This is post no. 400. I've come a long way.
Admittedly, an awful lot of the writing on this blog has been turgid. But I think that the satisfactory posts have made it worth keeping. At least this blog has tracked how my writing skills have been honed (simpler, more elegant and less convoluted) and how my argumentative skills have improved (a bit subtler, less razor-tongued ranting).
Stay tuned for the next 400.
Saturday, 29 December 2012
Thursday, 27 December 2012
Utility
An entrepreneurial producer of suction, who is a Tory, publicly stated something along the lines of "Why are we funding English courses? Why does anyone need to study French lesbian vampire poetry?"
Let's play this guy's game for a while. Let's be childish. What is more important? Suction or language? Having your carpet cleaned by a new hoover? Or having people study the nuances of language, so as to improve political discourse? And any other kind of discourse?
This latest Tory government brand themselves as a useful government. Their perspective on education repels me, to put it mildly. Courses on the Humanities are looked at with an evil eye (or, at the very least, taken with a pinch of salt). University isn't there to provide a grounding in epistemology and knowledge. They're there for business courses and to churn out employable people, who will help our frail economy. How? By playing a vital role in the private sector.
The fact that, somehow, the population of the country is going to get the economy out of its slump in private business is laughable. But for these guys, the Keynesian model (which has been tried and tested - successfully!) is laughable. Somehow, we are going to get ourselves out of our misery with the help of those committed, responsible folks in the private sector! No, we cannot boost the economy ourselves by investing in growth (that will increase our deficit!). And how can we pave the way to all this? Get people graduated in business! Not only that, we have to privatise education to ensure that only those guys high, high, high up in the top help us out!
That is all education means to these people. A means to an end. They don't realise that their choices are not only useless but harmful. They're making a pig-sty of the economy and disparities in wealth are getting wider and wider and wider.
To get society in the right track, you have to open people's eyes. Whilst I am a sceptic of universities (I am, and always will be, an autodidact), I think that they enlighten the lives of millions. I think that academic rigour, intellectual curiosity, defiance and creativity are indispensable assets. Business is fine, but that is not going to change the world. (I say this without being snobbish or high-minded.) ICT (which is funded a lot) will lead nowhere. English people are hopeless at languages (yet the government believes that if we speak more languages that will help international relations!), yet those courses they are getting cut right-left-and-centre. Perhaps even more depressingly, science is not seen as an interesting subject that can enhance understanding, it just provides chemists, doctors and physiotherapists. The biggest irony about people who claim to be efficient and useful is that they turn out to be inefficient, useless and, in the larger scheme of things, pernicious.
Let's play this guy's game for a while. Let's be childish. What is more important? Suction or language? Having your carpet cleaned by a new hoover? Or having people study the nuances of language, so as to improve political discourse? And any other kind of discourse?
This latest Tory government brand themselves as a useful government. Their perspective on education repels me, to put it mildly. Courses on the Humanities are looked at with an evil eye (or, at the very least, taken with a pinch of salt). University isn't there to provide a grounding in epistemology and knowledge. They're there for business courses and to churn out employable people, who will help our frail economy. How? By playing a vital role in the private sector.
The fact that, somehow, the population of the country is going to get the economy out of its slump in private business is laughable. But for these guys, the Keynesian model (which has been tried and tested - successfully!) is laughable. Somehow, we are going to get ourselves out of our misery with the help of those committed, responsible folks in the private sector! No, we cannot boost the economy ourselves by investing in growth (that will increase our deficit!). And how can we pave the way to all this? Get people graduated in business! Not only that, we have to privatise education to ensure that only those guys high, high, high up in the top help us out!
That is all education means to these people. A means to an end. They don't realise that their choices are not only useless but harmful. They're making a pig-sty of the economy and disparities in wealth are getting wider and wider and wider.
To get society in the right track, you have to open people's eyes. Whilst I am a sceptic of universities (I am, and always will be, an autodidact), I think that they enlighten the lives of millions. I think that academic rigour, intellectual curiosity, defiance and creativity are indispensable assets. Business is fine, but that is not going to change the world. (I say this without being snobbish or high-minded.) ICT (which is funded a lot) will lead nowhere. English people are hopeless at languages (yet the government believes that if we speak more languages that will help international relations!), yet those courses they are getting cut right-left-and-centre. Perhaps even more depressingly, science is not seen as an interesting subject that can enhance understanding, it just provides chemists, doctors and physiotherapists. The biggest irony about people who claim to be efficient and useful is that they turn out to be inefficient, useless and, in the larger scheme of things, pernicious.
Monday, 24 December 2012
Writers and the world
Taking into account exclusive factors (i.e. literary aspects which aren't part of the text), I think that you could divide writers into two camps: those who are 'visible' and those who are 'invisible.'
There has been an awful lot of self-promotion from writers. A lot of the time this can cloud the talent (or lack thereof) they may have.
Ernest Hemingway, for example, publicised himself as a gruff, macho guy. Yet his writing style is dull, spare and nothing to write home about. His themes are totally uninteresting. The reputation he managed to solidify, in my view, is due to his promotional stratagems, rather than the literary value of his novels.
The beatnik crowd cashed in on their chicness to sell millions of books. Jack Keroac's On the Road drew attention to the fact that it was written in a two-week frisson of creativity, preceded by seven years of non-stop travelling. It has consolidated itself as a modern classic, the only irony being that it is completely unremarkable. Similarly, Charles Bukowski publicised himself as a counterculture 'outsider,' who drank and fucked all day. His novels do, indeed, describe him drinking and fucking all day, but little more than that.
The 'invisibility' of writers used to be an integral part of an author's oeuvre. When Thomas Pynchon published V., a journalist tracked down his house for an interview. Pynchon jumped out of a window of the second floor, eloped and was never seen, nor heard of, again.There have been a number of novels bearing his name, but they appear very sporadically. They are very dense, suffused with allusions and bizarre imagery. They contain so much that many readers have felt tempted to read them as a kind of self-mythologisatising. People think that, in a Pynchon novel, lies the Pynchon persona.
Sadly, the literary 'recluse' has ceased to exist. Now, if you want to get published, you have to promote and promote and promote. If you are the shy type, like I am, getting your stuff out there is very difficult indeed. You have to go out to readings, soirees, make acquaintances with publishers and be a visible face.
Yet, being a 'visible face,' you are still visible only to a select few - the literati, book publishers and people who love to read (sorry to bitch, but they are in short supply.) In the 1960s, 70s and 80s, writers constantly appeared in prime-time TV chat shows. People cared what they had to say about the state of culture, politics and the arts. Even if this overshadowed their books (which is much, much important), these still sold in higher numbers.
All this aside, this is still bullshit. With all this, it is always difficult to gauge real literary value. Hemingway has been consecrated as a master, but his books really have little value. Often, it's those who cash in trends, or who are simply more 'visible,' who make their name.
There has been an awful lot of self-promotion from writers. A lot of the time this can cloud the talent (or lack thereof) they may have.
Ernest Hemingway, for example, publicised himself as a gruff, macho guy. Yet his writing style is dull, spare and nothing to write home about. His themes are totally uninteresting. The reputation he managed to solidify, in my view, is due to his promotional stratagems, rather than the literary value of his novels.
The beatnik crowd cashed in on their chicness to sell millions of books. Jack Keroac's On the Road drew attention to the fact that it was written in a two-week frisson of creativity, preceded by seven years of non-stop travelling. It has consolidated itself as a modern classic, the only irony being that it is completely unremarkable. Similarly, Charles Bukowski publicised himself as a counterculture 'outsider,' who drank and fucked all day. His novels do, indeed, describe him drinking and fucking all day, but little more than that.
The 'invisibility' of writers used to be an integral part of an author's oeuvre. When Thomas Pynchon published V., a journalist tracked down his house for an interview. Pynchon jumped out of a window of the second floor, eloped and was never seen, nor heard of, again.There have been a number of novels bearing his name, but they appear very sporadically. They are very dense, suffused with allusions and bizarre imagery. They contain so much that many readers have felt tempted to read them as a kind of self-mythologisatising. People think that, in a Pynchon novel, lies the Pynchon persona.
Sadly, the literary 'recluse' has ceased to exist. Now, if you want to get published, you have to promote and promote and promote. If you are the shy type, like I am, getting your stuff out there is very difficult indeed. You have to go out to readings, soirees, make acquaintances with publishers and be a visible face.
Yet, being a 'visible face,' you are still visible only to a select few - the literati, book publishers and people who love to read (sorry to bitch, but they are in short supply.) In the 1960s, 70s and 80s, writers constantly appeared in prime-time TV chat shows. People cared what they had to say about the state of culture, politics and the arts. Even if this overshadowed their books (which is much, much important), these still sold in higher numbers.
All this aside, this is still bullshit. With all this, it is always difficult to gauge real literary value. Hemingway has been consecrated as a master, but his books really have little value. Often, it's those who cash in trends, or who are simply more 'visible,' who make their name.
Friday, 7 December 2012
My favourite films of the year, '12
Here are my favourite films of the year. I also made a list of three films last year. (These were Midnight in Paris, Cave of Forgotten Dreams and The Tree of Life.) I've been following new releases quite closely now after I subscribed to Sight and Sound.
Films that narrowly missed this list were Tabu by Miguel Gomes, Amour by Michael Haneke and Cosmopolis by David Cronenberg.
The Master, dir. by Paul Thomas Anderson
I remember walking through a street in Manchester with my dad. There was a Scientology centre nearby, with a steward standing by the foyer. I loudly heckled something like (paraphrasing) "Look at that phony pseudo-mystical centre of brainwashing cunts!" This alarmed my dad who, fearing that the steward may have heard my loud diatribe, cautiously went "Shhhh!"
And this film, though it does not state so directly, follows what happens when you find yourself absorbed into that strange sect. The indoctrination therapies, the obnoxious bullying and the mandatory espousal of hocus-pocus quasi-mystical nonsense. It's little wonder that my dad was weary that the steward may have overheard my rant because, once these sly crooks set their eye on you, you're in for a whirlwind.
The film is even more heavy going, as the lead protagonist (not the master, incidentally, a disciple) is vulnerable, aggressive (The Master repeatedly calls him an 'animal') and simple-minded. He is the perfect prey for this opportunist's scheme.
The films becomes more wrenching as it progresses. We get therapy after therapy after therapy, with the disciple gasping for air. The Master, meanwhile, is constantly tested about the value of his endeavour by sceptics. He has no answers because, as a quack, he is only capable of producing vacous empty-headed babble short on either scientific or philosophical rigour. One of the many discomforting things about the film is that you somehow sympathise for him at times, no matter how facile or bullying he gets.
Finally, I'll mention that the misce-en-scene is fab - it really feels like 40s/50s America (and, later, UK). It is beautifully shot. And the performances (especially Hoffman's) are overwhelmingly good.
Into the Abyss, dir. by Werner Herzog
Like the list I made last year, I've chosen another Herzog film. I think he's been on really good form of late.
The documentary deals with a devastating murder committed by a couple of ruffians in Texas, U.S.A. One of the criminals is ten days ahead of his sentence, looks remarkably calm, is unrepentant and denies the charges. The other convict, who genuinely exhibits feelings of guilt and remorse, gets a life sentence.
The film mainly consists of a series of interviews Herzog made with the convicts, family members, friends and witnesses. Herzog has been charged with exploiting his subjects in the past and here there are several scenes where the interviewees break out in tears.
Several ethical questions are obviously raised. How can the death penalty continue to be practiced? Are the criminals simply a result of their surroundings, having received little in the way of education? Herzog in the past has dealt with ethnographic and anthropological questions. Yet there's little sense of the interviewees being tools for a social case study. They are, on the main, seen as people who have undergone searing traumas. Herzog also completely avoids the political corruption in Texas (George W. Bush, as governor, signed off slip after slip of death penalties yet he does not figure at all in this film). What I mainly got from this film was a highly moving, emotional account of a human drama.
Nostalgia for the Light, dir. by Patricio Guzmán
Another documentary!
Guzmán apparently had trouble financing this when he pitched the idea. Astronomy, the Pinochet atrocities, the Atacama desert, Chilean history. How does it fit? As it turns out, there is no discrepancy with any of these things in the film.
There is an astronomy base in the Atacama desert, where astronomers observe the stars and record data. As this takes place, family of political prisoners whom Pinochet murdered, scour the arid surface for the remains of their relatives.
Time is a recurrent subject talked about, particularly from the scientists. The present, so we are told, is ever-elusive, as it can only be evoked through reflection. In addition to that, our bodies are made up of a great deal of calcium, which came from the stars. The astronomers are clearly searching for philosophical questions as well, something which is by no means exclusive from science. Archaeologists, meanwhile, are followed excavating relics of indigenous civilisations. The astronomers are on the look-out for figments of vast cosmological explosions that occurred billions of years ago. The archaelogists modestly admit their relics date from a few hundred years. (Interestingly, when I went to the Atacama Desert I was told by a tour guide that the Atacaman aborigines believed that the Spanish colonisers, and by extension the rest of the world, were invaders from space!)
And, perhaps more pertinently, the victims, instead of looking at the stars in awe, lower their heads to the ground in the hope they may find a bone or two of their kin.
Films that narrowly missed this list were Tabu by Miguel Gomes, Amour by Michael Haneke and Cosmopolis by David Cronenberg.
The Master, dir. by Paul Thomas Anderson
I remember walking through a street in Manchester with my dad. There was a Scientology centre nearby, with a steward standing by the foyer. I loudly heckled something like (paraphrasing) "Look at that phony pseudo-mystical centre of brainwashing cunts!" This alarmed my dad who, fearing that the steward may have heard my loud diatribe, cautiously went "Shhhh!"
And this film, though it does not state so directly, follows what happens when you find yourself absorbed into that strange sect. The indoctrination therapies, the obnoxious bullying and the mandatory espousal of hocus-pocus quasi-mystical nonsense. It's little wonder that my dad was weary that the steward may have overheard my rant because, once these sly crooks set their eye on you, you're in for a whirlwind.
The film is even more heavy going, as the lead protagonist (not the master, incidentally, a disciple) is vulnerable, aggressive (The Master repeatedly calls him an 'animal') and simple-minded. He is the perfect prey for this opportunist's scheme.
The films becomes more wrenching as it progresses. We get therapy after therapy after therapy, with the disciple gasping for air. The Master, meanwhile, is constantly tested about the value of his endeavour by sceptics. He has no answers because, as a quack, he is only capable of producing vacous empty-headed babble short on either scientific or philosophical rigour. One of the many discomforting things about the film is that you somehow sympathise for him at times, no matter how facile or bullying he gets.
Finally, I'll mention that the misce-en-scene is fab - it really feels like 40s/50s America (and, later, UK). It is beautifully shot. And the performances (especially Hoffman's) are overwhelmingly good.
Into the Abyss, dir. by Werner Herzog
The documentary deals with a devastating murder committed by a couple of ruffians in Texas, U.S.A. One of the criminals is ten days ahead of his sentence, looks remarkably calm, is unrepentant and denies the charges. The other convict, who genuinely exhibits feelings of guilt and remorse, gets a life sentence.
The film mainly consists of a series of interviews Herzog made with the convicts, family members, friends and witnesses. Herzog has been charged with exploiting his subjects in the past and here there are several scenes where the interviewees break out in tears.
Several ethical questions are obviously raised. How can the death penalty continue to be practiced? Are the criminals simply a result of their surroundings, having received little in the way of education? Herzog in the past has dealt with ethnographic and anthropological questions. Yet there's little sense of the interviewees being tools for a social case study. They are, on the main, seen as people who have undergone searing traumas. Herzog also completely avoids the political corruption in Texas (George W. Bush, as governor, signed off slip after slip of death penalties yet he does not figure at all in this film). What I mainly got from this film was a highly moving, emotional account of a human drama.
Nostalgia for the Light, dir. by Patricio Guzmán
Guzmán apparently had trouble financing this when he pitched the idea. Astronomy, the Pinochet atrocities, the Atacama desert, Chilean history. How does it fit? As it turns out, there is no discrepancy with any of these things in the film.
There is an astronomy base in the Atacama desert, where astronomers observe the stars and record data. As this takes place, family of political prisoners whom Pinochet murdered, scour the arid surface for the remains of their relatives.
Time is a recurrent subject talked about, particularly from the scientists. The present, so we are told, is ever-elusive, as it can only be evoked through reflection. In addition to that, our bodies are made up of a great deal of calcium, which came from the stars. The astronomers are clearly searching for philosophical questions as well, something which is by no means exclusive from science. Archaeologists, meanwhile, are followed excavating relics of indigenous civilisations. The astronomers are on the look-out for figments of vast cosmological explosions that occurred billions of years ago. The archaelogists modestly admit their relics date from a few hundred years. (Interestingly, when I went to the Atacama Desert I was told by a tour guide that the Atacaman aborigines believed that the Spanish colonisers, and by extension the rest of the world, were invaders from space!)
And, perhaps more pertinently, the victims, instead of looking at the stars in awe, lower their heads to the ground in the hope they may find a bone or two of their kin.
Thursday, 6 December 2012
Saimon A. King a la Marcel Proust
The carriage traversed past the slope, leading to the beckoning horizon, which glimmered incandescently like the jewellery, like the jewellery of my loved one, who swashed me with kisses and carresses, and, it buttressed a marvellous dividing-line, through which a fissure materialised, and it is these fissures which ameliorate the hum-drum reality of quotidian life, portals to a world where verisimilitude did not exist, where the world is better, and funnier, and more parodic, like Proust, because it is those rare jewels that make life living, that make you realise that you must rally on, because when love exists, matter functions, the fissures I experience with Bach, with Mark E. Smith and with the beckoning horizon which looms closer as the carriage approaches.
O-la-la, that was a crappy - and unfunny - parody!
O-la-la, that was a crappy - and unfunny - parody!
Friday, 16 November 2012
Commemorated through words
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
Sonnet 55 by William Shakespeare
I don't make a habit of posting poetry here (perhaps I should!), but I can't think of many things as beautiful as this.
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
Sonnet 55 by William Shakespeare
I don't make a habit of posting poetry here (perhaps I should!), but I can't think of many things as beautiful as this.
Thursday, 8 November 2012
Elliott Carter (1908-2012)
This is the third string quartet by Elliott Carter, who passed away three days ago, almost at the age of 104.
It was a very well-lived life. Carter oversaw most of the twentieth century and was acquainted with the likes of Charles Ives, Igor Stravinsky and Edgard Varese to name a few. Aside from Pierre Boulez, he was quite possibly the last great modern 20th century composer to leave this world.
What I like about his music is the way the multiple layers of melodies and pitches do connect and intertwine on repeated hearings. And, unlike other composers in the 1950s (younger than himself), he sees this kind of process less as a scientific experiment than as an exercise in heightened expression.
I chose to put up his third string quartet, as it is his most assaulting and aggressive piece.
Friday, 26 October 2012
Impressive recent reads
The Rest is Noise - Alex Ross
This book is a history of the twentieth century as seen through its music. It is the kind of book I've longed to read for many years. Modern classical music has lamentably had a veneer of 'difficulty' to it. Many potential listeners of the genre are scared away because it is 'too intellectual.' This is completely annulled by Ross, who writes about the difficult conceptions of these composers in an enthralling, entertaining prose. There is no dichotomy between the 'high' canon or the 'low' canon, either. Composers like Shostakovich and Britten, dismissed as kitsch by some quarters, receive equal treatment as the likes of Stockhausen or Nono. Whilst I would like to have seen more detail on Varese (who is bracketed under the fatuous futurist movement, rather than commended as the singularly great composer he really is), and perhaps less on Britten, one has to take into account that in a book like this a lot has to be left out. This is a page-turning book that brings together music theory, history and politics.
Memories of the Future - Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky
This was written in Stalinist Soviet Union and was considered too subversive to even show to a publisher. I guess that the adjective 'Kafkaesque' is totally applicable to this book - it is dark, enigmatic, mysterious and alienating. There is a divide between the higher echelon and powerless nebbish characters who are kept at bay. There is also a Borgesian tinge (the Eiffel Tower runs away from Paris, a man will only join a group as long as it's logical and a man loses his way in a room that keeps expanding into a vast black waste), but it is charged with political commentary. It'd be a little difficult to describe a lot of the pieces as 'stories' since they aren't all that compact and concise; there are a lot of digressions involving haranguing indictments of the Soviet regime. The language can be dense and many ideas are laid really thick. I am glad I picked this up from Daunt Books in London; it turned out to be a real find.
Hijos sin hijos (Sons Without Sons) - Enrique Vila-Matas
This short story collection starts with a small epigraph from Kafka: “Germany has declared war against Russia. In the afternoon, swimming." The stories situate the subjective, personal lives of individuals within the context of broader political realities in 20th century Spain. More importantly, all the protagonists are "loners" who, in their predicament, do not procreate and produce children - they march on as apparitions, the last of a kind. Several biographical elements of Kafka's life are infused into characters, but this is soon overshadowed by the ingenuity and originality of Matas' ideas. Like the Krzhizhanovsky, there are a lot of meta-fictive tropes here which are a pleasure to behold.
Blood Meridian - Cormac McCarthy
The beauty of this book is the wonderful images it conjures - barren landscapes, empty saloons, ebbing tides - through beautiful, lyrical language. It is at once cinematic yet profoundly literary. Although I think they would be considered as polar opposites by most, this did remind of J. G. Ballard at his best. The subject matter makes The Road seem tame by comparison! The novel follows a group of American men in the 1860s, who trail out to massacre Native Indians and scalp them. They first do this for profit but eventually give in out of sheer compulsion. The novel is unflinching in the repeated use of disturbing images (such as two babies' skulls being crushed). This is an overpowering, atmospheric read!
Memories of the Future - Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky
This was written in Stalinist Soviet Union and was considered too subversive to even show to a publisher. I guess that the adjective 'Kafkaesque' is totally applicable to this book - it is dark, enigmatic, mysterious and alienating. There is a divide between the higher echelon and powerless nebbish characters who are kept at bay. There is also a Borgesian tinge (the Eiffel Tower runs away from Paris, a man will only join a group as long as it's logical and a man loses his way in a room that keeps expanding into a vast black waste), but it is charged with political commentary. It'd be a little difficult to describe a lot of the pieces as 'stories' since they aren't all that compact and concise; there are a lot of digressions involving haranguing indictments of the Soviet regime. The language can be dense and many ideas are laid really thick. I am glad I picked this up from Daunt Books in London; it turned out to be a real find.
Hijos sin hijos (Sons Without Sons) - Enrique Vila-Matas
The beauty of this book is the wonderful images it conjures - barren landscapes, empty saloons, ebbing tides - through beautiful, lyrical language. It is at once cinematic yet profoundly literary. Although I think they would be considered as polar opposites by most, this did remind of J. G. Ballard at his best. The subject matter makes The Road seem tame by comparison! The novel follows a group of American men in the 1860s, who trail out to massacre Native Indians and scalp them. They first do this for profit but eventually give in out of sheer compulsion. The novel is unflinching in the repeated use of disturbing images (such as two babies' skulls being crushed). This is an overpowering, atmospheric read!
Sunday, 21 October 2012
The need for satire
After years of stasis, you could say that times are now a little more turbulent. We are in the throes of a recession, needless wars have been inflicted on the Middle East and China are increasingly becoming the world's largest economy.
What often gets us through tough times is humour. Not just any kind of humour, however. When we are saturated with images of mopey politicians cavorting in front of our television sets, comedy is a useful tool. It can attack and ridicule these figures; it can satirise them.
In the early 1960s, Peter Cook was one of the main exponents of a 'satire boom'. He mimicked then Prime Minister Harold MacMillan in his very presence. Many skits and comedic sketches that satirised various aspects of English society were performed in theatres. This was humour used as a tool to challenge, shock and debase the higher hierarchy.
Whilst we do have a wealth of gifted comedians now (Ricky Gervais, Sacha Baron Cohen, Jack Dee, Johnny Vegas), their work is not really satirical. These comedians aren't really having a stab at the our rulers. Events like the Leveson Inquiry and the Iraq war certainly lend themselves to this type of humour. And whilst the satirical magazine Private Eye does sell in large numbers, it is never really in the public spotlight all that much.
There is a quality to humour that allows you to get away with murder. Whilst a transgressive novel or film may provoke death threats and the like, comedy is sufficiently subtle so as to allow this not to happen. It is frivolous, it provokes laughter but it can still make you think and question. It can be funny in an unsettling, frightful manner.
Friday, 12 October 2012
I need the eggs
"You only give me books with the word death in the title!"
"It's a very important issue!"
Annie Hall (1977) by Woody Allen
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Twenty musical artists who are the most important to me
The Fall
Captain Beefheart
Miles Davis
John Coltrane
Ornette Coleman
Igor Stravinsky
Bela Bartok
Ludwig van Beethoven
Franz Schubert
Captain Beefheart
Miles Davis
John Coltrane
Ornette Coleman
Igor Stravinsky
Bela Bartok
Ludwig van Beethoven
Franz Schubert
Johann Sebastian Bach
Gyorgy Ligeti
Robert Wyatt
Frank Zappa
Edgard Varese
Claude Debussy
Sun Ra
Napalm Death
Van Morrison
Maurice Ravel
Anton Webern
Gyorgy Ligeti
Robert Wyatt
Frank Zappa
Edgard Varese
Claude Debussy
Sun Ra
Napalm Death
Van Morrison
Maurice Ravel
Anton Webern
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Nocturnal phantom
The Night Wanderer (1924) by Edvard Munch
This painting brutally evinces my darkest days.
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
The library, our greatest institution
"Like all men of the library, I have travelled in my youth. I have journeyed in search of a book, perhaps of the catalogue of catalogues; now that my eyes can scarcely decipher what I write, I am prepared to die a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born. [...] I affirm that the library is interminable." - The Library of Babel, Jorge Luis Borges
Just like the afore quoted story explores, a library is more than the sum of its parts. It is endless, voluminous and of sweeping scale and scope. Each book is different, rife with countless meanings and suggestions. In effect, it is the classification and codification of all human endeavour.
And all this is at stake, for two reason: one, the onslaught of digital technology; two, economically precarious circumstances convince politicians that, if there is one institutions that must be slashed, it must be the library.
Going digital means that all books become the same. It is encrypted, codified to the point where there is no variation amongst the items. (And in the library Borges writes about, even identical books have slight variants.) These works aren't stored, they are transmogrified into a digital medium that doesn't lend itself to public availability. The digital format is a far cry from the titanic and seamless vision Borges conceived of in 'The Library of Babel.'
All that aside, a library has been the classic tool for the autodidact. From time immemorial, it has been the most useful service for those who do not want to be sermoned but would rather learn of their own volition. Just under six years ago, I loved scouring libraries for their selections on classical music and composer biographies. These titles (which are far more specialised than works of fiction or general history) are nowhere to be found in those libraries I frequented. The autodidact must look elsewhere for these titles (i.e. the internet), but isn't it a shame that there isn't a public service providing him with such information?
I'd argue that the library is a far more important institution than a university. I say this out of pure piggishness and single-mindedness. I much prefer discovering on my own. Not just that, I prefer looking into subjects I have singled out myself, rather than having them served on a plate to me. A university allows all people, from all social standings, to develop their argumentative skills and their aptitude. That is all in good stead, but isn't it more exciting to study something that you have chosen and to work at it within your timetables and at your own pace? There are often huge gaps in your knowledge but, for the autodidact, this is the preferred mode of study.
The current ruling party in the UK is cutting down on several libraries. I won't discuss the economic flaws inherent in these austerity measures, instead I'll go through what a loss this means for us. A library is a cherished institution, dating back centuries, that provides an indispensable service to the community. If these cuts lead to the decline of libraries, then irreparable damage would be caused. Incompetent politicians and opportunistic purveyors of vacuous and empty technology will only have themselves to blame for bringing this service to an end.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Thoughts on Tarkovsky
I will now try the impossible - try to explain, in some kind of fluid and coherent prose, why Andrei Tarkovsky is my favourite director. Invariably, when I write these kind of appraisals, I cop-out with gushing superlatives. I am going to try as much as I can to remain objective and to put my finger as to why Tarkovsky means so much to me...
Tarkovsky's role in the Soviet Union was ambiguous. Whilst not overtly critical of the regime, it is clear that his films do not align themselves with the authorities. It is clear from a film like Andrei Rublev that, for Tarkovsky, the role of the 'artist' is to create, inquire and discuss in the face of oppression. The rigid atheism characteristic of the Soviet regime was also completely discrepant to what mattered mostly to Tarkovksy - spirituality and the need for the individual to reflect on his place in Earth. Tarkovsky's films look 'inside' rather than 'outside' and, in such political surroundings, it is a small miracle that his films were made.
The painter Andrei Rublev can only create within a society in a state of turmoil. Set in 15th century Russia, around the time the country became Tsarist, it is clear that Rublev is dependant on the carnage and exploitation surrounding him to unearth his mural paintings. Continuously brooding and rationalising everything, he turns to orthodox Christianity to give him some sort of moral compass and purpose. An invasion of the Tartars, which completely devastate and maim the community he has lived in, leads him toward a vow of silence. He devotedly keeps to his word, only until the construction and casting of a bell makes him review of his decision. This bell has been built with such scrupulous craftsmanship that he is awed. It becomes clear that the creation of art, in its most crafted and disciplined form, can lead to transcendence and resolution. When the bell clangs toward the end of the film, Rublev knows it and the audience knows it.
Another clear theme that runs through most of Tarkovsky's films is memory. It is an illusory concept, often leading to grief and misconceptions. This is beautifully explored in Mirror. The structure of the narrative generally pans out in accordance with the narrator's notions of past and present. Scenes transpire in relation to what the narrator is actually going through in his everyday waking life. His tormented issues with his mother, his estrangement from his son, the fractured relationship with his wife, dream recollections, etc. All these elements ebb and flow as he tries to make sense of his broken family relationships. The narrative is seldom linear because of the wavering nature of memory and human thought. I have seen the film three times now and each viewing is different and revelatory.
Having spoken of dream sequences above, I'll just make the small remark that they are the closest I've seen to real dreams in any representational art. Some people say that the surrealist visions of Dali, Bosch, Ernst etc. are dream-like, but to me they really aren't. The dreams in Tarkovsky's films often take place in enclosed spaces and scenes often shift from one place to the other. Natural elements - fire, water, snow, etc. - often feature. (In a scene in Solaris, the protagonist visits his father, gazing into the home from outside his window pane. It is raining within the house, rather than outside. This is a warped logic often characteristic of dreams.) He certainly is a director who manages somehow to pierce into your skull. Three or four months after seeing my first Tarkovsky film, Solaris, I had a series of dreams influenced by the film's atmosphere.
A tangential theme of interest is that of the characters' wishes and what exactly these wishes mean and involve. There is often something hazardous in the Tarkovsky film about striving after an impossible goal. In Solaris, the planet where the astronaut resides in, the nostalgia for his deceased wife leads to her resuscitation. They are impermeable to one another and the film constant reminds the viewer that his wife is unearthed because of his unstable mind. The possible radiation (it is unclear in the film if this is the case) that the planet emits destabilises and fractures the lucidity and rationality of his waking thought. Likewise, in the flabbergasting film Stalker, the three characters become crazed by the toxicity of 'The Zone'. It is a place capable of unearthing their innermost wishes, but the locality drives them toward insanity. In the end, they are few yards away from the room granting them their wish, but they are unable to walk in. This is not only because it might be too dangerous, they are unable to confront the inner demons and fears that reside within their quixotic and yearning minds.
Another reason why his films mean so much to me is the constant recurrence of nature. The scenes depicting wildlife, plains, fields, swamps, forests are irresistibly shot. Tarkovsky could be considered a modernist in the sense that his films can often be structurally elliptical and theatrically undramatic. However, he is a romanticist in the way he turns to nature for inspiration and the way the reflection of nature helps as individuals and our purpose in the world. Most modernist 20th century artists turned to urbanity and the hoopla of living in a high-octane community. Tarkovsky jettisons all that and returns to the object of fascination of Wordsworth and so many other 19th century artists - the immensity of nature and the reflectivity it provokes.
His characters are often populated by children. (Most notably with the child protagonist in Ivan's Childhood.) A scene that I recall is in Mirror when the protagonist's son leafs through a large book. It seems to invoke the feeling of raging curiosity and inquisitiveness. Children feature throughout Tarkovsky's film because they know less. As a result, they perceive situations and concepts far more vividly. Too much knowledge seems to be very perilous indeed to Tarkovksy - just look at what it leads The Writer, The Scientist and the Stalker toward in Stalker...
So, above I provided a few notes as to why Tarkovsky's films mean so much to me. These are themes that I personally connect with and inform my sense of purpose in the world...
Tarkovsky's role in the Soviet Union was ambiguous. Whilst not overtly critical of the regime, it is clear that his films do not align themselves with the authorities. It is clear from a film like Andrei Rublev that, for Tarkovsky, the role of the 'artist' is to create, inquire and discuss in the face of oppression. The rigid atheism characteristic of the Soviet regime was also completely discrepant to what mattered mostly to Tarkovksy - spirituality and the need for the individual to reflect on his place in Earth. Tarkovsky's films look 'inside' rather than 'outside' and, in such political surroundings, it is a small miracle that his films were made.
The painter Andrei Rublev can only create within a society in a state of turmoil. Set in 15th century Russia, around the time the country became Tsarist, it is clear that Rublev is dependant on the carnage and exploitation surrounding him to unearth his mural paintings. Continuously brooding and rationalising everything, he turns to orthodox Christianity to give him some sort of moral compass and purpose. An invasion of the Tartars, which completely devastate and maim the community he has lived in, leads him toward a vow of silence. He devotedly keeps to his word, only until the construction and casting of a bell makes him review of his decision. This bell has been built with such scrupulous craftsmanship that he is awed. It becomes clear that the creation of art, in its most crafted and disciplined form, can lead to transcendence and resolution. When the bell clangs toward the end of the film, Rublev knows it and the audience knows it.
Another clear theme that runs through most of Tarkovsky's films is memory. It is an illusory concept, often leading to grief and misconceptions. This is beautifully explored in Mirror. The structure of the narrative generally pans out in accordance with the narrator's notions of past and present. Scenes transpire in relation to what the narrator is actually going through in his everyday waking life. His tormented issues with his mother, his estrangement from his son, the fractured relationship with his wife, dream recollections, etc. All these elements ebb and flow as he tries to make sense of his broken family relationships. The narrative is seldom linear because of the wavering nature of memory and human thought. I have seen the film three times now and each viewing is different and revelatory.
Having spoken of dream sequences above, I'll just make the small remark that they are the closest I've seen to real dreams in any representational art. Some people say that the surrealist visions of Dali, Bosch, Ernst etc. are dream-like, but to me they really aren't. The dreams in Tarkovsky's films often take place in enclosed spaces and scenes often shift from one place to the other. Natural elements - fire, water, snow, etc. - often feature. (In a scene in Solaris, the protagonist visits his father, gazing into the home from outside his window pane. It is raining within the house, rather than outside. This is a warped logic often characteristic of dreams.) He certainly is a director who manages somehow to pierce into your skull. Three or four months after seeing my first Tarkovsky film, Solaris, I had a series of dreams influenced by the film's atmosphere.
A tangential theme of interest is that of the characters' wishes and what exactly these wishes mean and involve. There is often something hazardous in the Tarkovsky film about striving after an impossible goal. In Solaris, the planet where the astronaut resides in, the nostalgia for his deceased wife leads to her resuscitation. They are impermeable to one another and the film constant reminds the viewer that his wife is unearthed because of his unstable mind. The possible radiation (it is unclear in the film if this is the case) that the planet emits destabilises and fractures the lucidity and rationality of his waking thought. Likewise, in the flabbergasting film Stalker, the three characters become crazed by the toxicity of 'The Zone'. It is a place capable of unearthing their innermost wishes, but the locality drives them toward insanity. In the end, they are few yards away from the room granting them their wish, but they are unable to walk in. This is not only because it might be too dangerous, they are unable to confront the inner demons and fears that reside within their quixotic and yearning minds.
Another reason why his films mean so much to me is the constant recurrence of nature. The scenes depicting wildlife, plains, fields, swamps, forests are irresistibly shot. Tarkovsky could be considered a modernist in the sense that his films can often be structurally elliptical and theatrically undramatic. However, he is a romanticist in the way he turns to nature for inspiration and the way the reflection of nature helps as individuals and our purpose in the world. Most modernist 20th century artists turned to urbanity and the hoopla of living in a high-octane community. Tarkovsky jettisons all that and returns to the object of fascination of Wordsworth and so many other 19th century artists - the immensity of nature and the reflectivity it provokes.
His characters are often populated by children. (Most notably with the child protagonist in Ivan's Childhood.) A scene that I recall is in Mirror when the protagonist's son leafs through a large book. It seems to invoke the feeling of raging curiosity and inquisitiveness. Children feature throughout Tarkovsky's film because they know less. As a result, they perceive situations and concepts far more vividly. Too much knowledge seems to be very perilous indeed to Tarkovksy - just look at what it leads The Writer, The Scientist and the Stalker toward in Stalker...
So, above I provided a few notes as to why Tarkovsky's films mean so much to me. These are themes that I personally connect with and inform my sense of purpose in the world...
Friday, 20 July 2012
My Beethoven bust!
This is what I asked for my birthday and my swell parents agreed to pay for it. It finally arrived!
I might not be a composer of any sort, but this will be my daily reminder to create!
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Writers at work
The physical experience of writing is something I like. When I'm writing a story I hit the keys with all my force. Sometimes people surrounding me in the library will ask me to keep it down. I sometimes also rock back and forth in my chair.
I'm not saying I'm anywhere near as good as the authors below - and never will be. But below are a few authors in the middle of the writing process.
J. G. Ballard
Paul Auster
Roberto Bolano
George Orwell
T. S. Eliot
John Updike
I'm not saying I'm anywhere near as good as the authors below - and never will be. But below are a few authors in the middle of the writing process.
William Faulkner
Sunday, 1 July 2012
The genius of Anton Webern
I've been hearing Anton Webern for years, but only recently have I come to appreciate the true value of his music.
The way these strands of sound are sown together fills me with awe. I also love how, though this music is mathematically calculated and tabulated, it sounds as if it has been extolled from a very brooding introspective mind.
Last time I went to Chile I attended programme including a Webern piece. An old lady sitting next to me said "I could have written that." If only you knew, old lady... If only you knew.
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.
Saturday, 25 February 2012
The Scorcese De Niro partnership
Taxi Driver (1976)
The greatest depiction of a psychotic breakdown in the history of cinema? Possibly.
There's real poetry in this film. Travis Bickle, a Vietnam vet, is disgusted with the world... Although not formally educated, he writes little aphorisms in his diary like "some day a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets."
What at first seems like nothing more than misanthropy spirals into fully-fledged pyschopathic behaviour. Travis, a 20th century Raskolnikov, makes it a choice to murder the pimps who have escorted and terrorised an innocent 12-year-old girl.
Ironically, what is a psychotic act of murder, is considered heroic and Bikle is unanimously glorified by the media. Bickle rails against the establishment, confronts it, insults it and is offered to be a part of it.
"I'm God's lonenly man."
"Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground
Raging Bull (1980)
The best boxing film ever made (and there are many boxing films)? Possibly.
Because De Niro plays so many dislikable and unpleasant characters, you almost feel he really is like that... And they don't get any more unpleasant than Jack La Motta...
A wife beater, a bully, an outspoken tit...
Another film that acts as testament to De Niro's versatility. Ever the method actor, he actually took to underweight boxing matches...
And put on something like 20 pounds to play La Motta as a washed-out old man.
What I love the most about this film are the boxing matches. Enthralling, beautifully shot and visceral... (Hmm, I seem to be big on adjectives today!)
The King of Comedy (1983)
My stomach churned when I saw this. I kept thinking "Fucking hell this is awful," yet, conversely, thought "it's brilliant!!!"
Think The Office makes you cringe? Well, this is ten times more cringe-worthy than The Office... Rupert Pupkin loves himself far more than David Brent does and is far more disillusioned...
Filled with notions of grandeur, Rupert Pupkin thinks he is uproariously funny. He stalks Jerry Lewis and relentlessly pesters him for a place in the spot-light.
And, like Taxi Driver, there is an ironic ending... Pupkin hijacks Jerry Lewis show, makes lame jokes and... is worshipped as the latest mainstream entertainer.
The film is also prescient of the whole 'celebrity' phenomenon... Pupkin literally has no life and is obsessed with fame... Just for the pure sake of it: fame...
Difficult viewing and perhaps an even more unpleasant character than Jack la Motta...
The greatest depiction of a psychotic breakdown in the history of cinema? Possibly.
There's real poetry in this film. Travis Bickle, a Vietnam vet, is disgusted with the world... Although not formally educated, he writes little aphorisms in his diary like "some day a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets."
What at first seems like nothing more than misanthropy spirals into fully-fledged pyschopathic behaviour. Travis, a 20th century Raskolnikov, makes it a choice to murder the pimps who have escorted and terrorised an innocent 12-year-old girl.
Ironically, what is a psychotic act of murder, is considered heroic and Bikle is unanimously glorified by the media. Bickle rails against the establishment, confronts it, insults it and is offered to be a part of it.
"I'm God's lonenly man."
"Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed." - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground
Raging Bull (1980)
Because De Niro plays so many dislikable and unpleasant characters, you almost feel he really is like that... And they don't get any more unpleasant than Jack La Motta...
A wife beater, a bully, an outspoken tit...
Another film that acts as testament to De Niro's versatility. Ever the method actor, he actually took to underweight boxing matches...
And put on something like 20 pounds to play La Motta as a washed-out old man.
What I love the most about this film are the boxing matches. Enthralling, beautifully shot and visceral... (Hmm, I seem to be big on adjectives today!)
The King of Comedy (1983)
Think The Office makes you cringe? Well, this is ten times more cringe-worthy than The Office... Rupert Pupkin loves himself far more than David Brent does and is far more disillusioned...
Filled with notions of grandeur, Rupert Pupkin thinks he is uproariously funny. He stalks Jerry Lewis and relentlessly pesters him for a place in the spot-light.
And, like Taxi Driver, there is an ironic ending... Pupkin hijacks Jerry Lewis show, makes lame jokes and... is worshipped as the latest mainstream entertainer.
The film is also prescient of the whole 'celebrity' phenomenon... Pupkin literally has no life and is obsessed with fame... Just for the pure sake of it: fame...
Difficult viewing and perhaps an even more unpleasant character than Jack la Motta...
Friday, 10 February 2012
How DARE you criticise Jean-Luc?
One of the things that made me reconsider the worth of his films was seeing Breathless again. I was hit by the vacuity of it - like most of his films, it isn't saying much of anything. His supporters argue that he doesn't want you to get caught up in the narrative, he wants you to appreciate his technique... Well, the jump-cut wasn't even a self-conscious invention - it was accidental. The film was too long, so they cut it down, resulting with what you see on screen. This doesn't seem like innovative to me, it reeks of laziness.
And for someone whose films are purported to be very dense and complex, when a critic attacks one of his films, any intelligent argument that may arise devolves into childish name-calling. How DARE you criticise Jean-Luc? Isn't he supposed to be a polemicist, anyway? Doesn't that mean there's meant to be debate?
I have seen reviews and essays that are critical of Godard which are far more insightful and well-argued that those who defend him. While I have seen very interesting essays which explore the meaning behind his films, just a quick look through IMBD or Amazon and you'll find reviews that roughly say "Yeah! Jean-Luc is great! He is such an artist! So deep!"
His later work in particular is very dense indeed. I am at a loss as to what is the exact meaning/messages behind these films, but the thing is that I am yet to see an article which boldly describes what the film is saying. This article for instance is an adamant defence of Godard's later work - http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/137070-godards-invisible-cinema-the-neglected-genius-of-late-period-godard - but nowhere can I find in this piece am I convinced as to how Godard is 'redefining' the 'grammar' of film.
This just leads me to the conclusion that most people intellectualise things that aren't even there. Besides, in 'cult' and 'trendy' circles, most people need a guru to latch onto; for hardcore cinephiles, Godard is just that.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Why some people don't get the joke
When you publicly declare that you think that an entire indigenous race must be exterminated, that a war criminal and despot should be adulated and that a centre-left government was run by extremist communists, you wouldn't take this seriously nor even agree with it - would you?
Some people do. I have a comedy blog called Iván Izqueirdo and have received comments that surely would raise your eyebrows.
The premise of this blog is that an extremist right-wing person from the Chilean aristocracy spouts out his diatribes. The thing is that there are so many of these people, who say exactly the same things, that for many Chilean people this blog would seem perfectly authentic.
Having grown up amongst upper-middle class communities in Chile, I find the worldview perspective of these people very narrow and repugnant. Many of these people have shrines to Pinochet in their homes and are never able to wake up to the reality of situations.
I find that the progressive conservatives in Chile are fairly respectable people. The majority of people from the right, however, speak what Iván Izquierdo speaks word for word. (On second thought, because Spanish is their first language, they don't have to think too hard on their phraseolgogy so much...)
So, when you speak to these people on their level, they'll agree with you... Yet they don't realise that you are actually mocking them and everything they stand for...
One person who attended my old school said "I love the blog, [Pablo] Neruda is a fucking communist."
This brings back memories of a conversation I had with this kid back in the equivalent of year six. My father was voting for a leftist candidate at a local election and he replied "God grief, your dad is a leftist!" His political reasoning doesn't appear to have altered since he was eleven...
What inspired the blog was The Daily Show, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. Colbert is a comedian who impersonates a ultra-right political commentator - the kind you see on Fox... Yet, in a world, when this is the norm, hoards of Americans watch this spoof show and don't notice the difference...
I'd like to add that the concept of irony doesn't really exist in Chile. I mean, this blog is pretty crude and unsubtle yet people still don't get it... I remember that whilst I was in Chile I would get a lot of laughs by being ironic, the likes of which I seldom get here in the UK...
It all may seem ludicrous and over-the-top, but the fact of the matter is that there are a lot of Iván Izquierdos around...
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
The fox and the hedgehog
Gabriel Garcia MarquezOne of my gateways into literature was the new wave of fiction from Latin-America which gained prominence in the 1960s. However, I have only read one book each (or as I am about to describe, one and a half) of its two main figureheads and nobel laureates: Mario Vargas Llosa and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
Back when Llosa was awarded that accolade I remember reading an article by William Boyd that was inculcated into my system: he described Vargas Llosa as a 'fox' and Marquez as a 'Hedgehog.'
From the two books I've read by each writer - The Feast of the Goat, a comparatively lesser work under Vargas Llosa's belt and One Hundred Years of Solitude, a unanimously acclaimed novel by Marquez - I find this to be an absolutely accurate statement.
What's striking about the two books is the style. Vargas Llosa is very varied - he switches tenses, locations and places in time within the space of a few pages. I have tried read Hundred Years of Solitude twice and I literally lose the will to live by page 150. I start of thinking "Yeah, that's cute," but as I progress through the narrative I am become exausted by the same stlye and tone being reiterated time and time again...
But it was revolutionary, you may say? I don't think so. Marquez was only popularising the concepts and ideas of writers who were far more complex and ingenious - Juan Rulfo, Juan Carlos Onetti and the stories of Borges... He simplified the more complex conceptions of these writers and spread a plague in which writers from across the world derived their ideas from Marquez and produced a magic realism that was even more kitsch than his own...
Reading about the bibilography of these writers to me is also indicative of the range of each. Vargas Llosa covers continents around the world, a wide variety of themes, a plethora of genres... Whilst Marquez, from what I can gather, simply writes the same book time and time again. If you look at it from this perspective, you can see that Llosa's prize was far more deserved. Marquez flippantly claimed that by awading him they were awarding the whole of South America - which was actually true... Vargas Llosa's award is a recognition of a lifetime of literary endeavour.
The Nobel commitee was criticised by some naive people for awarding the prize for Llosa's politics. I actually find it refreshing that the Nobel Prize was given out to someone from the political right; the politics of the Nobel comitee have always been incredibly biased and unfair. Borges, though it was a terrible move, gave support to Pinochet's government and was thus barred from ever winning the prize. Why should politics be brought to the equation when this is supposed to be a literary award?
Besides, the politics of Vargas Llosa are far more respectable than Marquez's. He is a centrist who leans to the right and an advocate for freedom and democracy against authoritarian dictatorships. Marquez, on the other hand, has been a vocal supporter of Fidel Castro since the inception of the Cuban regime... His politics are very rarely questioned, but they are as ineptly conceived and monotonous as his own writings...
Thursday, 5 January 2012
My routine
"I lead an extremely quiet life. [...] I write during the day, go for a walk along the river in the early evening and then watch TV and drink whisky and soda. And that seems to be the right background for me as an imaginative writer; perhaps I need invisible surroundings and this suburb is almost invisible to me." - J. G. Ballard
A month-long break from university means I have the chance to practice my routine....
8-9
Get up by at least 8.30 and arrive at this pond by 9.00.
9-12
Read book.
Recently a few examples being:
12-1
Scourge the fridge for food. Invariably this tends to consist of egg, bacon, spagetthi, cheese, etc.
1-5
Go to the library and work. First two hours are spent on a short story (just started a piece called 'The Murmurings'), the next two hours are spent on an essay or other university work.
This is my workplace:
5-7
(From 5 onwards the schedule tends to be more variable and don't necessarily stick to it so rigidly)
'Chill'/listen to music. Last few days I've been using this block of time to hear Beethoven symphonies...
7-9
Once every two days, spend this block of time on the internet; the other day use this time to watch a film.
And all this will come to an end within a week or so... Aghhr. : (
A month-long break from university means I have the chance to practice my routine....
8-9
Get up by at least 8.30 and arrive at this pond by 9.00.
9-12
Read book.
Recently a few examples being:
Scourge the fridge for food. Invariably this tends to consist of egg, bacon, spagetthi, cheese, etc.
1-5
Go to the library and work. First two hours are spent on a short story (just started a piece called 'The Murmurings'), the next two hours are spent on an essay or other university work.
This is my workplace:
5-7
(From 5 onwards the schedule tends to be more variable and don't necessarily stick to it so rigidly)
'Chill'/listen to music. Last few days I've been using this block of time to hear Beethoven symphonies...
Once every two days, spend this block of time on the internet; the other day use this time to watch a film.
And all this will come to an end within a week or so... Aghhr. : (
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