It's well known that Swift's finest is a satire (first published shortly after the "South Sea Bubble," and one or two other scandals of the time). I found it hugely entertaining to read it in conjunction with a view of modern life. There are obvious parallels, of course, but see if you can put a few names to Swift's characterizations...
In the school of political projectors, I was but ill entertained; the professors appearing in my judgment wholly out of their senses, which is a scene that never fails to make me melancholy. These unhappy people were proposing schemes for persuading monarchs to chuse favourites upon the score of their wisdom, capacity, and virtue; of teaching ministers to consult the publick good; of rewarding merit, great abilities and eminent services; of instructing princes to know their true interest, by placing it on the same foundation with that of their people: of chusing for employments persons qualified to exercize them; with many other wild impossible chimaeras, that never entered before into the heart of man to conceive; and confirmed in me the old observation, that there is nothing so extravagant and irrational which some philosophers have not maintained for truth.
Friday, 27 June 2008
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Genius: there's no other word for it - Part XVII
I must confess that as a genre, rap/hiphop/whatever isn't really my thing, but I think Eminem's got something a little bit extra to the usual business of rapping about "guns, bitches and widescreen TVs". There's one very particular reason that I like this track, but that's for another time... This version's short of a fair few of the expletives, but I'm not sure that it loses anything, for all that. It's in the delivery, if you know what I mean.
Sunday, 22 June 2008
I just like this scene...
Good Will Hunting is on Channel 4, in the UK, just now. I like this - it reminds me of a bunch of stuff. People who underestimate others, mostly.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Book of the Week - The Third Man
Another short one. According to the foreward of my copy, this was intended to be a play, rather than a novel, and the Carol Reed-directed filme noir masterpiece, with Orson Welles and Joseph Cotton playing the lead roles, is certainly worth a watch. And it's all about dodgy prescription drugs!
Now he didn't make the mistake of putting out a hand that might have been rejected, but instead just patted Martins on the elbow and said, "How are things?"
"We've got to talk, Harry."
"Of course."
"Alone."
"We couldn't be more alone than here."
He had always known the ropes, and even in the smashed pleasure park he knew them, tipping the woman in charge of the Wheel, so that they might have a car to themselves. He said, "Lovers used to do this in the old days, but they haven't the money to spare, poor devils, now," and he looked out of the window of the swaying rising car at the figures diminishing below with what looked like genuine commiseration.
Very slowly on one side of them the city sank; very slowly on the other side the great cross-girders of the Wheel rose into sight. As the horizon slid away the Danube became visible, and the piers of the Reichsbrucke lifted above the houses. "Well," Harry said, "it's good to see you, Rollo."
"I was at your funeral."
"That was pretty smart of me, wasn't it?"
Now he didn't make the mistake of putting out a hand that might have been rejected, but instead just patted Martins on the elbow and said, "How are things?"
"We've got to talk, Harry."
"Of course."
"Alone."
"We couldn't be more alone than here."
He had always known the ropes, and even in the smashed pleasure park he knew them, tipping the woman in charge of the Wheel, so that they might have a car to themselves. He said, "Lovers used to do this in the old days, but they haven't the money to spare, poor devils, now," and he looked out of the window of the swaying rising car at the figures diminishing below with what looked like genuine commiseration.
Very slowly on one side of them the city sank; very slowly on the other side the great cross-girders of the Wheel rose into sight. As the horizon slid away the Danube became visible, and the piers of the Reichsbrucke lifted above the houses. "Well," Harry said, "it's good to see you, Rollo."
"I was at your funeral."
"That was pretty smart of me, wasn't it?"
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
Genius: there's no other word for it - Part XVI
A "heavy metal classic," as Hugh Cornwell might put it. I don't know if it's the waltz or the harpsichord that I like best. It's brilliant, anyway.
Friday, 13 June 2008
Book of the Week - The Phantom of the Opera
There's nothing like a good ghost story! Actually, this isn't a ghost story, because Erik isn't a ghost, but all the same. Anyway, I don't know what else Leroux wrote, but this is a very finely written story - full of detail, which, while not absolutely pertinent to the plot, enriches the story, and is necessary in making the tale as good as it is, I think.
Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to abandon them to their deaths, M de Chagny and his companion were saved by the sublime devotion of Christine Daae. I had the rest of the story from the lips of the daroga himself.
When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries. He was very ill and it took all my ardour as an historian pledged to tell the truth to persuade him to live the incredible tragedy over again for my benefit. His faithful old servant Darius showed me in. The daroga received me at a window overlooking the garden of the Tuileries. He still had his magnificent eyes, but his poor face looked very worn. He had shaved the whole of his head, which was usually covered with an astrakhan cap; he was dressed in a long, very plain coat and amused himself by unconsciously twisting his thumbs inside the sleeves; but his mind was quite clear and he told me his story with perfect lucidity, as follows.
It seems that, when he opened his eyes, the daroga found himself lying on a bed. M de Chagny was asleep on a sofa, beside the wardrobe. An angel and a devil were watching over them...
After the deceptions and illusions of the torture-chamber, the precision of the middle-class details in that quiet little room seemed invented for the express purpose of once more puzzling the mind of the mortal rash enough to stray into that abode of living nightmare. The wooden bedstead, the beeswaxed mahogany chairs, the chest of drawers, the brasses, the little square anti-macassars carefully laced on the backs of the chairs, the clock on the mantelpiece and the harmless-looking ebony caskets at either end... lastly, the what-not filled with shells, with red pin-cushions, with mother-of-pearl boats and an enormous ostrich-egg... the whole discreetly lighted by a shaded lamp standing on a small round table: this collection of ugly, peaceable, reasonable furniture, at the bottom of the Opera cellars, bewildered the imagination more than all the late fantastic happenings.
Notwithstanding the horrors of a situation which seemed definitely to abandon them to their deaths, M de Chagny and his companion were saved by the sublime devotion of Christine Daae. I had the rest of the story from the lips of the daroga himself.
When I went to see him, he was still living in his little flat in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Tuileries. He was very ill and it took all my ardour as an historian pledged to tell the truth to persuade him to live the incredible tragedy over again for my benefit. His faithful old servant Darius showed me in. The daroga received me at a window overlooking the garden of the Tuileries. He still had his magnificent eyes, but his poor face looked very worn. He had shaved the whole of his head, which was usually covered with an astrakhan cap; he was dressed in a long, very plain coat and amused himself by unconsciously twisting his thumbs inside the sleeves; but his mind was quite clear and he told me his story with perfect lucidity, as follows.
It seems that, when he opened his eyes, the daroga found himself lying on a bed. M de Chagny was asleep on a sofa, beside the wardrobe. An angel and a devil were watching over them...
After the deceptions and illusions of the torture-chamber, the precision of the middle-class details in that quiet little room seemed invented for the express purpose of once more puzzling the mind of the mortal rash enough to stray into that abode of living nightmare. The wooden bedstead, the beeswaxed mahogany chairs, the chest of drawers, the brasses, the little square anti-macassars carefully laced on the backs of the chairs, the clock on the mantelpiece and the harmless-looking ebony caskets at either end... lastly, the what-not filled with shells, with red pin-cushions, with mother-of-pearl boats and an enormous ostrich-egg... the whole discreetly lighted by a shaded lamp standing on a small round table: this collection of ugly, peaceable, reasonable furniture, at the bottom of the Opera cellars, bewildered the imagination more than all the late fantastic happenings.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
Genius: there's no other word for it - Part XIV
There're quite a few songs I could have chosen from O, I think. Eskimo, or The Blower's Daughter, for example, but I like this:
Addendum:
(By request)
Addendum:
(By request)
Friday, 6 June 2008
Book of the Week - The Complete Stories of Saki
Hector Hugh Munro* was supposedly homosexual, when it was illegal to be gay (and regarded in some quarters as a mental illness - plus ca change!). It has also been rumoured that he was a misogynist (he never married), and that he had anti-semitic tendencies, supposedly evidenced in one or two of his stories. However, I'd prefer to remember him by his reported last words, uttered shortly before he was shot by a sniper at Beaumont-Hamel: "put that damned cigarette out"!
Anyway, his stories, which were satires on contemporary society, are always witty, I find, and there's always a twist, too. This is taken from The Remoulding of Groby Lington:
"Your parrot's dead." The boy made the latter announcement with the relish which his class finds in proclaiming a catastrophe.
"My parrot dead?" said Groby. "What caused its death?"
"The ipe," said the boy briefly.
"The ipe?" queried Groby. "Whatever's that?"
"The ipe what the Colonel brought down with him," came the rather alarming answer.
"Do you mean to say my brother is ill?" asked Groby. "Is it some thing infectious?"
"The Colonel's so well as ever he was," said the boy; and as no further explanation was forthcoming Groby had to possess himself in mystified patience till he reached home. His brother was waiting for him at the hall door.
"Have you heard about the parrot?" he asked at once. "'Pon my soul I'm awfully sorry. The moment he saw the monkey I'd brought down as a surprise for you he sqawked out, "Rats to you, sir!" and the blessed monkey made one spring at him, got him by the neck and whirled him round like a rattle. He was as dead as mutton by the time I'd got him out of the little beggar's paws. Always been such a friendly little beast, the monkey has, should never have thought he'd got it in him to see red like that. Can't tell you how sorry I feel about it, and now of course you'll hate the sight of the monkey."
"Not at all," said Groby sincerely. A few hours earlier the tragic end which had befallen his parrot would have presented itself to him as a calamity; now it arrived almost as a polite attention of the part of the Fates.
* It's said that the nom de plume, Saki, is taken from this story - saki being a species of south american monkey (the monkey is identified as coming from that part of the world, in the story).
Anyway, his stories, which were satires on contemporary society, are always witty, I find, and there's always a twist, too. This is taken from The Remoulding of Groby Lington:
"Your parrot's dead." The boy made the latter announcement with the relish which his class finds in proclaiming a catastrophe.
"My parrot dead?" said Groby. "What caused its death?"
"The ipe," said the boy briefly.
"The ipe?" queried Groby. "Whatever's that?"
"The ipe what the Colonel brought down with him," came the rather alarming answer.
"Do you mean to say my brother is ill?" asked Groby. "Is it some thing infectious?"
"The Colonel's so well as ever he was," said the boy; and as no further explanation was forthcoming Groby had to possess himself in mystified patience till he reached home. His brother was waiting for him at the hall door.
"Have you heard about the parrot?" he asked at once. "'Pon my soul I'm awfully sorry. The moment he saw the monkey I'd brought down as a surprise for you he sqawked out, "Rats to you, sir!" and the blessed monkey made one spring at him, got him by the neck and whirled him round like a rattle. He was as dead as mutton by the time I'd got him out of the little beggar's paws. Always been such a friendly little beast, the monkey has, should never have thought he'd got it in him to see red like that. Can't tell you how sorry I feel about it, and now of course you'll hate the sight of the monkey."
"Not at all," said Groby sincerely. A few hours earlier the tragic end which had befallen his parrot would have presented itself to him as a calamity; now it arrived almost as a polite attention of the part of the Fates.
* It's said that the nom de plume, Saki, is taken from this story - saki being a species of south american monkey (the monkey is identified as coming from that part of the world, in the story).
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Genius: there's no other word for it - Part XIII
I still think that Steve McQueen occupies the same kind of territory as albums like Brutal Youth, London Calling, Urban Hymns, Parklife, What's the Story (Morning Glory), and so on. Anyway, Paddy McAloon: very talented wordsmith, although I do wonder why he would rather wear a rabbit, than pull it out of a hat!
Addenda:
I've just had it pointed out to me that it's Paddy McAloon's birthday on the 7th - so Happy Birthday to you, mate!
Here's Faron Young, also taken from Steve McQueen, as performed at the same Munich gig as Moving the River, above:
Addenda:
I've just had it pointed out to me that it's Paddy McAloon's birthday on the 7th - so Happy Birthday to you, mate!
Here's Faron Young, also taken from Steve McQueen, as performed at the same Munich gig as Moving the River, above:
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