Light Reading

I've somewhat surprised myself over the fact that I've been thoroughly enjoying reading David Hawkes's translation of Volume 1 of the classic The Story of the Stone aka The Dream of the Red Chamber. The tome in question covers only the first 26 chapters of the full 120 (or thereabouts) and is entitled (or sub-titled, I suppose) The Golden Days. I had it with me back in December in the UK, but read hardly a page, being completely unable to get into it. And then I made a bit more progress in June, ahead of the text being taught to a class I was co-teaching, but only a 'bit' in terms of bits & pieces, without ever feeling comfortable as to what the writer, Cao Xueqin, was up to. The tale felt completely 'foreign' to me.

But after being in a few lessons related to it I started to register some sense of what was going on at a narrative level. Oddly enough it was the connections, tentative as they were, with Proust's A la Recherche du Temps Perdu that began to bring The Golden Days to life for me, as I found myself beginning to grasp the playfulness involved and the quality of refined soap opera.

So after 'completing' the text in the classroom I set out on a rereading, but a highly relaxed one, with no real consideration of following details - essentially just superficially following the 'story'. Even then, I hadn't much of a clue as to plot for the first three chapters. But then the magic started. I began to ease myself into the novel - if that's an appropriate term for a work that bears no close resemblance to any novel I've previously encountered. And now, approaching the end of the first volume, I'm loving it, whilst remaining entirely relaxed about the stuff I don't get, which is plenty.

Just to mention one aspect of the text that lends itself to reading for pleasure: most of the characters are basically good-natured and enjoy life and each other in an uncomplicated manner. It reminds me a bit of the best of Thomas Love Peacock, as in Headlong Hall; the feeling of celebrating a life of pleasure in good yet silly company. Yes, there are shadows; but the light shines and it's nice to step into.

On The Mountaintop

Strange how you can know something and not really know it at all. I've been familiar with the conclusion of Dr Martin Luther King's final public speech, when he talked of having been to the The Mountaintop for many years. And I thought I had some grasp of its context.

But listening to an outstanding episode of The Rest is History podcast this afternoon centering on The Assassination of Dr King knocked me into a loop. I think the presenters themselves were deeply moved by the words of the man as they explained the extraordinary circumstances that gave rise to them. And I've got a feeling that at some level they'd agree with me that something greater than himself was speaking through the man.

And we'd do well to listen.

Going Beyond Further Delight

I'm winding up the little music-themed trio of posts which sort of happily came out of nowhere this week with a brief mention of yet another superlative song/performance/piece. An article I read a couple of days back on the mighty Radiohead going viral prompted me to partake of some heavy listening to live versions of the song in question. And I'm glad I did.

Which is what you too will undoubtedly feel if you click on to the link I've so thoughtfully provided to a stunning bit of them doing the business back in 2016. You certainly won't feel in the least bit Let Down. Hah!

Further Delight

I'm on a bit of a roll at the moment with regard to finding sweet sounds to sooth the savage breast. My hunting around for a video of Dexy's Midnight Runners' classic Geno, after I'd chanced upon the interview with the redoubtable Kevin Rowlands, led to my discovery that he'd revived the band (or band name) some time back and they'd produced some excellent work.

Mr Rowland is looking his age in the video for the stellar Incapable Of Love, but that's the point, it seems to me. The street cred passion of Geno has given way to the weary worn half comical passions of exhausted middle age. And it works like a dream. Blissfully cheesy. What's not to like?

Beyond Hyperbole

In the normal run of things I reckon I can hyperbolise with the best of them (with the possible exceptions of Messers Shakespeare & Marlowe.) But I'm lost for superlatives that might do justice to the Tiny Desk Concert involving Shakti. 

When the link popped up in my YouTube feed I was taken aback since I wasn't aware that the band were actually still on the go as late as 2023. As far as I knew, the recent death of the great Zakir Hussain implied some years of inaction prior to his passing - and it was wonderful in itself to be proved so utterly wrong-headed in that lazy assumption. And since I was vaguely that the Mahavishnu himself, Johnny Mac, had to be in his 80s, I sort of thought, if I thought at all, that his days as a 'live' musician were likely to be at an end. Gloriously wrong wrong wrong!

Immediately I clicked on the link. And went to heaven. I advise all right-minded listeners to do the same.

A Jolly Good Show

Noi and I have been very firmly gripped by the series Presumed Innocent. We finished the last of the eight episodes yesterday having, as usual, failed to guess the killer, and having very much enjoyed not having much of a clue as to the identity thereof. Incredibly good cinematography (if that’s the right word for a tv series. Anyway, it looked great.) Obviously extremely well written and superbly acted. Great entertainment. So what’s not to like? 

Well, just one thing from me. I think the makers of the series may have felt they were saying something important. About stuff & life. Like the psychology of a killer. The pressures of being high powered lawyers. The media in America. The workings of justice. That sort of thing. But I don’t think much of that genuinely worked for me. It all looked beautifully crafted as if it should have depth, but the detective in me suspected it was all surface. 

Just one example. The lawyers were supposed to be brilliant (I think that was the idea.) But at times they behaved like simpletons. Now, I’m happy with the idea that brilliant people are often stupid and pretty much everyone behaves like a simpleton. But not when they are actually doing the job they get paid for. So a top lawyer almost exploding with rage under cross-examination works in an entertaining, dramatic way. But not as a commentary on the way things are. 

Of course, this observation is a bit petty, especially given the pleasure delivered by the makers of the show. But if I can't be petty over an American tv show what can I be petty over?

At An End

Finished Mahmoud Darwish's In the Presence of Absence earlier today. It took me quite some time to read due, no doubt, to the poetic intensity brought to what is referred to as a unique hybrid of verse and prose on the back cover. I had the feeling as I read, especially in the early chapters, that it's one of those texts that is basically untranslatable. Initially it seemed extremely abstract to me, and not in a good way. But I must say that the second half, dealing with the writer's later years in what I slowly began to realise was intended as a kind of poetic memoir, struck me as far more accessible. As he moved from exile in Vienna & Tunis & Beirut & other far places back to Ramallah the specificity of his experiences made my reading a good deal more rewarding. But I was glad to finish, which isn't a good sign. I sort of feel bad I didn't enjoy the book more, but that says more about me and my limitations as a reader than the work itself.

A Dilemma

Had a very jolly time this afternoon zooming into the annual Lit Seminar run by the Gifted Education Branch. I've been employed for quite a few years now as a 'Lit Critic', sort of passing judgment on and giving feedback to various accomplished youngsters presenting their research to and for each other. Since I'm not exactly simpatico with the academic side of lit, and the writing of analysis of such makes me increasingly queasy, I usually feel like a bit of an imposter in the role. But the enthusiasm of the participants always wins me over with regard to the essential worth of the enterprise and invariably fuels my own. Which equally inevitably leaves me with the headache of deciding whether to incorporate aspects of what comes up in the course of the presentations into my own further reading. (But that's a happy enough headache, in its way.)

So now, reflecting on this afternoon's offerings, I'm wondering if I need to get hold of a Collected of Arthur Yap's poems. (There's one published by Epigram Books.) The possibility that the poet might just be the genuinely major figure of the earliest decades of Sing lit had previously occurred to me, but I've never engaged with anything like the full body of his work, and now might just be the time. The problem is, though, that I'm committed to the great Henry Vaughan read-through as things stand and I foolishly jotted down a list of other poets that might well follow, given the contents of my shelves. In the interests of full disclosure these comprise (not in order of merit, chronology, or even personal taste): Clare, Pound, Frost, Tennyson, Eliot, Dryden. Wow, quite a gathering, eh? The thing is, though, that I'm very familiar with all of these luminaries, but Yap would be a lot 'newer'. And I really need to read more from the region.

It was great, by the by, that three of the presentations this afternoon were located firmly in the local scene. I detect a growing confidence regarding the value of the work created in this Far Place. Must say, I'm hoping I might have influenced one or two of the participants to set about creating their own stuff (as opposed to writing dreary analysis - which I managed to avoid saying.) Unfortunately I forgot to round off with that as my final message - the thing about creating, not the slur on analysis. But since most young people have the wisdom not to listen to their elders' advice but do their own thing I doubt there was any harm done by the omission.  

Gripped

We're engrossed in an excellent series on Apple TV - a top rate murder entitled Presumed Innocent. I can only take one episode at a time which led to a bit of a falling out just now as Noi was frantic over the likely demise of the lawyer defending the guy we presume is innocent, desperately wanting to know what happens next. I'm keen enough myself, but two hours of dramatic excitement of an evening is one hour too many for me.

So I'm modelling self-control on this, but I don't think Noi's too keen on imitating me.

Vision And Sound

Glancing back to early January I realise that the repairing we effected then of the Bose sound system we use in the living room was worthwhile. The CD player has survived almost a full eight months of usage and sounds good to these old ears. Played the first Led Zeppelin album earlier and was reminded of just how quickly they established their signature sound. There are mild traces of the inspired psychedelia of The Yardbirds, but essentially it's hard rock - with range, especially in the folkier elements - pretty much all the way. And on a decent system John Paul Jones's fluidly driving bass underpins the whole enterprise in a way that wasn't entirely clear to my naive teenage ears.

Plus, the new telly is now not quite so new, but, so far, reliably steady and not too flashy. I'm hoping for a good twenty-plus years out of it, though suspecting it was probably manufactured with about four in mind. Which brings to mind the fact that we need to buy a new set for Maison KL, the original occupant of the family area upstairs having duly expired after a mere twenty-three years. I hate stuff of an electronic bent that doesn't last and come close to despair at the waste involved.