Deeply Uncomfortable

What's the opposite of comfort viewing? I'm not sure there's a term for it, but I suspect it's what I feel watching Ken Burns's documentary series on The Vietnam War. I'm now up to 1965 and the worst is to come, which is saying something after the horrors so far. Mind you, possibly the most horrifying aspect of the whole thing, made very obvious in the first two episodes, is that the Americans just didn't need to have been there. Any number of sensible observers knew that essentially Ho Chi Minh was leading a nationalist movement and in some ways was appreciative of American help. The tragedy lay in an inability to act rationally based on that knowledge.

We sometimes talk of the benefit of hindsight, but watching the tragedy play out makes hindsight feel like a curse.

Resistance Is Futile

I've been making heroic efforts to avoid dipping into the new, expanded edition of Sid Smith's In the Court of King Crimson, one of my recent purchases from the Book Depository - part of the order I thought lost that thankfully arrived eventually. The new material on the latest version of the greatest band in the known universe is easy, compelling reading for a fanboy like me, and I really shouldn't be browsing it so totally out of sequence.

What prompted me to dip in like this, aside from my usual excited curiosity, was a bit sad. I wasn't entirely surprised to read of the death of Bill Rieflin, one of the trio of drummers making up one of the most extraordinary line-ups of any band ever, due to his unexplained recent absences from touring and a general sense that something wasn't quite right there. And following the rich tributes paid at DGM I felt I needed to know a bit more about the guy and his contribution to this version of Crimso, and, indeed, his connections with Robert Fripp over quite a number of years.

As I suspected, there's a lot of enlightening material in the enhanced toxic tome on Bill Rieflin and, indeed, everyone who ever served at the Court. It's going to be a great read, but I really need to put it to one side for now.

Worth Noting

When I first heard of the American writer Alfred Hayes, through Fifi late last year, I was taken by surprise. It's not that I claim to know about every writer of note that's ever been, but I was puzzled as to why Mr Hayes had somehow gone completely under my radar despite being quite highly rated in literary circles. I decided then that I would make the acquaintance of at least one of his novels, encouraged by the fact that the one Fifi had purchased was very short, coming in at around 100 pages or so. Also in broad terms the critics seemed to see him as a successor to Scott Fitzgerald, so that helped reinforce my decision.

I made good on my promise over the last two days, and I'm heartily glad I did so because the guy can really write. My Face for the World to See from the late 1950's proved a delight in terms of its evocation of the Hollywood of the period without in any way going over the top. If I hadn't known Hayes had worked as a screenwriter I think I would have guessed it. The novel aches verisimilitude and is wonderfully economical in style. The mastery of the short chapter alone makes it a worthwhile read and the ending is just stunning in its power.

But I'll not be in a hurry to read another of the writer's works, despite the many virtues of this one. I'm not exactly sure of the reason, but I suppose it relates to the fact that I have no great love for movies of that period, though enjoying them for their craft. The concern with what might loosely be termed romance, the focus on the narrator's confused and complex relationship with the enigmatic girl he rescues at the beginning (who, I think remains unnamed throughout) is intended to fascinate but didn't quite work for me. I found myself very much admiring the writing but from a distinctly uninvolved distance.

Out Of Nowhere

Count me as happily stunned upon reading the news this morning that His Bobness has just released a new, original 17 minute song. And, after two pretty intense listens it strikes me as unlike anything else in his considerable canon. I'm assuming, probably incorrectly, it's an outtake from the sessions for Tempest, but it just doesn't sound like the rest of the album.

Richard Williams at the ever excellent thebluemoment.com draws a useful parallel with Cross the Green Mountain, but I kept thinking of Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie, most likely due to the sense that Dylan is reciting here rather than singing and also due to the concomitant feeling of extremely free association - not that that is particularly out of the ordinary, of course.

Connections

It's far too early to start making claims that something good might come out of the dreadful situation most of the world now finds itself in, especially when so many are dealing with horrendous levels of anxiety regarding their personal situations and those of their loved ones. But it's heartening to see a generally heightened awareness of just how vital some seemingly mundane jobs really are for the well-being of us all. One obvious example: where would we be without the ancillary staff in hospitals - the cleaners and porters and the like who keep it all going? And are somehow continuing to do so when it could so easily fall apart - as we now realise. After this crisis - assuming there is an after - this will be something to remember.

As will those connections that go beyond the human, in an understanding that we are a part of systems and processes linking and intertwining all living things. Microbes included. And how we behave will necessarily impact the whole, for good or ill - including our own good or ill.

It's all so obvious isn't it? Perhaps that's why we don't see it.

Beyond Expectations

Just finished John Berger's haunting account of the life of a country doctor, A Fortunate Man. Though generally familiar with Berger's work I'd never heard of this book until I came across a fascinating article on it in the Graun late last year. It sounded like the kind of thing that I would enjoy and such proved to be the case, despite the fact that in some respects it's very much a book of its time - that time being 1967. But then the pressing concerns of a particular time, when fierce enough, can prove to be concerns which engage us in the here and now of human experience.

Must say, it felt a touch unnerving to find myself reading quite detailed references to two writers with whom I've been pretty intensely engaged in the last few weeks, namely Conrad and Sartre - and not just any Sartre, but his first novel which I only finished a week or so ago. Not at all expected and oddly synchronous.

And it also felt strange to read A Fortunate Man in the light of my knowledge (acquired through reading the Comments section following the article I referred to earlier) that the doctor involved, a thoroughly admirable man, took his own life some fifteen years after the publication of Berger's work. Knowing this significantly altered what would have been a more innocent reading of the text and seemed to deepen my reading - though I'm wary of being overly-presumptuous in that regard. I'm not sure I have the capacity to match the depth of Berger, even knowing what he couldn't have known when writing.

Spellbound

Haven't had that much opportunity for extended listening lately. Tried to right the balance by giving Messiaen's Des Canyons Aux étoiles a spin in the late afternoon. Completely gorgeous, but so much so I nodded off hypnotised in the fourth movement - though with a continuing awareness of surrounding bliss. Fortunately stayed awake right the way through John Luther Adams's Become Ocean playing free at Bandcamp. Impossibly beautiful.

Darkness Made Visible

It's taken me quite a bit longer to get to the finishing line in Dark Fire than I expected, and I'm still not quite there yet - with some 40 pages to go. Two reasons for this: working from home has kept me pretty busy; and I've been enjoying Sansom's novel so much that I've been deliberately slowing down my reading - mainly by reading other stuff at the same time.

Brilliant plotting and a wonderful sense of atmosphere make this a very special read, but the tale's genuine sense of the nature of evil and its relationship with a religious view of life and its meaning takes the book to a very high level. I wouldn't claim this to be in Wolf Hall territory (and how am I going to be able to resist the final volume of Mantel's Cromwellian trilogy at this point in time?) but it occupies the very height of what genre fiction can achieve.

Something Missing

The first day of a new term, and I really, really, really missed teaching in a classroom. Conducting lessons on-line is okay, but doesn't compare to the real thing for me. Strange how things change. In October 1978 I was desperate to quit the job. Mind you, that was a few decades ago.

Further Solace

Since being stuck in the apartment, the Missus and I have found ourselves taking refuge in episodes of Doc Martin, happily available on our recently acquired Netflix. Showing iron self-control we're managing to restrict ourselves to just two a day. In my terms that's real binge-watching, by the way.

What is it about gorgeous Cornish sea-side villages and other people's laughably eccentric problems that manages to put it all in perspective? I don't know - but somehow it does, and we're very happy about that.