Of Course He Forgave Her

It's embarrassing to admit it, but it's taken me since late February to read Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? and that time included a week's holiday when I really should have made more progress. The funny thing is that, despite various discontinuities, I thoroughly enjoyed the novel, which is of almost uniformly excellent quality. In fact, I found it genuinely difficult to put down for the last three hundred pages or so - regardless of the fact that I was sure of the direction of almost every narrative strand involved. The only exception was my uncertainty as to what Trollope would do with Kate Vavasor, and in the end he pretty much does nothing.

Over the final stretch of the novel it seemed to me that Trollope starts to come alive to the possibilities of a serious exploration of the world of politics. Prior to that the idea of being an MP simply seems to function as a backdrop for the rather splendid ruin of George Vavasor. He's certainly a gent who would have been up to his neck in it in the recent expenses scandal, and for a good three-quarters of the story Trollope seems to deal with our political leaders at that level, cynically distancing himself from their doings. But then as Plantagenet Palliser begins to assume real depth - with his forgiveness of Glencora - masterfully done - suddenly the Parliamentary world takes on a new light, and there's an extraordinarily powerful conversation between Palliser and John Grey that seems to go to the centre of Trollope's concerns regarding the necessity of a public life.

Here's one peculiarly resonant line: 'I don't see why a man should not live honestly and be a Member of Parliament as well,' continued Mr. Palliser, when he had been silent for a few minutes. That hesitant, pregnant, shared silence says a great deal about Trollope (and his creations, Palliser and Grey) as men of the world who've been around more than a little, but who somehow contrive to keep some kind of faith.

I'm hoping that the guys who are currently negotiating for power in the UK have something of the decency and perspicacity of their (fictional) forerunners.

Artistic Developments

Spent an afternoon feeling sort of arty down at The Esplanade. Basically we were there to enjoy the excellent musical Chicago, and enjoy we certainly did. But after that we found ourselves in the Jendela visual art space and, by a stroke of good fortune, got chatting with one Tan Chwee Seng, who was the artist-wallah whose works were on display.

He'd called the set-up wasteland which of course put me in mind of Old Possum and the bleakness of modernity, fisher kings and such like. But it seems Mr Tan had nary a thought of all that. His wasteland seemed to be a meditative space within, where the empty land was simply waiting for transformation. This all sounds terribly philosophical, but generally our confab was practical, down-to-earth stuff. For example, he explained it took around three hours to put the orderly dots (a motif appearing on quite a few prints) on the freedom of the earth/waste below. And the problem with the freedom was you didn't know when it was finished.

Come to think of it, I've never had a conversation with any kind of artist that didn't get down very quickly to the nitty-gritty of things.

Oh, and the stuff on display was really appealing. The textures emerging from some of the monochromatic prints were gorgeous. But, sadly, the exhibition finished today.

The Wow Factor

After coming back from a trip down town, in the course of which I happily bought no books or CDs or anything, we elected to put on the first episode of Planet Earth. Noi had not had a chance to sit down and watch yet, so we put that right.

Her comments for the first twenty minutes: Wow... Wow... Wow... Run, run, run, oh... Beautiful, wahh. All of which were devastatingly appropriate.

The Triumph Of Democracy

Listened to some sullen Labour-johnnie on the radio on the way back from work grimly attempting to burst the celebratory balloons of the other main parties by pointing out that no one had done as well as they thought they might. Enjoyed his pettiness enormously. It gives one a sense of warmth and general well-being to think that pretty much all the politicos are going to be kicking themselves as well as each other in days to come.

I love a mess and this election seems to have delivered big-time. So we can look forward to some necessary compromise, lots of fudging and none of the strident leadership that the folks who own the media love and does nobody any good at all.

This will be almost as instructive as watching City shoot themselves in the foot - yet again (they've got big feet) - by getting rid of Mancini.

Election Fever

Unusually for me I was in England at the time of the last General Election, when Blair got in, in what seemed an inevitable fashion. Much has changed since then. The Tories are finally deemed electable - I'm not too sure why, but I think it's something to do with hiding their differences for the moment and some good PR. But then, that's what got New Labour in originally. And for those of us who remember the seventies we're back to coalition politics and a screwed economy.

I've not actually voted in any election since I've been in Singapore. If I did vote it would be for Labour and since the constituency my vote would be counted in is rock, rock solid Labour there has never seemed much point. And that, I suppose, explains the mystery of why I would vote Labour, even today, if I did vote. It's a sort of inheritance. It's akin to supporting the better team from Manchester. It's something visceral, in the blood. Voting Conservative would be a physical impossibility and whilst I could contemplate a vote for whatever brand of Liberals/SDP sit in the middle it would be without any great enthusiasm.

In fact, voting for any would-be politico would involve no enthusiasm as I don't trust any of them. I accept they're probably necessary, but it's fairly obvious they have more in common with each other than they do with any of us.

I suppose the honourable tradition of radical dissent has appeal. But that died with the advent of PR men - as so much that was culturally vital did.

On Board

Spent a small but fruitful part of the day considering the mediaeval trope of the ship of fools, inspired by a question from Bernard. This involved discovering a image from Bosch I don't think I've seen before and an Auden poem, a late one I think, that I'd not read until today. Ironically I think I'd considered to be well-versed in both these great artists. Not well enough, obviously.

I did manage to half remember that Foucault has got a lot to say on the matter of said ship in Madness and Civilisation, which is sitting invitingly on the shelf behind me and which I really must encounter once more. Fair forward, voyagers!

Paying Off

There are two great rewards of an involvement in drama. The first is the joy of getting the work to work. The second is the joy of working with the people who get it to work. I experienced both today. Lucky man.

Curiously, I didn't feel too well first thing this morning and I don't feel so good now. Rasping throat, headache, aching limbs. But all was well when it needed to be.

Living Art

Got back from rehearsal early enough to treat myself to the first episode of Planet Earth, the first of the two sets of Attenborough DVDs the missus cunningly provided for me as my birthday present. I'm probably the only fan of nature documentaries in the world who's not seen the series already, so I'll spare readers a review. Except to say that if you wrote 'stunning', 'jaw-dropping' and 'stunningly jaw-dropping' in various combinations for a few paragraphs you'd probably get somewhere close to approximating the viewing experience.

But a sort of novel thought did come to me as I picked up my jaw from the floor and wiped a tear or two away. (The lost elephant, separated from the herd as a result of the dust storm in the Kalahari, tracing its mother's tracks in the wrong direction still haunts.) The thought was this: given the stunning jaw-dropping images, stunningly edited, with jaw-dropping music and commentary - well not really, just perfectly blended - then clearly what we are dealing with here is not Nature but Art. So why isn't it in the galleries and art festivals?

Do our categories regarding what is and isn't Art matter when faced with this kind of perfection? The temptation to just keep slinging it on and watching over and over again is almost overwhelming. But since there're a lot more episodes to go and delights in store I'll resist. For now.

Not Quite Routine

Dug deep to find the self-discipline necessary to keep chipping away at the marking and other work-related goodies whilst stepping a little bit out of the routine here in Melaka. Will be heading south in an hour or so to resume life as usual, a little lighter for a haircut from the missus, and a little heavier with the morning's epok epok and prata on board.

Made some progress with Can You Forgive Her? now moving into the final quarter with George Vavasor now emerging as the cad one always suspected he might turn out to be. But I seem to have temporarily abandoned Anatomy of Literature for the delights of Kate Summerscale's The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, an unexpected but extremely welcome birthday gift from Karen, who has a very shrewd idea not simply of what appeals to me but of what I find irresistible.

Consequences

Now temporarily, unexpectedly, in Melaka. Family illness brought us up in the afternoon but, happily, things don't look too bad.

Replete with cream crackers, thick mee sup and several sticks of satay. Plus lashings of hot sweet tea. I have a medical coming in early May and I've got a feeling that my cholesterol levels might make for sad reading, partly as a result of jaunts like this.