A Grim Fascination

My back still hasn't fully recovered from last week's strain and that's been my weak excuse for getting hardly anything worthwhile done today. In contrast, Noi was busy developing her skills in patchwork at Rohana's, so one of us was achieving something. For some reason I found myself fairly aimlessly watching various bits of debate and dialogue on YouTube in her absence and I'm afraid it was a less than profitable use of my time.

I suppose I did learn one thing though. I witnessed a good deal of outrage and outrage is a debilitating emotion, especially the variety unaccompanied by any sense of generosity, and there's a lot of it in cyberspace. Watching folks fuelled by outrage at each other is unrewarding in the extreme but unpleasantly fascinating. And I intend to stay away in future.

Thinking Aloud

The Magic Mountain is turning into a war of ideas between Settembrini and Naptha. The open philosophising of the two, with Hans Castorp and his cousin caught between them, seems an extremely clumsy way of exploring these concerns, but the ideas are so obviously alive for Mann that this reader just surrenders to the thrill of the debate. Part of the thrill is the sense that the writer is capable of investing himself in the full range of what is under view without necessarily surrendering to a single ideology. His world is complex, plural, idiosyncratic, as I hope mine is. Indeed, all our worlds.

A Question Of Limits

Over the last year or so I've found myself watching a number of videos featuring Jordan Peterson. I'd vaguely heard that he was controversial in his opinions which sort of sparked my curiosity to find out just how controversial he is. I'm pleased I did because his lectures are well worth watching. It's certainly true that some of what he says is not exactly mainstream, but there's nothing that struck me as even close to unpleasantly outrageous and a lot that showed insight into the workings of the human mind. He strikes me as a born teacher, investing his material with force and passion.

As with any good teacher there's a certain quirkiness about him and something of the obsessional, though in a generally healthy manner. But the one thing I found puzzling was his obvious animus against the universities and his charges that many departments are driven by a dangerous form of cultural Marxism. This all seemed a bit over-stated, a wee bit hysterical.

I'm beginning to change my mind though. The recent news  that staff working for his Canadian publisher protested against the publication of his new book struck me as something of an ironic validation of his concerns as to the desire of the 'woke' to extinguish academic freedoms. Maybe I'm over-stating that, but it's sadly getting easier to see where Prof Peterson's concerns come from. Thank goodness that Penguin intend to go ahead and publish.

Being There Again

Delighted to have managed to get to the masjid for Friday Prayers this afternoon. I'd booked my spot on Wednesday morning, an hour or so before wrenching the muscles in my back, and once the pain kicked in I was wondering whether I should cancel the booking to make sure I didn't waste a space someone else might have wanted to use. Up to setting off I was uncertain if I would be able to do the necessary, but decided that with the help of a chair it would be okay. After all, that's how I was managing prayers at home, and in that sense it didn't seem a big deal. I suppose it was the thought of driving there and following all the new procedures that intimidated me. That and the worry of suddenly feeling a debilitating pain and not being able to continue.

In the event, all went well and I experienced that feeling of somehow being exactly where I needed to be. Always a good place.

Floored, Again

Spent most of the day lying on the floor, easing a wrenching pain in my lower back. Not a very interesting place to be, I'm afraid, especially when it's so familiar from similar previous experiences. Hoping for recovery, but not taking it for granted.

Truly Alive

I'm listening to Mozart's El Nozze di Figaro in pieces - one act at a time. I suppose it's an odd way to take in an opera, but it seems to work for me. I'm at the halfway point and thoroughly enjoying the experience. It helps that the version I'm listening to, featuring the English Baroque Soloists conducted by John Eliot Gardiner, is so clear, vibrant and dynamic in every way. The details leap out at you.

So when the applause breaks out at the end of each act, it comes as a bit of a surprise. The sound has been so perfectly slick, so wonderfully balanced, that a novice listener like myself tends to assume it's a studio recording and the fact it isn't is a powerful reminder of the level of excellence these musicians are routinely capable of.

It's a privilege to listen.

Highly Deceptive

I'm rereading Iain McGilchrist's The Master and his Emissary very slowly indeed, to try and ensure I've grasped the nuances of his argument. Today I finished the third chapter, Language, Truth and Music and I've decided to reread it since the ideas relating to language as metaphor escaped me except in the broadest sense. Also he seems to be saying some extraordinary things about language in relation to communication; in effect, language might be better seen as an evolutionary element related more to the need for control - and possibly deception/concealment - though I'm not entirely sure McGilchrist thinks it's as simple as that.

But what an idea! It struck me that in many ways we've been seeing something related to this in action in the American presidency 2017 - 2020.

A Happy Morning

Plants make people happy! Wise words, spotted on the back of a guy's shirt this morning. Not much to argue with there. Especially when the wearer of the shirt was engaged in actually doing the necessary planting.

He was one of many workers busy making Jurong Lake Gardens a place worth spending a Monday morning in - or any day of any week, come to think of it. The Gardens were only recently opened to the public and there's still a good deal of development going on, but there's plenty to delight the eye - and other senses.

Challenges

Just spoke to John and, briefly, Maureen. They are staying safe. But John is feeling very restricted now he no longer gets out and Maureen's short term memory is as bad as Mum's was towards the end. According to John, he now thinks too much whereas in the past he rarely thought about anything but just got on with what needed to be done. At least they've got enough money coming in to keep the show on the road.

Worryingly, Cheryl's John has been made redundant, having been paid off with three months' salary. They've just moved into an expensive new house but I'm hoping they'll be able to cope given the fact they've done very well financially over the years. Thinking back to when we saw them last December, it's startling to consider the challenges they've faced this year; them and so many others.

Infected

Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain is one of those novels that has an almost physical effect upon the reader. I'm finding myself sharing something of the feverish feelings of its protagonist, Hans Castrop. Reading the sequence in which he experiences his first x-ray and gazes upon the bones in his arm was a reminder of how strange this new medical technology would have seemed in its day. The heightened sense Mann conveys of the sheer strangeness of our bodies is hypnotic in its way, but forbiddingly so. I'm finding myself being both happy to read about events in the other-worldly sanatorium but happy to get away from them. Probably that's why it's taking me forever to read.

Afterword: I was feverish enough after my last reading of Mann's novel that I managed to misspell the name of his central character above. Apologies to Herr Castorp.