Curiouser And Curiouser

Thinking back to yesterday's post it's clear that, for a moment at least, I quite forgot the overwhelming nature of our sense of curiosity. No way are we going to stick within the bounds of civilized behaviour when we feel we need to know something about somebody else, and we always feel we need to know more about those we admire inordinately, or despise, ditto.

Case in point, in the same issue of the NYRB in which Janet Malcolm savages Jonathan Bate for telling us too much about the life of Ted Hughes, there are reviews of books on the lives of Frank Sinatra, T.S. Eliot and Steve Jobs, all of which I read with fascination. It's true that I have no immediate plans to buy the actual books (though I might change my mind regarding Robert Crawford's biography of the young Possum) but if they came my way I suspect I'd devour them.

Similarly if someone were to publish a tell-all biography of RVW I'm sure I'd be one of the first in line for it, despite feeling more than satisfied by UVW's chatty biography and Michael Kennedy's The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, which I'm thoroughly enjoying at the moment. (Although Kennedy's work focuses on the music it follows a broadly biographical thrust and is clearly a companion volume to the work of Mrs Vaughan Williams.) As soon as there's something new to learn, the need to learn it becomes irresistible.

Where I still fall in line with Ms Malcolm's strictures is in my sincere hope that academic biographers resist impertinent exploration of their subjects' all-too-human lives and my certainty that there's no academic imperative dictating full disclosure of those lives. I'm rather glad that Ted did away with some of Sylvia's private materials and think it rather a good thing when private papers remain exactly that.

Torn

I first heard that Jonathan Bate was writing a biography of Ted Hughes some three or four months ago, at which point there was no question of said work being classified as an auto-buy in my world, at least when it would emerge in paperback. I thought Bate's book on the Bard, The Genius of Shakespeare, was an exceptional read and know that the prof is held in very high regard in academia. (In fact, I've got a feeling he's written another well-received Shakespeare-oriented tome since, though I could be wrong. I'm not entirely sure of the title above, in truth, but can't be bothered to look it up.) And I've been waiting for something of real substance to be published on Hughes, in contrast to all the Plath-oriented volumes that bedevilled the Hughes family.  

And now I'm not so sure, the reason being Janet Malcolm's devastating review of Bate's Ted Hughes: The Unauthorised Life in the February NYRB. I read this in the copy of the magazine I picked up the other day at Holland Village rather than on-line as I offer it to you here. It was the first thing I turned to and took me very much by surprise. Janet Malcolm's book on Plath has for quite some time seemed to me to be the sanest, most judiciously balanced word on the subject, and I suppose I thought I'd be reading a similarly balanced account of a biography that would be seeking to somehow do right with regard to all concerned in the tragedies suffered in the poet's life. It seems that's not the case.

I'm sure there's going to be some kind of reply by Prof Bate to Ms Malcolm's trenchant criticisms, and it's going to sound reasonable. But I'm not sure I want to read it or anything more about Hughes's life, or Plath's life. I felt guilty reading the line in the review concerning how, Readers, in their curiosity, encourage them [biographers, like Bate] in their impertinence, since I am exactly that kind of reader.

Monkeying Around

It's been a pretty busy extended weekend so far for Chinese New Year. We've just waved goodbye to Fuad & family who've been staying with us since Saturday evening. We had a jolly good time at the Bom Corner with their team, and Hamzah and family, when they arrived and spent a fair chunk of Sunday over at Shah Alam eating plenty amid further jollity. Today we explored KLCC. The capital itself is pretty quiet, apart from the occasional fire-cracker disturbing the peace, but KLCC seems to have been the location of choice for those who need to propitiate the gods of commerce on this first day of the year. I was happy to finally get hold of a copy of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest which I can't wait to read but will have to on account of needing to finish The Luminaries. I've made reasonable progress on the epic from NZ, but have been enjoying socializing too much to get close to finishing.

Motto for the day: Don't you monkey with the monkey!

Flying Foxes

In an otherwise generally bleak EPL season the astonishing run that Leicester have maintained has been the only source of comfort. So far I've espoused the conventional wisdom that they're never going to keep it up due to lack of squad depth. But last night's result against City has left me gloriously unsure. They looked superior from the get-go. It's that simple - and with no real commitments other than going all the way to the title I'm beginning to think it can be done.

I've had a soft spot for Ranieri ever since Chelsea did the dirty on him, and the idea that a club might win the top honours based on playing the game the right way as opposed to spending big is deeply attractive. Reminds me of the days of Cloughie at Derby County, something I never thought I'd ever type again.

Sleepyhead

I'm now realizing I'm a lot more tired than I've consciously been aware of lately. By the time we reached Machap yesterday I knew I couldn't handle any more driving since my eyes were almost closing. Noi took over duties until we reached Melaka, then it was the teh and toast at the ARAB café that served to restore me to working order for the remainder of the journey.

Then today, despite getting in a good nine hours or so of the zzzzzzzs last night, I've nodded off both prior to the Zuhor and Asr prayers. In each case the rather loud azan from the masjid down the road woke me up to do the necessary. (One of the plus points of staying here is that prayer-times are signalled so clearly, and loudly - though I'm not so sure our non-Muslim neighbours are so appreciative. When we asked Susan from next door about this she tactfully said the noise doesn't bother them, but I reckon it could easily be turned down to the satisfaction of all.) I'm now wondering if I'll nod again before the Maghrib prayer, but Sharifah & Hamza are set to arrive before that so I don't think I'll get the chance, even if I were to want it.

Now playing Haydn, my set of the London Symphonies, at reasonable volume to keep myself awake and be reminded of what civilization sounds like.

Onwards, Upwards

Seeking to take advantage of the long weekend break for Chinese New Year, we're off to KL after Friday Prayers. Not at all sure, though, of what the traffic is going to be like at Tuas and moving up the North-South Highway as we move into the holiday season. Expect the unexpected is the motto for the day. And for life, really.

Postscript: In the event it was more a case of expect the expected. There was a bit of a jam at the Malaysian immigration side at Tuas, which got fairly chaotic because it was typically left un-policed, but after that sailing was fairly smooth. We encountered the usual number of loonies on the road, especially in Kuala Lumpur itself, and several downpours made driving that little bit more exciting, but it was all essentially, thankfully, uneventful. Oddly enough there was a big electronic sign just ahead of the toll at Sungai Besi promising slow moving traffic once we got into the capital, but this didn't materialize. Maybe they intend to leave the sign on throughout the Chinese New Year season just in case the prediction turns out to be accurate?

A Sense Of Humour

Spent reasonably extended periods of the last two days laughing immoderately - for very juvenile, extremely silly reasons. This was, of course, an entirely good thing.

A Sense Of Proportion

Nick Mason, of Pink Floyd fame, has always struck me as a decent sort of bloke. Not that I know him, of course, but I'm speaking from a distance mediated by interviews and that sort of thing. Also thinking in terms of his being able to survive somehow between the Scylla and Charybdis of Gilmour and Waters, and keep banging those drums.
 
But reading an interview with him in the January 2016 issue of Prog, which I got hold of yesterday, has seen him rise to stellar heights in my estimation, for the most part due to his answer to a question about whether he thought his role in Floyd was undervalued. It began like this (and got better): I think it's been overrated! Because I was in such a successful band I am regarded as being better than I am...

It's just astonishing for a guy to survive in the 'rock world' with his sanity intact to that degree. (Actually, I've got to say though, that on the several occasions I saw Floyd live in the early 70's he was very impressive.) Must read his book about life in the band.

A Sense Of Engagment

A little lad walked by me on the corridor today completely oblivious to my existence, or that of anyone else around. He was, to use Mum's phrase, stuck in a book. And I mean stuck - so entirely immersed in the world of whatever story he was reading that this mundane one had disappeared for him.

Let me tell you, I deeply envied him. I enjoy reading fiction but my capacity for losing myself in a story has considerably diminished from the days when I was regularly admonished for losing track of everyone and everything around me. Mum, and Dad for that matter, particularly objected to me reading at the dining table, I suppose because I wasn't doing full justice to the food they had gone to considerable trouble to provide. But what does food matter when you're in the middle of a great adventure, eh?

Connecting

It was in the middle of a conversation I had with someone last year that an obvious truth was pointed out to me that I had completely failed to take cognisance of in any shape whatsoever. The speaking of this truth took a certain amount of courage also. It was this: one of the benefits of social media that is often left unrecognised (by myself, for example) is that very lonely people are provided with a way, often their only real way, of connecting with others through the channels those media provide. The speaker was talking partly, and, as I said courageously, given the sense of vulnerability revealed, from experience.

I was reminded of this today in a conversation in which I realised something about someone that I'd never been conscious before, again concerning what might have been thought of as an area of vulnerability. I don't think of myself as a particularly obtuse person, but maybe I should start doing just that. So often I just don't see what's there in front of me.