Book of the Week - The Old Man and the Sea

I never understood why Hemingway won a Nobel Prize for this. It's not outstanding in the same way that For Whom the Bell Tolls is, I think. Anyway, it's a good story, and I've lost my copy of For Whom... (and, I've just noticed, A Farewell to Arms, too), so I can't reacquaint myself with the story, in order to select an appropriate quotation. Oh, if it matters, like Of Mice and Men, it's short!


Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same colour as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

"Santiago," the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money."

The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.

"No," the old man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."

"But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks."

"I remember," the old man said. "I know you did not leave me because you doubted."

"It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him."

"I know," the old man said. "It is quite normal."

"He hasn't much faith."

"No," the old man said. "But we have. Haven't we?"

Genius: there's no other word for it - Part XII

I saw Rutger Hauer interviewed, one time, and he claimed that he ad libbed Roy Batty's final speech. Whatever: it makes the point, quite beautifully.

Book of the Week - Les Chouans

I think that this is my favourite book - a quite beautiful story, told in exquisite detail.


"I don't think, gentlemen, that you will refuse a glass of wine to a man about to set out on his last march," he said, with a wry smile.

It was just then, when the company had relaxed at these words, spoken with a very French insouciance which must have pleased the Vendeans, that Montauran came in, and his pale face and fixed eyes cast a chill over all the guests.

"You're going to see the dead man prepare the living for action," the Captain said.

"Ah," said the Marquis, appearing to come to himself with a start, "so here you are, my dear war-council!"

He held up a bottle of Graves to the Captain, as if about to pour him a glass.

"Oh, much obliged, Citizen Marquis. It might drown my sorrows, you see."

At this quip Madame du Gua said, smiling round the table, "Come, let us spare him the dessert."

"You are very cruel in the vengeance you demand, Madame," the Captain answered. "You forget my murdered friend who is waiting for me; and I do not fail to keep my appointments."

"Captain, you are free!" said the Marquis then, throwing him his glove, "Take this for safe-conduct. The Chasseurs du Roi know that one must not kill all the quarry in the forest."

"All right, I'll take my life," answered Merle. "But you are making a mistake. I'll play a wary game against you, I promise you. You'll get no quarter from me. You may be very clever but you're not a match for Gerard. Your head can never make up to me for this, but I must have it, and have it I shall."

"He was in a great hurry, however," returned the Marquis.

"Good-bye! I might drink with my executioners, but I don't stay with my friend's assassins," said the Captain, departing and leaving the company disconcerted.

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think of the magistrates, surgeons and lawyers who are in charge of the Republic's affairs?" the Gars asked coldly.

"Upon my soul, Marquis," replied the Comte de Bauvan, "they're very ill-bred, at any rate. That man, I believe, has insulted us."

Genius: there's no other word for it - Part XI

Gotta be the greatest rock 'n' roll band of all time. 'Nuff said:



Sorry, couldn't help adding this one:



Addendum:
Go on, then: judge for yourselves:

Book of the Week - Of Mice And Men

I'm not sure what to write about this. I like this story because it's short, to be honest. However, Steinbeck's written a multi-layered story, here, set in the southern states, during the Depression era. There's exploitation of workers, with so many out of work that they have no bargaining power. There's racism. There's the anti-hero, George, who demonstrates inexplicable loyalty to Lennie. Inexplicable until one has read the book, that is.


Crooks stood up from his bunk and faced her. "I had enough," he said coldly. "You got no rights comin' in a coloured man's room. You got no rights messing around in here at all. Now you jus' get out, an' get out quick. If you don't, I'm gonna ast the boss not to ever let you come in the barn no more."

She turned to him in scorn. "Listen, Nigger," she said. "You know what I can do to you if you open your trap?"

Crooks stared hopelessly at her, and then he sat down on his bunk and drew into himself.

She closed on him. "You know what I could do?"

Crooks seemed to grow smaller, and he pressed himself against the wall. "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, you keep your place then, Nigger. I could get you strung up from a tree so easy it ain't even funny."

Crooks had reduced himself to nothing. There was no personality, no ego - nothing to arouse either like or dislike. He said: "Yes, ma'am," and his voice was toneless.

For a moment she stood over him as though waiting for him to move so that she could whip at him again; but Crooks sat perfectly still, his eyes averted, everything that might be hurt drawn in. She turned at last to the other two.

Old Candy was watching her, fascinated. "If you was to do that, we'd tell," he said quietly. "We'd tell about you framin' Crooks."

"Tell an' be damned," she cried. "Nobody'd listen to you, an' you know it. Nobody'd listen to you."

Candy subsided. "No," he agreed. "- Nobody'd listen to us."

Genius: there's no other word for it - Part X

I saw the Hives do this on Later With Jools Holland - they'd probably be a great band to see live: real stage presence, you know?

Book of the Week - Life of Pi

I read this (I regret to confess), because it won the Booker Prize, back in 2002, and not because I am a connoisseur of fine modern literature. Nevertheless, Yann Martel's third book is a lovely read, full of whimsy. As the insurance assessors at the end note, it's never really clear whether we're dealing with a wholly fictitious account of extraordinary events that might occur, or an allegorical tale, or something else entirely.


I threw the lifebuoy mightily. It fell in the water right in front of him. With his last energies he stretched forward and took hold of it.

"Hold on tight, I'll pull you in. Don't let go. Pull with your eyes while I pull with my hands. In a few seconds you'll be aboard and we'll be together. Wait a second. Together? We'll be together? Have I gone mad?"

I woke up to what I was doing. I yanked on the rope.

"Let go of that lifebuoy, Richard Parker! Let go, I said. I don't want you here, do you understand? Go somewhere else. Leave me alone. Get lost. Drown! Drown!"

He was kicking vigourously with his legs. I grabbed an oar. I thrust it at him, meaning to push him away. I missed and lost hold of the oar.

I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulled as hard as I could, meaning to move the lifeboat away. All I accomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one end close to Richard Parker.

I would hit him on the head! I lifted the oar in the air.

He was too fast. He reached up and pulled himself aboard.

"Oh my God!"

Ravi was right. Truly I was to be the next goat. I had a wet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving and coughing three-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat.

Create the Life You Deserve

Just under three years ago, I attended a NLP Practitioner's course, operated by a company called Inner Compass. Inner Compass has since gone into receivership, although the name has been acquired, and is still being used to sell goods and services. As far as I can establish, most of the people who were employed by Inner Compass are still in position. Hmmm. That sounds like a phoenix company, to me. Still.

Anyway, the Company failed me on the course, for reasons that it was unwilling to go into any detail over. That is, I was told that I was "seeking significance," although what this amounted to was not explained. Now, I don't think people should go around throwing around language, when they are unable to detail what they're talking about, because then it makes them look incompetent, but still.

So, having paid over 3,500 quid, I have no call on the Company to provide me with the certificate, nor to find me a place on another course, as was promised by the then owner of the Company, Andy Harrington, who still consults for the new company. Not within the Law, anyway (but in Equity? Well, that's a different matter). As "Sherry," the person who took my telephone call this morning, put it "your three and half thousand pounds doesn't exist, anymore". Right, thanks for that, Sherry. Actually, it does exist: it's in Andy Harrington's back pocket, and I can quite legitimately trace it all the way there.

So, I am currently awaiting the largesse of the new owner, who, I am assured, is very keen to maintain the good name of Inner Compass. I imagine we'll establish just how keen he is.

Matt

Related link:
The "all new" Inner Compass

Genius: there's no other word for it - Part IX

There was a whole bunch of songs that I considered posting as a little homage to my heroes. "Bankrobber," "The Right Profile," "London Calling," "Spanish Bombs" - God the list is practically endless. This was a good song to start with, but as with the Strangler's cover of Dionne Warwick's "Walk on by," it became a great song. God bless you, Joe.



Addendum:
Oh, "Police and Thieves" was another one that nearly made it, too.

Recording: British Paxil Users Meet With Brit FDA

Furious Seasons has posted the audio recording of the recent meeting between representatives of the Nine Elms Massive and patient advocates. I've made a couple of comments on there, if you're interested (and even if you're not interested, I've still made a couple of comments), but the upshot is that the Establishment has decided to defend its position - there is no attempt being made to address the issues with the industry that several commentators and patient advocates have raised. It seems to be about justifying the status quo, when the status quo is shit.

I listened to the recording for 36 minutes, and I was so disgusted with the whole fucking thing that I refused to expose myself to it, any further. It sounded very much like a PR exercize, nothing more. If the MHRA was really listening, it would be including its biggest (or at least most vocal), critics in the discussion and it would be addressing the issues that they raise, instead of justifying the machinations of the system, which, in their totality, I argue achieve precisely the opposite of what it is argued is being achieved.

What is being done to address the way in which companies have complete control over the trial of drugs, statistical analysis and writing of papers? What is being done to establish regulatory rules and guidelines, which fill the gaps left by legislation? Will the UK regulator address the question of its apparently flimsy assessment process - for example, why does it accept those dodgy academic papers as valid evidence of safety and efficacy, when there is evidence that this business of "information laundering" renders academia unreliable, to say the least?

Oh, it's all bollox - the halfwits don't want to change a damn thing, because it's not in their interests to change anything, and because they don't know how.

Matt

Book of the Week - All Quiet on the Western Front

The title is more literally translated into english as "Nothing New on the Western Front," I understand. I like the way this story is told, because, while the conflict was patently absurd, the absurdity is apparent in the telling of the soldier's story (for example, the fact that soldiers from both sides frequent the same brothels), and it is unnecessary for Remarque to dwell on that. Also, there's no tub-thumping jingoism (the soldier observes, at one point, that both sides have been told that the other eats babies, as I recall), nor expressed hatred. Indeed, there is a decided absence of that commodity, as indicated by the excerpt, below.

I read, somewhere, that Erich Remarque was wounded at Passchendaele.


...The days pass. One misty morning another Russian is buried; a few of them die every day now. I happen to be on sentry duty when he is laid to rest. The POWs sing a chorale; they sing in harmony and it sounds as if they were hardly voices at all, but as if an organ were playing, far away on the moor.

The funeral is soon over.

In the evening they are standing by the wire again, and the wind blows across to them from the birch woods. The stars are cold.

By now I've got to know a few of them who can speak German pretty well. One of them is a musician, and he tells me that he had been a violinist in Berlin. When he hears that I play the piano a little, he fetches his violin and plays. The others sit down and lean their backs against the wire-netting. He stands and plays, and often he has that far-away look that violinists get when they close their eyes and then strikes up a new rhythm on the instrument and smiles at me.

Presumably he is playing folk songs; the others hum the tunes with him. They are like dark hills, and the humming is deep, subterranean. The voice of the violin stands out like a slim girl above them, and it is bright and alone. The voices stop and the violin remains - it sounds thin in the night, as if it were freezing; you have to stand close by - it would probably be better in a room - out here it makes you sad to hear it wandering about, all alone...