This is a children's book, by John Bush and Korky Paul. It's a story about a fish that has the power to make his wildest fantasies come true. I read it to my daughter, tonight...
In the deep blue sea
In the deep of the blue
Swam a fish who could wish
And each wish would come true
Oh, the fun that he had
Oh, the things he would do
Just wishing away in the deep water blue...
...That silly old fish
Wished he could be
Just like all the other
Fish in the sea.
But wishing was something
Other fish could not do
So that was his very last wish
That came true.
Showing posts with label Book of the Week. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Book of the Week. Show all posts
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Book of the Week - The Glums
Victor Hugo, blah, classic of western literature, blah, magnificent characterization, blah, blah, historical detail, blah-de-fucking-blah. Great story.
He said to himself that it was true then, that there were exceptions, that authority might be put out of countenance, that rule might stop short before a fact, that everything was not framed in the text of the code, that the unforeseen would be obeyed, that the virtue of a convict might spread a snare for the virtue of a functionary, that the monstrous might be divine, that destiny had such ambuscades as these, and he thought with despair that even he had not been proof against a surprise.
He was compelled to recognize the existence of kindness. This convict had been kind. And he himself wonderful to tell, he had just been kind. Therefore he had become depraved.
He thought himself base. He was a horror to himself.
Javert's ideal was not to be humane, not to be great, not to be sublime, it was to be irreproachable. Now he had just failed.
He said to himself that it was true then, that there were exceptions, that authority might be put out of countenance, that rule might stop short before a fact, that everything was not framed in the text of the code, that the unforeseen would be obeyed, that the virtue of a convict might spread a snare for the virtue of a functionary, that the monstrous might be divine, that destiny had such ambuscades as these, and he thought with despair that even he had not been proof against a surprise.
He was compelled to recognize the existence of kindness. This convict had been kind. And he himself wonderful to tell, he had just been kind. Therefore he had become depraved.
He thought himself base. He was a horror to himself.
Javert's ideal was not to be humane, not to be great, not to be sublime, it was to be irreproachable. Now he had just failed.
Friday, 25 July 2008
Book of the Week - The Politics of the Judiciary
This was on my "Required Reading" list, given me prior to the first year of my Law degree. Good old John Griffiths!
In a remarkable passage Lord Denning MR seemed to accept that the courts had no part to play [in the balancing of interests between state and individual] because the government never erred. He said:
There is a conflict between the interests of national security on the one hand and the freedom of the individual on the other. The balance between these two is not for a court of law. It is for the Home Secretary. He is the person entrusted by Parliament with the task. In some parts of the world national security has on occasion been used as an excuse for all sorts of infringements of individual liberty. But not in England [LOL]. Both during the wars and after them successive ministers have discharged their duties to the complete satisfaction of the people at large. They have set up advisory committees to help them, usually with a chairman who has done everything he can to ensure that justice is done. They have never interfered with the liberty or the freedom of movement of any individual except where it is absolutely necessary for the safety of the state.
Perhaps we should remind ourselves that the state is a collegiate entity. I'm not sure that one person (the Home Secretary), has the right to say where the interest of the other 60 million people (in the case of GB), lies.
In a remarkable passage Lord Denning MR seemed to accept that the courts had no part to play [in the balancing of interests between state and individual] because the government never erred. He said:
There is a conflict between the interests of national security on the one hand and the freedom of the individual on the other. The balance between these two is not for a court of law. It is for the Home Secretary. He is the person entrusted by Parliament with the task. In some parts of the world national security has on occasion been used as an excuse for all sorts of infringements of individual liberty. But not in England [LOL]. Both during the wars and after them successive ministers have discharged their duties to the complete satisfaction of the people at large. They have set up advisory committees to help them, usually with a chairman who has done everything he can to ensure that justice is done. They have never interfered with the liberty or the freedom of movement of any individual except where it is absolutely necessary for the safety of the state.
Perhaps we should remind ourselves that the state is a collegiate entity. I'm not sure that one person (the Home Secretary), has the right to say where the interest of the other 60 million people (in the case of GB), lies.
Friday, 18 July 2008
Book of the Week - The Spanish Civil War
Hugh Thomas's history (Penguin, 1986), is, I think, regarded as the most complete account of the War available in a single volume. I wonder why it's remembered in almost poetic terms. It was a war fought along ideological, political lines. Ostensibly, at least. People thought that they were fighting for something important, I suppose. And to the extent that it must have contributed towards what Spain is, today, I guess they were right.Guernica was a small town of the Basque province of Vizcaya, lying in a valley six miles from the sea and twenty from Bilbao. With a population of 7,000, Guernica seemed at first sight to fit undramatically into a hilly countryside of friendly villages and isolated farmhouses. It had been badly damaged by the French in the Peninsular War. It had nevertheless been celebrated, since before records began, as the home of Basque liberties. For the "parliament of Basque senators" used to be held before Guernica's famous oak tree while in the church of Santa Maria the Spanish monarchs, or their representatives, used to swear to observe Basque local rights. (The oak was also a sanctuary for Basque debtors in the old days.) On 26 April 1937, Guernica lay ten miles from the front, and was crowded with refugees and retreating soldiers.
At half-past four in the afternoon, a single peal of church bells announced an air raid.
Friday, 11 July 2008
Book of the Week - The Picture of Dorian Gray
Most people don't have the luxury of a picture. Perhaps they should think about it...
He threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passion and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled. Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
He threw himself into a chair, and began to think. Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passion and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled. Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Book of the Week - Republic
Translation by Robin Waterfield, in Oxford paperback.
Chinese proverb: I hear, and I forget; I see, and I remember; I do, and I understand.
It ought to be borne in mind that the etymological root of the word "republic," res publica, is Latin, not Greek (I don't know what the original title, if it had one, translates as), and translates as "matters concerning the people." The concept of a republic, as we know it, today, was not born, when Plato wrote this. Anyway, I like Plato: he was a bright guy. People wank on about Republic being important, because it's a microscopic discussion, in the Socratic style (Plato was a pupil of Socrates), of the question of morality, and how one achieves this through a balance of wisdom, courage and restraint. Well, it may be, but the clarity of the guy's thought is what strikes me, irrespective of what he is discussing, here.
First, Plato's argument, in Republic, is presented in the form of an imaginary dialogue, which is some feat in itself (you try it, and see). He imagines Socrates having this discussion. In modern psychotherapy, this is known as perspective positioning. To even think to do that impresses me. And second, Plato is an exponent of the dialectic method of argumentation. Dialectic is also used in psychotherapy, although, while it's an extraordinarily straight forward principle, it's very difficult to retain one's discipline, and not introduce one's own beliefs into the argument, such that one ends up defending one's position as though it were the truth, at the expense of the objective, which was to establish the Truth - one has to be prepared to abandon one's own beliefs, if they are demonstrated to be insupportable.
Quite extraordinary: a brilliant mind, without doubt, and perhaps it's not surprising that Plato's academy numbered such great minds as Aristotle. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle - they probably had more extraordinary ideas in a single day than most do in a lifetime; and they probably abandoned them, as not perfect enough.
"However, we must look into the postponed issue of whether moral people have a better or more fulfilled life than immoral people. I must say that at the moment it does look to me as though they do, on the basis of what we've been saying [note: he avoids being dogmatic and doesn't state this is as fact, merely a tendency]. All the same, we must look more closely at the matter, since what is at stake is far from insignificant: it is how one should live one's life."
"Go ahead with your investigation, then," he said.
"All right," I said. "Tell me please: "do you think that a horse has a function?"
"Yes."
"And would you say that a horse's function, or anything else's function, is what can be done only with that thing, or can be done best only with that thing?" [Note: this discussion, although not necessarily this question, appears to assume that a horse exists to serve man, which is not a given, but we should allow Plato a little latitude!]
"I don't understand." [Note: again, this simple acknowledgement is used in psychotherapy, in order to secure clarification, and understanding - it's called Clean Language, and the response to such clarifying questions (because this is a question, even though it's not phrased as such), is usually massively beneficial to both client and practitioner. If one doesn't understand, one asks, because it's easy enough to misunderstand, at the best of times, but if one pretends to understand, in order to avoid looking foolish, then one is almost sure to completely lose the thread, and then everything that is said, from that point on, simply serves to further confuse. What usually happens, and happens in this case, is that the client starts to use metaphor, in order to explain their position.]
"Look at it this way: can you see with anything except eyes?"
"Of course not."
"And can you hear with anything except ears?"
"No."
"Would it be right, then, for us to say that these are their functions?"
"Yes."
"Now, you could cut a vine-twig with a shortsword or a cobbler's knife or plenty of other things, couldn't you?"
"Of course."
"But I should think that the best tool for the job would be a pruning-knife, the kind made especially for this purpose."
"True."
"Shall we say that this is its function, then?" [Note: seeking agreement, checking that both parties still understand one another, as they proceed. It's fucking genius.]
"Yes."
Anyway, you can buy a copy for yourself, if you want to find out where he was going with that line of argument, but perhaps it's not surprising that Socrates was executed on the trumped up charge of "corrupting the young," or whatever it was - it must have been absolutely terrifying for the political "elite" to consider the possibility that people would start to deconstruct human society, having been taught to think for themselves, which, in the Christian tradition, at least, is what we're supposed to be able to do. Who's playing God, these days, I wonder?
Chinese proverb: I hear, and I forget; I see, and I remember; I do, and I understand.
It ought to be borne in mind that the etymological root of the word "republic," res publica, is Latin, not Greek (I don't know what the original title, if it had one, translates as), and translates as "matters concerning the people." The concept of a republic, as we know it, today, was not born, when Plato wrote this. Anyway, I like Plato: he was a bright guy. People wank on about Republic being important, because it's a microscopic discussion, in the Socratic style (Plato was a pupil of Socrates), of the question of morality, and how one achieves this through a balance of wisdom, courage and restraint. Well, it may be, but the clarity of the guy's thought is what strikes me, irrespective of what he is discussing, here.
First, Plato's argument, in Republic, is presented in the form of an imaginary dialogue, which is some feat in itself (you try it, and see). He imagines Socrates having this discussion. In modern psychotherapy, this is known as perspective positioning. To even think to do that impresses me. And second, Plato is an exponent of the dialectic method of argumentation. Dialectic is also used in psychotherapy, although, while it's an extraordinarily straight forward principle, it's very difficult to retain one's discipline, and not introduce one's own beliefs into the argument, such that one ends up defending one's position as though it were the truth, at the expense of the objective, which was to establish the Truth - one has to be prepared to abandon one's own beliefs, if they are demonstrated to be insupportable.
Quite extraordinary: a brilliant mind, without doubt, and perhaps it's not surprising that Plato's academy numbered such great minds as Aristotle. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle - they probably had more extraordinary ideas in a single day than most do in a lifetime; and they probably abandoned them, as not perfect enough.
"However, we must look into the postponed issue of whether moral people have a better or more fulfilled life than immoral people. I must say that at the moment it does look to me as though they do, on the basis of what we've been saying [note: he avoids being dogmatic and doesn't state this is as fact, merely a tendency]. All the same, we must look more closely at the matter, since what is at stake is far from insignificant: it is how one should live one's life."
"Go ahead with your investigation, then," he said.
"All right," I said. "Tell me please: "do you think that a horse has a function?"
"Yes."
"And would you say that a horse's function, or anything else's function, is what can be done only with that thing, or can be done best only with that thing?" [Note: this discussion, although not necessarily this question, appears to assume that a horse exists to serve man, which is not a given, but we should allow Plato a little latitude!]
"I don't understand." [Note: again, this simple acknowledgement is used in psychotherapy, in order to secure clarification, and understanding - it's called Clean Language, and the response to such clarifying questions (because this is a question, even though it's not phrased as such), is usually massively beneficial to both client and practitioner. If one doesn't understand, one asks, because it's easy enough to misunderstand, at the best of times, but if one pretends to understand, in order to avoid looking foolish, then one is almost sure to completely lose the thread, and then everything that is said, from that point on, simply serves to further confuse. What usually happens, and happens in this case, is that the client starts to use metaphor, in order to explain their position.]
"Look at it this way: can you see with anything except eyes?"
"Of course not."
"And can you hear with anything except ears?"
"No."
"Would it be right, then, for us to say that these are their functions?"
"Yes."
"Now, you could cut a vine-twig with a shortsword or a cobbler's knife or plenty of other things, couldn't you?"
"Of course."
"But I should think that the best tool for the job would be a pruning-knife, the kind made especially for this purpose."
"True."
"Shall we say that this is its function, then?" [Note: seeking agreement, checking that both parties still understand one another, as they proceed. It's fucking genius.]
"Yes."
Anyway, you can buy a copy for yourself, if you want to find out where he was going with that line of argument, but perhaps it's not surprising that Socrates was executed on the trumped up charge of "corrupting the young," or whatever it was - it must have been absolutely terrifying for the political "elite" to consider the possibility that people would start to deconstruct human society, having been taught to think for themselves, which, in the Christian tradition, at least, is what we're supposed to be able to do. Who's playing God, these days, I wonder?
Friday, 27 June 2008
Book of the Week - Gulliver's Travels
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.
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, 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?"
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.
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).
Friday, 30 May 2008
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?"
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?"
Friday, 23 May 2008
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."
"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."
Friday, 16 May 2008
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."
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."
Sunday, 11 May 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 2 May 2008
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...
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...
Friday, 25 April 2008
Book of the Week - The Autumn of the Patriarch
At the suggestion of a friend, this is to be the first in a regular series, wherein I'm going to let you know what I like to read, and maybe why. I'll quote an excerpt, and then you can please yourself whether you go and get yourself a copy!
...When the cataclysm had passed he still heard the distant music of the windless afternoon, he went on killing mosquitoes and with the same slaps trying to kill the katydids in his ears which hindered him in his thinking, he still saw the light of the fires on the horizon, the lighthouse that tinted him with green every thirty seconds through the slits in the blinds, the natural breathing of daily life which was getting to be the same again while his death was changing into a different death more like so many others in the past, the incessant torrent of reality which was carrying him off toward the no man's land of compassion and oblivion, God damn it, fuck death he exclaimed, and then he left his hiding place exalted by the certainty that his grandest hour had struck, he went through the sacked salons dragging his thick phantom feet in the midst of the ruins of his former life in the shadows that smelled of dying flowers and burial candlewicks, he pushed open the door of the cabinet room, heard through the smoky air the thin voices around the long walnut table, and saw through the smoke that all the ones he wanted to be there were there, the liberals who had sold the federalist war, the conservatives who had bought it, the generals of the high command, three of his cabinet ministers, the archbishop primate and the Ambassador Schontner, all together in the one single plot calling for the unity of all against the despotism of centuries so that they could divide up among themselves the booty of his death, so absorbed in the depths of greed that no one noticed the appearance of the unburied president who gave a single blow with the palm of his hand on the table, and shouted aha! and that was all he had to do, for when he lifted his hand from the table the stampede of panic was over and all that was left in the room were the overflowing ashtrays, the coffee mugs, the chairs flung on the floor, and my comrade of a lifetime General Rodrigo de Aguilar in battle dress, minute, impassive, wafting away the smoke with his one hand and indicating to him to drop to the floor general sir because now the fun is going to begin, and they both dropped to the floor at the instant the machine guns' death jubilation started up by the front of the building, the butcher feast of the presidential guard who with great pleasure and great honor general sir carried out his fierce orders that no one should escape alive from the meeting where treason was being hatched...
I'm a big fan of Marquez. I don't know what made me think of this book, though. Something to do with deception and illusion, perhaps? It's a recurring theme, of late. Perhaps somebody should have realized before now that when a tyrant takes charge, he spends his time in power turning his dominion into a replica of himself. Just think what Mugabe's mind looks like. How he neglects himself - or most of himself, anyway!
...When the cataclysm had passed he still heard the distant music of the windless afternoon, he went on killing mosquitoes and with the same slaps trying to kill the katydids in his ears which hindered him in his thinking, he still saw the light of the fires on the horizon, the lighthouse that tinted him with green every thirty seconds through the slits in the blinds, the natural breathing of daily life which was getting to be the same again while his death was changing into a different death more like so many others in the past, the incessant torrent of reality which was carrying him off toward the no man's land of compassion and oblivion, God damn it, fuck death he exclaimed, and then he left his hiding place exalted by the certainty that his grandest hour had struck, he went through the sacked salons dragging his thick phantom feet in the midst of the ruins of his former life in the shadows that smelled of dying flowers and burial candlewicks, he pushed open the door of the cabinet room, heard through the smoky air the thin voices around the long walnut table, and saw through the smoke that all the ones he wanted to be there were there, the liberals who had sold the federalist war, the conservatives who had bought it, the generals of the high command, three of his cabinet ministers, the archbishop primate and the Ambassador Schontner, all together in the one single plot calling for the unity of all against the despotism of centuries so that they could divide up among themselves the booty of his death, so absorbed in the depths of greed that no one noticed the appearance of the unburied president who gave a single blow with the palm of his hand on the table, and shouted aha! and that was all he had to do, for when he lifted his hand from the table the stampede of panic was over and all that was left in the room were the overflowing ashtrays, the coffee mugs, the chairs flung on the floor, and my comrade of a lifetime General Rodrigo de Aguilar in battle dress, minute, impassive, wafting away the smoke with his one hand and indicating to him to drop to the floor general sir because now the fun is going to begin, and they both dropped to the floor at the instant the machine guns' death jubilation started up by the front of the building, the butcher feast of the presidential guard who with great pleasure and great honor general sir carried out his fierce orders that no one should escape alive from the meeting where treason was being hatched...
I'm a big fan of Marquez. I don't know what made me think of this book, though. Something to do with deception and illusion, perhaps? It's a recurring theme, of late. Perhaps somebody should have realized before now that when a tyrant takes charge, he spends his time in power turning his dominion into a replica of himself. Just think what Mugabe's mind looks like. How he neglects himself - or most of himself, anyway!
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