Not So Empty

Back to yesterday's question, and let's extend it a little. What is it about reading Beckett and Joyce (I just can't help but link them - the dynamic duo of Modernism) so life-affirming?

I suppose the humour helps, despite its often dark and forbidding nature. (Not so unusual, by the way. Typical Irish, and I grew up with it on the streets of Manchester.)

But the key thing is the fact that we know they are telling the truth, and, somehow, the truth does set us free. I suppose because of the wonderful sense that we (or, rather, they) are able to tell it, face it. As Eliot reminds us, as a species we simply cannot bear too much of what is real. So to be able to face at least a little is sort of refreshing.

That's why I can't go along with all that power of positive thinking blabber too much of the time. Basically it makes some kind of sense, and can be very useful, but ultimately you can't rely on faking things. The glass isn't really half full, nor is it half empty. It's both.

Worth Waiting For

Last night's Godot was a thing of beauty. A sterling performance by a great cast. My only criticism, they looked a bit too youthful, especially the splendidly gangling Vladimir, but since age is just another matter of irrelevancy in the drama, this wasn't any kind of sticking point.

Great accents from all: the Irish lilt of most of the dialogue was gorgeous, and neatly offset by Pozzo's upper-crust Englishness. Distinct sub-text here of the oppression of Ireland under Saxon rule. Everything looked right. The comedy was, rightly, uproarious, and appropriately vertiginous switches of tone abounded, at moments like dropping off a cliff edge.

Given that the ensemble playing was so good, I hate to pick an individual out - but I can't resist saying just how good Patrick O'Donnell's Estragon was. Nithya, who was sitting next to me, remarked that she found herself picking him out all the time because his expressions were just so right, and I knew exactly what she meant.

The mystery remains. How is it that a play that deals remorsely with the emptiness of human experience always delivers something worth waiting for?

Absurdity

Off to the theatre tomorrow to watch Waiting For Godot, and I am entirely stoked up about it. (Hoping for Irish accents from Vladimir & Estragon because that's how I always hear them in my head.) What is it about staring into the abyss that makes for a great night out?

Must be a nightmare to remember your lines, for Didi & Gogo at least. Lucky if you're Lucky that you get the big speech over with in Act 1. After that it's just a matter of putting up with all the physical abuse.

On The Go

 

The little lot pictured above represents my current reading. Promiscuous as I may be in this respect I'm trying to retain some semblance of faithfulness by seeing each one through to the end, sequentially, no matter how long it may take.

Actually I've already completed McEwan's Solar, which I found an easy read, as is invariably the case for me with his work. But what was a bit different for me this time round was finding myself twice laughing out loud whilst reading. The first time was during the bit when the obnoxious protagonist Prof Beard was caught short on the ice and decided to relieve himself out there, at great risk to the nether parts of his person. I can't remember the second bit, but it was funny at the time.

Oddly, much as I enjoy McEwan I generally seem to find him a bit contrived, and Solar was no exception. I'd read rave reviews from people whose judgment I trust when the novel first came out but even then thought it all sounded a bit clunky somehow, and I was right. Fun, though.

Real Life

I seem to be pulling through my little crisis on the energy front having nodded off only once today, and that being to Copland's Billy The Kid suite which I always find a touch soporific (in a good way!) And I must put on record that yesterday was by no means entirely wasted as I spent an hour or so of it viewing the art works on display of those of our graduating students who opt for Art as a subject. Sadly there are only about ten students who did so for this cohort; happily they all produced work that more than justified their option.

Whatever energy I lacked was compensated for by the abundance of it not so much on display as inherent in every detail of what the students had produced. One or two of the artists were strikingly single-minded in their choice of medium and subject; others notably more eclectic, unfixed. Virtues in both approaches, methinks. Similarly there was a wide range in terms of emotional investment in the work on offer. Some of it overtly, almost painfully, expressive; a fair amount, in contrast, wryly, almost wilfully, detached.

As with last year it wasn't difficult to find something from each artist that I would have paid good money for. And, yet again, it would be no surprise at all to hear of one of them making it big in the future. Yet, curiously, that didn't seem to me to be what the work was all about. They'd made something big and splendidly alive now, which is all that really matters.

Energy Crisis

I had vaguely planned to get a few things done today, especially in the way of writing references, and the day wasn't entirely wasted. But it wasn't exactly as fruitful as I would have liked it to have been. Somehow I contrived to fall asleep, and I mean deeply asleep, four times in its course, and I still feel tired now. Whatever batteries I have onboard are drained.

The odd thing is, is that this is by no means an unpleasant state to be in.

Prohibitions

Thoroughly enjoyed a cuppa plus kaya toast at Holland Village this afternoon with the Missus. (When don't I?) We've long decided that Ya Kun Kaya Toast serves the best on the island - so there's a bit of a plug for that noble franchise. But now follows a bit of a critical question, so I don't think this post will be of any help in my campaign for well-remunerated product placement in these virtual pages.

You see the franchise has four little prohibitive posters on its walls, of the No Pets variety. In fact, that's one of them, and I can understand why. But what I just don't get is one saying something to the effect of No Photography or Videoing. (Actually, I've got a horrible feeling it's No Videography, but I couldn't quite bring myself to type that.) Now what is wrong with taking a picture in one of their fine establishments? I can't see what the inconvenience to other customers might be. Truth to be told, I can't imagine why anyone should want to be taking snapshots in those surroundings. But imagining they did, what possible harm could there be?

Is it that the Ya Kun people are protecting trade secrets, preventing espionage from rivals determined to mimic their decor, their kaya-making expertise? And how are you going to stop determined spies from getting the precious info on camera?

I know I'm probably completely wrong about the espionage bit, though it is rather fun to think of it, but I really am baffled as to any logical explanation for the prohibition. And, to add to the puzzle, I'm vaguely aware of seeing the notice in other places of business. Is it just that the taking of pictures is now regarded as a social menace? If so, why isn't an old curmudgeon such as myself bothered by it?

Now a ban on handphones, that I can understand, and welcome.

In Time

I've always been the kind of person that needs deadlines. Without the pressure of needing to deliver I could faff around for ever. But tell me the show opens next Friday and somehow the script gets written and something gets up on that stage.

Time was there was something vaguely rewarding about this. A sense of the deadlines usefully assisting in accomplishing something. But that time is long gone - and the reason for this is simple. Now the deadlines are so numerous the problem is keeping track of them all. So meeting them comes as a series of minor surprises as none can ever be significant enough to generate any sense of accomplishment, and even if I could feel such a sense, there wouldn't be time to feel it for long.

I say this without complaint - all appearances to the contrary. It's just the way things are. Like so many aspects of modern life: silly and sad.

In Judgment

Generally I advise students against being dragged too rapidly into matters of judgment of their texts, the characters that may lurk within them, and so on. Generally my words fall on deaf ears, not surprisingly since we seem hard-wired to rush to judgment.

In that spirit let me offer the one absolutely sure-fire certain judgment that can be made, related to matters of a literary bent: Never, ever, trust a chap incapable of falling under the spell of P.G. Wodehouse.

(I offer the observation above particularly to those sitting on interview panels for various positions of worth. It never fails. Hire accordingly, and the world would be a better place.)

In Transition

It's becoming a little bit of a ritual for me to reacquaint myself with the appropriate segment of John Clare's The Shepherd's Calendar as the month turns. Here he is beginning October: Nature now spreads around in dreary hue / A pall to cover all that summer knew. We don't get a pall exactly in this Far Place because we don't get any real change of season, which suits me fine just in case you thought I was getting nostalgic. But there are other subtle transitions as the year ages and, inevitably, one ages with it. Sometimes it's a pall of the spirit that descends - not to be taken lightly.

But poor mad Clare continues by noting there are always pleasing objects to delay us as we journey, and, of course, picks out a fair few for us to passively observe as the great poem continues. If this were all that poetry ever did, teach us to look, it would be enough. And Clare's harvest renders more than plenty.