Saturday, 16 June 2012
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Thoughts on free expression
In a pluralistic society, free expression and diversity of opinions should be optimised. The need to silence and repress these opinions is the hallmark of any totalitarian regime.
When Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses was published, a Fatwa was issued against him and he had to go into hiding for several years. While Rushdie is critical of the fascist Islamic groups in Islam, there was no intention of blaspheme in the book. Below is a video of Christopher Hitchens airing his opinions on the matter.
Still, I will go further, insensitivity should never be a valid reason to censor and silence supposedly bigoted opinions or novels. When a Catholic nun claims to be offended by Ken Russel's The Devils, or when a Muslim is aghast by a cartoon defacing his religious leader, why should they declare that that opinion must be silenced? Don't they, in turn, become bigoted?
The need to transgress is integral to any 'artist' and the need to provoke is vital for any columnist. In another Christopher Hitchens video I saw someone he debated claimed that (paraphrasing) "In an auditorium full of people, a member of the audience should never stand up and shout out FIRE!" Hitchens replies "you should not use such a bullshit example."
Indeed, the need to derail, disorientate and jostle people is, once more, absolutely vital. Don't forget that Galileo, despite the precision of his calculations, was shouting out FIRE. When society continues on the same single-minded course, provocation is essential for progress. By provocation, I don't just mean the simple need to shock, but the airing of remarkable discoveries. These discoveries are often contrary to a society that holds them in contempt, but they are able to lead us to become more aware of ourselves and, indeed, more pluralistic.
Whether it's Venezuela or Ecuador, where newspapers are shut down for criticising populist governments; or North Korea, a secretive totalitarian state that literally starves its people to death; or Syria, a country that kills its citizens for daring to believe in the idea of a democracy; or Iran, where the internet and other media outlets are constantly supervised... These are countries with grievous flaws that need to be criticised - and any attempt to do so should not be met with sadistic bullying...
When Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses was published, a Fatwa was issued against him and he had to go into hiding for several years. While Rushdie is critical of the fascist Islamic groups in Islam, there was no intention of blaspheme in the book. Below is a video of Christopher Hitchens airing his opinions on the matter.
Still, I will go further, insensitivity should never be a valid reason to censor and silence supposedly bigoted opinions or novels. When a Catholic nun claims to be offended by Ken Russel's The Devils, or when a Muslim is aghast by a cartoon defacing his religious leader, why should they declare that that opinion must be silenced? Don't they, in turn, become bigoted?
The need to transgress is integral to any 'artist' and the need to provoke is vital for any columnist. In another Christopher Hitchens video I saw someone he debated claimed that (paraphrasing) "In an auditorium full of people, a member of the audience should never stand up and shout out FIRE!" Hitchens replies "you should not use such a bullshit example."
Indeed, the need to derail, disorientate and jostle people is, once more, absolutely vital. Don't forget that Galileo, despite the precision of his calculations, was shouting out FIRE. When society continues on the same single-minded course, provocation is essential for progress. By provocation, I don't just mean the simple need to shock, but the airing of remarkable discoveries. These discoveries are often contrary to a society that holds them in contempt, but they are able to lead us to become more aware of ourselves and, indeed, more pluralistic.
Whether it's Venezuela or Ecuador, where newspapers are shut down for criticising populist governments; or North Korea, a secretive totalitarian state that literally starves its people to death; or Syria, a country that kills its citizens for daring to believe in the idea of a democracy; or Iran, where the internet and other media outlets are constantly supervised... These are countries with grievous flaws that need to be criticised - and any attempt to do so should not be met with sadistic bullying...
Though, of course, are all pluralistic countries really that better off? What's the difference between democracies and dictatorships? Are the citizens of Western Europe, U. S. A. and Japan really not just automatons? The media outlets and various kind of institutions often try to drug citizens with various kinds of sedatives - television programming, routine jobs, etc. - until they are immunised. Not that different from the kind of apocalyptic visions that Huxley had in Brave New World... And, in such a society, are journalists really able to express their opinions? Are people, like in Brave New World, labelled and compartmentalised by institutions and just sedated by various forms of entertainment?
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Chile and United Kingdom, parallel countries
There are a few countries parallel to Chile. Tunisia, in Africa, is a good example. A literate, educated country with little equity and disparate wealth, divided and disproportionate.
Out of the big guns, the very European country I reside in, and the country I happen to be writing from right this minute, could be seen as a parallel country. Indeed, Chileans are said to be "the English from South America."
How did this expression come into being? Generally speaking, Chileans, while very warm and friendly, are far more moderate than their neighbours. Argentineans, notably, are all over your face. While Chileans are an open book, they aren't that effusive.
There's also the similar customs. Chileans have their little rituals, too - just as the English savour their tea, at 5 PM any traditional Chilean family will be seen eating once with a lot of tea, bread and marmalade.
The geography of each country also explains each country's idiosyncrasies. Both are remote and secluded - the United Kingdom is an isolated little island whilst Chile is separated by the Andes and faces the Pacific, not Atlantic, Ocean.
But the crux of the matter is the political system. Since the 1950s, the class divide has changed for the better in England; however, the political system is very much determined by class. Most ministers and members of parliament are from privileged backgrounds. A vote is likely to be determined by one's standing in class, too.
The political class in Chile is far more pronounced. The controversial rise in tuition fees from £3,000 to £9,000 by the ruling Conservative party in the UK was far more than an economical move - it was a way of privatising education.
Because education in Chile is privatised, it means that the differences in class are drastic. The lower classes have little chance of an education whilst the upper class controls politics and the media. There can be no shadow of doubt that most political persuasions in Chile are determined by class.
And just as the protests criticising these aforementioned inequalities were rife in Chile, many protests and riots broke out in England - some politically motivated, others not. Chile and United Kingdom are parallel countries and I'm a citizen of both.
Out of the big guns, the very European country I reside in, and the country I happen to be writing from right this minute, could be seen as a parallel country. Indeed, Chileans are said to be "the English from South America."
How did this expression come into being? Generally speaking, Chileans, while very warm and friendly, are far more moderate than their neighbours. Argentineans, notably, are all over your face. While Chileans are an open book, they aren't that effusive.
There's also the similar customs. Chileans have their little rituals, too - just as the English savour their tea, at 5 PM any traditional Chilean family will be seen eating once with a lot of tea, bread and marmalade.
The geography of each country also explains each country's idiosyncrasies. Both are remote and secluded - the United Kingdom is an isolated little island whilst Chile is separated by the Andes and faces the Pacific, not Atlantic, Ocean.
But the crux of the matter is the political system. Since the 1950s, the class divide has changed for the better in England; however, the political system is very much determined by class. Most ministers and members of parliament are from privileged backgrounds. A vote is likely to be determined by one's standing in class, too.
The political class in Chile is far more pronounced. The controversial rise in tuition fees from £3,000 to £9,000 by the ruling Conservative party in the UK was far more than an economical move - it was a way of privatising education.
Because education in Chile is privatised, it means that the differences in class are drastic. The lower classes have little chance of an education whilst the upper class controls politics and the media. There can be no shadow of doubt that most political persuasions in Chile are determined by class.
And just as the protests criticising these aforementioned inequalities were rife in Chile, many protests and riots broke out in England - some politically motivated, others not. Chile and United Kingdom are parallel countries and I'm a citizen of both.
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Heightened consciousness
A lot of the time what I have sought in the past, and continue to seek, are strong mental perceptions. What I mean by this is to strain my brain, to force it to titter on the edge of stability. This doesn't necessarily mean I seek to "think" or intellectualise, it is merely to feel alert and, at a more basic level, to avoid boredom.
After having been on medication for over four years, I feel that this restrains these strong mental perceptions. It dulls my consciousness and leaves me feeling inert. What I discovered a few weeks ago is that, after a short period that I didn't take the meds, I felt my mind feel alive again.
The most striking difference I felt was how strongly I reacted to music. Without my mind being stultified by the potency of medication, the musical pieces revitalised me and left me exhilarated.
The most common diversion people my age find also dulls these 'strong mental perception' - alcohol. For the first time in my life I have drank a vast quantity of alcohol. On three different occasions I drank an entire bottle of wine. While the sensations I felt were pleasant enough - I felt sleepy and quite satisfied - it doesn't have the same quality. Alcohol doesn't make your mind race, it slows your senses. Almost like the medication I take, it leaves you drowsy and at a distance from your senses.
And I have never needed the assistance of drugs to reach these kind of sensations. What I seek for is a pure mind, being pushed to its uttermost limit, without any kind of chemicals clouding it. I also need a degree of control.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Cosmopolitan literature
As my short stories piled up, a (self-evident) discovery was made: all of my stories are set in foreign locations.
Trying to get my head around why this is so, I arrived at quick conclusions about my identity - am I Chilean or British? I grew up in Chile, yet my surname is King; I have bright blond hair. Yet I don't align myself with British culture - I relish every time the English football team suffers defeat.
What usually happens with my fiction is that I take what I write very, very seriously. So I philosophise about my output. I try to develop a 'literary aesthetic' and make half-baked comments about my work.
One of these half-baked comments is what I call 'cosmopolitan literature'. I love setting my stories in different locations, different contexts and different time spans.
While a couple of my stories are quite faithful to history (when I read out my story 'Perpetual Death...' to a creative writing society, the people complimented me by saying that the story really actually felt like communist Russia), I don't methodically research the setting to make it seem accurate. Why?
If you're writing an historical novel, you obviously want to research. It has to be accurate. (Still, the chances that you will make mistakes is highly likely.) I see myself as a writer of fantasy. All that pretentious talk of 'writing about the unknown' has a grain of truth for me - I set my stories in far-away locations to immerse myself in the unknown. (Please bear in mind that I cringed as I wrote that.) Fantasy is in no need of historical accuracy and anything is admissible - even anachronisms.
Also, I am someone who loves to read world literature. This is even reflected by the degree I'm studying - comparative literature, the study of translated texts. I love looking at Russian literature, South American writing, oriental fiction - you name it.
When you read through, say, a Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky novel, you are left with a certain impression of the context. What is this impression? Without reading any history books, you get a slightly vague impression. Taking that vague impression I have of those times and places, I harness and explore them in my short stories.
I am a citizen of the world. I can't stand the hippie notion of "we're all together, let's take hands and sing happy songs." But I certainly love the idea of cosmopolitanism. In San Pedro de Atacama, the Chilean desert, as I walked, mixed in with the Spanish, were snatches of French, German, Portuguese, native indigenous languages. Lovely. I, for one, love the idea of a cosmopolitan Britain. Far from thinking that it will erase national identity, a mix of cultures will never do a country any harm.
One of the criteria academic critics love applying is what 'nationality' a writer is. Language is a key component that determines this. Joseph Conrad was a Pole, but he wrote in English. I write in English, but I would detest being labelled as such. Does my writing reflect English sensibilities, though? Maybe. But I deplore the idea of setting one of my stories in a realistic version of this dull little island.
Trying to get my head around why this is so, I arrived at quick conclusions about my identity - am I Chilean or British? I grew up in Chile, yet my surname is King; I have bright blond hair. Yet I don't align myself with British culture - I relish every time the English football team suffers defeat.
What usually happens with my fiction is that I take what I write very, very seriously. So I philosophise about my output. I try to develop a 'literary aesthetic' and make half-baked comments about my work.
One of these half-baked comments is what I call 'cosmopolitan literature'. I love setting my stories in different locations, different contexts and different time spans.
While a couple of my stories are quite faithful to history (when I read out my story 'Perpetual Death...' to a creative writing society, the people complimented me by saying that the story really actually felt like communist Russia), I don't methodically research the setting to make it seem accurate. Why?
If you're writing an historical novel, you obviously want to research. It has to be accurate. (Still, the chances that you will make mistakes is highly likely.) I see myself as a writer of fantasy. All that pretentious talk of 'writing about the unknown' has a grain of truth for me - I set my stories in far-away locations to immerse myself in the unknown. (Please bear in mind that I cringed as I wrote that.) Fantasy is in no need of historical accuracy and anything is admissible - even anachronisms.
Also, I am someone who loves to read world literature. This is even reflected by the degree I'm studying - comparative literature, the study of translated texts. I love looking at Russian literature, South American writing, oriental fiction - you name it.
When you read through, say, a Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky novel, you are left with a certain impression of the context. What is this impression? Without reading any history books, you get a slightly vague impression. Taking that vague impression I have of those times and places, I harness and explore them in my short stories.
I am a citizen of the world. I can't stand the hippie notion of "we're all together, let's take hands and sing happy songs." But I certainly love the idea of cosmopolitanism. In San Pedro de Atacama, the Chilean desert, as I walked, mixed in with the Spanish, were snatches of French, German, Portuguese, native indigenous languages. Lovely. I, for one, love the idea of a cosmopolitan Britain. Far from thinking that it will erase national identity, a mix of cultures will never do a country any harm.
One of the criteria academic critics love applying is what 'nationality' a writer is. Language is a key component that determines this. Joseph Conrad was a Pole, but he wrote in English. I write in English, but I would detest being labelled as such. Does my writing reflect English sensibilities, though? Maybe. But I deplore the idea of setting one of my stories in a realistic version of this dull little island.
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Thoughts on Barton Fink
I've seen this film a number of times and it never fails to mesmerise me. It is possibly the Coen Brothers' densest and enigmatic film.At the same time it's very, very funny. Here are some thoughts on it.
The title character, Barton Fink, is a Jewish playwright of social realism. A hyper-sensitive neurotic, his prerogative is to write plays "for the common man." But this is where the dramatic irony comes in. When in the presence of such people, he is cajey and disrespectful.
But one of the things that works most beautiful is how the Coens' show how such intellectual preconceptions can lead to grievous discrepancies. Upon the enormous success of one of his plays at Broadway, Fink moves to Hollywood. In the hotel he stays at, his neighbour is one such 'common man.'
Played by John Goodman, Barton is initially irritated by his presence as he wants to work on the screenplay he has been assigned. When they talk, Barton constatly ignores what Charlie has to say, babbling on and on about the supreme importance of the "common man."
As time wears on, they get on good terms. Barton has always thought that Charlie is a run-of-the mill hard-working guy. He has this intellectual formula he applies to these people, so he equates him as such. But he is very wrong; Charlie Meadows is a serial killer, who decapitates his victims.
Another obvious theme at work is writer's block. Barton thinks he's too dignified to sell out for Hollywood, but he does so anyway. The thing is that he doesn't realise how little talent he really has. Arrogantly assuming that he is God's gift, when he is asked to write a wrestling picture, he is unable to fulfil the requiste. He churns out another social realist drama, to the bafflement of the Hollywood hierarchy.
The film is set in the commencement of the second world war. When Charlie shoots one of his persecutors to death, he utters "Hiel Hitler." Barton of course thinks grandly of the 'common man', but he doesn't realise that, at the time, facism was wide-spread. A member of the left-wing elite, and a Jew, he obviously deplores the idea. But he doesn't realise that his great friend, the common man, is a buddy of the Fuhrer.
I can't write this post without mentioning William Faulkner. If you have read this blog in the past, you probably know I'm a big fan. His apperance in the film is something that lends it historical accuracy. Faulkner worked in Hollywood as a screenplay writer and, like in the film, was an alcoholic. Though, unlike the film, he wrote his own novels! However unfair that may seem, this once more reveals the deluded mind of Barton. For him the Faulkner character is someone to be praised and adulated; yet the reality is that he is a fraud who doesn't write his own material.
The Coens insist there is no symbolism at work in the film. Everything is there for ambiguity's sake. For me, the greatest moment is the ending dream sequence. Barton is on the beach, carrying a box containing the severed head of his deceased lover. He sees a beautiful woman walk past. "You're very beautiful. Do you work at the movies?" "Don't be silly." She kneels down in front of him, as the waves tide in. It's all strangely moving and affecting.
The title character, Barton Fink, is a Jewish playwright of social realism. A hyper-sensitive neurotic, his prerogative is to write plays "for the common man." But this is where the dramatic irony comes in. When in the presence of such people, he is cajey and disrespectful.
But one of the things that works most beautiful is how the Coens' show how such intellectual preconceptions can lead to grievous discrepancies. Upon the enormous success of one of his plays at Broadway, Fink moves to Hollywood. In the hotel he stays at, his neighbour is one such 'common man.'
Played by John Goodman, Barton is initially irritated by his presence as he wants to work on the screenplay he has been assigned. When they talk, Barton constatly ignores what Charlie has to say, babbling on and on about the supreme importance of the "common man."
As time wears on, they get on good terms. Barton has always thought that Charlie is a run-of-the mill hard-working guy. He has this intellectual formula he applies to these people, so he equates him as such. But he is very wrong; Charlie Meadows is a serial killer, who decapitates his victims.
Another obvious theme at work is writer's block. Barton thinks he's too dignified to sell out for Hollywood, but he does so anyway. The thing is that he doesn't realise how little talent he really has. Arrogantly assuming that he is God's gift, when he is asked to write a wrestling picture, he is unable to fulfil the requiste. He churns out another social realist drama, to the bafflement of the Hollywood hierarchy.
The film is set in the commencement of the second world war. When Charlie shoots one of his persecutors to death, he utters "Hiel Hitler." Barton of course thinks grandly of the 'common man', but he doesn't realise that, at the time, facism was wide-spread. A member of the left-wing elite, and a Jew, he obviously deplores the idea. But he doesn't realise that his great friend, the common man, is a buddy of the Fuhrer.
I can't write this post without mentioning William Faulkner. If you have read this blog in the past, you probably know I'm a big fan. His apperance in the film is something that lends it historical accuracy. Faulkner worked in Hollywood as a screenplay writer and, like in the film, was an alcoholic. Though, unlike the film, he wrote his own novels! However unfair that may seem, this once more reveals the deluded mind of Barton. For him the Faulkner character is someone to be praised and adulated; yet the reality is that he is a fraud who doesn't write his own material.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)