Wising Up

Decided to re-read Sam Johnson's Rasselas having no other fiction to hand that I felt up to. Just reached Imlac's bracing observation: Human life is everywhere a state in which much is to be endured, and little to be enjoyed. Blimey! They didn't mince their words back in the eighteenth century, did they?

I reckon there's a case to be made for Johnson's novel (if that's what his wonderful History of the Abyssinian Prince is) as one of the earliest self help books. Possibly the wisest. And knocked off in a week to pay his mum's medical bills. Blimey! again.

An Unexpected Bonus

I was chatting with a colleague earlier in the evening who was, understandably, finding our current circumstances a bit of a trial. It sounds like rather weak advice to try and count whatever blessings we can (which is all I had to offer her, I'm afraid), but it works for me, probably because I'm lucky to have so many. Case in point: the unexpected richness of material being posted on-line precisely because of the various lockdowns on-going around the globe. (The streaming of Coriolanus I mentioned the other day being one of them.)

Among the quirkier stuff available, I'm finding the Sunday Lockdown vignettes posted by Toyah Wilcox and Robert Fripp are definitely adding spice to my little life. The one themed around Women Dancing to King Crimson is a work of genius, as well as a piquant comment on one of life's essential truths.

Cheering Up

The articles towards the back end of the edition of the Mekong Review that I'm now reading are considerably more cheerful than the excellent yet righteously depressing material in the first two-thirds of the publication. This has resulted in a distinct speeding-up of the pace of my reading.

I'm now embarked on a piece by Marc de Faoite on the joys of eating roti canai and, let's face it, there are few subjects that are more cheerful than that - though it has provoked a little bit of painful nostalgia for the days when we could just pop out to an eatery to indulge. Never mind, soon, we hope. This came after a lovely account by Jennifer Lindsay of the neighbourhood in which she lives in Yogyakarta, or more specifically her RT, standing for Rukun Tetangga, the equivalent of our Taman in KL. It's all about the ways in which the people living in her area get along and work together to make it a better place. When you look at relations on that scale somehow feeling hopeful for the future doesn't seem quite so foolish after all.

Outstanding

Carved out the time today to watch the National Theatre's production of Coriolanus, the one with Tom Hiddleston in the title role, streaming on Youtube. Glad I did. Mr Hiddleston is excellent, as is every member of the ensemble. Excellent speaking of the verse - which is the only way you're ever going to get this most rhetorical of the tragedies (which is saying something) to work. This production worked at every level, gripping me to the extraordinarily bloody conclusion.

I know it's the general opinion that Coriolanus is easy to respect but hard to like as a play, but I love it and always have. (Bit worried about what that says about my character.)

Newly Acquaintanced

I thought I was extremely well-acquainted with pretty much all of Ted Hughes's poetry written prior to 1970, having read, more than once, all the adult collections - The Hawk in the Rain, Lupercal, Wodwo and Crow - and those for children. (Loved Meet My Folks!) (Still do!) So it's been a bit of a surprise and a complete delight to discover, on making my way through the satisfyingly chunky Collected Poems, that there are lots of poems from the period that didn't make it into those books, and many of these strike me as top quality Hughes. (Mind you, I love even the stuff where TH is obviously having a bit of a bad day, so I suppose it's all good to me. Bit like Dylan.)

I've just read three in a row written in the Wodwo period and published in periodicals at the time and loved all of them. And it's a sort of bonus that they are so different from each other. The three in question are: The Last Migration (animal fable - bit Crow-like, bit like stuff from What is the Truth?, but mostly like itself) , The Burning of the Brothel (raucous ballad, treasury of half rhymes & galumphing rhythms) and To W H Auden (published on Wystan's sixtieth birthday - bit stately, bit Audenesque.) And to think that TH didn't even bother to get Faber and Faber to ensure they reached the widest possible audience!

ROTFL

I've mentioned a couple of times over the years in posts to this Far Place that as a kid I was prone to uncontrollable fits of giggles, and in my early years of teaching seeing the funny side of something on occasions when high seriousness was required was distinctly problematic on more than a few occasions.

Sadly the problem largely solved itself over time and life became calmer but drabber. However, I've noticed a curious thing, possibly related to me approaching second childishness and mere oblivion. A few times now this year I've had fits of giggles, fortunately in contexts where attempts at control weren't necessary. Indeed, one occurred this evening in relation to the ever-reliable cartoons over at Existential Comics. Normally they elicit satisfied chuckles, but a recent one related to the fine British school of Analytic Philosophy inspired a lot more than that.

Must admit, my sense of humour is pretty weird.

Making Adjustments

One of the ways in which I try to cope with what my work demands of me is to consciously develop routines to give structure to my days, such that stuff that needs to be remembered - often quite trivial in some ways, but still necessary - is rendered easy to remember because the routines make it almost automatic. So it's fascinating, and challenging, to find myself living through a period in which predictable routines are falling by the wayside and adjustments to new circumstances have become the order of the day. One result of this is a distinct sense of time slowing down, since the 'taken-for-grantedness' of each day can no longer be taken for granted, if you see what I mean.

There's an enormous comic potential in all this, as the chances of me doing something daft are considerably raised now I'm no longer in anything close to control. Today I managed to walk the wrong way out of a classroom, one with which I'm drearily familiar, and become so disoriented that I completely lost the room I needed to go to and, for a brief moment, wondered if it had been demolished without my knowledge. It took over a minute of stumbling around to find out where I was in a place that I've been familiar with for some thirteen years . Following that, once back at my desk I came close to attempting to drink some tea through the mask I was wearing. Oh dear.

(I suppose I should be wondering if this kind of thing might be related to a descent into senility, but I reassure myself with the thought that I've always been capable of epic daftness given the right circumstances, even as a callow youth. But it's too embarrassing to think of past mishaps so I'm not going to go there.)

Encountering Perfection.

I apologise for this, Gentle Reader, but I need to let you know that this evening I ate a plateful of nasi lemak as patented and prepared by the Missus. It's a sad truth that this would have been better by a long way than anything you treated yourself to today. In broad terms I disapprove of the way that some users of social media promote images of their 'perfect' lives creating unrealistic expectations in others, but when one has encountered genuine perfection it's hard to hold back. Just saying.

Something New

Needed to do a bit of teaching today behind one of those protective face shields. A new and uncomfortable experience. Felt very odd, but I suppose I'll get used to it.

Not complaining though. Thinking of the frontline health-workers throughout the world who wear loads of this protective gear (assuming it's available to them) throughout long, tough, potentially dangerous, shifts. My appreciation for their work was enormous before today. Now it's positively stratospheric.

Something Fresh

Got so overwhelmed by the depressing stuff in the Mekong Review that I decided to break off for a couple of days and find something else, something vaguely entertaining to read. Realised I'd got hold somehow of a copy of a novel by Louis Sacher entitled Holes that had won the Newbery Award (a kids' lit award) some years back and thought I'd give it a go. Very glad indeed I did. Funny and completely unpredictable. I had no idea where the story was going and was more than happy to follow where it led. Felt like cheering at the end.

It reminded me of the great discovery I made when I first started teaching: the best children's books make most novels for adults look pretty shabby.