I suppose, is a typical feature of life during the fasting month anyway - the frequent reminders, I mean, not the eating and drinking. So, as in every Ramadhan I'm reminded of just how privileged I am to be able to enjoy an ordinary life (in normal circumstances) with its deeply satisfying rewards.
Must confess though, I'm looking forward to getting back some of those rewards soon.
Thursday, May 14, 2020
Gems
21 Ramadhan, 1441
Back in my teenage years I purchased a number of the 'Selected Poems' Penguin used to publish centred on various British and American poets as a way of furthering my literary education. One or two these paperbacks became very precious to me, and I read them over and over. Possibly the most precious of all was the Selected Poems of William Carlos Williams. I wish I could remember who edited it, but I mislaid or lost the edition some time ago and can't remember the editor at all, though I have vivid recall of the contents. Funnily enough it wasn't a book I particularly enjoyed on first reading (though I must add here that I never attempted a sequential reading.) I don't think I really 'got' Williams on a first reading, but I was persistent, determined in my way to figure out what I was missing and gradually I grasped what the poems had to offer. Indeed, I think I managed to develop at least a little understanding of the qualities of every poem selected.
I've been thinking of that little volume a lot in reading Volume I 1909 - 1939 of The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams. Each time I've come across an 'old favourite' it's brought back something of that old appreciation and I've been struck by the excellence of the original selection which really picked the gems amongst his work. Frankly WCW's output varies considerably in terms of quality. When he gets it right and it all comes together it's shivers-down-the-spine time, but he can get it tediously wrong - as I think he himself was aware. And I must say I really don't care for his experiments in mixing prose and poetry. I can't think of a single prose segment that really worked for me over the 30 years covered in the volume.
I suppose it's because of the necessary disappointments and flat patches I've encountered working my way through this first volume that I've decided to put Volume II 1939 - 1962 on ice for a while. I've been itching for an extended period reading Ted Hughes for some time, and that time has arrived. Funnily enough I suspect I'll be up for a continued reading of WCW quite soon. For all his faults he's compulsively readable and the gems shine.
Back in my teenage years I purchased a number of the 'Selected Poems' Penguin used to publish centred on various British and American poets as a way of furthering my literary education. One or two these paperbacks became very precious to me, and I read them over and over. Possibly the most precious of all was the Selected Poems of William Carlos Williams. I wish I could remember who edited it, but I mislaid or lost the edition some time ago and can't remember the editor at all, though I have vivid recall of the contents. Funnily enough it wasn't a book I particularly enjoyed on first reading (though I must add here that I never attempted a sequential reading.) I don't think I really 'got' Williams on a first reading, but I was persistent, determined in my way to figure out what I was missing and gradually I grasped what the poems had to offer. Indeed, I think I managed to develop at least a little understanding of the qualities of every poem selected.
I've been thinking of that little volume a lot in reading Volume I 1909 - 1939 of The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams. Each time I've come across an 'old favourite' it's brought back something of that old appreciation and I've been struck by the excellence of the original selection which really picked the gems amongst his work. Frankly WCW's output varies considerably in terms of quality. When he gets it right and it all comes together it's shivers-down-the-spine time, but he can get it tediously wrong - as I think he himself was aware. And I must say I really don't care for his experiments in mixing prose and poetry. I can't think of a single prose segment that really worked for me over the 30 years covered in the volume.
I suppose it's because of the necessary disappointments and flat patches I've encountered working my way through this first volume that I've decided to put Volume II 1939 - 1962 on ice for a while. I've been itching for an extended period reading Ted Hughes for some time, and that time has arrived. Funnily enough I suspect I'll be up for a continued reading of WCW quite soon. For all his faults he's compulsively readable and the gems shine.
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
The Bright Side
20 Ramadhan, 1441
In days when life takes on a different texture we need reminders of the essentials that bind past and present. Putting up the twinkling lights felt like the creation of one such bond. We've had these particular lights a number of years now and somehow they keep going, despite their inherent fragility.
In days when life takes on a different texture we need reminders of the essentials that bind past and present. Putting up the twinkling lights felt like the creation of one such bond. We've had these particular lights a number of years now and somehow they keep going, despite their inherent fragility.
Tuesday, May 12, 2020
Not So Russian
19 Ramadhan, 1441
Surprised, beguiled and puzzled by Turgenev's Fathers and Sons. I knew that Turgenev was regarded as more of a 'western' writer than Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, but I expected something a bit more solid, a bit more Russian than what turned out to be a seemingly slight, almost delicate work - at times curiously inconsequential, a word you'd never apply to the other Masters I'm considering here. Even when you can't figure out what's going on in Dostoevsky you know it has consequence, and Tolstoy oozes significance. But episodes in Turgenev sometimes seem to just fade away, like short stories lacking the energy to point a moral. The themes are obvious - generational conflict, social upheaval, ways of living fully - yet there's nothing obvious at all in the way they are worked through. In fact, they don't feel worked through at all: they are just there to brood over, but conveyed in a far from brooding manner.
I suppose what I found puzzling about Fathers and Sons was the kind of lack of overt seriousness involved. The death of Bazarov at the end (which I did not for one moment expect) struck me as almost flippant in terms of plot development - yet the melancholy following at the end of the novel was conveyed with powerful sincerity. And the character himself was genuinely fascinating in terms of idiosyncratic originality. You never quite knew what to expect from him. The duel with Pavel is a case in point. Why accept the duel at all? And why so little investment in it?
This is the kind of novel which sends a reader to critical commentary, not to be told what to think, but to help in trying to recognise the art underlying the artifice.
Surprised, beguiled and puzzled by Turgenev's Fathers and Sons. I knew that Turgenev was regarded as more of a 'western' writer than Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, but I expected something a bit more solid, a bit more Russian than what turned out to be a seemingly slight, almost delicate work - at times curiously inconsequential, a word you'd never apply to the other Masters I'm considering here. Even when you can't figure out what's going on in Dostoevsky you know it has consequence, and Tolstoy oozes significance. But episodes in Turgenev sometimes seem to just fade away, like short stories lacking the energy to point a moral. The themes are obvious - generational conflict, social upheaval, ways of living fully - yet there's nothing obvious at all in the way they are worked through. In fact, they don't feel worked through at all: they are just there to brood over, but conveyed in a far from brooding manner.
I suppose what I found puzzling about Fathers and Sons was the kind of lack of overt seriousness involved. The death of Bazarov at the end (which I did not for one moment expect) struck me as almost flippant in terms of plot development - yet the melancholy following at the end of the novel was conveyed with powerful sincerity. And the character himself was genuinely fascinating in terms of idiosyncratic originality. You never quite knew what to expect from him. The duel with Pavel is a case in point. Why accept the duel at all? And why so little investment in it?
This is the kind of novel which sends a reader to critical commentary, not to be told what to think, but to help in trying to recognise the art underlying the artifice.
Monday, May 11, 2020
Satisfaction
18 Ramadhan, 1441
Hit the scales the other day to find I'm a bit below my fighting weight. Was a bit surprised as I've been doing next to nothing by way of exercise and feeling podgy as a result. Then thought it over and realised just how sensible my intake of grub is these days during fasting month. It seems impossible to stuff my face once the fast is broken, as if that would be an insult to the plentiful food available. Just a little is delicious, so why would I need more? Just being able to drink sweet, hot tea is enough to satisfy.
Each year at this time I learn something about myself and my relations with the world. I used to think of eating as a sort of obvious activity. It isn't. I suppose that's why so many suffer problems as a result of that relationship going sadly out of balance.
Hit the scales the other day to find I'm a bit below my fighting weight. Was a bit surprised as I've been doing next to nothing by way of exercise and feeling podgy as a result. Then thought it over and realised just how sensible my intake of grub is these days during fasting month. It seems impossible to stuff my face once the fast is broken, as if that would be an insult to the plentiful food available. Just a little is delicious, so why would I need more? Just being able to drink sweet, hot tea is enough to satisfy.
Each year at this time I learn something about myself and my relations with the world. I used to think of eating as a sort of obvious activity. It isn't. I suppose that's why so many suffer problems as a result of that relationship going sadly out of balance.
Sunday, May 10, 2020
Some Kind Of Closure
17 Ramadhan, 1441
I learnt a lot about America's involvement in Vietnam from Ken Burns's superlative documentary series The Vietnam War and I also found myself feeling a lot. At times the sense of despair engendered was almost overwhelming, but there was always the playing out of the stories of the individuals involved to give light to the darkness, even when these stories were sad ones, which was predominantly the case. The light came from the humanity involved, ordinary people capable of extraordinary depth of feeling and, above all, courage. If the programmes held such intensity for me, a viewer from an enormous distance, how must the actual participants, on both sides, felt watching them? (By the end there didn't seem to be sides anymore - just those terribly involved.)
The final episode, which I watched earlier today, seemed to me exceptionally well put together - and possibly the most powerful of all in terms of unrelenting impact. I half expected it might conclude with the Americans abandoning their embassy in Saigon, their involvement over, the war concluded. But the other half of me expected that real consideration would be given to the Vietnamese experience of the war ending, given the genuine concern for that experience apparent in every aspect of the series, and so it was. The pain continued well beyond the involvement of the U.S. for so many of the Vietnamese people, again regardless of 'sides', and this was dealt with in some detail - almost all unknown to me. And then followed sequences on the war memorial in Washington, the Wall, and the 'normalisation' of relations between the nations that somehow provided, not closure exactly, but an attempt at understanding the inexplicable pain of human folly.
There were many images and sequences in the final episode that spoke with a depth beyond their surface, but the one I'm remembering now was one of the simplest, and, I suppose, happiest. It involved one of the American veterans in Hanoi in the mid-90's being surrounded by a group of cheerfully smiling youngsters, obviously excited at meeting an American at last and getting to practise their English. I don't know exactly what it 'meant', if anything, but I'm glad I watched it.
I learnt a lot about America's involvement in Vietnam from Ken Burns's superlative documentary series The Vietnam War and I also found myself feeling a lot. At times the sense of despair engendered was almost overwhelming, but there was always the playing out of the stories of the individuals involved to give light to the darkness, even when these stories were sad ones, which was predominantly the case. The light came from the humanity involved, ordinary people capable of extraordinary depth of feeling and, above all, courage. If the programmes held such intensity for me, a viewer from an enormous distance, how must the actual participants, on both sides, felt watching them? (By the end there didn't seem to be sides anymore - just those terribly involved.)
The final episode, which I watched earlier today, seemed to me exceptionally well put together - and possibly the most powerful of all in terms of unrelenting impact. I half expected it might conclude with the Americans abandoning their embassy in Saigon, their involvement over, the war concluded. But the other half of me expected that real consideration would be given to the Vietnamese experience of the war ending, given the genuine concern for that experience apparent in every aspect of the series, and so it was. The pain continued well beyond the involvement of the U.S. for so many of the Vietnamese people, again regardless of 'sides', and this was dealt with in some detail - almost all unknown to me. And then followed sequences on the war memorial in Washington, the Wall, and the 'normalisation' of relations between the nations that somehow provided, not closure exactly, but an attempt at understanding the inexplicable pain of human folly.
There were many images and sequences in the final episode that spoke with a depth beyond their surface, but the one I'm remembering now was one of the simplest, and, I suppose, happiest. It involved one of the American veterans in Hanoi in the mid-90's being surrounded by a group of cheerfully smiling youngsters, obviously excited at meeting an American at last and getting to practise their English. I don't know exactly what it 'meant', if anything, but I'm glad I watched it.
Saturday, May 9, 2020
The Better Half
16 Ramadhan, 1441
Am doing okay but... Can do better. Should do better. And I have the mercy of time to work in.
Plenty of sources of inspiration also. My own Better Half, for example. Holding it all together, and more. Indeed, a good deal better than that.
And various old codgers showing that the flame doesn't have to die. Another example, following on yesterday's welcome news: the Frippster's diary of late has been busier than ever, most fruitfully so. The entry for 8 May being particularly rich. And his offerings of various soundscapes in Quiet Moments mode look to be a source of delight for weeks to come. Quiet Moments 2 is one of the finest I've heard - and I've heard a lot.
Am doing okay but... Can do better. Should do better. And I have the mercy of time to work in.
Plenty of sources of inspiration also. My own Better Half, for example. Holding it all together, and more. Indeed, a good deal better than that.
And various old codgers showing that the flame doesn't have to die. Another example, following on yesterday's welcome news: the Frippster's diary of late has been busier than ever, most fruitfully so. The entry for 8 May being particularly rich. And his offerings of various soundscapes in Quiet Moments mode look to be a source of delight for weeks to come. Quiet Moments 2 is one of the finest I've heard - and I've heard a lot.
Friday, May 8, 2020
The Real Thing
15 Ramadhan, 1441
Happy to get to the halfway point of the fast in reasonable shape. Happily recognising my good fortune in being well-equipped to deal with current circumstances. Happy to be listening to the third of Dylan's astonishing recent releases and happier still to learn that this presages a full new album.
Happy to get to the halfway point of the fast in reasonable shape. Happily recognising my good fortune in being well-equipped to deal with current circumstances. Happy to be listening to the third of Dylan's astonishing recent releases and happier still to learn that this presages a full new album.
Thursday, May 7, 2020
Meeting A Need
14 Ramadhan, 1441
Childish, I know, but I still feel a sense of accomplishment when breaking the fast, even on days like this when I can't claim to be really stretched in any way. I think this is built into the experience at a very deep level. I'm not talking about anything dramatic. I'm not talking about any form of high accomplishment - no, this is much, much quieter than that. Rather a whispered feeling that something that needed to be done has been achieved and things have turned out how they needed to.
Childish, I know, but I still feel a sense of accomplishment when breaking the fast, even on days like this when I can't claim to be really stretched in any way. I think this is built into the experience at a very deep level. I'm not talking about anything dramatic. I'm not talking about any form of high accomplishment - no, this is much, much quieter than that. Rather a whispered feeling that something that needed to be done has been achieved and things have turned out how they needed to.
Wednesday, May 6, 2020
A Sense Of Balance
13 Ramadhan, 1441
I've been thinking about balance today, and the various ways in which this month of fasting acts as necessary balance to our world of plenty - at least for those of us who are fortunate enough to be the recipients of that plenty. I suppose there are other ways of alerting us to the need for such a balance, but fasting is a remarkably robust and efficacious method.
The need for balance has further been on my mind in connection with my current reading of the second volume of Moody's impressive biography of Ezra Pound - The Epic Years 1921 - 1939. It's difficult to think of many other writers whose lives went so spectacularly out of balance as Pound's and Moody helps us understand why this was so without overly indulging in special pleading. Indeed, I'd say that around 1933, without the benefit of historical hindsight, it's possible to see why Pound was drawn to a manner of thinking he assumed to be Italian Fascism. But as the decade moves on the feeling that Pound is losing contact with common sense reality just gets stronger and stronger - and all the more so because he has friends like Basil Bunting and William Carlos Williams who are spelling it out to him.
There's one very powerful segment in which Moody cites some deeply unpleasant and disturbing anti-Semitic nonsense from Pound and follows this with some short paragraphs from Bunting strenuously objecting to the nonsense. The stuff from Bunting brings much-needed fresh air into the text - a reminder of sanity and decency. The mystery is how a man as intelligent and, in his way, generous as Pound could be so wrong-headed.
But then I suppose there's no real mystery with regard to our folly. It strikes at the intelligent and generous as much as it does the narrowly limited of mind. It's when we assume we are free from folly that we are likely to lose balance.
I've been thinking about balance today, and the various ways in which this month of fasting acts as necessary balance to our world of plenty - at least for those of us who are fortunate enough to be the recipients of that plenty. I suppose there are other ways of alerting us to the need for such a balance, but fasting is a remarkably robust and efficacious method.
The need for balance has further been on my mind in connection with my current reading of the second volume of Moody's impressive biography of Ezra Pound - The Epic Years 1921 - 1939. It's difficult to think of many other writers whose lives went so spectacularly out of balance as Pound's and Moody helps us understand why this was so without overly indulging in special pleading. Indeed, I'd say that around 1933, without the benefit of historical hindsight, it's possible to see why Pound was drawn to a manner of thinking he assumed to be Italian Fascism. But as the decade moves on the feeling that Pound is losing contact with common sense reality just gets stronger and stronger - and all the more so because he has friends like Basil Bunting and William Carlos Williams who are spelling it out to him.
There's one very powerful segment in which Moody cites some deeply unpleasant and disturbing anti-Semitic nonsense from Pound and follows this with some short paragraphs from Bunting strenuously objecting to the nonsense. The stuff from Bunting brings much-needed fresh air into the text - a reminder of sanity and decency. The mystery is how a man as intelligent and, in his way, generous as Pound could be so wrong-headed.
But then I suppose there's no real mystery with regard to our folly. It strikes at the intelligent and generous as much as it does the narrowly limited of mind. It's when we assume we are free from folly that we are likely to lose balance.
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
Engrossed
12 Ramadhan, 1441
On the first day of an unexpected break from work I found myself indulging, for part of the day, in what is known as binge-watching something on the goggle box. I was startled to find I had it in me to do so since my concentration span for films and the like is generally limited, to say the least. I suppose the programme in question might be fairly described as the kind that is likely to hold my attention, it being a sort of 'murder', but not of the fictional variety. This was real life crime, or rather, there might have been a crime and there might not.
The series in question, entitled The Staircase, deals with the prosecution for murder of a guy in American who might well have beaten his wife to death on the staircase of their well-appointed house; but it might also have been the case that she fell to her very bloody death down the stairs. After some 13 or so episodes spanning some 15 years you don't feel any closer to a clear-cut answer as to guilt or innocence - or, at least, I didn't. I suppose that's what kept me watching. I don't think I wanted an answer, finding a kind of honesty in the realisation that life so rarely provides them. Answers, that is.
On the first day of an unexpected break from work I found myself indulging, for part of the day, in what is known as binge-watching something on the goggle box. I was startled to find I had it in me to do so since my concentration span for films and the like is generally limited, to say the least. I suppose the programme in question might be fairly described as the kind that is likely to hold my attention, it being a sort of 'murder', but not of the fictional variety. This was real life crime, or rather, there might have been a crime and there might not.
The series in question, entitled The Staircase, deals with the prosecution for murder of a guy in American who might well have beaten his wife to death on the staircase of their well-appointed house; but it might also have been the case that she fell to her very bloody death down the stairs. After some 13 or so episodes spanning some 15 years you don't feel any closer to a clear-cut answer as to guilt or innocence - or, at least, I didn't. I suppose that's what kept me watching. I don't think I wanted an answer, finding a kind of honesty in the realisation that life so rarely provides them. Answers, that is.
Monday, May 4, 2020
Forgetfulness.
11 Ramadhan, 1441
I forgot to date yesterday's post, according to the Islamic calendar. I don't think it's ever slipped my mind before to provide the date of a post in the holy month of Ramadhan when it's usually the case that all my efforts are centred on attempting to conduct myself in a fitting manner and rising to the demands upon me. This year the unusual circumstances in which we all find ourselves have had some impact on my experience of the fast and its attendant obligations. But I hope that in some degree they've served to intensify my understanding of the experience.
I'm thinking here of the awareness I've been afforded of just how unequally the burdens of dealing with the pandemic have been distributed and the need to make some small contribution to easing the burdens borne by the less fortunate around the world. Every day it seems I find myself reading of the extreme challenges faced by others - details of the lives of others that just didn't come to consciousness in the early months of the year, yet were always predictable given the vulnerability of so many.
The plight of migrant workers here, there and everywhere is one example. An excellent piece I read today on their current plight in India being just one example of many that shouldn't be easily forgotten.
I forgot to date yesterday's post, according to the Islamic calendar. I don't think it's ever slipped my mind before to provide the date of a post in the holy month of Ramadhan when it's usually the case that all my efforts are centred on attempting to conduct myself in a fitting manner and rising to the demands upon me. This year the unusual circumstances in which we all find ourselves have had some impact on my experience of the fast and its attendant obligations. But I hope that in some degree they've served to intensify my understanding of the experience.
I'm thinking here of the awareness I've been afforded of just how unequally the burdens of dealing with the pandemic have been distributed and the need to make some small contribution to easing the burdens borne by the less fortunate around the world. Every day it seems I find myself reading of the extreme challenges faced by others - details of the lives of others that just didn't come to consciousness in the early months of the year, yet were always predictable given the vulnerability of so many.
The plight of migrant workers here, there and everywhere is one example. An excellent piece I read today on their current plight in India being just one example of many that shouldn't be easily forgotten.
Sunday, May 3, 2020
Puzzled
10 Ramadhan, 1441
One day we'll know a lot more about the virus currently afflicting so much of the world and we'll be able to assess the extent of the damage it accomplished. But today is not that day, nor even close. Which is why it's both puzzling and fascinating to hear and read of a number of people with no medical expertise at all talking with a strange certainty about the outcomes involved. It must be reassuring to know so much about what is at this point of time fundamentally unknown.
For myself, the single most puzzling feature of the outbreak on these shores is the extraordinarily low incidence of mortality, as things stand. Of course, this is, in its way, something to be celebrated and we're praying it remains as low as it is: just 18 deaths, yet more than 18,000 known to have, or have had, the virus. The numbers are surely significant, yet in the maelstrom of information related to the virus remain curiously unexamined.
One day we'll know a lot more about the virus currently afflicting so much of the world and we'll be able to assess the extent of the damage it accomplished. But today is not that day, nor even close. Which is why it's both puzzling and fascinating to hear and read of a number of people with no medical expertise at all talking with a strange certainty about the outcomes involved. It must be reassuring to know so much about what is at this point of time fundamentally unknown.
For myself, the single most puzzling feature of the outbreak on these shores is the extraordinarily low incidence of mortality, as things stand. Of course, this is, in its way, something to be celebrated and we're praying it remains as low as it is: just 18 deaths, yet more than 18,000 known to have, or have had, the virus. The numbers are surely significant, yet in the maelstrom of information related to the virus remain curiously unexamined.
Saturday, May 2, 2020
No Rush
9 Ramadhan, 1441
Finished C. J. Sansom's Sovereign today, the third in his Shardlake series - and most definitely not the final one for me. I enjoyed the sprawling, unhurried quality of the narrative, which matched the unhurried pace at which I took the novel. I started it back in mid-April and there were a few days when I read only 15 pages or so, yet it remained compelling.
Some critic quoted in the blurb on the Penguin edition says it rates with Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd as a murder mystery, but that didn't seem its strength to me at all. The mystery was fine, don't get me wrong, but not exactly startling in its working out. Sansom's power lies in his convincing evocation of a dark Tudor world, especially in his forensic grasp of how real wickedness works - that, and his balancing sense of genuine flawed decency manifested in Shardlake himself.
The sequence of the king humiliating the hapless lawyer outside York, essentially for the cruel enjoyment of doing so, made for excruciating reading of the best kind.
Finished C. J. Sansom's Sovereign today, the third in his Shardlake series - and most definitely not the final one for me. I enjoyed the sprawling, unhurried quality of the narrative, which matched the unhurried pace at which I took the novel. I started it back in mid-April and there were a few days when I read only 15 pages or so, yet it remained compelling.
Some critic quoted in the blurb on the Penguin edition says it rates with Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd as a murder mystery, but that didn't seem its strength to me at all. The mystery was fine, don't get me wrong, but not exactly startling in its working out. Sansom's power lies in his convincing evocation of a dark Tudor world, especially in his forensic grasp of how real wickedness works - that, and his balancing sense of genuine flawed decency manifested in Shardlake himself.
The sequence of the king humiliating the hapless lawyer outside York, essentially for the cruel enjoyment of doing so, made for excruciating reading of the best kind.
Friday, May 1, 2020
Spring And All
8 Ramadhan, 1441
A week into fasting month and May begins. However, Spring is not in the air. It never is here. But somewhere it will be, appearances to the contrary.
This past April really has been the cruellest month, but I'm thinking of poet and doctor William Carlos Williams who, having dealt with the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918 in his typically low-key manner (up to 60 house calls a day at its height, and almost everyone in his immediate family catching the virus) went on to a typically low-key salute and invocation of Spring and All. Like LOA's President, Max Rudin, I'd never quite made the connection between the grim epidemic and WCW's contagious hospital, but now I have I won't readily forget it.
We've been here before. We're always re-treading old ground. At our best we learn to recognise and negotiate the terrain with some small assurance of the inevitable re-birth.
A week into fasting month and May begins. However, Spring is not in the air. It never is here. But somewhere it will be, appearances to the contrary.
This past April really has been the cruellest month, but I'm thinking of poet and doctor William Carlos Williams who, having dealt with the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918 in his typically low-key manner (up to 60 house calls a day at its height, and almost everyone in his immediate family catching the virus) went on to a typically low-key salute and invocation of Spring and All. Like LOA's President, Max Rudin, I'd never quite made the connection between the grim epidemic and WCW's contagious hospital, but now I have I won't readily forget it.
We've been here before. We're always re-treading old ground. At our best we learn to recognise and negotiate the terrain with some small assurance of the inevitable re-birth.
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