Frankly Speaking

Caught up in the iron grip of Zola's Germinal for various reasons, but essentially because it's just so darned good. (That wouldn't score well as lit analysis, but I don't care.)

Was intending to write a post praising Zola for his frankness in the novel regarding matters of sexuality, especially the unashamed promiscuity of many of his characters and his directness in depicting such. Indeed, the text had something of a revelatory quality to me in that regard since I couldn't think of a single British writer of the nineteenth century writing in such a manner.

But a couple of days ago, quite by accident, I came across a comment in the introduction to my Penguin edition of the novel, that suggests the writer is not being honest in his depiction. The editor, Roger Pearson, (who provides an excellent intro & notes, by the way) notes that contemporary documents about the mines provide nothing to support Zola's account. The suggestion is that Zola felt it was a kind of Naturalistic truth that the miners would behave in such a fashion and he imposes his assumptions upon his characters.

Must say, at this point I have no idea where the truth lies, but I'm fascinated by trying to find out more. Having said that, I'm rather more fascinated by getting on with Germinal to find out what's going to happen to Catherine now she's nearly died in the mine and Chaval, her sort of husband-cum-lover - and not a nice guy - has briefly been genuinely loving to her.

Lost And Found

Keys are very important things. A truth made accessible simply by losing one or more of them. It's been a long time since I was foolish enough to mislay a set, but over the last few days I made up for that by conspiring to lose keys of some importance twice, in the same key pouch ironically, though the keys were quite different.

First of all I managed to lose the keys to the apartment, last Thursday, if memory serves. There I was at my desk, packing my bags in the afternoon and looking forward to getting back a bit earlier than usual, when I put my hand in my pocket to check for my key pouch only to discover an airy nothing. Well, that's not entirely accurate. There was a white board marker lurking there, but no pouch. Which was impossible since I only ever put the keys in my pocket or in my briefcase. So I checked my briefcase, knowing they weren't in there, and, no surprise, they weren't. Showing something close to iron self-control I managed not to explicitly panic and thought hard as to the last time I was sure the pouch was in my possession - i.e., lodged neatly in my trouser pocket.

And here comes the happy part. I recalled definitely having them with me roughly two hours earlier in our Staff Lounge. At which point I mentally retraced my direction of travel since that time, which had been worryingly many & various, but I knew the winding path for sure. Which I then began to follow, estimating it would be quite some time before I could retrieve the keys which, with naïve confidence, I assumed I would be able to based on the fact the keys were not likely to have fallen through a wormhole in space. Hoping against hope they would be somewhere in the Staff Lounge, most likely on the table at which I'd been sitting, I opened the door only to view an empty table in the distance. Downcast I approached thinking it highly unlikely they would be on the floor below the chair in which I had been seated - and there they were, to my considerable relief, ending some five minutes of minor, muted but real, panic.

And then, just yesterday, I found a way to experience another stressful five minutes, this time involving the key to our 'cage' for basketball - a spot for storage of all sorts of basketball-related doings, which I was due to open in the afternoon when the guys would be practising out on the courts. I store the key in a little box on my desk, and that's the only place it ever goes. Which meant the fact it simply wasn't there when I looked for it in the late morning was inexplicable. Which meant I needed to ask a colleague if we had a spare, which we didn't, which was embarrassing and further meant I need to borrow his, which was even more embarrassing, and now getting complicated since I'd need to return his key and somehow get another for myself.

But the key was definitely gone, since there was no alternative location possible. But then I thought of my key pouch as it suddenly occurred to me that the last time we'd been practising at the courts was Friday when I'd gone back to prepare for setting off to Malaka; and possibly I'd not followed the usual routine of going back to my desk to store the key safely; and possibly I'd stored it safely in my trusty key pouch and just forgotten; which was what had happened as I opened the pouch to find the 'extra' key inside. Relief, of the considerable kind, yet again flooded all my bits & pieces, and I quickly returned my colleague's key before I managed to mislay that one.

So an utterly trivial narrative to reinforce two very important points. Hold firmly onto your keys everyone. And don't panic when eventually they go missing, because they always will. 

Justice Served

On a fairly busy day I only managed to catch-up with the World Cup news in the late morning. Must say I felt a strong sense of satisfaction upon seeing that Belgium had really done the business over the USA. Quite some surprise also as it had looked like the light of Belgium's golden generation had completely dimmed. Nice to know that it might just shine long enough for them to beat the odds in 2026.

But it was my satisfaction over the US getting a pounding that took me by surprise. Early in the tournament they'd impressed me and I'd genuinely been hoping for them to go far as an 'outsider' team. So what had changed, I asked myself. And the answer came readily. The blatant disregarding of well-established international rules as to the non-negotiable suspensions of those who'd been unfortunate to get a red card, that's what.

Interestingly, I noticed that the vast majority of commentary I read on the game on social media reflected the same feeling.

Something Left

Caught the last twenty minutes or so of the England vs Mexico game live this morning, in the jovial company of a lot of rightfully noisy boarders watching events at the Azteca ensue on the big screen in our Staff Lounge. I think the atmosphere if anything served to intensify the tension I felt as Kane was subbed & the 3 Lions moved to a back 5. Something in my mind was telling me the creaking defense would not be able to handle the more than handy Mexican movement upfront, and when the (astonishing)11 minutes of extra time was declared (which somehow turned to 12 and a bit more) I thought the team would never see the game out without conceding. I was delighted to be wrong - and that being very wrong indeed given the relative comfort of the final minutes.

This version of England seem to handle adversity with some room to spare: the very real problems of playing at high altitude; the aggression of the crowd; the (deserved) loss of a full-back. And since they're likely to face even more troubles moving ahead, that augurs well.

I suppose that in a small way I felt the positive result made me just that bit more motivated to do my thing at the gym in the afternoon and rise above the circumstances of considerable physical decline. Unexpectedly, I actually felt okay on the elliptical trainer rolling out my 60 minutes at full resistance and thought I might have put in good numbers when I speeded up for the last couple of minutes. But it turned out that the numbers were very average and I was gasping more than somewhat after my foolish sprinting. I'm feeling it now, to be honest. The sense that there's really nothing under the bonnet. 

I'm pretty sure the England boys have got a lot more left than me, though. So that's something to hold onto.

The Hard Life

There's much to admire in the sheer energy of Zola's Germinal, its powerful sense of the moral necessity of recording in sometimes overwhelming detail the bleakness of the lives of most of its benighted characters. And, once the narrative picks up with the story of the miners' strike, there's something genuinely gripping in the unfolding of the fates of its many characters. Though I'm not holding out much in the way of hope for them at the halfway point of the novel.

It's taken me quite some time to get towards the end of Book IV because, for all the energy of its telling, the grimness of the subject matter doesn't make for an easy read. I feel I need to be at full attention as I go since anything less than complete absorption will be an injustice to the writer and his suffering creations.

But that's not to say there's nothing positive about the text. The simple fact of their survival engenders respect for even the least of the inhabitants of Village Two Hundred and Forty. And there are striking moments of genuine pleasure in life scattered in the novel that often beguile, even in the most desperate circumstances. Etienne's discovery of the semi-feral Jeanlin's hideaway down the abandoned mineshaft won't be easily forgotten by this reader. It has something of the quality of myth about it.

Sort Of Stopping

Arrived here in the very early hours of the morning having managed to nod off somewhat in the car. Then enjoyed a few hours of sleep, though awoken before the time for the prayer at dawn by the fierce air-conditioning in our bedroom here. And then managed a good hour and a half back in the land of nod before getting up and ready to attend the wedding.

So I'm really not too sure why I felt so deeply wrecked once we got back here after eating & drinking & chatting and the usual wedding stuff and completely crashed out for a couple more hours. But I'm glad I did!

Not Stopping

The highlight of our weekend will be a wedding in Melaka. Nice to have happy family business to look forward to. But it means we'll need to get there tonight, so life continues non-stop. 

Not So Shocking

One match report I read on this morning's England game claimed that DR Congo scored a first half 'shock goal'. If this means that no one would have expected the goal to be scored it's complete nonsense and seems a relic of the old idea that somehow European or South American sides have some kind of entitlement to win World Cup games. They don't. The only thing shocking about the goal was the amount of room surrendered by the England back four. Cipenga had acres of space and, even then, Pickford should have got to the shot.

Having said that, I can't join in with some of the ridiculous criticism of Tuchel's merry men. They created plenty of chances against a well-organised team & have a decent chance against Mexico, assuming they up their game. Though I reckon Mexico go in as obvious favourites, given home support and their excellent form.

And I can't say I would seriously mind if England go out since it's great to see supposedly 'lesser' teams playing so well. It wouldn't surprise me to see Mexico go all the way to the final. The real disappointment so far as far as I'm concerned has been Japan going out, as I really fancied them and was hoping an 'outsider' nation wins the thing this year. Mind you, it would be difficult to quarrel with either France or Argentina getting their name on the trophy yet again since they've both been playing in the style which deserves that outcome.

Anyway, Azteca here we come. 

A Thing Of Beauty

Am beginning to regret not spending a few bucks on getting full coverage of the World Cup given the quality of some of the games so far (judging from the highlights I've seen, that is.) France, Mexico, Argentina, to name but three, all looking the real deal so far. Will be surprised if the 3 Lions get past Mexico, assuming they do the business against Congo (which, to be honest, I'm not assuming.)

That French midfield remind me of Brazil in their pomp back in 1970. And that's not something I was expecting to be able to say again in my lifetime. 

Football - bloody hell, eh!

Things Newborn

Very much reminded just now of one of my favourite lines from The Winter's Tale. The Old Shepherd observing literally and thematically: Now bless thyself: thou met'st with things dying, I with things newborn. When I first read this many, many years ago the inherent contrast seemed to me strange in its way. Now I've reached an age when dying & being born seem quite familiar as intertwined aspects of this thing we call life, but the line has not lost its simple magic.

And it sprang forcefully to mind when Noi confirmed that, after quite a long labour, Fafa was delivered of a baby girl today. Just typing that makes me happy. Noi showed me a picture of the child (unbelievably cute) and I almost cried. But didn't. Instead smiled broadly with a sort of silly happiness. Isn't (new) life wonderful?