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.