Ulysses On Ithaca

2011-09-17T04:30:00.000-07:00

WORTHY, BUT DULL

It's clear that most reviews are written by enthusiasts: that's why most product reviews are so high. Naturally, there is also the odd reviewer who really hates a book or movie and is determined to have his opinion heard. However, the vast, silent majority are mostly indifferent to almost everything. In any case, the point of this rather abstract introduction is that I fall into none of these three categories: I'm a movie lover who was disappointed by this "classic" of the forties. I had seen it before, but many years ago when I was a kid.

I admit that for its time it was ground-breaking. Hollywood didn't usually treat of alcoholism in any serious way and here we get benders, DTs, alcoholic hospitals, moral degradation and a lot more. Yet somehow--and I suppose we should expect this--the movie never quite loses its Hollywood sheen. Ray Milland is good enough in the leading role, but given Hollywood's propensity for gifting the acting oscar to anyone who is given an overacting opportunity, the oscar award doesn't say a lot. Everyone does a competent job, but the real problem is in the screenplay. Milland is an alcoholic who has never had a job, but wants to become a writer. It is assumed from the beginning that somewhere deep inside Birnam there is a real and talented writer struggling to emerge: but what is the proof? A few student articles and an early piece in Reader's Digest. Other than that, there is zilch. Lots of people want to write--but unless you write you're not a writer. Perhaps it would have been unendurable at the time to admit that most alcoholics don't have any special skill waiting to emerge: they are simply alcoholics. The Hollywood schmaltz element is further highlighted when Jane Wyman, a worker on Time magazine and the possessor of a perfect Hollywood wardrobe, decides to fall in love with our alcoholic nobody who--for reasons of Hollywood etiquette--must have the makings of a 'somebody' inside him. This might actually have done harm to the real alcoholics' cause, as one of the worst aspects of the disease is that the sufferer becomes a social pariah: the idea of an unemployed alcoholic winning the love of a high class lady from Time magazine and keeping it through all his degradations is pure Hollywood hoo-ha. Even the end of the movie rings false with Milland giving up drink and beginning on his infamous novel, "The Bottle", once again. This is supposed to be a happy ending--but the odds are that its just one more false dawn before the drinking starts again.

I'm sorry to be so negative, but this movie after deciding to deal with an important issue of this kind refuses to face the real horrors head on and, instead, is determined to wrap them up in several layers of Hollywood hokum.

2011-06-10T16:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I've been watching a lot of Orson Welles' films lately. Citizen Kane might be an acquired taste and The Magnificent Ambersons something of a kitchen sink drama, but the old man definitely had something about him. Chimes At Midnight, A Touch of Evil and the Third Man (which he never directed) are undoubtedly touched with genius. All those strange camera angles are initially disconcerting but, eventually, fascinating and futuristic in style. The Lady From Shanghai is merely a B movie based on a pulp novel--yet the finale in the hall of mirrors makes for some amazing cinematography.

Journey into Fear is a run-of-the-mill movie with Dolores Del Rio's leopard woman as perhaps its most memorable feature. I was amazed to discover that Del Rio was already 36 at the time of this film. She really does have one of the most beautiful faces that I've ever seen (it seems that she and the old man had a 3 year affair--lucky old Orson!)

2010-11-08T06:17:00.000-08:00

Dear Paul...

Hi Paul,

I just wanted to tell you that I thought your last article, "We're All Right, We're All Wrong", made for rather sour reading. As you know, I respect your writings on Liverpool deeply, but this piece seemed like 50% justification of your earlier criticisms of Hodgson and 50% grudging praise for a job well done against Chelsea. Now I am just as guilty as you when it comes to prior criticism of Hodgson--but I don't make a career out of writing on LFC. The truth is that you are right: there are still question marks against RH. However, in the last few games he's done a lot to lift the gloom, and we should consider the possibility that the manager's position at LFC was the job he was waiting for in order to show his true worth. After all, sometimes unlikely things like that do happen. Who would have ever dreamed what lay in the future when Bill Shankly took over an underperforming second division club in 1959? At this juncture the kind thing to do would be not to write about Hodgson at all until perhaps half the season has gone. It certainly looks like he's beginning to communicate his ideas in an effective way to the players. Is it possible that a style of coaching which always managed to punch above its weight at smaller clubs might be becoming more imaginative and expansive at a big club like Liverpool? It's at least possible (if not, perhaps, very likely). Shouldn't you begin to consider the possibility that Hodgson might actually achieve success with LFC, and last far beyond the present season? Fourth position and a cup win would be considered a major success, and perhaps this is not beyond Hodgson and his team. I don't say he will achieve this, but while he's winning games against top opposition we should at least consider it as a possibility and give undiluted praise when praise is due. In the end--and for whatever reasons--RB has gone and it's fairly pointless to keep looking back. If Hodgson, in the long run, proves himself unable to match Liverpool's ambitions, then I'm sure the new owners will move him on. However, we should not see this as an inevitable, foregone conclusion: a subtext that most of your recent articles seem to promote.

Regards, John Wallen

2010-08-06T07:16:00.000-07:00

THE DEGENERATION OF BHARAT

PART ONE: Meet Hari Chand

Hari Chand—investigative journalist
Determined to illuminate
The terminal decline of Bharat;
With a special roving commission
From Anil Patil,
Concerned kshatriya of Maharashtra
Province: late professor of dermatology
At Jizan Health College,
Saudi Arabia,
Now expatriated to New Zealand;
Living along the outreaches
Of the Western world,
In Tauranga,
Dispensing
Ayurvedic remedies
To dissipated Europeans

O where did it all go wrong?

When Patanjali’s sutras
Explained the Vedic scheme
Siddharta’s wheel of Dharma
Already ruled supreme.
While Krishna and Arjuna
Discussed the pith of life
The chariots of ignorance
Disseminated strife.
At Vulture’s Peak, the Buddha
Revealed the Tantric path;
But my dear friend, Anil Patil,
Only makes me laugh!

The Mughals came
The Mughals built;
Shah Jihan to his cost
Spent all his wealth on Mumtaza
Until his realm was lost.
In latter days he viewed “the Taj”
Through iron prison bars
Incarcerated by a son
Who’d kicked him in the arse.

Caste, Caste, Caste, Caste;
Caste deflated India…
If I can’t touch you,
And you can’t touch me,
How happy can we ever be?

Brahmin priests and all their rituals,
Friends to the worldy ones,
Undid India.

Brahma. Vishnu. Shiva.
Did you ever really need them?
Brahma created without their incantations.
Vishnu, Krishna, Buddha,
Sustained and enlightened, indifferent to their technical mumbo-jumbo:
Shiva’s dance of death destroys, regardless of Brahminical threads and pride

Pride destroyed India.
And yet,
Avalokiteshvara’s infinite compassion still abounds;
His thousand arms waiting To rescue all sentient beings from the chains of their own ignorance, Into the Sambhogakaya: The Buddhafield.

Om Mani Padme Hum.

**************

I watched a snake charmer’s cheap trickeries
Outside Rajghat.
He wanted money.
Is it possible that one who is able to control
The dancing snake head
Can be in need of a few coppers from me?

O dissolute nation
Who had everything the world systems can provide,
But threw it all away--
What price must you pay
For your own unvirtue?

Hari Chand’s a secret guy;
You’ll find him in the bar,
Listening to private talk
(Not near, nor yet too far).
Whenever India’s discussed,
He’s got it on his mind
That something just might be picked up
Explaining her decline.
And as we know, he works for one
Inextricably bound
To the travails of Bharat and
The Ganges’ rushing sound.
It’s good to know that even when
Anil is in his dreams
Hari Chand is on the case
And life’s not what it seems.

PART TWO: Delhi Musings

I spent some time in Delhi’s maze
Of beggars, rickshaws, bikes and shit.
And everywhere I felt the gaze
Of those who would abandon it

A mother with her bundled child,
Tapped upon the moving glass.
Her eyes roamed, desperate and wild,
And wouldn’t let me pass.

I offered up some gift of notes
And suddenly there came
A hundred more in tattered coats
And each one had no name.

I looked upon their greedy eyes,
Then waved the driver on;
And inwardly, without surprise,
I found compassion gone.
***********

The poor and desolate are our friends,
They teach us generosity;
Let’s love our enemies better than our relatives
(As those who hate us give an opportunity for the practice of patience).

Perhaps one day I can become wild and homeless myself,
Though without the unmindfulness of a Delhi street beggar;
No, no, but with the green tinge of an enlightened Milarepa
Seeing beyond the limitations of
Nirmanakaya.

**********

Ashkhardan is beautiful
And, in just five years,
Volunteers built its stone temple
In the old way, fashioned from the imagination and love,
Without steel and iron.
Krishna consciousness pervades the essence.
Om Hari Krishna
Om Hari Krishna
Om Om Om

Hari Chand is on the case. He sees all, but says little. Everything is placed in the balance.

Dr. Anil will have his answer.

PART THREE: Dr. Anil in Motion and Still Life

Dr. Anil gave up all his glamour
When he travelled to Jizan.
Nevertheless,
He tried to show the Jizanis,
Through an innate pride in his nation,
The glory of the Vedas:
What they are, had been, and ever would be.
Even when they scoffed,
And asked him if the sacred cow had been his mother,
He persevered,
Watching old movies about Gods and Avatars
In his pleasing home,
Surrounded by a loving family:
His wife, Priyanka,
And blessed daughter Vishakha
Who, as the reincarnation of Anil’s maternal grandmother,
Was (somehow) close to Shiva
Lord of the dance.

Dr. Anil, disciple of Shankacharya,
Why did you come to Jizan?
Get away as quick as you can!
Talking’s just a barrier
To the enlightenment of man.

Leave it all to Hari… Hari Chand.
Hari’s built for sniffing out the meaning of life,
And the reasons for strife.
He’s a smooth operator
And sooner or later
He’ll find out all you want to know
Of virtue, knowledge, death and View:
He’ll show you what to do,
Explain the transcendental light
Of wisdom, just for you.

Om Hari Hari Chand.

Take refuge in the Hari.

PART FOUR: Vulture’s Peak

Rajgir was the setting for
The Dharma’s second spin:
The prajnaparamita core
Of emptiness within.
Thus have I heard: at Vulture’s Peak
The Thusly-Gone one taught
All aspirants who truly seek
To find a secret thought.
“Nam m’yoho renge kyo”:
The blessings showered down;
The diamond and the lotus show
The heart within the crown.
Assembled Boddhisattvas watched
Shunyata’s face arise
From Union with Emptiness
(And in the Buddha’s eyes).
Oh India you were not fit
To learn the Tantric truth
From Uddiyana’s great pandit
(Nor Krishna’s guiless youth).
Ganges, Yamuna, Saraswat:
Sweet Gangetic plains!
Holy rivers of Bharat,
Filled by monsoon rains!
Why did the flowing Dharma cease?
Why was the Tantra dumb?
Why did that mighty soul decrease?
Why didn’t Moksha come?
Why did the Buddha at Rajgir
Decide to hide the truth,
From India and all the world,
In Nagar serpent tooth?
Oh why is Ramakrishna’s faith,
Nandranath’s noble jewels,
Diluted by some Pretan wraith
Into a billion fools?

PART FIVE: Hari Reports Back to Anil

Slowly,
Anil rebuilds his life in Tauranga;
And even Vishakha,
And his dear departed grandmother
(Who now holds a New Zealand passport),
Is/are content.

Life is good.

Furthermore,
Hari Chand’s report
Has just arrived (from Delhi) giving meaty food for thought.
According to Hari
Life is a bitch
And we just have to try and get over it.

Anil (on the whole) finds himself in concurrence with these noble sentiments.

Om Tat Sat!

2010-01-31T06:44:00.000-08:00

An Essay On T.S. Eliot's Waste Land.

ESSAY ON ELIOT’S WASTE LAND
By
John Wallen

INTRODUCTION

I first studied The Waste Land many years ago as a new post-graduate student. At that time I—naturally enough—bought into many of the usual platitudes on this piece: “It’s all about the hopelessness of the post-first-world-war situation”; “It’s about the decadence of Western civilization which, after the First World War, had touched rock bottom”; “Its contrasting the rich cultural heritage of the past with today’s moral and cultural turpitude”. In fact, the Waste Land is about none of these things. It is the intimate record of a poet’s bleak depression due to his inability to cope with the sexual and sensual life he longed for. All the cultural references and copious notes should be seen as ways of disguising this mundane truth—and even as a means of heroically attemping to magnify the poet’s plight into something more meaningful than a shy young man’s uneasiness about sex and close relationships.

THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

In this first section we are introduced to the sterile mind of the poet: paradoxically, this is a fecund sterility which produces profoundly meaningful language. The coming of Spring is seen as an unbearable intrusion on misery and loss.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Eliot now uses a technique that will be utilized extensively in this long poem: he misdirects us after making a personal statement. Suddenly we are in the world of a rich Hapsburg aristocrat of the type who had been ruined by the events of WW1. She reflects on her childhood and the world which has disappeared forever. Marie (for that apparently is her name)“reads much of the night and goes south in the winter”. After a bleak statement of his own despair, Eliot here refers to an older world of aristocratic manners and customs which, in his imagination, he feels a greater affinity with than the democratic sameness of the London he had adopted, but which he now feels has let him down.

After the famous passage about “fear in a handful of dust” we are given a brief interlude in the company of a rather aesthetic flower girl who seems to express Eliot’s asexual worship of a certain pure and virginal kind of nineteenth century girl. These virginal figures will occur frequently enough in Eliot’s subsequent work (and often in contrast with more worldly courtesan types). This first section finishes with the much written about figure of Madame Sosostris reading a pack of tarot cards. Clearly, Madame Sosostris is on the Madame Blavatsky model and is presented to us as a representative charlatan type figure—though she is also utilized as a means of adding inner coherence to the poem when she warns the sitter to “fear death by water” (a reference to the later death of Phlebas by drowning) and perhaps puts the author in mind of “Steson”: a rather fantastic character (subsequently introduced) who, we are told, fought with the writer in “the ships at Mylae”. This is a reference to the Punic Wars between Rome and Carthage and its inclusion together with the grimly ironic talk of corpses in gardens “sprouting” and “blooming”, mostly has the effect of profoundly deepening the sense of discontinuity and despair.

Essentially, this first section can be seen as a means of establishing the bleakest of moods for the poem and pointing out what the author sees as the impossibility of enjoying a pure relationship in the grim and emotionally impoverished modern world. More specific admissions of sexual failure are to come later.

A GAME OF CHESS

The scene now changes to the poet’s inner sanctum: for surely the famous passage beginning “The chair, she sat in like a burnished throne” and its subsequent development along lines of deceit (a deceit pointed out clearly enough by the “laquers”, “strange synthetic perfumes” and “unguents”) refers to nothing other than the boudoir of Eliot’s first wife Vivian (whose later insanity was perhaps, at least in part, due to Eliot’s emotional callousness). This lady, surrounded by her sophisticated arts of deceit, is a world away from the simple and pure flower girl evoked by the writer in the first part of the poem. The next transition is made clearly enough:

Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

Eliot, the husband, is here reluctantly coming up the stairs in order to speak with his wife: though any attempt at real communication between the comparatively uneducated Vivian and the super refined sensibility of the young poet, is doomed to failure from the outset. The lady (or Vivian) makes her frustration at this state of affairs very clear in the subsequent lines:

“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

The poet’s unspoken reply is both arrogant and full of despair at the same time:

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

Neither person can understand the other. Both are lost in their own self-made fantasies: a psychological hypochondria in Vivian’s case and an intellectually inspired, hermetic egotism in Eliot’s. Next Vivian (for we shall call this neurotic lady Vivian) and Eliot (for we shall call this unresponsive and egotistical husband Eliot)clash over Vivian’s highly strung nerves. She asks her husband if he can hear anything strange and in response to his (presumably) monosyllabic answer in the negative, Vivian demands of her taciturn husband whether he can hear anything at all other than the intellectual fabrications of his own mind:

“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?
But
O O O O that Shakespeherean Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent

Immediately Vivian’s anger dissipates into despair and Eliot’s psyche retreats into the meaningless recital of the day’s events that will provide him with some kind of warped protection from his wife’s “vulgarity”:

“What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
“I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
The hot water at ten
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

The next section that takes place in a pub, is probably the least successful in the poem. Eliot decides to contrast the sexual and emotional desert of his own intimate life with Vivian with the lusty and unthinking sexuality of the common populace of London. Here, working class people speak of their love-making and their children. If an over refined sensibility prevents Eliot from fully engaging in the sexual act ( and this is a reality we come back to again and again in this poem) then his plight is mocked at by the sheer fertility and sexual lustiness of the poor. One feels there is not really much sympathy here for ordinary folk (who were very much off Eliot’s radar in any case) in spite of the apparently tender ending. Rather, Eliot rather ghoulishly and in a spirit of self flagellation, contrasts his own super refined sensibility with the hearty lustfulness of the poor: and the unspoken conclusion seems to be the same as that of his mentor, Ezra Pound, in his poem, "The Garden":

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

THE FIRE SERMON

The third section of the poem, “The Fire Sermon” revisits and reemphasizes some ideas and themes we have already noted, while also introducing some new ones. In particular there is the barren hopelessness of contemporary London, where only isolation seems to offer any antidote to the depressing nihilism around. Doggerel returns as a way of emphasizing the bestial sexuality enjoyed by everyday folk, unencumbered by the high values of “Western Civilization”. At this point we are introduced to “Apeneck” Sweeney and Mrs Porter as representative characters of this type. They may not be able to understand the whole nexus of cultural and civilizational values that should go along with human procreation, but they can, at any rate, keep the race sexually alive (unlike the too refined aesthetic sensibility of the poet).

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water

As before, the dominant tone is one of deep contempt for the vulgarity of those who engage easily in the activity of sex without understanding its deeper significance (for Eliot, intellectually, this would mean a connection to the values of a long flourishing civilization that would give a more profound meaning to the union of man and woman). An alternative form of intimacy is introduced with the character of Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant.

Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

This is a candid reference to the possibility of gay sex between men of a certain culture and sensitivity who find the mindless coupling of Sweeney and Mrs. Porter’s daughter demeaning and vulgar. Of course, the portrayal is ironic and, between these two men, it is only the poet who truly possesses a high culture. Mr. Eugenides may be Greek, but his “demotic” French and brazen overtures typify him as a hardened seeker after gay sex. Consequently, he is considered to be just as vulgar by the poet as the everyday folk, earlier and later referenced, who enjoy thoughtless heterosexual sex together. Homosexuality, then, offers the poet no satisfactory way out of his isolated predicament: he can only impotently express his own sexual fastidiousness in relation to those other less particular inhabitants of the metropolis. In this frame of mind, the poet takes on the identity of the all-knowing Tiresias, a mythical hermaphrodite, and watches (with deep contempt and impotent frustration) the meaningless coupling of two “lower class” inhabitants of London: a secretary and a house agent’s clerk.

He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

Eliot here leaves us in no doubt of his opinion of the young man, puffed up with his own importance. He is one of “the low” and his assurance is that of the bumptious made good. The secretary ‘s dominating emotion is indifference in the face of her lover’s amorous advances:

The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.

Just months before his marriage to Vivian, Eliot had written to a friend complaining about the fact that he still remained a virgin at the age of 26. Is it too fantastic to suppose that the highly educated, but emotionally inexperienced Eliot, was unable to deal with Vivian’s sexual and emotional needs and it was this that led to her later profound emotional and mental instability? If so, then it might be reasonable to also suggest that it was Eliot’s overwhelming sense of shame and guilt associated with this situation that led directly to the writing of The Waste Land.
Being unable to accept or to participate either in the ordinary sexuality of everyday people or the arch gayness of the refined homosexual community, Eliot is emotionally thrown back upon his own hyper-aestheticism which, like the flower girl, is able to give him no human solace. In these circumstances, the poet is forced to consider if his sterile aestheticism can be in some way transformed (almost by using tantric means) into something sustaining, and permanent. In the church of Saint Magnus the Martyr, we have the first stirrings of a religiosity which can be conflated or combined with Eliot’s profound aestheticism.

O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

Following this new trend of thought, Eliot sees himself as being purged of his negative emotions by the purifying fires of a new religious ecstasy:

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

DEATH BY WATER

Thematically, the drowning of Phlebas refers back to Madame Sosostris (“Fear death by water”) and also to Mr. Eugenides with his “pocketful of currants” (now transformed to “current”). This rather mysterious character might be seen as the transformed figure of the poet, now able (thanks to a growing religious belief) to die into life and, so, become human once again.

Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

Clearly, any suggested hope is very muted here. However, it is something to be able to die as other people often do, with faith in their hearts: and without the overwheming fear of sexual union which has previously obsessed the poet. We should also not forget the purifacatory aspects of the water as it “Picked his bones in whispers”. The mood remains bleak and depressing, but there are also, perhaps, the glimmerings of a new hope.

WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

In “What the Thunder Said”, the idea of purification through water is continued and expanded. The poet who was lost in his own isolation has now found a new means of escaping himself and his finally sterile ultra-aestheticism. His old self may be dying and a new more stable self emerging sustained and sublimated by the age-old veracities of religious life.

AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying 325
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying

The reference to the “agony in stony places” is clearly intended to remind us of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane and provides, once again, a clue to the new direction in which Eliot’s thoughts are turning. Now, the most important thing is that a purificatory ceremony should take place that will literally transform the poet into a new man, free of his old obsessions.

Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

The purificatory rights now take place in the context of India and the Eastern religions Eliot had been recently studying.

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
D A
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed

Eliot now, at least in his own view, has surrendered to a higher truth: that of spiritual renewal through religion. Finally, he has given himself to something, an experience, that is greater than himself and his own solipsistic mind. It is only through this inner surrender that the poet can really come to believe that his own existence has been in any way meaningful. Finally, he has given up his earlier prudence and embraced a new life-giving (for him) experience. His earlier mistake was to believe that he could find the meaning of his existence in another human being and through sexual union. Now, the pure virginity of the flower girl can be safely recalled without any accompaniment of a confused animal passion.
It is worth noting at this point that subsequent to the publishing of this poem, Eliot left Vivian, eventually divorcing her, and lived for many years in the company of a close friend. It was only in his latter years that he was able to find a new love with his secretary at Faber, whom he eventually married. However, whether this late marriage included ejaculatory sex is a matter for speculation. The probability is that Eliot’s second union was mostly based on the needs of companionship and included little (or perhaps no) sex.

The poem finishes with a host of fragmentary elements that suggest an old world falling apart, but also the possibility of a new more stable one, taking its place. The ending, written in Sanskrit , would seem to suggest new hope: “Shantih” is usually translated as “the peace that passes all understanding”.

CONCLUSION.

In conclusion, I should emphasize that there is nothing I have written here that can take anything away from the fact that The Waste Land is a great—perhaps the greatest--poetic masterpiece of the 20th century. Eliot made it dense with meaning and, in its allusions, it became almost inexhaustible. I have hardly touched on the amazing images from the poem that have, by this time, engrained themselves unforgettably on the psyche of modern man. Nevertheless, I feel the poem is often portrayed—wrongly--as a great narrative conveying ONLY the degenerate nature and nihilism of Western culture at a pivotal moment between two catastrophic world wars. It is undoubtedly all of this—but it more as well. The Waste Land is, in its most basic and truest form, the record of the writer’s depressed and agonized state of mind at a particular juncture in his life. This depression, or agony, was due to many factors: but most of all it referenced a deeply unhappy marriage between two very ill-matched people.

Written by: John Wallen

2010-01-10T07:19:00.000-08:00

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2009-11-28T04:12:00.000-08:00

My new book has just been published on Amazon. The link is below:

http://www.amazon.com/Devils-Apprentice-Victorian-Terror-Supernatural/dp/1602644829/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1259410467&sr=8-3

2009-08-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

VANITY FAIR

I have just indulged in a rather interesting experiment. While reading Thackeray's novel, I've also been able to watch the six part BBC serialization starring Natasha Little as Becky Sharp. I'll comment on this BBC serial later--but first to the novel itself.

Well, it's a very good novel. Certainly one of the best from the Victorian period which it parodies so beautifully. Becky Sharp is a fine literary creation and the personal embodiment of that "Vanity Fair" which Thackeray, on the one hand, appears to despise so much, while winking at us in happy glee and suggesting "it ain't such a bad place after all" (by gad!)on the other. All the main characters are fully realized and mercilessly exposed in their weaknesses by the unrelenting author.

Becky, as I have said, is the very embodiment of the superficial, and finally worthless, attractions on offer in the pitiless and unrelenting world of "Vanity Fair" which raises people up for a moment, only to mercilessly crush them forever after they have strutted for their little pompous moment on the high society stage. Amelia's Major Dobbin is the only really honourable character in the book--and he is continually trampled over by all the bright young things who want to make their momentary splash in "Vanity Fair". Thackeray describes him as a "spooney" and, indeed, he spends most of the novel as Amelia's platonic lover who dare not ask for more than the little she will give him. Becky Sharp is the real hero, heroine or "anti-heroine" of this novel "without a hero". She manipulates everyone with the most perfect judgement and lives for the joy of Vanity Fair's thousand intrigues. Her husband Rawdon's unexpected escape from a debtor's house and subsequent discovery of his wife making love to the Marquis of Steyne (and his resultant thrashing of that gentleman) is probably the most dramatic moment in the book. However, Becky--if not her husband or the Marquis--is able to move beyond even this catastrophe.

Vanity Fair is not without faults for the modern reader. Sometimes Thackeray indulges in page after page of almost nonsensical parody of the contemporary society of his day and this comes across (in the 21st century) as even worse than Swift's most obscure rants in Gulliver's Travels on the Tory/Whig politics of his time. Thankfully, Thackeray doesn't usually detain his reader long in such tedious environs, but soon gets his marvellously readable story moving again.

As I wrote earlier, I have been watching the 1998 BBC adaptation of Vanity Fair while actually reading the novel itself--and it's been quite a revealing experience. Of course, one sympathises with the person responsible for making the adaptation. How is it possible to condense the action of more than 800 pages into a 6 hour serial? No doubt it's an impossible task, but I was, mostly, impressed with the beeb's minor success. The adaptation is well done, though it's not without blemish and, most notably, substitutes some of Thackeray's prejudices for several of our own time. For example,(in the novel) Becky's husband, Rawdon, thrashes Lord Steyne with his open hand to make the point that he regards him as a coward and expects to be satisfied in a duel. The beeb substituted a drunken head-butt for this subtle assault--presumably because they thought this was more acceptable to late 20th century British yob culture. Again, the serialization accurately includes a black manservant in the Sedley family. However, he (the black manservant) is given a far larger part in the adaptation than in Thackeray's novel (where, indeed, he is hardly more than a wretched slave). Wouldn't it have been better to simply cut this character out altogether rather than have him purposelessly wandering through every episode full of a somewhat threatening "joie de vivre"? Nevertheless, as I wrote earlier, the adaptation is probably ALMOST as good as it could have been in the circumstances. In particular, Natasha Little is quite enchanting as Rebecca Sharp.

So now I move on in my reading to weightier matter: "The Brothers Karamazov" awaits!

2009-08-06T08:41:00.000-07:00

THE "TOP TEN"

For what it's worth (and that's not much!) my own "Top Ten" list of novels would be as follows. Naturally, I only include books I've personally read. The list might change as blanks in my reading are filled in. For example, I hope shortly to get started on "The Brothers Karamazov". There is a little voice in the back of my mind which suggests that perhaps dreamweaver55 is right about Madam Bovary being overrated. However, I'm going to stick with it at number three as it IS a wonderful example of the realist novel, and predates Tolstoy's great novels.

1. War and Peace
2. Anna Karenina
3. Madam Bovary
4. Crime and Punishment
5. Ulysses
6. Wuthering Heights
7. The Great Gatsby
8. David Copperfield
9. Bleak House
10. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

2009-08-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

THE GREATEST EVER NOVEL?

Well, recently, in an American poll of writers, "Anna Karenina" was voted the greatest novel of all time. It is difficult to understand why. Certainly, it's a very good novel: but the best? No, I don't think so. It's certainly not as profound as Tolstoy's other masterpiece, "War and Peace". At the time of Anna Karenina's publication, several critics dismissed it as a tale of self-indulgent adultery in high places. Of course, this is too extreme and simplistic a view, yet it has a kernel of truth in it as well. None of the characters are truly sympathetic. Anna leaves her husband and son for the somewhat characterless Count Vronsky, and derides and scorns Karenin for his attempts to hold the marriage together. After that, with somewhat breathtaking audacity, she insists on a divorce (which Karenin refuses to give) and the right to have her son live with Vronsky and her (it might be an issue today, but it was a non-issue in the Tsarist Russia of the time: the state and the church were absolutely on the side of the wronged husband). The subplot of the novel which involves the husband of Vronsky's former love, Levin, also fails to produce a wholly appealing character. One feels that Levin, with his spiritualty, belief in the land and the peasant and agonised search for spiritual truth, is the character Tolstoy most holds up for our admiration. However, he frequently comes across as a misanthropic bore whose occasional spells of overt sentimentalism do much to repel the reader. Still, his final realisation that spiritual truth is different from and separate to reason, will strike most readers as profound (at least in the way it is worked out in the novel). This is contrasted with Anna's very limited final sensibility that tells her everyone in the world really hates each other; and she dies with spite in her heart, believing--correctly--that her suicide will be the total ruin of Vronsky--and that this will be her final revenge on her lover for not loving her enough (though how he could have loved her more, it's difficult to see).

Contrast all this with "War and Peace" which has as its main theme the movement of history itself and examines such ideas as how much free will man really has. The pre-Marxist view expressed in the novel that great cycles of history have deeprooted causes beyond the ambitions of Kings and Princes, was striking for its time and gives expression to a philosophical view of history that still makes sense for many people, even today. Moreover, the novel has a "cast of thousands" and historical characters such as Napoleon, the Russian commander, Kutuzov, and Tsar Alexander himself, are compellingly portrayed. Furthermore, the fictitious characters are more sympathetically drawn than in "Anna Karenina" (especially in the case of the lethargic, but likeable, Count Bezuhof). Finally, the only explanation I can think of for putting "Anna Karenina" in a higher position in the list of 'greatest ever novels' than "War and Peace", is--the likely enough one--that far more readers have reached the end of "Anna Karenina" than the end of "War and Peace" (which is 500 pages longer, and intellectually more demanding). The top 3 novels in this interesting American list (which never included a single novel by Dostoyevsky, but yet found space for several far weaker novels by American writers) were:

1. Anna Karenina

2. Madame Bovary

3. War and Peace

My own top 3 would be the same--but in a different order:

1. War and Peace

2. Anna Karenina

3. Madam Bovary

All in all, a great triumph for the realist novel!

2009-06-05T04:11:00.000-07:00

WILKIE COLLINS

I've been laid up with a broken ankle for the last 8 weeks and so I've finally had recourse to the large collection of Victorian ebooks I've collected from the web over the last couple of years. In particular I've been reading the works of WC--10 of his novels so far. I've been struck by several points and, in a skeleton form, I write them below:

1. What a story-teller! He easily beats Dickens when it comes to successful, labyrinthine plotting. The two men were friends, but it's easy to see that a fundamental difference in attitude to the construction of a novel would have set up tensions between the two men. For Collins, a novel is basically as good as the plot--though his characterization can be convincing too. Dickens, in contrast, believes a novel to be largely based on characterization and emotional sympathy with the characters. Plot is secondary and, in Dickens' case, often haphazard. Both approaches can work, but in many ways it is Dickens' approach that has aged the worse: his lack of emphasis on plot gave him too much time to indulge in a fault common to most Victorian novelists: maudlin sentimentality!

2. Collins makes good use of another staple to Victorian novelists: the use of many voices to tell the narrative. Most of his novels are a series of diaries, journals and letters written by various characters within the story. If handled well, this is a good technique for telling a story. The problem comes when the character is too limited to his or her social station to fully explicate exactly what's going on. Another drawback can be the very choppy nature of the narrative, jerking to and fro between different voices.

3. Collins is by no means unique in the Victorian world for his belief in providence or destiny. However, his books have the seeming fault of mostly being constructed on a whole series of unlikely coincidences. If two people knew each other in Italy or elsewhere on the continent, they are absolutely certain to meet again, purely by chance (or is it destiny?), in the streets of London. Anyone who has a belief in destiny or karma will easily find a way to forgive this particular idiosyncracy, but there is no denying that in the context of a novel, too many coincidences piled on top of each other do begin to jar.

4. As in most Victorian novels, the need to conform to a very conventional morality does, at times, make for heavy reading. Fortunately, Collins' plots are usually so delightfully byzantine that one doesn't need to dwell on this for long periods (Collins himself kept two women and had 3 children--all out of wedlock).

5. Another source of conflict with Dickens must have been Collins' essentially upper class background. His father was a painter and fellow of the Royal Academy. What a contrast with Dickens' "bootshining" background! In terms of his writing, Collins' social position meant he was always happier describing the doings of upper class and aristocratic society than the ambience of the common man. Many of his novels have a well-to-do, country-house setting.

6. More than most Victorian writers, Collins desrves to have his reputation re-evaluated. He wrote 30 novels--and a good two-thirds of them should still be available in cheap editions (though the advent of the Internet means most of his books are now available absolutely free).

2009-03-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

WAS THIS THE FACE THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND QUIPS?

It seems that Professor Stanley Wells has decided that an Elizabethan portrait that has been in the possession of the Irish Cobbe family since the early 18th century, is the only surviving lifetime portrait of Shakespeare. In his own words:

"The evidence that it represents Shakespeare and that is was done from life, though it is circumstantial, is in my view overwhelming. I feel in little doubt that this is a portrait of Shakespeare, done from life and commissioned by the Earl of Southampton and believe it could certainly be the basis for the engraving seen in the First Folio."

Now the second picture, above, is the Droueshot engraving that appeared in the First Folio. Am I the only person who sees little or no resemblance between these two pictures? In the first place, the Shakespeare of the engraving is bald and certainly middle-aged, while the recently discovered portrait (bottom) is of a younger man with a handsome head of hair. Perhaps, then, it could be Shakespeare from 20 years earlier? Not so. The portrait has been dated to 1610--or just 6 years before the poet died. Did Shakespeare lose all his hair and age so much in just 6 years? It is also important to remember that the engraving--dull as it may be--appeared with the First Folio and was approved by Heminges and Condell who knew Shakespeare personally. It MUST have some likeness to the real Shakespeare as many who read the First Folio--beyond Heminges and Condell--had known Shakespeare when he was alive. The first well-known picture of Shakespeare, above, is the Chandos portrait. This is the portrait of Shakespeare looking a tad bohemian with an earring and open collar. Now this has been proved to have been painted around 1610 (about the same date as the new portrait) and is usually credited to John Taylor. There is certainly a likeness between the Droushot engraving and the Chandos portrait, even if the portrait is far more complimentary. Both men are bald and probably around the same age. However, it takes a real stretch of the imagination to see any connection between the dandy of Professor Wells's new portrait and the Chandos picture. In spite of this, the whole saga began when a latter-day member of the Cobbe family viewed the Chandos portrait in London and decided that there was an uncanny similarity between his own picture of an unknown Elizabethan and Shakespeare. He eventually went on to claim that the Chandos Shakespeare had been copied from his own earlier original. Now, one thing that is absolutely clear is that Shakespeare during the latter part of his life was bald or balding. Besides the Droueshot engraving, we also have the bust of Shakespeare in Holy Trinity church to give us evidence of this. Remember, this would have been seen and approved of by his widow and family. Of course, like the Droushot engraving, the bust does Shakespeare no favors and makes him look like a possibly pedantic bank clerk--yet these images were approved of by the family and friends of Shakespeare. The Chandos portrait is more in the mould of what we expect an Elizabethan poet to look like--but it is still, as regards likeness, in the same ball park as the Droueshot engraving and the Holy Trinity bust. The new Cobbe portrait is totally dissimilar

VERDICT: ABSOLUTELY UNCONVINCED!

2009-02-21T04:10:00.000-08:00

PERICLES PRINCE OF TYRE: 6--It's difficult to believe that Shakespeare had much to do with this farrago. The play begins with Pericles challenging for the hand of the King of Antioch's daughter. Only the suitor who can answer the King's riddle can become his daughter's husband. Pericles correctly sees that the answer to the riddle is that Antiochus is in an incestuous relationship with his daughter--and to flee the King's wrath Pericles escapes from Antioch and then leaves Tyre itself. This is effectively the start of the real play as this early theme dies during Pericles' travels, and he later marries, becomes father to a daughter, and loses both wife and daughter in a storm at sea. Neither, however, dies and Pericles is later reunited with both. The plot simply doesn't hang together and there is little poetry of any real merit in the play. I feel fairly certain that Shakespeare had either nothing or very little to do with the writing of this drama.

I give it 6 only because of a strong performance as Pericles by Mike Gwilym--who earlier starred as Berowne in the BBC's "Love's Labour's Lost".

2009-02-18T06:32:00.000-08:00

GLYNDEBOURNE FESTIVAL, 1973

What is it with Mozart? His symphonic music and concertos are charming but, after so many years, do rather show their age. Yes, everything is wonderful and the notes are all in the right place, but somehow it's all a little too formal, formulaic even. It's nice music to dance a waltz to or introduce a tone deaf friend to the riches of classical music with, but...sometimes you feel if you've heard one piano concerto you've heard them all.

Now this is definitely not the case when we examine Mozart's operas--and particularly the three almost perfect operas he wrote with the Italian librettist, Lorenzo Da Ponte. These three works are as alive today in the operatic repertoire as they were in Mozart's day: or even more famous now really as, at the time of composition, Mozart was in a largely losing battle with Salieri and Martin Y Soler for courtly recognition. The Duke of Vienna famously remarked to the composer on hearing Figaro: "A beautiful work maestro, but too many notes", to which Mozart (equally famously) replied: "Just as many as necessary my lord". It seems amazing to us now that the ears of the listeners of the time didn't immediately inform them that this was the work of a majestic genius and that the tinkling tunes of Salieri and Co. were no more than workaday stuff. Yet as Ezra Pound informs us in his poem Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, "no one knows at sight a masterpiece".

With Figaro, probably for the first time, Mozart fully realised the intricate complexity of his musical art. This is exciting music. This is character driven music. This is music where the intertwining vocal lines express cynicism, hope, love, hate, ambition and sly craftiness. Each individual vocal and instrumental line perfectly unfolds the inner drama of a character, yet at the same time adds something to the contrapuntal and emotional whole. Duets and trios abound and slowly but surely Mozart builds up to his overwhelming sestets and octets that usually close an act with sublime confusion, joy or fear. The orchestra in Mozart's operas is never merely present to give an "oom-pa-pa" accompaniment, but interacts in a symbiotic way with the vocal lines: gurgling woodwind underscores the irony of Musetto's claim that he knows Don Giovanni to be a "cavaliere" or gentleman and flashing, firework-like strokes of the violins bring Figaro to its joyful conclusion.

So what about this 1973 Glyndebourne production? As a teenager, it was this televised production that fully stirred my interest in Mozart and opera in general. Yes, I fell a little bit in love with the Countess, Susanna and Frederica Von Stade's stunning Cherubino; yet looking back after all these years I can only commend myself for my good taste. The leading singers--Kiri Te Kanawa, Ileana Cotrubas, Von Stade, and Benjamin Luxon--really are superb. Knut Skram is very good as Figaro and the fact that he subsequently decided to spend most of his time in Norway should not blind us to the fact that he is an extremely good singer. The secondary roles are also exceptionally well sung. Nucci Condo as Marcellina comes in for a special mention because she brings this somewhat dull part to multi-faceted life with her protestations and sly exclamations. John Pritchard conducts the orchestra with a keen ear for sonic effect within a small auditorium, and the costumes and direction (the latter by Peter Hall) are both quite superb.

If you don't have any other performance of Figaro on DVD, then this is the one you should get.

2009-02-15T06:11:00.000-08:00

KING LEAR: 9.85--I have seen Laurence Olivier, Anthony Quayle and Michael Hordern in this part and, for me, Hordern is the best. He posseses an ability to project his sufferings outwards in a way that is beyond Olivier and Quayle, who present softer and more interior Lears. Needless to say, then, I rate this BBC production very highly. Lear in its uncompromising concentration on man in the "nude", "naked" man, brings us face to face with everyman's beginning and end. Probably, it is Shakespeare's greatest tragedy. If I had to carp, I would ask why none of Lear's 100 retainers possessed a castle where the old man could stay after being kicked out by Goneril and Regan! (but perhaps such a question would be churlish?).

KING JOHN: 8.75--Leonard Rossiter was made for this role, precisely capturing John's sly craftiness. The play was apparently one of Shakespeare's most frequently performed in the 19th century, due to its visual emphasis on pomp and ceremony. It tells a good story, and deserves more than the present neglect (into which it has fallen).

THE TEMPEST: 9--Another vehicle for Hordern, this time as Prospero. A somewhat fantastic play, but filled with great poetry (the latter, much used and adapted by T.S. Eliot in "The Wasteland").

2009-02-10T00:24:00.000-08:00

Merry Wives of Windsor:

9.5--I like this play a lot and always have done. It is generally considered one of Shakespeare's lesser comedies and it certainly lacks the verbal and moral complexity of "Measure for Measure" and "Twelfth Night". However, if what one craves is a deliciously humorous farce then TMWOW is just the thing. Poor Falstaff decides to woo two respectable wives of Windsor, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. They are incensed that the old man should think them women of little virtue, and decide to punish him in a series of sight gags that are still funny more than 400 years later. First, Falstaff has to hide in a stinking linen basket in order to escape an irate husband before, later, being unceremoniously tossed into the Thames (still inside the basket). After that, at a second tryst, he is made to dress as an old woman hated for witchcraft in order to escape his pursuers. This time he receives a good pummeling and is beaten black and blue. Finally, the play ends in a masque-like ceremony in the nearby wood where Falstaff, dressed as Herne the Hunter, with horns on his head (an ironic put-down for the would-be cuckolder) is pinched a thousand times by the children of the townspeople dressed as fairies. At last, all is revealed and, as would be expected of the old man, Falstaff doesn't turn a hair at his general humiliation, but is even able to jest about it.

It is said that the writing of this play was commanded directly by Elizabeth I herself because she wished to "see Falstaff in love". This seems likely enough as Shakespeare did present many of his plays for the Queen at court during his lifetime, and the first performance of this play was indeed at Whitehall. TMWOW does show some signs of being written in haste, and there is little poetry of any real quality in it. However, if the Queen wanted to see the old fat man making a series of blunders in love, then she would not have been disappointed. It is often said that this is Shakespeare's only contemporary play set, as it is, in Elizabethan times. I'm not sure if this is true. Firstly, we know Falstaff had appeared in the Henry IV plays--which were set hundreds of years before. There is also a reference in the play to Master Fenton, the young wooer, having been a friend of the Prince and Poins in his youth. Perhaps the truth is that in order to satisfy the Queen's request, Shakespeare set the action in a kind of historical limbo which, like the majority of limbos, most resembled the present.

The Taming of the Shrew:

8.25--A good solid presentation of a difficult play by the BBC. The difficulty lies in the fact that the Shrew, Katherine, is tamed by Petruchio through the use of what we would probably call today "psychological torture". It goes without saying that this play is not a favourite with feminist critics and the problem for today's audiences is akin to the difficulties associated with Shakespeare's presentation of Jews in "The Merchant of Venice". In the end one just has to accept that Shakespeare mostly gives a representation of reality that is consonant with his time. John Cleese as Petruchio does a pretty good job, though it's clear that the director has got him to play up the absurdity at times (what on earth is the reason for those persistent clucking noises he makes?)

2009-02-04T17:30:00.000-08:00

"1599" by James Shapiro

This is a thoughtful book about an important year in Shakespeare's life, and Shapiro clearly gets it right about many things: for example, the ways in which the Irish rebellion, Essex's fate, and the threat of a second Armada from Spain influenced Shakespeare's art that year. According to Shapiro, the demise of the concept of chivalry is strongly present as a central idea in "Hamlet" where the protagonist's indecision seems to have its origin in the existential vacuum left by the death of a chivalric moral code. Shapiro interestingly links this with Essex's forbidden return to England from Ireland and his unscheduled meeting with the Queen which, according to the earlier code, should have resulted in chivalric success but, in the new moral climate of the time, was merely a prelude to Essex's trial for treason and eventual execution. Shapiro is also good on pointing out the way in which the Elizabethan populace was still not used to the reduction of holidays after the Reformation, when the Catholic saint days were cut from the religious calendar (connecting this with the first scene of "Julius Caesar"). Furthermore, the two tribunes who remonstrate with the crowd at the beginning of the play ("Hence home you idle creatures, hence you home...")are seen as the embodiment of the new puritanism which frowned on frivolous entertainment and idle amusement in Elizabeth's protestant England. On the other hand, as Shapiro points out, the Elizabethan theatre itself had gained in popularity since the demise of the ostentatious show associated with Catholicism. It had become, so to speak, a substitute for religious entertainments which were no longer permitted.

I found the weakest part of Shapiro's book to be the chapters dealing with "As You Like It". His central thesis seems to be that in earlier romantic comedies, including Shakespeare's, true love had always been blocked by some outward source: an irate parent, cruel fate, or whatever. However (says Shapiro) in AYLI Shakespeare went beyond this rather mechanical structure and placed the impediment in Orlando's own mind: he must learn how to love before he can truly be worthy of Rosalind. His early bad versifying is seen as an example of his ineptitude and those scenes where Rosalind (playing the part of Ganymede)instructs him in the ways of love are regarded as his essential education. Now this might be a good interpretation or not, but it appears strangely conventional compared to the rest of Shapiro's insights. AYLI as a play in which one of the protagonists must learn "how to love" seems to belong to a long line of rather dated Shakespearean criticism based on some kind of analysis or psychoanalysis of the central characters.

Perhaps Shapiro's most incisive point is his insight that through the reading of the essays of Montaigne and others, Shakespeare developed his mastery of the internal dialogue or soliloquy and, through this, a profound method for the writing of tragedy. As Shapiro points out, "Hamlet" was probably Shakespeare's least original play being largely based on an earlier drama of the same name. However, the addition of Hamlet's self-questioning soliloquies made all the difference, producing what is still generally considered to be Shakespeare's best play.

In conclusion, Shapiro's book is thought-provoking and useful in reconstructing the social mileau from which Shakespeare's plays were produced. However, Shakespeare himself still, somehow, remains mostly absent in a way that might be considered surprising. After all, he was at the centre of the group that built the Globe, performed regularly before the Queen at Whitehall and Richmond, and was frequently spoken of by contemporaries. Perhaps the truth is that Shakespeare as a man was just not very memorable compared to larger-than-life characters such as Ben Jonson and Christopher Marlowe. Only his internal life was exceptional, and it is Shapiro's achievement in this very readable book to throw at least a few shafts of light upon that darkness.

2009-01-30T01:35:00.000-08:00

ELIZABETHAN DRAMA ON DVD

Of course, I mean non-Shakespearean Elizabethan drama on DVD. There are rumours that Sam Mendes, Kate Winslett's husband, is currently trying to sell the BBC on redoing all of Shakespeare's plays again. More surprisingly, the beeb is said to be interested in the project. What on earth is the point of doing all 40 or so dramas again, just 25 years or so after the last cycle? So Mendes and others can situate Shakespeare's political intrigues of the 15th century in the corridors of power on Capitol Hill? What a waste of time! The credit for Shakespeare's genius is always primarily Shakespeare's and the most a serious director can do for him is to give a reasonably faithful rendition of his drama. Of course, Mendes wants to make a great classical name for himself by directing these plays and, no doubt, we will have his wife in a variety of Shakespearean roles that 25 years ago, mostly went to Helen Mirren. Needless to say, the beeb's last "bardothon" was hardly perfect and some of the plays got very poor treatment ("Antony and Cleopatra", "Romeo and Juliet", "As You Like It" and "Othello" come easily to mind). On the other hand, several of the productions were really very good (most of the history plays, "King Lear", "Measure For Measure", "Twelth Night" and many of the little known comedies and tragedies). An enterprise of this sort--extended as it is over space and time--is never likely to have a consistent level of performance throughout, and Mendes' new cycle, should it come to fruition, will no doubt be just as imperfect--or perhaps even worse--than the beeb's previous effort more than 25 years ago.

How much more worthwhile it would be for the BBC to give its attention to producing a cycle of non-Shakespearean dramas of the period to go with its previous Shakespearean effort. It would be wonderful to have Jonson's "Volpone", "Alchemist" and "Sejanus" on DVD for perpetuity as well as Marlowe's, Webster's and Middleton's plays. John Ford's "'Tis Pity She's a Whore" is a wonderful drama as is also The "Spanish Tragedy" and Dekker's "The Revenger's Tragedy". Imagine having access to a definitive dramatic source for Beaumont and Fletcher's plays and Jacobean city comedy! Alas, it almost certainly won't happen. Shakespeare's name can still easily be sold to the culturally challenged, yuppie-like denizens of the BBC, but the names of Webster, Dekker and Ford are likely to receive only bemused glances. Perhaps eventually, with the growing tendency to record live performance, most of these lesser known plays of the Elizabethan period will be filmed in the theatre itself--as has already happened with lots of lesser known operas.

We can only hope!

2009-01-21T14:50:00.000-08:00

Some commentators don't like these 3 history plays, regarding them as unnecessarily gruesome and almost unperformable. I would disagree. Elizabethan audiences enjoyed some blood and gore--even as modern audiences seem to if we examine the evidence of Hollywood movies. However, violence possessed a more personal dimension for the Elizabethans as executions and amputations were still forms of public show. The second criticism is perhaps more just, but a sensitive director will understand the surreal qualities of a story that encapsulates so many actions and so much time. However one looks at it, these 3 plays are a remarkable achievement for a young dramatist of less than 30 years.

HENRY VI, PART ONE: 8.5--A fine performance of a play that takes place largely in France. Henry begins to lose the French dominions won by his father, and his nobles--in the absence of strong leadership--begin to squabble amongst themselves. Joan of Arc is portrayed without sympathy as a charlatan witch, and the main interest of the play lies in the successes of Lord Talbot (Trevor Peacock). The scenes where the latter faces inevitable death in company with his brave son sometimes reach a level of high poetic power.

HENRY VI, PART TWO: 8--More squabbles between the Houses of York and Lancaster. Trevor Peacock plays the role of Jack Cade, the common man's king, with suitable gusto, and the Duke of York's plotting begins to come to fruition.

HENRY VI, PART THREE: 8.5--Often cited as the best of the three dramas, but I would suggest that part one is just as good. The Duke of York's son, Richard, starts to enter into his bloody own in this play, which acts as a curtain raiser for the later Richard III. During the course of this drama, the Duke of York is killed and his son becomes Edward IV of England. The unfortunate Henry and his son both die tragically.

2009-01-16T02:43:00.000-08:00

TIMON OF ATHENS: 8.5--A good production of what is sometimes termed an "experimental" play. The experimentalism comes in because the drama does not easily break down into a 5 act structure--and the latter part of the play simply focuses on a mad Timon, living wild, somewhere on the outskirts of Athens, being visited, one at a time, by those he had known in better days. This latter section is certainly minimalist, but works quite well in the context of the play as a whole. Jonathan Pryce gives us a suitably tortured Timon.

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA: 9--A pleasing drama, somewhat in the mood of the first two acts of Romeo and Juliet. It is hard to understand why this play is so neglected, full as it is of light romance and narrative interest. Certainly one reason must be the shocking error against taste and dramatic sense which takes place at the end of the play when the wronged Valentine forgives his friend Proteus and, as a sign of sincerity, offers him the hand of the lady Silvia--who Proteus had previously tried to win by false means. This play is also famous for the well-known song "Who is Silvia", set to music by various well-known composers. One final thought: it is rare to find a Shakespeare play without at least one phrase that has come into the language as proverbial wisdom. Here, the phrase occurs in the wood when Valentine is taken by thieves and decides to "make a virtue of a necessity" by joining them and becoming their leader.

RICHARD II: 9.5--An excellent production of a fine play. Derek Jacobi is here much more assured than he was in Hamlet--probably because his own personality is nearer in type to the somewhat effete Richard than to the introspective and more martial Hamlet. Shakespeare thoroughly alienates his audience against the maverick King Richard in the first part of the play and then spends the rest of the drama building up his heroic pathos. The poetry in this play is of a very high standard--but it should be remembered that the poetry is Shakespeare's and not Richard's (and by so doing, reject those sentimental critics of the play who see the suffering Richard turned into a prophetic poet in the latter part of the drama). It should also be noted that Jon Finch is excellent in the part of the highly ambiguous Bolingbroke (or Henry IV to be).

2009-01-09T10:42:00.000-08:00

TITUS ANDRONICUS: 9.25--Anyone who loves Elizabethan revenge tragedies such as "The Spanish Tragedy" and "The Revenger's Tragedy" itself will love this one. Yes, it's every bit as gory as you've heard--but it's also a masterfully constructed revenge tragedy of the type the Elizabethans did so well. It has been conjectured that this drama is not by Shakespeare at all but by some lesser playwright, but the build-up of tension and the expertly paced conglomeration of human misery is extremely Shakespearean--as is also the language and sensibility. Yes, it's clearly an early work with rough edges--but it's wonderfully entertaining as well. This is a fine production too but, really, the director only needs to let this drama speak for itself. For the squeamish I should note that the action includes 2 beheadings, 1 murder, 3 chopped off hands, a ripped-out tongue, a father who kills his own son, 5 revenge killings, 1 mercy killing and a man who is buried in the earth and left to starve. No doubt this extensive representation of gory deeds resonated much more closely with an Elizabethan audience, used as they were to public executions and amputations.

HAMLET: 9.5--The revenge tragedy par excellence or, rather, the revenge tragedy taken on to a higher plane and sublimated into true psychological drama. I'd give it 10 except for the fact that I have never been 100% happy with Derek Jacobi's interpretation which includes too much shouting and grimacing for my liking. Gielgud had the voice and Olivier the young athleticism to do the role of Hamlet justice. Therefore, the ideal Hamlet might be a composite of these two.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL: 8.5--Very good. Parolles provides the farce and Bertram and Helena the central drama.. Some commentators have regretted the sudden change in Bertram's behaviour at the end of the play when he unexpectedly declares his love for Helena--but anyone who thinks of the play primarily as a text and structure, will see that the conversion was necessary in order to preserve dramatic unity.

2009-01-06T07:47:00.000-08:00

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST: 8--Good enough--though I don't think the Regency setting adds anything useful to the play. A good LLL depends on an able and suitable actor to play the loquacious Berowne and in this production Mike Gwilym does an acceptable job--though he seems to have so much make-up on that one can barely see his face.

RICHARD III: 9.85--At last a tragedy that takes the same high mark as the comedy, "Measure For Measure"! Nick Cook is superb as Richard and all the other roles are played with aplomb. This production will come as something of a revelation to anyone who remembers this drama best in the Lawrence Olivier film version. The Olivier production cut out a good third of the text and made a simple morality play of a complex drama. In this almost complete edition, the psychological realism has been restored and it emerges as one of the true jewels in the Shakespearean crown.

CYMBELINE: 8.25--Apparently this was one of Shakespeare's most performed plays through the 18th century, but subsequently declined in popularity. This BBC production is highly entertaining, and Helen Mirren--so ill-at-ease in "As You Like It" does a great job in the role of Imogen.

2009-01-02T05:07:00.000-08:00

MACBETH: 9--An excellent performance of Shakespeare's "Scottish play". Nicol Williamson and Jane Lapotaire are both extremely strong in the central roles. The action of the play seems to unfold far more quickly than in Shakespeare's other tragedies, and, indeed, the play is a good half hour shorter than most of Shakespeare's other late dramas. The tradition is that John Middleton edited Macbeth and that this edited version is the one that has come down to us. If this is true, then Middleton did a fine job of cutting out the inessential and condensing the main action into a compelling whole.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA: 7--One of my own favourite plays is here marred by lack-lustre staging, direction and acting. Colin Blakeley plays Antony as a tree might play a block of wood. He has no charisma and charisma and charm is central to the role of Antony. The direction of Jonathan Miller is slow and laboured while the staging is miserly in its paucity. The only bright spot in this lugubrious production is Jane Lapotaire's interpretation of Cleopatra. Would that she had had a worthy Antony beside her!

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS: 9.25--An excellent production of a rarely seen play. This is one of Shakespeare's earliest dramas, probably written between 1589 and 1604 and, like the later "Tempest", it follows the rules of the classical unities. Indeed, its story of two sets of identical twins separated at birth, is a typical theme of the Roman comedies of Terence and Plautus. All the actors give a good performance, and Roger Daltrey is surprisingly good as Dromio.

2009-01-01T07:26:00.000-08:00

Deconstructing RP

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak translates Derrida's "sous ratures" as "under erasure" and in this short essay I would like to put British (more correctly "English") RP--Received Pronunciation--under erasure. I think it is clear that a text (and here I am using "text" in the semiotic sense of any meaningful code which communicates a message) is most easily put "under erasure" when we do not take it at face value: we do not automatically accept its own claims for itself. Instead, we reveal hidden inconsistencies and weaknesses, points of strain and rupture until the true text begins to reveal itself. A simple example would be the Marxist concept of dialectical materialism. According to this, history possesses an immanent motion that is sure to propel the proletariat to political power and eventually subsume all classes into one. One might begin a critique by asking lots of awkward questions: "Is God behind history?", "If not, what is the active agent that propels the motion of history?", "What about the many instances where the theory refuted itself, such as the peasant takeover of Russia in 1917? (rather than the bourgeois revolution predicted by Marxism"). It is by asking such questions that we can begin to "open up a text", put it "under erasure" and see the cracks appear that will eventually lead to the collapse of the whole edifice.

What are the initial awkward questions then that we should ask about RP? "From what historical context does RP arise?", "What claims does RP make for itself?", "In what sense is RP correct?", "Who speaks RP and who is excluded?", "What are the assumptions that underlie RP?" "Are these assumptions true?" Perhaps these are enough questions to be going on with. Let us try to answer some of them at least.

1. FROM WHAT HISTORICAL CONTEXT DID RP ARISE? Daniel Jones, the linguist who first labeled RP, initially called it PSP or "Public School Pronunciation". These "Public Schools" originally developed after 1870 and in the wake of the Arnoldian revolution. The typical features of the public school--boarding facilities, emphasis on games, prefects, etc.--only developed after this time. Previously, traditional grammar schools had based themselves on familial models and were mostly local, taking students only from their immediate areas. Between 1870 and 1900 the basic system that we now know as "public school" was established, with its emphasis on educating the sons of the aristocracy and upper classes in Spartan environments far away from home. John Honey, in his book "An Historic Tongue" makes clear the reasons for the rise of RP:

"Around 1870 the question "Where did you go to school?" began to become crucial for appointment to jobs, commissions in the army, entry to clubs, and in terms of general social acceptability. Biographical reference books began to record details of schooling, and (for example) Oxford University matriculation registers suddenly , for the first time, began in the 1890s to take note of entrants' previous schooling. One of the curiosities of the situation was the great imprecision about which schools actually constituted the "public school system", so that reference books, school registers, and the newly invented device of the Old School Tie could only confirm the credentials to public school status of those who had attended the better-known public schools. The other recognition device invented by the public school system, a specific accent, served by its absence to exclude all those who could not have been to public schools, but gave the benefit of the doubt to those who, having gone to some trouble to acquire it elsewhere, advertised their identification at second-hand with that system."

But why was it suddenly so important that members of the aristocracy and upper classes should distinguish themselves from the rest of society? There were two important historical reasons. Previously, most British children had not received an education so those who could read and write, possessed social graces and cultural aptitudes, easily recognised one another in spite of their regional accents. However, with the passing of the 1870 Education Act, in theory at least, all children were to have the right to an education--and in these circumstances the ruling classes, afraid of the potentiality for new literacy amongst the general population, dedicated themselves to creating ways in which they could easily recognise each other while excluding the mass of the population. A second cause for the development of RP was the spread of the British Empire in the late 19th century. The hundred years between 1815 and 1915 are often referred to as Britain's "Imperial Century" and, at its height, more than a quarter of the globe's population lived in an English dominated territory. The administrators for this huge enterprise were mostly taken from the public schools and the old universities, so RP began to be more aggressively associated with political power. John Honey is again informative about this relationship between RP and political power:

"The degree of prescription of English pronunciation exercised first by the public schools and then by their imitators in the rest of the school system for at least a century after 1870 has been one of the great unexamined aspects of our social history. In 1895 a Rugby master asked a colleague about the newly appointed Head: 'Tell me, is James a gentleman? Understand me, I don't mean, does he speak the Queen's English but--had he a grandfather.?' It would be the achievement of the public school system to substitute for ancestry as the criterion of 'gentleman' status, first, membership of that public school caste itself, and secondly, the ability to speak the Queen's English with the specific accent and intonation which the public school system was now establishing as a standard. It is salutary to reflect that it is barely two decades since the death of a well-known Englishman--diplomat, politician, and author: public school and Oxford--who once declared that he found himself unable to take seriously anyone who spoke with what he called a 'common voice'. It takes an effort to recollect that Sir Harold Nicolson was a member of the Labour Party."

The upshot of this placing of RP in its historical context is to show that RP has no long and famous history and, moreover, that the original reasons for its acceptance and spread no longer exist.

DIDN'T FAMOUS ENGLISH PEOPLE ALWAYS TALK RP? Not at all. Up until the rise of RP in the public schools (for the reasons we have already looked at) nearly everyone spoke in their local accent (and often their local dialect too). Let's look again at Honey for more information about this:

"(People) outside London, were still influenced, in varying degrees, by pronunciation forms which reflected local dialects...This was true of Sir Robert Walpole, despite Eton and Cambridge, the 14th Earl of Derby (Eton and Oxford), the 15th Earl of Derby (Rugby and Cambridge) who, according to Disraeli, 'spoke a Lancashire patois'; and it was even to a slight extent true of Gladstone himself (Eton and Oxford), of whose speech Disraeli wrote tersely 'Gladstone was provincial, but a very fine voice.' Sir Robert Peel (founder of the police force) grew up in Staffordshire and attended Harrow and Oxford. Disraeli's account suggests he pronounced 'put' as 'putt': 'to the last he said 'woonderful' and woonderfully...' A good number of later Victorian public school headmasters as well as leading Oxford and Cambridge dons who had attended their public schools before 1870, retained marked traces of regional accent....We are required to envisage a transitional stage (say 1870-1900) in which boys with non standard accents entering a given school in the public school system are induced to adapt to the standard (the evidence suggests this was done...by the ruthless shaming of those who spoke otherwise...) Such a process would certainly have to allow for the continued presence in the school of masters--even a headmaster--who spoke with marked non standard features: we have evidence that this was the case, and that the boys adopted various degrees of tolerance to accommodate that fact.

WHAT CLAIMS DOES RP MAKE FOR ITSELF? That it is "correct". As anyone who has studied linguistics will know, phonology is value free and sounds are neutral. Even dialects are "correct" when their own rules of pronunciation and grammar are followed. If more people decide to pronounce a particular sound in a short, rather than a long, way then that is a social event. It says nothing about "correctness". Of course, the claim of RP to be "correct" has now been seriously challenged by, in particular, American English. The long term decline of RP in competition with American pronunciation has been going on for years and is likely to continue in the future.

ISN'T RP AND BBC ENGLISH THE SAME? The BBC established its rules at a time when the influence of RP was strong. Most of its newsreaders, producers and directors came from the same public school backgrounds. In recent years there has been a considerable relaxation concerning RP pronunciation and this is likely to continue in the future.

CONCLUSION: From this discussion it can be seen that the rise of RP coincided with important historical events such as the growth of empire and the establishment of new educational ideals. It did not drop from the skies ready-made and it does not, even today, have a history of much more than a hundred years. Famous people (indeed, all people) spoke, to a greater or lesser extent, with regional accents before 1870. Today, the empire has gone and universal education is well-established in Britain. This is to say, that the philosophical and historical factors that underpinned the creation and success of RP are no longer with us. Within Britain itself (or only England really) RP still has some faded luster (though that is counter-posed by a virulent dislike of the accent in other quarters). It is clear that a more neutral English accent is in the process of developing--and in the long run, this must signal the eventual demise of RP. If Britain once ruled the waves then today the USA might be thought--at least in some quarters--to rule the world. In consequence, it is the mix of regional, Irish, Scottish and European accents that went into the creation of American English that is slowly emerging as the new standard.

2008-12-31T07:03:00.000-08:00

HENRY V: 9.5--Excellently done and David Gwillim, who was sometimes a little frenetic during the two parts of Henry IV, here makes the part of King Henry his own. Sometimes he seemed too kingly playing Prince Hal, but here something of the young Prince's freshness is allowed to temper the royal authority. The production is restrained and compelling. To tell the truth, as long as the actors and staging are right, it's difficult to get this play wrong. Certainly, it's one of Shakespeare's most direct and immediate.

JULIUS CAESAR: 9.75--Notwithstanding Ben Jonson's criticisms, Shakespeare seemed to get inside the bodies and minds of Ancient Romans in a most dramatically accurate way. It is often said that this is really the tragedy of Brutus, as Caesar's scenes are, relatively speaking, so few. The point is debatable as Caesar, or the presence of Caesar, directs the action of the whole play. On the other hand, it's true that Brutus is the flawed hero, destroyed by a single fault (his capacity to overlook his personal friendship with Caesar for, what he believed, was the good of the Roman state). Richard Pascoe makes a brooding Brutus, and Keith Michell an athletic and rhetorically able Anthony. For me, the one stain on this excellent production is the casting of Charles Gray as Caesar. First, he is far too old. Secondly, though he definitely comes across in all his roles as an aristocratic patrician, he seems to have nothing of Caesar's energy and intelligence. Gray is a lounge lizard, able--in Eliot's words--"to start a scene or two". Other than this one point, it's an excellent production.

OTHELLO: 8--Wildly uneven. Bob Hoskins is superb as Iago--an inspired choice. Conversely, Anthony Hopkins makes an inappropriate Othello. Hopkins is a fine actor, but imagine him with boot polish on his face, a curly black wig, pot belly and an undisguised Welsh accent, and you may understand why he was not a perfect choice for this simple soldier's part. Almost equally miscast is Penelope Wilton as Desdemona. First of all, she could be Desdemona's mother and it's embarrassing watching her trying to simper like a young girl. Secondly, she has a certain carping tone which may be good for comedy and "lady of the manor" roles, but is completely wrong for Desdemona. In spite of these major problems, the final scenes are played with energy and emotional power: the denoument is shattering and cathartic.

2008-12-25T05:19:00.000-08:00

ROMEO AND JULIET: 6.5--The mark is given more for the play itself than the uneven and miscast BBC production. Romeo is most clearly miscast with Patrick Ryecart's acting reminiscent of a particularly otiose block of wood. Christopher Strauli as Benvolio isn't much better and Rebecca Saire as Juliet is by no means memorable. Anthony Andrews' Mercutio is handsome and athletic, but he sometimes chops up his lines to the point of near incomprehension. There is often too much emphasis on staged sword fights--presumably in a doomed attempt to up the tempo. The final act remains effective, as even this slow and stony production cannot completely undermine its emotional power.

THE WINTER'S TALE: 7--As one might infer from the title, this is a somewhat chilly play of Shakespeare's. I think there is a problem with psychological realism here. First, Leontes decides he wishes to kill his childhood friend, Polixenes, merely because Leontes' wife, Hermione,succeeds in convincing Polixenes to extend his visit to Sicily for a few days longer--exactly the thing which Leontes wanted himself. After the "death" of his wife and son, Leontes devotes himself to 16 years of prayerful remorse, refusing to remarry. Perhaps he was a schizophrenic? In any case, the acting and direction is good enough but, predictably, cannot compensate for a tired and world-weary text.

HENRY IV, PARTS 1 & 2: 9.65--These were the plays that first alerted me to Shakespeare's remarkable genius, with their juxtaposition of light and darkness, comedy and tragedy. Falstaff is a remarkable creation and Anthony Quayle here plays him with a crafty gusto. Shakespeare loved punning, but perhaps there are more puns in these 2 plays than in any of Shakespeare's other works. Interestingly, when Falstaff replies to Prince Hal that he will not give reasons on compunction--not even if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries--there is yet another hidden pun present. In Shakespeare's day, "reason" was pronounced the same as "raisin"--and so the pun becomes apparent! Acting and direction is of a high standard in this production with the only blemish being an occasionally over-the-top performance by David Gwillim as Prince Hal.

2008-12-20T04:35:00.000-08:00

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA: 9.75--A so-called "problem play"--but wherein lies the problem? Yes, there is a continuous juxtaposition made between the story of Troilus and Cressida and the fate of Troy--but what of it? The one mirrors the other: Troilus' failure to keep Cressida from the clutches and hot beds of the Greeks reflects Priam and Hector's inability to prevent the fall of Troy. An earthy humour is mixed in with both stories. Ajax is the butt of Ulysses' wit and apparently in Shakespeare's time "Ajax" was pronounced "A-jacks" (which was another name for a toilet!). Some will insist the play is problematic because the hero, Troilus, doesn't die. But is Troilus the hero? Hector would seem to be the noblest of the Greeks and Trojans--and he does die at the hands of a treacherous Achilles. All the characters, except perhaps Hector, have an earthy quality that seems to mock at their fabled greatness. An example of Ben Jonson's strictures on Shakespeare for his inhistoricity occurs during the council of war at Troy. Hector upbraids his brothers for moralising too much and informs them that Aristotle had stated the opinion that young men should not study moral philosophy. Needless to say, the fall of Troy took place around a thousand years before Aristotle lived! Nevertheless, this is a fine production, well-acted and directed. It emerges not as a problem play, but as one of the better examples of Shakespeare's genius. Charles Grey deserves a special mention in the part of Pandarus.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE: 8--A good solid mark for a good solid play and production. Of course, it is racist by our contemporary standards, and for this reason it is far more of a "problem" play than "Troilus and Cressida" ever was. Shylock, the money-lender, is a Jew and Shakespeare weighs him down with all the so-called defects of his race. Finally, after being completely humiliated by the laws of Venice, he has his wealth confiscated and is forced to become a Christian. Warren Mitchell (of "Till Death Us Do Part" fame) makes a fine Shylock and John Nettles ( "Bergerac"), a surprisingly good Bassanio.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM: 7--Never one of my favourites with its fairies, woods and phantasmogorical themes. Helen Mirren is more at home playing TItania, Queen of the Fairies, than she ever was as Rosalind in "As You Like It" (no doubt due to her having been given the authority of a Queen in this play). All in all, this is an average performance of a lesser play.

2008-12-18T12:18:00.000-08:00

Henry VIII, As You Like It, Coriolanus

Henry VIII: 7--A problem appeared with the assessment of this play. If I am marking only the production, then I could give it 9.75: and indeed, an American organisation has graded it as the first of all the BBC productions. Certainly, it is beautifully rendered and wisely acted. However, as a play it is very undramatic and I find it hard to believe that Shakespeare had a lot to do with it. Apparently a computer programme recently analysed this drama and concluded it was almost wholly Shakespeare's. My own ear tells me otherwise. If it is, indeed, almost entirely by Shakespeare then one can only marvel at the extent to which his powers declined in his final years. I give it 7 for the poor quality of the text itself. If the performance had also been bad, then I might have given it only 3 or 4.

As You Like It: 6--Yes, even less than my mark for Henry VIII. This is a fine play which is here undone by some half-hearted acting and directing. Angharad Rees as Celia and Richard Pasco as Jacques are the only actors to rise to the occasion. Helen Mirren is too overbearing for the part of "sweet" Rosalind and her attempts to sound winsome utterly fail. Perhaps more cruelly, she is also too old for the part. The rest of the acting is, in a word, poor. Furthermore, the direction and costuming are both over the top.

Coriolanus: 9--A fine play, well-acted and directed. I saw Alan Howard perform the part of Coriolanus at Stratford in the mid-seventies and, over the years, he has come to be identified with this role more than any other. Of course, this is a hard drama full of pride, anger, war, and betrayal. The plot construction is tight, but there is little high-flying poetry in it. Perhaps the most telling defect is the difficulty the text faces an audience with in feeling any sympathy for the violent passing of the so-called Coriolanus, Caius Marcius.

2008-12-13T04:53:00.000-08:00

The Complete Works of Shakespeare on DVD

I haven't added to this blog for some time--mostly because I've been extremely busy. Now, however, I have come up with a topic which can be added to regularly for several months without too much effort on my part: namely, the BBC's issuing of their late seventies and early eighties complete cycle of Shakespeare plays on DVD. A few days ago, I bought this complete collection for about $250 and have already watched 3 plays. I remember seeing some of the plays at the time they were first shown, but I was at university then and didn't pay too much attention. Some of the first thoughts that occur to me are:

1) Such a collection reminds us that Shakespeare was a superb user of language. This might seem an obvious point, but too often the "bard" is viewed as some kind of phenomenon of nature that transcended both time and place. Rather, he was the right person in the right place at the right time, able to fully word and express that lush flowering of the English tongue during the English renaissance.

2) Point one itself gives us food for thought. All the progress made by the human race has been through the use of differing linguistic codes, and it is sobering to realise that someone who lived around 400 years ago was able to use language better than we can ourselves. By association we assume that the England of that time was highly literate and happy and willing to listen to endless quips, puns on language, conceits and metaphors--as well as poetry of the highest order. I fear that today England has no such writers and no such audience. So much for the liberal argument of continuous progress! Perhaps we are in the process of using our languages to invest the future in advanced technological codes. However interesting and satisfying a process this may be, it can only include Shakespeare and other poets in the most oblique way: those of us who still cling to the old signs will never find, through all the ages, a finer exponent of more traditional codes than Shakespeare.

3) Anyone, in our world of a ten-minute attention span, who conscientiously listens to Shakespeare's dramas, will find them still eminently comprehensible: the idea of a modern English "translation" is both absurd and insulting. Absurd because anyone with half an ear to listen, who calls English his/her first language, will have no trouble in understanding. Insulting because it is offensive to believe that the words of one who used language so excellently could ever be the same if changed into a more "comprehensible" version.

4) Perhaps we are in danger of becoming too sophisticated for Shakespeare. Today there are just too many distractions around us for our young people to delight in the words of Shakespeare as previous generations once did. No doubt these densely worded dramas don't work too well on an iPod: better to divide the attention with an inoffensive 3 minute song. However, if Shakespeare is falling out of fashion, then that says more about the present level of culture amongst our young people than anything interesting or insightful about Shakespeare himself.

As other thoughts occur to me during this series of brief reviews I will state them. To the reviews then! Each play is scored out of 10 on the basis of personal whim (impressionistic marking they call it). The order is merely the order in which I watch the plays. Finally, it will be no part of my remit to give synopses of the individual plays--these can easily enough be found elsewhere.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE: 9.85 out of 10. It's hard to see how this late "dark" comedy could have been performed better. The acting is wonderful throughout. In particular Kenneth Folley as the Duke is quite superb in his multi-faceted ubiquitousness. However, all the cast seems to have been expertly chosen. A special mention is due to John McEnery's Lucio--that tainted and deceitful gentleman. His scurrilous comments against the Duke, to the Duke's own face, (while the latter is dressed in the guise of a friar) are really quite hilarious! Tim Piggott-Smith, Kate Nelligan, Christopher Strauli and Jacqueline Pearce all contribute to the setting of a standard of excellence that all future productions in the series will be judged against.

TWELTH NIGHT: 9.75. Maintaining the high standard set by M for M. This was one of the few plays in the series that I saw when it was first shown. Felicity Kendall, although starting slowly, suddenly runs into a streak of classy form and makes the part of Viola/Cesario her own. All future Viola's--at least in our generation--will be judged against Kendall's setting of a standard of excellence in the role. The production is lusciously extravagant which is very much in tune with the mood of the play itself--and isn't Felicity Kendall beautiful in that blue feathered hat? The other actors have also been expertly chosen and a special mention must go to Robert Hardy, who as Sir Toby Belch, is the epitome of crafty drunkenness. Annette Crosby surprised me as Olivia's maid. I remembered her mostly as Queen Victoria in the series "Edward VII", but here she is light and winsome--even sexy. Sinead Cussack makes a suitably beautiful Olivia and minor parts are all excellently realised.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING: 8.75. Still very good. A nuanced and well directed production. All the supporting cast is wonderful: the problem lies in the choice of the two central characters. Both Robert Lindsay (of Citizen Smith fame) and Cherie Lunghi (beautiful in "The Manageress" and all those coffee adverts) are, perhaps, a little light-weight for these difficult roles. Both are fine actors, but for me Benedick should be rather more sardonic and supercillious, and Beatrice less of a highly strung girl. Still, while the production may not be perfect, it is undoubtedly genial and likeable.

2008-09-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE & SHERLOCK HOLMES

I am wholly against the idea of a canon of "great" works that constitute English literature. For me, the quality writings of any time both entertain and instruct: they score highly on that scale which measures how well a written story might pass the time pleasantly and, in the process, tell us much of the world to which the writer belonged. For example, Arthur Conan Doyle reveals much in his writings about the optimism and certainties of late Victorian society. The link between God and Man might have been broken by Darwin's evolutionary discoveries, yet Doyle and others were still able to take refuge in the popular Theosophy of the day.

For some, it appears incongruous that Doyle, the creator of fiction's greatest logical mind, Sherlock Holmes, should in his personal life rather naively believe in fake mediums--and on one famous occasion even assert his belief that a photo of faeries was real rather than doctored. However, this is to misunderstand Doyle. On the one hand, he was a medical doctor and trained in science; on the other, he maintained throughout his life a belief in the reality of supernatural happenings. He even wrote a Professor Challenger novel about it: "The Land of Mists". Indeed, although the Holmes stories reflected Doyle's scientific training, their fascination often subtly lies in the grotesque and horrific events that unfold. In the course of these stories there are vitriol throwings, a woman that is mauled so badly by a lion that she must always wear a veil, a would-be phantom hound, dead faces contorted in horror and living faces leering out their evil on an unsuspecting world, a creeping man who takes on the attributes of a chimpanzee by the use of a monkey gland preparation, an old lover tortured into the shape of a cripple--and many other incidents of the same "grotesque" nature. Consider also the evocative titles: "The Man with the Twisted Lip", "The Crooked Man", "The Hound of the Baskervilles", "The Creeping Man", "The Dancing Men" and many others. These are titles that almost tell a story in themselves! There is the wish to shock, confound and horrify. It is possible that Doyle eventually tired of his famous detective because he became irritated by the need to always find a rational explanation for the Holmes mysteries. Elsewhere, he allowed his imagination far more leeway.

In his "Tales of Terror and Mystery" there are many out and out supernatural stories. Very memorable is the story of an Egyptian mummy that comes to life in the apartments of an Oxford undergraduate and terrorizes the local community. More interesting as a way of examining Doyle's mind is the tale where an aviator flies higher than ever before and is accosted by monsters that live high in the sky. There is a good dose of existentialism in the way in which Doyle uses his science in this story to conclude that anything can happen. We are not living in a universe of immutable laws here and everything can change from moment to moment--even the laws of nature themselves may alter! No doubt, a belief in science and the way it would eventually "explain" what had previously been regarded as "supernatural" lay at the root of much of what Conan Doyle wrote: even if, more than a hundred years later, many of his Victorian certainties and simplistic beliefs in progress and Science now appear somewhat naive to us living through the reality of a quite new and profound technological revolution.

2008-09-03T10:44:00.000-07:00

Here is a new short story that I wrote today.

THE BEARDED BANDIT

The sallow faced man moved lethargically about the kitchen of his large semi detached house in the mostly white middle class neighborhood of a town in Illinois, not far from Chicago. The man was about thirty five years of age and was irritated at having to prepare his own lunch due to the absence of his wife on school business. He had prepared a giant hamburger and fries for himself and as he greedily shoved the hot food into his mouth, he perused a ledger which included the financial records of his antique book business during the last 6 months. These figures did not seem satisfactory to the sallow faced man for he often cursed aloud as he read. Eventually, he tossed the book aside in a dismissive gesture and, having finished his afternoon carbohydrate spike, he idly allowed his hands to grip around the body of an M16 assault rifle that leaned against the wall. He caressed the body lovingly and remembered the time that he’d been one of the best police marksmen in Illinois. Those days were far in the past now, but his love of firearms remained. In fact, it was mostly the guns that gave this middle class dwelling its distinctive character. In all the drawers and cupboards of the kitchen lay a huge variety of automatic and semi automatic handguns and long guns. Indeed, if one had inspected the house thoroughly, weapons of every kind, including grenades and even machine guns would have been easily discovered. Fortunately for the sallow faced man, none of his highly respectable neighbors suspected the quiet, book loving individual that loved children (though he had none of his own) and his vivacious and caring wife of living secret and illegal lives as ruthless bank robbers.

Still holding the M16 rifle, the sallow faced psychotic walked slowly into the next room and singled out a well worn movie DVD that would pass the time until the return of his wife from her various civic duties.

The name of the movie was “Bonnie and Clyde”.

* * * * * * * * *

Zachariah Winkelmann of the FBI had been called in by the Chicago police to investigate a series of daring bank robberies that had taken place in and around Chicago. The newspapers were calling the series of crimes “The Bearded Bandit Robberies” and the local Chicago police had had to admit that this particular criminal seemed to always stay several steps ahead of them. That was the reason that the FBI had been involved. So far, Winkelmann had made no startling discoveries, but his methodical examination of the criminal’s modus operandi had made certain points absolutely clear. First, he was a smart cookie who understood guns and almost certainly had worked for the police or a security company in the past. On various bank CCTV cameras he had been photographed holding his gun in the Weaver position—and that was a dead giveaway. Only people highly trained in the use of firearms used that highly effective stance and the criminal’s knowledge of this arcane position emphasized his danger to both the public and the police. The unknown criminal always entered the banks wearing an obvious false beard and glasses and, so far, no one had been able to take a look at his real face. After a clinical cleaning out of the bank, the thief would escape in a stolen car. Once or twice the car’s type and number had been noted by scared bank employees as the bearded bandit had made his getaway. However, the information had subsequently proved useless as these getaway cars were consistently abandoned a few miles from the scene of the crime--from where, presumably, another was waiting to be utilized. Fingerprints had always been wiped clean. The cars themselves were almost always stolen in the early morning from employees in large malls who would not miss them for at least eight hours--giving the bearded bandit plenty of time to get them to some secret hiding place.

The more Winkelman had examined the robberies—so far there had been five of them—the more clearly he realized what an intelligent and dangerous opponent he was facing. The man took few risks and always carried a police scanner allowing him to pick up police messages in the vicinity of his crime. If Winkelmann had not already been certain that he was dealing with an ex-cop, this last detail would have emphatically confirmed it. Now, it was already three months since the bank robber’s last heist and Winkelmann was getting worried that he’d moved, turned over a new leaf, or even died.

It was at this very juncture that the bearded bandit reappeared and did something that took the whole case onto a new level of intensity—for the investigation into a series of clever bank robberies was about to irrevocably change in its nature to a manhunt for the killer of a policeman.

* * * * * * * * *

When Jay Weekly in patrol car 6841 saw the innocuous looking Ford heading towards the South Junction at 11 AM on June the 5th, 2002, it merely registered with him that the license plate was out of date. He gave his colleague “Windy” Rider a dig in the ribs.

“Wake up, Windy. This guy ahead of us has out-of-date plates. I guess we’d better stop him and show him the error of his ways.” Windy Rider grunted.

“What a damn shame,” he commenced. “I joined the Police to get some action and we spend all our days chasing jay walkers and litter bugs! Let the bastard go.” Jay smiled and shook his head.

“Sorry Windy, but our duty’s clear. We have to stop him.” The patrol car, keeping its distance, followed the battered Ford into a suburban side street where it began to slow down. Apparently the driver had spotted the patrol car following him and he pulled up slowly next to the sidewalk.

What happened next was wholly unpredictable. The driver of the Ford got out of the car as the patrol car began to pull up behind it. He was wearing a fake beard, glasses and combat jacket. Most surprisingly of all, in his hands he carried an M16 assault rifle. In a single movement, he took aim at the braking patrol car and fired off a well directed round that shattered the police car’s windscreen and made a bloody pulp of Jay Weekly’s head. Next, he calmly got back into his car and drove away.

Windy Rider was left screaming in the passenger seat of the patrol car--at last in the middle of more action than even he could desire--with the brains of his friend and colleague covering him from head to foot.

* * * * * * * * *

Zachariah Winkelmann was excited. Surely, now, he had the bearded bandit cornered. Minutes after the shooting, an almost hysterical Windy Rider had radioed HQ with the story of what had happened. Winkelmann had known at once that they were dealing once again with the bearded bandit.

“How can you be so sure?” had enquired Captain Jonas Smith of the Chicago Police Department. Winkelmann had smiled grimly.

“It’s absolutely clear, Jonas. Our target was on the way to rob a bank when he was spotted by the unfortunate Jay Weekly. Rider tells us the plates were out of date, but our bearded bandit couldn’t allow himself to get stopped for a petty felony with a stolen car full of weapons and disguises. Rather than be caught, he took a cynical decision to murder a police officer in cold blood. We’ll get him now.”

But the Chicago police didn’t get him. A cordon of the area was set up and all cars in the vicinity closely examined. However, the murderer’s battered Ford was found abandoned just a few miles from where Weekly had been shot and it was soon apparent that the bearded killer had once again slipped through the net. As before, it seemed that he had had a second car waiting, enabling him to abandon the first one and make his cool getaway in an unsuspected vehicle.

Knowing just how close he had been to terminating the bearded bandit’s career, Winkelmann had been inconsolable in the aftermath of the criminal’s escape.

“I have a bad feeling about this case,” he had confided to Jonas Smith. “If the guy has any sense, he’s going to lie low now for a long time and maybe get out of this area entirely. I think we’ve blown our opportunity.”

Winkelmann was right to be pessimistic in the circumstances, but as things subsequently turned out, he was wrong about the bearded bandit taking a long lay off. Just six weeks later, he struck again.

* * * * * * * * *

After the killing of patrolman Weekly, the Chicago police force took to randomly watching suburban banks of the type that might be targeted by the bearded bandit. In spite of this logistically difficult operation, nothing of suspicion was noted by the law enforcement officers involved. However, on a suffocatingly hot day in July, Mrs. Janet French who was parked outside a branch of Citibank on Jefferson Boulevard listening to the radio news, did see something unusual. Two men with false beards and glasses—clearly in disguise—had entered the bank and, her suspicions were aroused, Mrs. French called the police and told them what she had seen. The officer who took Mrs. French’s call insisted that she leave the area immediately in order to ensure her own safety.

By the time Winkelmann and the Chicago police reached the anonymous looking bank, the two bearded bandits had already fled with thousands of dollars in cash. Once again, it proved impossible to trace them due to their meticulous preparation. As before, the first car had been abandoned just blocks from the bank and they had made their escape in a second and unknown vehicle.

One thing that one of the bank workers said did give Winkelmann ample food for thought.

“Although both robbers were disguised in the same way, I am almost sure that one of them was a woman.”

* * * * * * * * *

It now became clear to Winkelmann that as the bearded bandit obviously knew about the common methods of police procedure, he would need to do something out of the ordinary in order to catch him (or them, now that there were apparently two). Winkelmann’s mind kept returning to the killer’s policy of having two stolen cars ready at the scene of every crime. Surely, the Chicago police force could do something to discover these stolen vehicles in advance? All patrolmen were told to keep a particular eye open for parked stolen cars. Winkelmann guessed that the bearded bandit must steal the cars in advance of his robberies and leave them in unsuspected locations before picking them up, immediately prior to a robbery, and driving them to strategic locations. Captain Jonas Smith admitted himself to be openly skeptical of Winkelmann’s plan.

“Seems to me that we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. Do you really expect to get a lead from this almost arbitrary surveillance?”

Winkelmann was not unsympathetic to Smith’s objections, but the bearded bandit had taken him to the limit of his detective powers and he could think of no other policy that offered even the possibility of achieving tangible results.

For more than a month nothing happened but then, in September, a policeman spotted a car with a stolen number plate parked with lots of other vehicles on a free strip of land. Just two days later, a second stolen car was found parked in a quiet cul-de-sac, about five miles from the first vehicle. Investigations soon revealed that both cars had been recently stolen from employees who worked in large malls. Winkelmann felt sure that the bearded bandit was responsible for the theft of both vehicles and with the cooperation of Captain Jonas Smith, he set up an unobtrusive 24 hour watch on the cars. Even Smith seemed more optimistic by this time.

“Now I see why you’re in the FBI Winkelmann. I thought that idea of yours was pure baloney but it’s beginning to look like it might actually bring results!”

However, for a week nothing happened and Winkelmann began to wonder if his adversary had spotted the observation teams somehow. Risking everything on a single turn of the wheel, Winkelmann decided to plant a tracking device inside each of the two cars together with a mechanism that would shut off the engine on a given signal. For a further two nights the watch continued without success and Winkelmann was almost ready to accept that the bearded bandit must have become aware of their vigil and cancelled his plans when, on a Wednesday night at 11 PM, a large white van pulled up next to the first of the two stolen cars and a man got out. The face of the figure was obscured, but the policemen watched him produce a key, get into the car and drive off. The white van followed at a distance behind. Clearly, unaware of the watching police, the bearded bandit (for such Winkelmann was sure it was) and his accomplice was driving the car to a strategic location for their next robbery.

After the car had been parked in the suburb of Rambling Meadows, the man got back into the white van and the vehicle drove off to where the second car had been left. Here, the previous procedure was repeated and the man drove the stolen car to a location several miles from where the first car had been parked. The watching policemen noted with satisfaction that a small branch of Citibank was situated not more than a mile away from where the car was left.

Up until this point, the policemen had been able to follow the criminals from a distance by means of the tracking devices hidden in the two stolen cars. However, now that the two criminals were driving in the white van, the following policemen had to make their pursuit from a safe distance in order to ensure that they weren’t spotted.

Eventually the white van pulled up outside a well-to-do semi detached house in the suburban area of St. Joseph’s, not more than 50 miles from Chicago itself. Frenetic research soon showed that “Holly Meadows” belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. James Grimble who ran an antique book store not far from their house. Alison Grimble was also a big wig in the local education authority and was noted as a potential democratic candidate for state governor. James Grimble had worked in the police department ten years before but had resigned just before the state had been able to fire him for the neglect of his more overtly bureaucratic duties. In spite of this, his skill on the shooting range had been legendary and he had been among the very best shots on the force.

Winkelmann now had to decide on his next step. He could search the house and hope to find incriminating evidence on the premises or wait for the criminal couple to put their next robbery into effect and catch them in the act. After serious reflection, Winkelmann decided to take the latter course. Clearly, the couple were about to put their next robbery into operation and by simply watching and observing, the police would be able to arrest them in the exact moment that they attempted to commit their crime. Captain Jonas Smith, however, disagreed and made his objections volubly known to Winkelmann.

“This is all wrong. Why should we wait? We have everything we need on this modern day Bonnie and Clyde right now. By not acting immediately we’re just giving them the chance to slip away--as they’ve already done so many times before.” Although clearly not one hundred per cent happy with his own decision, Winkelmann shook his head robustly.

“It’s best to wait Jonas. What actual proof do we have against them? At present we can only be sure of convicting them as car thieves.” Jonas Smith in his turn responded vigorously to the FBI man’s argument.

“Once we got inside that house, I’m willing to bet we’d find all the evidence we needed to convict them both.” Zachariah Winkelmann made a face.

“We might find the evidence inside the house or we might not. In any case, we can construct a better case against the pair of them by going about things in the way I suggest. Furthermore, I have a strong feeling that our latter day Bonnie and Clyde would not come peaceably if they knew their game was up. I wouldn’t like to be responsible for the deaths of any more policemen.” The old Captain pondered this for a while before replying.

“Well, maybe you’re right at that,” he said eventually. “It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done to break the news of Weekly’s death to his widow; all the while listening to his three children playing in the next room.”

On the very next day at 10AM, the white van left the semi-detached house and drove to where the second car had been left. The man got out of the van, walked up to the stolen car and got inside. It was at this point that Winkelmann ordered the engine to be cut.

While Grimble was distracted by his engine failing to start, a SWAT team moved in and surrounded him. With at least five guns pointing at his head through the windscreen Grimble, who by this time was aware of his plight, made a motion toward his black bag as if to take out a weapon. Surprisingly, the SWAT team did not fire and Grimble was told to spread out his hands on the wheel. In another moment, the erstwhile bearded bandit was out of the stolen vehicle and inside the police car. One of the SWAT team expressed his surprise that Grimble had tried to go for his gun in spite of his police training.

“Man, you were really lucky that we didn’t blow your head off. What made you act like that?” Grimble’s reply was brief but informative.

“I thought that if you shot me in the head it would all have been over more quickly.”

* * * * * * * * *

When Grimble had gotten out of the white van, his wife had immediately driven off and she knew nothing of the drama that had later unfolded. However, she was carefully trailed by a patrol car and after about fifteen minutes she had begun to make a lot of abrupt turns. At this point, the following policemen rightly concluded that Alison Grimble had spotted them and radioed to HQ for back up.

“This bitch is wise to us. We need help.”

The chase that followed seemed almost surreal in its combination of a life and death struggle down well-to-do, leafy, suburban streets. Alison Grimble was determined that she wasn’t giving herself up and at speeds of more than a hundred miles an hour she rattled off round after round from her ugly M16 automatic rifle. One pursuing driver was mortally wounded and crashed into the wall of a building at a speed of more than 100 miles per hour, instantly killing the colleague who sat next to him.

At last, the white van was cornered down a one-way street and the pursuing policemen waited for the final scene in the drama to play itself out. Alison Grimble, aware that she now had no chance of escape, turned her van around and drove it straight at the mass of police cars that by this time blocked the only entrance out of the cul-de-sac. Faced with no other choice, the waiting policemen fired en-masse at the approaching vehicle, bursting tires and shattering the windscreen into a thousand shards of jagged glass. With a terrible screech, the white van lurched over to one side and, with a shuddering crash, turned over three times. Inside the vehicle, Alison Grimble’s body was found with at least twenty bullets in it.

“Fucking bitch got just what she deserved,” observed one large policeman on the eerily silent scene of the tragic shoot out. He had been a close friend of the two men who had died in the chase and tears sprung to his eyes as he thought of his colleagues’ wives and children--at that moment still ignorant of the fact that their men had died “in the line of duty” as the papers and politicians say.

* * * * * * * * *

James Grimble proved himself to be a man of few words during his lengthy period in police custody. At first, Winkelmann struggled to identify the highly intelligent ex policeman in the unresponsive piece of meat that often seemed to sit in front of him. Finally, however, the FBI man concluded that Grimble had sunk into a deep depression since being caught. Everything about the middle class home full of firearms, ammunition and gangster movies suggested that the Grimbles had never intended to be taken alive in the event of imminent capture. Alison Grimble had fulfilled her part of the pact but, for whatever reason, Grimble himself had been taken.

The sessions with Grimble eventually became tediously repetitive to Winkelmann.

“Why did you need all that money Grimble?”

“Who doesn’t need money?”

“Sure, but most people don’t kill policemen and rob banks to get it.”

A non-committal shake of the head.

“Come on Grimble, why are you wasting our time? Be more cooperative and we might be able to help you.”

A momentary gleam of sarcasm in the eyes.

“Help me into the electric chair you mean? I know what happens to cop killers.”

“Are you sorry for what you did Grimble?”

Another non-committal shake of the head.

In any case, it was clear that Grimble was as guilty as hell and it wasn’t expected that his trial would last very long. Even after the first week, it was clear as daylight that the police had a perfect case against James Grimble, having even found his guns and disguises inside the stolen car in which he had been arrested.

About two weeks into the trial, a handcuffed Grimble was coming down in the court room elevator with his solitary guard and a group of court employees and journalists when somehow he managed to slip off the cuffs unbeknown to his guard. How he managed to do this nobody is quite sure, but possibly he had somehow managed to grease his wrists in the lavatory or hide away some tool which he was later able to use as a pick. Suffice to say, that when the elevator reached the ground floor and the people began to tumble out, Grimble was able to surprise his guard, overpower him and take his gun. Without a moment’s hesitation, Grimble pressed the weapon’s barrel to the policeman’s head and blew his brains out.

As people screamed and attempted to flee, Grimble made a determined effort to reach the nearest exit, but a passing Federal Officer, Albert Gandolfini, saw what was happening and moved in to confront the killer. By this time, Grimble was careless of all personal danger and quickly fired several bullets into the body of the approaching officer. Mortally wounded, the law enforcement agent slumped to the floor; but even in his dying moment he was able to fire off four shots at Grimble and incapacitate him. At this point, the police rallied and easily overpowered the escaped criminal. An ambulance was summoned and both men were taken to the state hospital. Gandolfini was already dead and Grimble was dying. By the time the ambulance reached the hospital both men were dead.

In the light of these tragic events, Zachariah Winkelmann often used to remember that slight movement of Grimble towards his gun when he had first been taken by the SWAT team and wish with all his heart that one of the men had taken the opportunity to blow James Grimble’s head off.

2008-09-02T09:17:00.000-07:00

TOMKINS ISN’T A FAN: HE’S AN APOLOGIST!

Should we call Tomkins an "apologist" for LFC? A supporter or fan is someone who always backs the team, but is not blind to weaknesses and worrying trends. An "apologist" on the other hand always backs the powers that be. As far as I know, Tomkins has been absolutely silent on the ownership and stadium issues--unlike most of the fans. Basically, he doesn't want to upset the apple cart--another way of saying he is an "apologist". It is the same story with his view of events on the pitch.

Of course, Tomkins is right to point out that LFC have 7 from 9 points and have qualified for the CL in spite of a lot of problems. What he fails to acknowledge is that Liverpool just isn't firing as an attacking force and that the malaise has to do with the way Rafa has the team playing. First of all, at the end of last season the plan of using Torres as lone striker with Gerrard behind him as a second striker was working wonderfully well. Crouch was upset and one can understand him wanting to move. He's a fine player and wouldn't put up with being a permanent substitute--so Rafa sold him and then went out and bought Robbie Keane! What for? RK is a fine player--better than Crouch I'd say--but for that reason he's even less likely than Crouch to put up with being always on the bench! Rafa has included him in the starting line up by pairing him up front with Torres and mostly going for a rather predictable 4-4-2 formation.

The problem is both Torres and Keane need service and no one is providing it. On occasions, in their desperation to see the ball, they are even getting in each other's way (as against Sunderland where Keane blocked a goal bound shot of Torres’s, alla Bendtner). This is definitely a situation where the parts are greater than the whole. Individually and on paper, the team looks good with several world class players (at least 3 I would say). In practice, however, too many players are required to play the part of a round peg in a square hole.

In the meantime, Gerrard is separated from Torres and those incisive passes just aren't coming in anymore. As for the rest of the midfield, Mascherano is good at breaking up opposition attacks, but doesn't give much going forward. Kuyt works hard, but isn't a right winger, while Alonso is beginning to look strangely lightweight.

Overall, the team just isn't gelling together and I think they will soon come a cropper unless RB changes his ideas. On Sunday, RB and Liverpool had the chance to go 2 points clear at the top, but the final result was depressingly familiar in spite of Tomkins' spin. It’s good to be optimistic, but dangerous to ignore clear warning signs when they are present for anyone with a reasonable amount of football knowledge to see.

2008-07-28T09:08:00.000-07:00

The Plays of Oscar Wilde

Wilde is certainly underestimated in Britain, though not in the rest of Europe. Indeed, in most other nations of Europe he seems to be considered one of Britain's very greatest artists. I am not sure if this is true as Italians, for example, often tend to worship surface brilliance, while neglecting what is deep and profound. Nevertheless, I am convinced that Wilde has been given short shrift in the Anglo Saxon world. Partly, this is due to Wilde being "too clever by half" for the English speaking world's taste, and partly due to the awful scandal at the end of his life which resulted in his imprisonment and eventual death. On the one hand, some of the mud still sticks (even in an Anglo Saxon world where homosexuality long ago ceased to be a crime) and, on the other, there is the collective guilt felt by a nation that destroyed one of its rarer talents. In light of these considerations, it is not surprising that Wilde is more respected abroad. His true genius was, in many ways, more Irish than English and his cynicism, anarchism, verbal brilliance and aesthetic affectations always labeled him as a rather strange fish in the England of his time.

What then are Wilde's qualities as an artist? His verbal brilliance is the most notable feature of his writing: time and again he is able to come up with the most perfect verbal encapsulation of an idea, attitude or feeling. More than anywhere else, we see this quality in his plays. The Importance of Being Ernest is rightly admired for its sheer delight in its own verbal brilliance. However, it is rarely noted that this play is actually very unlike the rest of Wilde's dramatic output. It is a farce rather than a dramatic comedy like Wilde's other London plays. For a long time, nothing much happens; and when things do start moving, the action is farcical and totally unbelievable. Jack invents a brother, Ernest, in order to give him an excuse to come up to London from the country. He is in love with Lady Bracknell's daughter Gwendoline, who accepts his proposal of marriage because she always dreamed of being married to a man called Ernest. Jack's friend Algy who has been intrigued to hear about Jack's beautiful 18 year old ward, notes down his friend's country address when he gives it to Lady Bracknell. In the next act, we meet Jack's beautiful ward who is mourning the news of Ernest's death, Jack having decided to get rid of him, when Ernest himself is announced! It is Algy who has come down to Hertfordshire posing as Jack's imaginary brother in order to meet his friend's ward. The two immediately fall in love and, when Jack returns, he is faced with a fait accompli. Jack and Algy decide to be baptised as two Ernests in order to keep the affections of their young ladies (for Jack's ward has also stated her inability to love anyone but an Ernest). The two men leave and only Jack's ward is present to greet Gwendoline when she arrives, unexpectedly, from London. The two women quickly discover that they both love Ernest and become bitter rivals. However, when the two men return the truth is revealed and the two women haughtily declare their intention to only wed Ernest. At this point Lady Bracknell is announced, having followed her daughter from London, and approves the match between Algy (her nephew) and Jack's young ward. However, she does not approve the union of Jack and Gwendoline as Jack was a foundling, discovered in a handbag in Victoria Station, when he was a baby. Finally all is cleared up when it becomes apparent that Jack is actually the son of Lady Bracknell's own brother-in-law--and that his real name is Ernest!

I have described the plot in detail in order to show what a farrago it really is. The other London plays all reach a dramatic point where tragedy seems the probable outcome. However, "Ernest" is pure farce. In my opinion An Ideal Husband is probably the best of these London plays with Lady Windermere's Fan not far behind. A Woman of No Importance is engaging, but over moralistic and sometimes a little faulty in characterisation. In the two previous plays mentioned, Wilde is absolutely at his best in terms of verbal wit; the plots are well spun and the conventional endings, ironic and arbitrary. We feel that in these latter two dramas Wilde is leading his audience by the nose, telling them exactly what he really feels and then providing them with a desultory "happy ending" in order to make them accept his bitterly anarchic pill. "Ernest", in contrast, is pure farce.

Below, I put up the first parts of "Ernest", "Lady Windermere" and "Ideal Husband" from You Tube. Anyone who so wishes, can follow each of them right through to their entertaining conclusions.

2008-07-18T22:19:00.000-07:00

Click on covers to enlarge and read text

"Calypso" as Semiotic "Text"

I am working on bringing out a new novel and I'm currently having an interesting exchange with my publisher about the design of a cover. Now in general, I am not one to insist on perfection in this regard. In the end, the story will speak for itself and must stand or fall based on its own intrinsic merits. However, one doesn't want a cover that actually carries a strong counter message to what the story is supposed to be about. Take for example this first cover that my publisher sent me-and compare the flirting duo on the right with the "blurb" on the left (due to the Blog template, all three covers appear above).

On the left, we are told that this is a novel about existential hubris, but an entirely different idea is given by the picture. Here, a red-haired femme-fatale looks directly at the reader with a knowing glance, while the infatuated man stares off into space. The "blurb" suggests subtlety and complexity, nuance and pain. The picture, however, delineates an entirely different set of binary oppositions: flirtation and love, master and servant, a simple linear story line and two-dimensional characters. Of course, from a semiotic point of view, both the written and the visual information are "texts" that we must "read"--and they are giving out different messages.

The second cover is perhaps even worse. This seems to include too much information of a confused and non-relevant kind. Some kind of cosmic storm rages in the background while entwined hands seem to suggest everything and nothing in the foreground. As a "text" this picture scatters significance fairly aimlessly in an attempt to be profound. In the final analysis, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the text on the left. At least the first cover was in the same ball park, even though it misinterpreted the written text. In the case of the second cover there are really no points of similarity to misinterpret.

In the end, I decided to go with the third cover. The rather inane jollity of the first cover has disappeared and the mood has become definitely ominous to match the darkly nuanced text on the left. There are again the two figures of the man and woman, but now there is the essential conflict and obsession suggested by the text. The surroundings are dark and shadowy and the place of action seems strangely sunken in the ground. Furthermore, there is the suggestion of potential violence: a theme that is also present in the written text itself. Finally, the colors, heavy door and sunken place of action goes some way towards suggesting a Mediterranean context to the story (the action actually takes place in Italy). By no means is the cover perfect: the suggestion of sexual violence is too overt and dominant. On the other hand, the essential message of the artist's text does seem to be significantly more in unison with the written text on the left than either of the other two. It is a cover that I can live with,

Now I move on to another task--the proofing of the written text itself.

2008-05-31T02:51:00.000-07:00

The Thesis End Game

At last, I am nearing completion of my PhD: at least I think I am. In fact, it has been the continuous uncertainty that has been one of the most difficult problems to come to terms with. Will I ever complete it? Will it ever be good enough? These are the kinds of question that frequently run through the mind of the PhD student. However, after umpteen versions and a previous thumbs up on the first draft from my supervisor, I now feel I am entering the End Game.

What are the different phases one passes through when writing a PhD? Well, the first (sometimes lasting for decades!) is to decide exactly what you are going to write your thesis about. This can be a hideously difficult process as a vague interest needs to morph into a very specific set of questions to be answered in your doctorate. Some would-be PhDers never get beyond this stage, becoming serial presenters of thesis proposals that never come to anything. If you are lucky enough to establish exactly what you want to write about in conjunction with your supervisor, then the next stage will almost certainly be a wide reading program intended to bring you up to scratch with all the conflicting ideas and information in your area. This too can be very daunting, as the more one reads the less one tends to feel that there is really anything left to say. If, in spite of these doubts, the research student actually gets round to lifting a pen, then the agony of composing a first draft will begin. For those who are not used to writing even long letters, let alone an 80000 word thesis, this process has the potential to be a real heart-breaker. Were you always good at writing your essays in the exam room? Doesn't matter, this is a different skill and one for the long haul. Quite brilliant students who got Firsts, sometimes don't have what it takes to order their own ideas and words into a 250-300 page book. One can end up feeling very queasy at the idea that not only does one need to write so much, but that it must also be original and a contribution to knowledge. For those who are able to pass through the pain barrier, yet another shock to the system will come when the Supervisor reads the first draft. Usually, he will make it apparent that you haven't sufficiently mastered all the ideas in the field of study. The notes will be merely functional rather than luxurious and all your repetition will need to be ruthlessly excised.

After a long period of deconstruction and inner reflection, you will go on a second or third reading spree and become a master of the cross reference and subtle aside. You will begin to finally feel that you are nearing a point where you can knowledgeably take part in a discourse with experts. Now, furiously, you will write your far more complex second version which should be highly organized, flexibly able to take its position in a discourse with other experts and, most of all, be a complete and minutely referenced scholastic contribution to knowledge. Finally, you will need to tweak it all for a couple of months more before orally defending your ideas in the sometimes hostile presence of several experts in the field. If you deal with this oral defense adequately, then you should finally be recognized as a Doctor of Philosophy.

Not easy is it?

2008-05-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

"BRING ON THE EMPTY HORSES"

Movie buffs will certainly recognize the above title as the name of David Niven's second book of reminiscences about Hollywood in the 1930s and 1940s. Niven had a great friendship with swashbuckler Errol Flynn and they even shared a house in Hollywood called "Cirrhosis by the Sea". Furthermore, the two actors appeared together in several movies of the period. Probably the best of them were "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and "The Dawn Patrol". In the former movie, the factual accuracy of the charge is thrown out the window in favor of an all action plot that traverses both India and the Crimea. However, the story itself takes a back seat to the special effects. "What?" you might ask: "Special effects in 1936?" Yes. Certainly. Of course, they were not anaemically computer generated as is usually the case today. No. Warner Brothers action director, Michael Curtiz,* set up lots of mines and trip wires on the field of the charge and you can watch both horses and men going down like nine pins in what must still be the most effective cavalry charge in movie history. For a few moments, I will ask you to view the film's spectacular charge in the clip from You Tube below.

Several stunt men died during the filming of the charge and, apparently, dozens of horses were killed or had to be put down as well--all for the sake of an accurate depiction! Needless to say, it wouldn't be allowed today--and quite right too! Times change and what may be acceptable in one era becomes anathema in another. Nevertheless, though the film might show its age in some ways (in the simplistic jingoism for example), the charge is quite simply magnificent and completely different from the sanitized computer graphics to which we are becoming accustomed. It is clear that these are real men and horses falling in combat: there is something almost uncannily UNREAL about the kind of CGG that seem to be in the process of taking over all depictions of wild nature and men at war.

Errol Flynn starred in at least 4 movies which ended with magnificent sword fights--two of them against Basil Rathbone, the best swordsman in Hollywood at the time. All of these fights were "real" and carefully choreographed by fencing experts. Certainly I have never seen a modern movie with such accurate, ferocious and extended sword fights. No doubt a modern movie would do it all on the computer--and that would dilute and trivialize what should have been a life and death struggle. For your entertainment and consideration, I have put below the two sword fights from "Captain Blood" and "The Adventures of Robin Hood" (both between Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone). Such care was taken over the filming of the latter movie that from its "look" it could have been filmed just ten years ago rather than 70. Is it possible that in 50 years time students of film will look back on these old movies as being more veracious in their action sequences than the computer generated antics of today's film world?

* Curtiz, who was Hungarian and famous for his picturesque English, is credited by Niven as speaking the now famous line "Bring on the empty horses" at the end of the charge.

2008-05-10T20:11:00.000-07:00

The Season in Retrospect

It has certainly been a season of non stop interest and kudos should go to Benitez once again for maintaining interest until almost the very end of the season. Highlights were the victories over Inter Milan and Arsenal in the later stages of the Champions League and the earlier thrashings of Porto (4-1), Marseilles (4-0) and Besiktas (8-0). Even the semi-final loss to Chelsea was in no way shameful. The team was unlucky to concede at home in the 95th minute and, after that, they were always chasing the game at Stamford Bridge. Going down 3-2 at Chelsea was disappointing, but provided the neutral fan with some great football and some great goals. If the team didn't seem quite so tight at the back as in previous seasons, this was compensated for by some marvellous attacking displays. Of course, new boy, Fernando Torres was the star with 32 goals, but Rafa's other new signings did a good job too. Babel, is clearly a diamond in the rough and can only get better, while the wiles of Yossi Benayoun also frequently bamboozled the opposition. Both players, very creditably, scored 10 goals each in all competitions. Vorronin, another new boy, was less successful but he was frequently injured and did show the odd flash of quality from time to time. Skrtel settled in quickly and put in some mature defensive displays against the best teams in Europe in the latter part of the season.

The Liverpool old guard enjoyed mixed fortunes this season. Gerrard was his usual consistent self and contributed 21 goals from midfield. Alonso, on the other hand, suffered a loss of form after injury and struggled to regain his place in the side due to the success of Mascherano and Brazilian new boy, Lucas Leiva. There have been rumours about his imminent departure, but all true Liverpool supporters will hope that Benitez convinces him to stay as Xabi, at his best, is undoubtedly a world class player. Carragher sometimes seemed more fallible than usual this season and his loss of form in the middle of the season undoubtedly saw Liverpool drawing several games they should have won. The season long injury to Agger was an immense blow as his speed and guile had become an important factor in the linking up of defense and attack. Hyppia, once again, was immense and everyone connected with the club will be delighted that he has won another contract at the age of 34. Crouch's frustration was apparent to everybody, as he struggled to get a game while Torres was blowing away defense after defense. In spite of this, the England player still picked up 11 goals and no one will blame him if he decides to play his football elsewhere next season--though personally I hope he stays. The much reviled Dirk Kuyt reinvented himself as a winger this year and enjoyed something of a renaissance, scoring crucial goals against Inter Milan, Arsenal and Chelsea. All in all, he scored 10 goals and showed himself to be a great team player and a man for the big occasion. Liverpool finished the season as the top scorers in England with 117 goals in all competitions (with one game left to play as I write). In spite of this, in the PL the team once again failed to compete and come next season, Benitez's fifth in charge, more will be expected in this regard. In a nutshell, RB doesn't need to win the PL but he does need to be seen to mount a serious challenge.

This leaves us with only the off-field antics to consider. Off the field, Liverpool FC was something of a soap opera this year and everyone who wishes the club well, will hope that this circus doesn't continue into the new season. First, there was the much publicised row between Rafa and the Americans and the coach was almost forced out. After that, Gillet tried to sell his shares to DIC and was blocked by Hicks. The latter then declared his intention to buy his partner out himself, but so far he's been unable to raise the necessary finance. Meanwhile, Rick Parry's erstwhile untouchable position was well and truly compromised when Hicks demanded his resignation for incompetence. Parry refused and Hicks couldn't force him out as he didn't have sufficient backing on the board. What happens from here on in is anyone's guess, but supporters will hope that Messrs. Hicks and Gillet can at least agree on a transfer budget for the close season. Next season promises to be a good one for the club with players like Torres, Babel, Mascherano and Skrtel having come of age this year. There is a feeling of optimism at the club; a general sense that Rafael Benitez is just one or two major signings from creating a team capable of challenging for every honour in the game. Let's just hope that the Hicks-Gillet tragi-comedy doesn't put a spoke in the wheel of it all!

2008-04-04T14:25:00.000-07:00

IS IT TIME TO GIVE TOM HICKS ANOTHER CHANCE?

Ask any Liverpool fan's opinion about Tom Hicks and the chances are you'll be greeted by a tirade of rasping criticism. But is this entirely fair? A closer examination of the whole Tom Hicks saga reveals that he may not be the ogre he's portrayed as by fans and groups like 'Spirit of Shankly'. According to Liverpool-Kop's new writer John Wallen, it's time to consider giving Hicks a second chance.

The present controversy over the ownership of LFC is really quite mind-bending. First fans were happy with the American owners, believing that a new era of high investment into the club was just beginning.

However, after the volte-face over the too expensive stadium, the highly publicised argument with Rafa, the tete-a-tete with Klinsmann and the putting of debt directly onto the club in the refinancing of the loan they used to buy the club, most fans now want them out.

Demonstrations continue inside the ground on a regular basis and “SOS” or “Spirit of Shankly” have even recruited the great man's grand-daughter as a vocal supporter of their “Americans Out!” policy.

Meanwhile, pie-in-the-sky plans are developed for the supporters to buy the club. If this was such a good idea, why didn't they do it when Moores was selling a year or so ago? They could have got it a lot cheaper than is possible now. In fact, Hicks' valuation of the club at around a billion dollars effectively scuppers this plan.

The necessary pledge has already risen from five thousand pounds to eight thousand pounds a person and, as we all know, the promise of money is different to the giving of money.

This plan is, quite frankly, a non starter and supporters who are thinking of pledging (in some cases) their life's savings, should be aware that the whole business is almost sure to end in bitterness and recrimination.

DIC: Friend or Foe?

What about DIC then? Lots of supporters seem to be putting their faith in this Dubai based company and their smart talking go-between Amanda Staveley who, bizzarely enough, used to be Prince Andrew's girlfriend.

The truth is that this mega-company has acted very strangely during the last year. We now hear that they are prepared to pay the world for Liverpool Football Club, yet just a year ago they backed down in the face of the Gillet-Hicks offer, declaring that they weren't prepared to pay over the odds for the club.

Now they are happy to value the club at five hundred million pounds! It doesn't take a genius to figure out that their behavior has been more than weird. Anyone who knows a little about the way Arab companies do business will feel concern about the inconsistencies in the DIC position.

Perhaps Sameer really is a fan, but he will have to go to the Sheikhs every time a big decision is needed. As Hicks said when pulling out of the recent talks, DIC involvement would mean control by committee: interminable delays in getting the money needed—for players in particular.

Furthermore, this deeply conservative organization is said to want Rafa out and their own man in place as a condition of their involvement. Surely, this is unacceptable to most fans?

A second chance for Tom Hicks?

What then, about the one remaining possibility? Should everyone give Tom Hicks a second chance?

No-one is going to suggest that Hicks has made it easy on himself. He was drafted in at the last minute by George Gillet to give his own bid for the club credibility.

Since that time, Hicks has succeeded in alienating both his business partner and the Liverpool fans. However, the picture changes somewhat if we look at it in a more step by step manner.

First of all, Hicks knew little about “soccer” when he first joined the partnership. In particular, he knew little about English soccer. He didn't realise just how important the team is to so many Liverpudlians. Hicks assumed that soccer in Britain was much like sport in the US: no more than an entertaining family activity for the weekend.

It would seem that Hicks is now aware of his mistake in this regard and even wants to see some of his US franchises acquire the kind of fervent support that Liverpool has.

Of course, Hicks also knows that he has bought into a great brand. Liverpool FC is the most successful team in England and the name itself brings back memories of the mop topped foursome who conquered America not so many moons ago (even though John, Paul, George and Ringo were actually Evertonians!).

Hicks is a businessman and he knows that Liverpool will make money. In order to facilitate this process, he needs to spend money himself in the shorter term. We will take a look at this in a moment—but let's first finish off looking at Hicks' gaffes to date.

Most importantly, he and Gillet argued with Rafa Benitez. This was not a good move, but you can also see his point of view. At the time, Rafa seemed to have blown success in both the Premier League and success in Europe, in spite of the acquisition of Torres, Babel and Benayoun in the summer.

Nevertheless, he was still asking for another 18 million pounds for Mascherano who was tied up with the club until the end of the year anyway. Perhaps in the circumstances, we can forgive Hicks for telling Rafa that the club needed to wait a bit before making the Argentinean's deal permanent.

As for the heated words that were exchanged around this time, Rafa was as much to blame as Hicks; particularly insensitive was his apparent belief that he could only get the Americans to act by speaking out against them publicly.

Rafa was naive in this regard and no large company would allow its public relations to be handled in that way. It is perfectly possible that Hicks did genuinely believe Rafa might leave the club in the lurch around that time and, for this reason alone, joined Gillet in sounding out Jurgen Klinsmann for the job.

As I understand it, the whole thing was totally conditional. The Americans didn't say to Klinsmann “Do you want a job?”, but “Would you consider taking a job in certain circumstances?”.

There is a world of difference between these two propositions and the second action might not be considered unreasonable given the situation at the time.

Financial issues

There is also the fact that Hicks and Gillet have used the club to guarantee the loan they've taken out recently and also revised their too costly plans regarding the new stadium.

The first point to make here is that Hicks cannot predict the state of the global financial market. There has been a downturn and this has made the old stadium plans unviable. As for putting debt on the club, this has only been done through the subsidiary company “Kop Holdings” and only to the tune of 105 million pounds.

Again, financial realities can change earlier plans and we are all well aware of that from our own lives. Perhaps then, Hicks' actions don't quite suggest the ogre that SOS and others have portrayed? Are there, in these circumstances, other less well publicised factors which might suggest that Hicks has not done a wholly bad job for the club?

Firstly, Hicks has got a company to design and present a new stadium design which is very similar to the original and better than the earlier plans. In my opinion, Hicks' credibility depends on either building this stadium or selling out.

If he has any problems in raising the capital surely he will sell up rather than see his investment deteriorate in value.

Secondly, Hicks has backed Rafa in the transfer market. I don't think Moores and Parry would have sanctioned the signing of Torres for more than twenty million pounds, whatever finance had been raised by the selling of other players. Since the summer, Skrtel has also been signed.

Furthermore, Hicks seems to have accepted that he made a mistake in publicly arguing with Rafa. Now he sends congratulatory emails and has even sanctioned the 18 million pound signing of Mascherano.

Surely, these are the actions of an owner who trusts his manager and is determined to see the worth of his assets increase?

Torres has been a sensation and I'm sure that Hicks appreciates the probability that the removal of Rafa would result in a mass exodus of the Spanish contingent from Anfield—and no-one, including Hicks, is ready to say goodbye to Fernando Torres just yet.

Hicks + DIC: A recipe for disaster?

Finally, what about the DIC angle? Would they be better owners than Hicks? There is certainly no clear reason to make that assumption. Hicks is right in believing that the figure-heads like Sameer and Amanda Staveley are only the front men and women for the real decision makers who would need to OK every detail.

Anyone who has done business in the Middle East knows that there are often long and totally avoidable delays while go-betweens wait for decisions from Sheikhs who are often too busy enjoying themselves to pay a lot of attention to business decisions.

Eventually, a terse refusal might arrive—or perhaps the delay itself will result in a lost opportunity. Either way, fans should open their eyes and realize that DIC is just like Hicks and only wants to make money out of Liverpool FC.

I should finish by saying that I am not an unconditional supporter of Tom Hicks. However, I feel he can deliver the things that Liverpool FC most needs: a new stadium, money for transfers and a quick decision making process.

We should give him the chance to get on with doing his job.

This article originally appeared on Jaimie Kanwar's "Liverpool Kop site (link below).

http://www.liverpool-kop.com/2008/03/is-it-time-for-tom-hicks-to-be-given.html

2008-02-29T15:19:00.000-08:00

IL RITORNO D'ULISSE IN PATRIA

This is a wonderful masterpiece from the end of Monteverdi's life and in the last ten years it has received a little of the attention it so richly deserves. However I can confidently say that this French production, by William Christie and Les Arts Florissan, is the best of the lot. Direction, production, casting, staging, singing and musicianship are--in a word--perfect. This 2002 production which was also taken to the US, has already made stars out of the two Slavic principals: Mijana Mijanovich as Penelope and Kresemir Spicer as the eponymous hero. Mijana is majestically beautiful as the long suffering Penelope and Spicer (still apparently in his twenties) plays Ulysses with a burly grace. Both are voice perfect for the parts, but Spicer's smooth but emotionally charged tenor, is a voice of the rarest quality. Already, both leads are in great demand around the concert platforms and opera houses of the world--and this performance of Monteverdi's masterpiece is where it all began.

Humphrey Burton deserves great praise for his simple but compelling set: a kind of sandbox in which a single artifact or implement often indicates the place. For example, a large vase shows that we are in Ulysses' palace and a billowing piece of white cloth denotes a ship at sea. The tour-de-force is when Ulysses uses his bow to kill the suitors. Minerva (the goddess who always supports Ulysses and is known in Greek as Athena) takes his arrows from the bow and uses them to stab each of the suitors: a symbolic act magnificent in its simplicity and effectiveness.

Minor characters are portrayed excellently both in musical and dramatic terms and a special mention is due to the three actors who play Penelope's suitors: the bass appears to be blind, but is ingeniously led around the stage in a most subtle and convincing way, while the counter tenor is wonderful in his leering sarcasm. The French Minerva is also outstanding as both actor and singer.

People who are easily outraged may be offended by the nudity of the Prologue--though in the context of the symbolism (human frailty) it is entirely appropriate. Furthermore, the nudity is very tastefully done on a stage that is mostly dark.

I thoroughly recommend this renaissance masterpiece and can assure any lover of opera that with this DVD they are getting one of the very best opera productions currently on the market.

Below is a compilation of some memorable scenes from Youtube

2008-02-22T10:53:00.000-08:00

Capsized on the Indian Ocean

I have just returned from a brief vacation in Sri Lanka that was supposed to be relaxing but, in one respect at least, turned out to be quite hair-raising: I nearly drowned! After a couple of days of swimming regularly in the Indian Ocean, I was offered the chance to go out on a fishing trip with a group of Sri Lankan fishermen. At first I hesitated, but then, as so often before, the thrill of a new experience asserted itself and I agreed. The boat itself was small but strong and had been fitted with a Suzuki motor at the back. The fishermen were a rowdy lot with a tendency to make excessive noise about not very much. It was necessary to steer the boat out from the beach before engaging the engine and, during this operation, one of the rougher looking men almost smacked me over the head with his heavy oar: not an auspicious start!

When we got out on to the ocean proper and began fishing, the day started to seem ideal. No land was in sight in any direction as the fishermen reeled out their strong nylon lines with colourful glass fish attached and lay back hoping for a catch. We slaked our thirst with water and coconut juice as the sun beat down on our unprotected skins. The fishermens' deep brown colour existed to give them more effective working time in the sun, but my own Nordic pinkness was defenseless against the harsh rays of the afternoon sun and, after a while, I began to burn: already I was aware that the afternoon's jaunt was not to pass by without exacting a price.

The fishermen were wildly fortunate and hooked a barracuda fish: these creatures are enormously strong and we needed to drag the resisting beast along in the wake of the boat for about 30 minutes before it finally weakened and could be reeled in. The man who had almost thumped me on the head with his oar (a truculent fellow if nature and phrenology provided any accurate indication) waited triumphantly with the hook and, when the barracuda emerged from the sea in a writhing mass of water, he plunged the hook expertly through it's body. Next he closed his hand around its gills, choking the life out of it, while another fisherman belted it on the head from behind with a strong stick. Soon the fish was dead and tossed into the bottom of the boat--from where several small fish were seen to float out of its dead body: the barracuda had been a pregnant mother.

Eventually we turned for home and, after about half an hour, we came into sight of land. Everything seemed under control and was going to plan. As we came into the final approach to the beach, the fisherman responsible for the engine cut it off: in the same way that we'd needed to guide the boat out from the shore with oars, so it would be necessary to guide it back in manually. Perhaps two minutes after the engine had been cut off, I saw a huge wave coming towards the front of the boat and the thought struck me: "This wave is going to sink us!" As the huge wave struck the front of the boat, the keel came up and was swept over rather like a toy boat in a child's bath. Everything went dark as we were all bundled into the ocean and I remember thinking that I should stay within the circumference of the boat as any attempt to escape might result in my being hit on the head by the edge of the overturning boat. Fortunately, I was able to avoid this latter fate and, equally fortuitously, never found myself caught up in nets or hit by knives, dead fish, or other items as they tumbled out of the boat. When I came to the surface, I was some distance from the overturned fishing boat and saw that the Sri Lankans were all clinging to it with desperation. The tide was strong and in the wrong direction, so I could make no headway when I tried to swim towards the distant beach (or even try to make it across the twenty or so meters which separated me from the boat). I was being hit continuously by waves and after a while a thought came into my head: "You are in great danger and could easily die here, just a short distance from the boat and not too far from the beach" (where people could be seen shouting and pointing). Strangely, I had not considered the danger until that moment. Previously, I had been trying to think calmly and give myself the best chance of survival--but suddenly I was alone without any chance of imminent rescue. I knew that if I exhausted myself with a futile attempt to swim to land, then I would drown for sure. I had only so much energy and strength and I couldn't afford to waste it on abortive and failed efforts to reach land. As I considered this, I let myself sink down in the ocean a little--and to my utter relief, I found that my feet touched bottom! At the point where we'd been capsized, the ocean was just over six feet deep and, with this knowledge, I was able to swim, walk and eventually crawl to land. Just as I dragged myself on to the sands, a couple of strong Sri Lankan hands grasped me and pulled me the last few feet to safety. The Sri Lankan fishermen were still out in the ocean clinging to their boat as I made my way up to the motel where I was staying.

So everything turned out OK--but it had been a very close call. None of us had been wearing life jackets and there were no rescue boats or rescue teams in that secluded area of the coast. I thanked God for my deliverance and, on the advice of an old Sri Lankan man, went to a nearby mountainous area where several poor Sri Lankan families lived. There we distributed free rice and sugar, soap, toothpaste and jam to five destitute families: I had been saved and the least I could do was to thank the demiurge by feeding some of his less fortunate children.

2008-02-19T06:23:00.001-08:00

Jung and Ulysses

In 1932 Jung wrote a long essay on Joyce's novel "Ulysses" which had been published 10 years earlier. This critical essay shows certain neurotic--even schizophrenic--traits as, at least in the first part, Jung is clearly struggling against his own dislike of the novel; in the second part, he appears to find a way of looking at "Ulysses" that reconciles his strong antipathies with an appreciation of--what he takes to be--the unique quality of the novel. Certainly, this critical examination of one of the seminal works of literary modernism helps us to understand the ways in which Analytical Psychology might examine and criticise important and contemporary artistic works.

Jung begins his essay by informing us that: "...I read to page 135 with despair in my heart, falling asleep twice on the way. The incredible versatility of Joyce's style has a monotonous and hypnotic effect. Nothing comes to meet the reader, everything turns away from him, leaving him gaping after it. The book is always up and away, dissatisfied with itself, ironic, sardonic, virulent, contemptuous, sad, desparing, and bitter."

The contradictory nature of Jung's criticism is apparent from the very beginning. The book is so boring that Jung falls asleep twice! And yet it also has an "incredible versatility of...style". In this first part of the essay, however, Jung finds far more to criticise than to warm to.

"...The whole work has the character of a worm cut in half, that can grow a new head or a new tail as required...This singular and uncanny characteristic of the Joycean mind shows that his work pertains to the class of cold-blooded animals and specifically to the worm family. If worms were gifted with literary powers they would write with the sympathetic nervous system for lack of a brain. I suspect that something of this kind has happened to Joyce, that here we have a case of visceral thinking with severe restrictions of cerebral activity and its confinement to the perceptual processes."

Jung admits that it is difficult for him to make head or tail of "Ulysses" and that he even tried reading it backwards without in any way altering his level of appreciation and insight (which in any case, presumably, was already fixed at zero!). Jung states that the nature and organisation of "Ulysses" would make him think its author schizophrenic if not for the absence of repetition which is so "typical of the schizophrenic mind". Eventually Jung throws his hands up in the air (metaphorically speaking) and openly declares his dislike.

"Yes, I admit I feel have been made a fool of. The book would not meet me half way, nothing in it made the least attempt to be agreeable, and that always gives the reader an irritating sense of inferiority. Obviously, I have so much of the Philistine in my blood that I am naive enough to suppose that a book wants to tell me something, to be understood--a sad case of mythological anthropomorphism projected on to the book!...One should never rub the reader's nose into his own stupidity, but that is just what "Ulysses" does...All those ungovernable forces that welled up in Nietzsche's Dionysian exuberance and flooded his intellect have burst forth in undiluted form in modern man. Even the darkest passages in the second part of "Faust", even "Zarathustra" and, indeed, "Ecce Homo", try in one way or another to recommend themselves to the public. But it is only modern man who has succeeded in creating an art in reverse, a backside of art that makes no attempt to be ingratiating, that tells us just where we get off, speaking with the same rebellious contrariness that had made itself disturbingly felt in those precursors of the moderns (not forgetting Holderlin) who had already started to topple the old ideals".

Oddly, this admission of dislike seems to give Jung a new approach to the novel. Perhaps Joyce is the Arch- destroyer of outmoded values which cannot be tinkered with, but only blasted away with seismic intensity?

"From the causal point of view Joyce is a victim of Roman Catholic authoritarianism, but considered teleologically he is a reformer who for the present is satisfied with negation, a Protestant nourished by his own protests. Atrophy of feeling is a characteristic of modern man and always shows itself as a reaction when there is too much feeling around, and in particular too much false feeling. From the lack of feeling in "Ulysses" we may infer a hideous sentimentality in the age that produced it. But are we really so sentimental today?...there is a good deal of evidence to show that we actually are involved in a sentimentality hoax of gigantic proportions. Think of the lamentable role of popular sentiment in wartime! Think of our so-called humanitarianism! The psychiatrist knows only too well how each of us becomes the helpless but not pitiable victim of his own sentiments. Sentimentality is the superstructure erected upon brutality...It is therefore quite comprehensible that a prophet should arise to teach our culture a compensatory lack of feeling. Prophets are always disagreeable and usually have bad manners, but it is said they occasionally hit the nail on the head. There are, as we know, major and minor prophets, and history will decide to which of them Joyce belongs. Like every true prophet, the artist is the unwitting mouthpiece of the psychic secrets of his time, and is often as unconscious as a sleep walker...'Ulysses' is a 'document humain' of our time and, what is more, it harbours a secret. It can release the spiritually bound, and its coldness can freeze all sentimentality--and even normal feeling--to the marrow. But these salutary effects do not exhaust its powers...There is life in it, and life is never exclusively evil and destructive...it wants to be an eye of the moon, a consciousness detached from the object, in thrall neither to the gods nor to sensuality, and bound neither by love nor hate, neither by conviction nor by prejudice 'Ulysses' does not preach this but practices it--detachment of consciousness is the goal that shimmers through the fog of this book. This, surely, is its real secret, the secret of a new cosmic consciousness..."

Now, Jung seems pleased to have discovered a new and fertile line of investigation. "Ulysses" exists in order to rid man of his sentimentality and medieval superstition. From the wreckage of Joyce's destructive prose a new and modern "zeitgeist" will emerge that is appropriate for a new man with a new destiny. Joyce uses the power of the collective unconscious--as Goethe and Nietzsche did before him--to confront man with some necessary new truths: the new can only blossom when the old has been put to the sword! To this extent, Joyce in "Ulysses" is involved in a similar act of purification as Goethe in "Faust" and Nietzsche in "Thus Spake Zarathustra". He is the scatological prophet of a new age. He is John the Baptist come to prepare the way.

"'Ulysses' is the creator-god in Joyce, a true demiurge who has freed himself from entanglement in the physical and mental world and contemplates them with detached consciousness. He is for Joyce what Faust was for Goethe, or Zarathustra for Nietzsche. He is the higher self who returns to his divine home after blind entanglement in samsara. In the whole book no Ulysses appears; the book itself is Ulysses, a microcosm of James Joyce, the world of the self and the self of the world in one. Ulysses can return home only when he has turned his back on the world of mind and matter. This is surely the message underlying that sixteenth day of June, 1904, the everyday of everyman, on which persons of no importance restlessly do and say things without beginning or aim--a shadowy picture, dreamlike, infernal, sardonic, negative, ugly, devilish, but true. A picture that could give one bad dreams or induce the mood of a cosmic Ash Wednesday, such as the Creator might have felt on August 1, 1914. After the optimism of the seventh day of creation the demiurge must have found it pretty difficult in 1914 to identify himself with his handiwork...There is so little feeling in 'Ulysses' that it must be very pleasing to all aesthetes. But let us assume that the consciousness of 'Ulysses' is not a moon but an ego that possesses judgment, understanding, and a feeling heart. Then the long road through the 18 chapters would not only hold no delights but would be a road to Calvary; and the wanderer, overcome by so much suffering and folly, would sink down at nightfall into the arms of the Great Mother who signifies the beginning and end of life. Under the cynicism of 'Ulysses' there is hidden a great compassion; he knows the sufferings of a world that is neither beautiful nor good and, worse still, rolls on without hope through the eternally repeated everyday, dragging with it man's consciousness in an idiot dance through the hours, months, years. Ulysses has dared to take the step that leads to the detachment of consciousness from the object; he has freed himself from attachment, entanglement, and delusion, and can therefore turn homeward."

This is a purple passage of high flown appreciation indeed! By this time it appears that Jung's earlier scepticism and dislike have been entirely swept aside by new insights and ideas--and this is confirmed in the paragraph that follows:

"It seems to me now that all that is negative in Joyce's work, all that is cold-blooded, bizarre and banal, grotesque and devilish, is a positive virtue for which it deserves praise. Joyce's inexpressibly rich and myriad-faceted language unfolds itself in passages that creep along tapeworm fashion, terribly boring and monotonous, but the very boredom and monotony of it attain an epic grandeur that makes the book a 'Mahabharata' of the world's futility and squalour...the truth of Tertullian's dictum: 'anima naturaliter christiana'. Ulysses shows himself a conscientious Antichrist and thereby proves that his Catholicism still holds together. He is not only a Christian but--still higher title to fame--a Buddhist, Shivaist, and a Gnostic".

Jung finishes his essay by returning to the question he had posed earlier: "Who is Ulysses?"

"Doubtless he is a symbol of what makes up the totality, the oneness, of all the single appearances...Mr. Bloom, Stephen, Mrs. Bloom, and the rest, including Mr. Joyce. Try to imagine a being who is not a mere colourless conglomerate soul composed of an indefinite number of ill-assorted and antagonistic individual souls, but consists also of houses, street-processions, churches, the Liffey, several brothels, and a crumpled note on its way to the sea--and yet possesses a perceiving and registering consciousness!. Such a monstrosity drives one to speculation, especially as one can prove nothing anyway and has to fall back on conjecture. I must confess that I suspect Ulysses of being a more comprehensive self who is the subject of all the objects on the glass slide, a being who acts as if he were Mr. Bloom or a printing shop or a crumpled note, but actually is the 'dark hidden father' of his specimens".

As with Goethe before him (suggests Jung), Joyce finishes his personal oddysey by putting his faith in the 'Eternal Feminine' who can show the male animus the new path he must follow--and also, in the process, help him to give it meaning:

"O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibralter as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes"

Jung's essay finishes with the following panegyric:

"O Ulysses, you are truly a devotional book for the object-besotted, object-ridden white man! You are a spiritual exercise an ascetic discipline, an agonising ritual, an arcane procedure, eighteen alchemical alembics piled on top of one another, where amid acids, poisonous fumes, and fire and ice, the homunculus of a new, universal consciousness is distilled!...Penelope need no longer weave her never-ending garment; she now takes her ease in the gardens of the earth, for her husband is home again, all his wanderings over. A world has passed away, and is made new".

Later in 1932, Jung wrote a letter to Joyce about his earlier essay on "Ulysses".

James Joyce Esq.
Hotel Elite,
Zurich

Dear Sir,

Your Ulysses has presented the world such an upsetting psychological problem that repeatedly I have been called in as a supposed authority on psychological matters.

Ulysses proved to be an exceedingly hard nut and it has forced my mind not only to most unusual efforts, but also to rather extravagant peregrinations (speaking from the standpoint of a scientist). Your book as a whole has given me no end of trouble and I was brooding over it for about 3 years until I succeeded to put myself into it. But I must tell you that I'm profoundly grateful to yourself as well as to your gigantic opus, because I learned a great deal from it. I shall probably never be quite sure whether I did enjoy it, because it meant too much grinding of nerves and of grey matter. I also don't know whether you will enjoy what I have written about Ulysses because I couldn't help telling the world how much I was bored, how I grumbled, how I cursed and how I admired. The 40 pages of non stop run in the end is a string of veritable psychological peaches. I suppose the devil's grandmother knows so much about the real psychology of a woman. I didn't.

Well I just try to recommend my little essay to you, as an amusing attempt of a perfect stranger who went astray in the labyrinth of your Ulysses and happened to get out of it again by sheer good luck. At all events you may gather from my article what Ulysses has done to a supposedly balanced psychologist.

With the expression of my deepest appreciation, I remain, dear Sir,

Yours faithfully,

C.G Jung

2008-02-16T01:59:00.000-08:00

Freud and Jung on Art

It is not widely appreciated just how negative Freud's view of art and artists tended to be. In his essay on Leonardo Da Vinci, Freud thought he had explained the work of art by deriving it from the personal experience of the artist. As Jung has commented, this was one possible approach as it was possible that the work of art might be traced back (like a neurosis) to a complex of the author's. However, the problem is that a neurosis is seen in wholly negative terms by the Freudian school. It is something "inauthentic", "a mistake", "a subterfuge", an inability to face facts, "something that should never have been": it is the mind's counter-productive attempt to not face up to some disagreeable fact about a person's past. Therefore, when the Freudian school attempts to derive the work of art from the artist's repressions, it is very close to defining artistic products as neuroses: things that really shouldn't exist at all. As a consequence, Freud's opinion was that all artists are undeveloped personalities with narcissistic and marked infantile autoerotic traits. In layman's language, this means that Freud suspected most artists of being closet homosexuals who hadn't received enough affection from their mothers in early childhood.

Jung castigates Freud and his school for this reductionist view. The fact that Freud wants to interpret all works of art as the result of the artist's inner neuroses demonstrates, for Jung, Freud's own lack of culture and philosophical training (a point that Jung was frequently to make about his erstwhile colleague). For Jung, Freud's essential error was to connect the finished artistic product too closely with the creating artist. It might be true, he argued, that artists due to their sensitive natures often have more neuroses than the average person. However, the poor state of their conscious personality is often due to the effort they expend on their creations which, at least in a true artist, takes on an existence beyond the life of the artist himself. Jung advances his own theory that each person is born only with a certain amount of psychic energy and that the energy which the ordinary person puts into his life, usually goes into the art of the artist. In his personal life he develops ways of getting by psychically which expend the least amounts of energy--and this can often lead to deceitfulness, cowardice, simple egotism and neuroses. Effectively, he sacrifices his psychic energy to the better part of him, the creating artist.

For Jung, art was essentially of two types: psychological and visionary. Perhaps it is best to quote him directly on this (though in the following passages Jung is dealing ONLY with poetic creation):

"The psychological mode works with materials drawn from man's conscious life--with crucial experiences, powerful emotions, suffering, passion, the stuff of human fate in general. All this is assimilated by the psyche of the poet, raised from the commonplace to the level of poetic experience, and expressed with a power of conviction that gives us a greater depth of human insight by making us vividly aware of those everyday happenings which we tend to evade or to overlook because we perceive them only dully or with a feeling of discomfort. The raw material of this kind of creation is derived from the contents of man's consciousness, from his eternally repeated joys and sorrows, but clarified and transfigured by the poet. There is no work left for the psychologist to do--unless perhaps we expect him to explain why Faust fell in love with Gretchen, or why Gretchen was driven to murder her child. Such themes constitute the lot of mankind...No obscurity surrounds them, for they fully explain themselves in their own terms...The gulf that separates the first from the second part of Faust marks the difference between the psychological and the visionary modes of artistic creation. Here everything is reversed. The experience that furnishes the material for artistic expression is no longer familiar. It is somehing strange that derives its existence from the hinterland of man's mind, as if it had emerged from the abyss of prehuman ages, or from a super-human world of contrasting light and darkness. It is a primordial experience which surpasses man's understanding and to which in his weakness he may easily succumb."

Jung goes on to make his point that the second, or visionary mode of artistic production, entails the poet's unconscious ability to show and interpret the collective unconscious of his time with all its fearsome images and pointers to destruction. Jung states his belief that in his revealing of the collective unconscious, the poet may temporarily suffer from neurotic or psychotic states--but the revelation is made for the spiritual welfare of his fellow man. Some critics may say that the artist is merely disguising his own phobias when he has recourse to unfathomable imagery. Jung answers them in the following way:

"There is no ground for the assumption that the normal, human experience in the first part of Faust is repudiated or concealed in the second, or that Goethe was normal when he wrote Part 1 but in a neurotic state of mind when he wrote Part II...In works of art of this nature--and we must never confuse them with the artist as a person--it cannot be doubted that the vision is a genuine primordial experience, no matter what the rationalists may say. It is not something derived or secondary, it is not symptomatic of something else, it is a true symbol--that is, an expression for something real but unknown...If we disregard for a moment the possibility that Faust was compensatory to Goethe's conscious attitude, the question that arises is this: in what relation does it stand to the conscious outlook of his time, and can this relation also be regarded as compensatory? Great poetry draws its strength from the life of mankind, and we completely miss its meaning if we try to derive it from personal factors. Whenever the collective unconscious becomes a living experience and is brought to bear on the conscious outlook of an age, this event is a creative act which is of importance for a whole epoch. A work of art is produced that may truthfully be called a message to generations of men...After three centuries of religious schism and the scientific discovery of the world, Goethe paints a picture of the megalomania that threatens the Faustian man and attempts to redeem the inhumanity of this figure by uniting him with the Eternal Feminine, the material Sophia. She is the highest manifestation of the anima, stripped of the pagan savagery of the nymph Polia. But this compensation of Faust's inhumanity had no lasting effect, for Nietzsche, after proclaiming the death of God, announces the birth of the Superman, who in turn is doomed to destruction...Each of these poets speak with the voice of thousands and tens of thousands, foretelling changes in the conscious outlook of his time."

Finally, Jung summarises his view of art and the artist--and cocks yet another snoop at Freud in the process:

"This re-immersion in the state of participation mystique is the secret of artistic creation and of the effect which great art has upon us, for at that level of experience it is no longer the weal or woe of the individual that counts, but the life of the collective. That is why every great work of art is objective and impersonal, and yet profoundly moving. And that is also why the personal life of the artist is at most a help or a hindrance, but is never essential to his creative task. He may go the way of the Philistine, a good citizen, a fool, or a criminal. His personal career may be interesting and inevitable, but it does not explain his art".

2008-02-13T22:31:00.000-08:00

Notes Towards the Creation of a Literary Theory

Story-telling, poetry, song, have existed as long as man has had language. Why is this so we might pertinently ask? The answer, I believe, is simple enough. In earlier ages, most of man’s time and effort was taken up with practical matters such as hunting, war, tribal manoeuvrings, family quarrels, love-making and child-bearing and rearing. It was necessary to record the great moments of success as well as the failures in order to learn and improve (or sometimes merely to stand still!). Naturally, the successes were exaggerated and the failures portrayed as great tragedies of the tribe. Whose job was it to keep these important events alive? Of course, it was the poet-player who was entrusted with this task. For example, it was poets of the oral tradition who were the first to sing of Troy and the Greek expedition there to repatriate the abducted Helen. These stories were passed down from one generation of poets to the next and, in their transferral, the stories became ever more embellished and more perfectly shaped to their essential purpose of making the Greeks proud of their forefathers and their history. However, the element of pure entertainment was present too in an age when men had fewer pleasures with which to while away the time. Tales of mighty heroes gave the present warriors of the tribe great men to emulate from the past, while famous stories of Achilles’ wrath and the wiliness of Ulysses no doubt fascinated and delighted the listening Greeks on cold winter nights.

From the beginning then the poet’s stories served a variety of functions: on one level, they were entertainment pure and simple. However, they were also far more than this, recording the history of the tribe and its moments of greatest success and tragedy for posterity (of particular importance for societies to which the discipline of history was as yet unknown). Also, these stories had a moral purpose, giving the warriors of the tribe great men from the past who they could try to emulate in the present. Of course, modern man has in many ways grown beyond the simple life of primitive men and his artistic and literary constructions have become correspondingly more complex--though I believe every significant work of real literary merit still includes unconscious and millennia old archetypes from the collective unconscious of all mankind. I would suggest that from time immemorial, great poets and artists have been particularly sensitive to the images or archetypes that existed and still exist within man’s “collective unconscious”--a concept made famous by the Swiss psychologist, Carl Gustav Jung. We have no evidence that the collective unconscious exists, but it is a reasonable hypothesis that explains many otherwise inexplicable phenomena, such as that of “synchronicity”--another Jungian idea. Frequently we find that things seem to come together in a meaningful way that is neither causal nor teleological. For example, a person may dream of the death of a close relative and wake up the next day to find that a close relative has indeed died. On the surface this seems like a supernatural occurrence and scientists and most psychologists would aggressively explain the happening as a mere coincidence. Jung, however, insisted that these moments were an effect of the collective unconscious: below personal consciousness and personal unconsciousness lay the realm of the collective unconscious, filled with archetypes, that we all shared together (such as “Mother”, “Father”, “Death”, “the Shadow”, etc.). It may appear to us that we are separate from the rest of humanity, but this collective pool of meaningful images and shared experience shows that we are all really linked together (the concept is similar to the “Atman” of Hindu thought). Consequently, when an occurrence concerns us closely, this collective unconscious can throw up strange and inexplicable knowledge due to our inter-relatedness.

I believe these ideas can be profitably applied to the understanding of literature--and Jung himself wrote a superlative essay on the meaning of Joyce’s “Ulysses” (which I find myself reading and re-reading in the hope of discovering new and important insights). However, in the construction of a useful literary theory, we are somewhat like magpies taking something that is useful from all over. For this reason, I would suggest that the extensive work done in the 20th century on linguistic semiotics should not be forgotten, but also incorporated into our theory as and when it should prove useful. In particular, semiotics studies the structure of narrative and this will often be of fundamental importance in the explanation of a literary work. Other denser works need more attention to be paid to deeper structures (such as archetypes), but a clear and consistent picture of how a work of art functions from a narrative point of view, will be important for most literary works--even poems. Of course, the narrative may be broken up, elliptical, concentrated on a single moment, or interminably drawn out (like “Ulysses”)--but it is usually of great importance.

Naturally, the “theme” or “meaning” of a literary work is vital too in most cases. This consideration is closely connected to didactic content (where it is present) and ethical stance. All this is most important and the critic should be able to call on a vast personal knowledge of human history, anthropology, culture, tradition, comparative religion, philosophy and science in order to elucidate meanings and purports that in some cases may be conscious and in others below consciousness--or even unconscious. Perhaps more so than in any other intellectual field, the literary critic must be prepared to cross academic boundaries in order to throw light upon the important (and sometimes unimportant!) writings of our age. The critic should also have a flexible and non dogmatic mind that is able to trace those lines of convergence in the modern age that might lead towards something new for the future.

The best critics will certainly try to avoid that barren concentration on character analysis that has typified so many forms of past criticism. To what point should I psychoanalyse Hamlet or J. Alfred Prufrock when these are merely single and incomplete examples of the writer’s creative mind? Obliquely, I may learn a little about the author’s wider intentions and major themes by looking at characterisation; but mostly by obstinately concentrating on a mere part of the author’s structure--while neglecting the rest--I will put myself in a situation where I am probably unable to see the wood for the trees. Of course, characterisation, in its place, is one important aspect of a literary structure’s quality--as is also standard of dialogue, reality of place and situation, etc. However, all these phenomena are only a part of the author’s overall creation of a semiotic structure and the whole is very definitely greater than the sum of its parts. Naturally, we should give serious consideration to all these other factors and, if the author writes well and creates with felicity, then we will usually find high levels of competence in all these areas. However, in the final analysis, it is the literary work in its totality that the artist has created--and it is surely this totality that is usually most in need of explication!

These have been just a few early notes towards the creation of a literary criticism that I myself can feel at home with. Tentatively, I would like to call it “Analytical Semiotics”--thereby giving a nod to Jung’s “Analytical Psychology” as well as making a direct reference to semiotics based linguistics.

2008-01-30T07:03:00.000-08:00

Jungian Semiotics

Perhaps Carl Jung gives us the best possibility of making something worthwhile out of the current rather arid state of Saussaurean and Piercean semiotics. The basic idea is fine: human beings live in a context of signs and symbiology which must be recognised and interpreted for us to live meaningful lives. Problems emerge when the deep-rooted significance of signs and their importance are examined. For the father of modern linguistics, Ferdinand de Saussure, human language was itself a set of signs and symbols through which we viewed the world: though there was no necessary connection between the real world and the concepts in our mind that were merely an interpretation of it. For Saussure, the connection between the signifier and the signified was "arbitrary". This is to say the signs we used to describe the world, including language, had no necessary logical connection with reality. "Cat" could just as easily mean "mountain" as a small furry domestic animal. In other words, the symbols and signs we use on an everyday basis are given meaning only by ourselves and have no significance outside of their collectively perceived meaning. Now this is a rather dry and soulless interpretation of symbiology and signs: the world is full of signs and symbols that have been created and given meaning only by ourselves. It is at this difficult point that Carl Jung's ideas can possibly begin to help us--though only if we are prepared to accept that there are aspects of existence that we simply don't understand very well.

Many of Jung's ideas and concepts have established themselves in "the collective unconscious" to use one of the Swiss psychologists most famous ideas. Jung also introduced the ideas of "introvert" and "extravert", "archetypes", feminine and masculine sides to the personality, "synchronicity", "mid-life crisis" and gender ruled by "Logos" and "Eros". He even referred to the "dark side" of the human psyche--an idea picked up by George Lucas in his "Star Wars" movies. This idea of the human psyche having a "dark side" that would prove hugely destructive if not acknowledged and controlled, provides one connecting point between Jung's ideas and modern semiotics--and points to ways in which Jungian psychology may enrich our present view of semiotics.

For Jung, modern humans lived in a particularly difficult world. The foundations of Christianity had been blasted asunder by science and modern man, unlike his ancestors, lived in a world dedicated to science and reason. However, the problem was that man was only "reasonable" up to a certain point. Like Nietzsche before him, Jung believed that in order to find peace, man had to give up at least a part of his reliance on reason and accept "the dark side" of his personality. The dark side was irrational, but also the place where creativity and instinctual knowledge was born. Man had insisted on "goodness" and "light" too exclusively for too long. Jung saw this as a dichotomy between man's "Appollonian side" dedicated to higher reason and knowledge and his "Dionysian" side dependent on the irrational and symbols. If this latter aspect of man's psyche went unacknowledged for too long it did untold harm in the individual and collective unconscious of man, resulting in brutal wars of aggression that allowed us to express our inner demons in a cathartic way that could be sanctioned by society through "projection". "Projection" for Jung was the way in which the anger of men could be channelled against other men by believing one side was right and the other wrong. It was his belief that suppressed primitiveness was the cause of much mental illness as well as those periodic orgies of violence that mankind regularly indulged in (and of course, Jung lived through both world wars). Jung was sure that unless modern man accepted the dark and irrational elements in his own nature then eventually he was sure to destroy himself in a paroxysm of violence. It is interesting to recall Yeat's poem, "The Second Coming" in this context:

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

This is surely the finest poem of the 20th century just because it so effectively tunes into the symbiology of the times. In Jungian terms, the "rough beast" would be the dark side of humanity that has been denied adequate expression for so long and now is about to wreak its consequent havoc on the "reasonable" civilization that denied its existence or only saw it active in others (rather than as being present in the unconscious of all men). According to Jung, the apocalyptic disaster foretold so eerily and well by Yeats, could still be avoided if man accepted that the modern age did not give him sufficient spiritual sustenance: and for Jung, man was above all a spiritual creature:

"Since the stars have fallen from heaven and our highest symbols have paled, a secret life holds sway in the unconscious. That is why we have psychology today, and why we speak of the unconscious. All this would be quite superfluous in an age or culture that possessed symbols. Symbols are spirit from above, and under those conditions the spirit is above too...Our unconscious...hides living water, spirit that has become nature, and that is why it is disturbed. Heaven has become for us the cosmic space of the physicists and the divine empyrean a fair memory of things that once were. But 'the heart glows' and a secret unrest gnaws at the roots of our being."

(Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious)

Specfically on man and his need for symbols and a cause greater than himself, Jung says the following:

"Everything is banal, everything is 'nothing but'; and that is the reason why people are neurotic. They are simply sick of the whole thing, sick of the banal life, and therefore they want sensation. They even want a war; they all want a war. They are all glad when there is a war; they say, 'Thank heaven, now something is going to happen--something bigger than ourselves.

These things go pretty deep, and no wonder people get neurotic. Life is too rational, there is no symbolic existence in which I am something else, in which I am fulfilling my role, my role as one of the actors in the divine drama of life... That gives peace, when people feel that they are living the symbolic life, that they are actors in a divine drama. That gives the only meaning to human life; everything else is banal and you can dismiss it. A career, producing children, are all maya compared with that one thing, that your life is meaningful...But we cannot turn the wheel backwards; we cannot go back to the symbolism that is gone. Doubt has killed it, has devoured it...I cannot experience the miracle of the Mass...It is no more true to me...Dreams were the original guidance of man in the great darkness...When a man is in the wilderness the darkness brings the dreams--somnia a Deo missa--that guide him. It has always been so. I have not been led by any kind of wisdom; I have been led by dreams, like any primitive. When you are in the darkness you take the next thing, and that is a dream. And you can be sure that the dream is your nearest friend; the dream is the friend of those who are not guided any more by the traditional truth and in consequence are isolated."

(The Symbolic Life)

Most importantly, for Jung man was "Homo Religiosus": he needed religion for the welfare of his psyche and in the modern atheistic world the absence of religion and religious symbols led inevitably to mental illness:

"During the past thirty years, people from all the civilized countries of the earth have consulted me. Many hundreds of patients have passed through my hands, the greater number being Protestants, a lesser number Jews, and not more than 5 or 6 believing Catholics. Among all my patients in the second half of life--that is to say over 35--there has not been one whose problem in the last resort was not that of finding a religious outlook on life. It is safe to say that every one of them fell ill because he had lost what the living religions of every age have given to their followers, and none of them has been really healed who did not regain his religious outlook. This of course has nothing whatever to do with a particular creed or membership of a church."

(Psychotherapists or the Clergy)

Jung's own view of religion is obscure. His work concentrated more on the need for some spiritual reality in human life and he did not prefer one creed over another (though interestingly, he did advise against a too easy acceptance of Eastern traditions by people from the West). He did, however, insist on the importance of ritual in the sacred life. From time immemorial, man has marked the change of seasons and the cycle of birth and death with various propitiation ceremonies full of symbolic acts. It was this symbolism that put him in touch with nature and himself--and it is precisely this quality that has been lost in our modern world. One might say that any religion that was full of symbolism would be appropriate to man's spiritual salvation. Jung himself (like Wittgenstein) toyed with the idea of joining the Catholic church because he admired its rich symbolism. His idea was that one could give a symbolic meaning to everything that the clergy insisted was literally true. After a while, however, he dropped the idea--no doubt disillusioned by the rigidity of the church to accept his symbolic meanings. We do know that two childhood experiences greatly influenced the views of the grown man. In the first, he dreamt that he was looking down into a rectangular hole in the ground with a flight of steps leading down. He descended these steps and in a subterranean room he viewed a giant phallus sat on a majestic throne. At the tip of the phallus a single eye looked unblinkingly upwards. Later, Jung described the dream as a vision of how man has sanitised religion and concentrated on the light to such an extent that he has ignored God's terrible aspect and the dark side of himself. This has led to the collapse of belief and now God must find a new way to recreate himself--from below so to speak. The second vision (not a dream this time) is in some ways even more shocking. The adolescent Jung was looking at his town's cathedral when he had a vision of God sat in splendour on a throne, directly above the cathedral. Suddenly a turd dropped from the throne and fell on the cathedral destroying it completely. Jung interpreted this as meaning that the divine spirit was unhappy with the interpretation of him given by his followers. He was a two-sided God of light and darkness and not the anaemic creature that existed in conventional religious texts.

This has been a mere introduction to some of Jung's ideas on symbols. However, it seems to me that a researcher genuinely interested in semiotics can find a rich world of symbols and ideas in the works of Jung that could deepen and make more profound the, at present, somewhat anaemic study of signs and symbols that is semiotics.

2008-01-24T08:56:00.000-08:00

IS IT A BRAIN OR A MIND?

Do we mean something different when we talk about "brains" and "minds", or are these two words simply synonyms? The history of Western philosophy would suggest that "brain" and "mind" are linguistic equivalents of the dualism between "soul" and "body". A "brain" is something physical with scientific rules of operation. "Mind", on the other hand, is a far less clear concept with its subjectivity and emotions. Philosophers have been known to make such claims as: "Mind is as wide as the universe itself". Now quite clearly, it is not the bundle of cells in our heads that is being referred to here, but something far more expansive: in a nutshell, it is the ability of human beings to formulate abstract thought accompanied by the most profound feelings. Of course, it is a fairly recent phenomenon for humans to locate the essence of their being inside their skulls. For millennia, wise men and philosophers preferred to believe that the seat of the emotions and abstract thought lay inside the heart. This fact can still be observed in our use of language today: we learn something "by heart"; a cruel person is "heartless"; a courageous person has a lot of "heart"--and so on. The Egyptians were so convinced that the soul lay in the heart, that they carefully embalmed and preserved that organ when preparing a corpse for burial. The brains, in contrast, were regarded as mere stuffing for the head and were unceremoniously hooked out through the nose! In the present day, our knowledge has grown concerning the functions of the brain, but neuro-scientists are still largely in the dark when it comes to explaining the functionality of the billions of neurons that are continually firing inside our heads. On the other hand, everyone knows what mind is like (or at least they think they do!) "Mind" is the process of thought and emotion through which I am able to connect with other humans and the world in general. It is possible to explain our thoughts and emotions, the things we think and the things we feel, in the knowledge that these experiences are also shared by other "minds". However, neuro-science is only just beginning to understand some elementary things about the ways in which our "brains" give birth to the thoughts, ideas and emotions of our "minds". Much has been understood about the visual cortex and how the eyes and brain react together to give us sight. Furthermore, the posterior parts of the brain that deal with motor function have also been studied intensely. However, the connections between the brain's frontal lobes and the abstract thoughts and emotions of "mind" remain almost completely unaccounted for--and this inability to understand how the "brain" gives us the abilities of "mind" goes a long way towards explaining the continuing dichotomy between these two concepts.

Another problem concerning "brain" and "mind" is the way we have invented two different sciences for explaining them. The activities of the human "brain" is studied by the neuro-biologist, but the "mind" is the territory of the psychologist. Evolutionary psychologists try to link the two together, but continue to explain their theories with flow charts and diagrams that are totally unrelated to the physiological structures of the brain. Chomsky and Steven Pinker have told us, for example, that language is (respectively) an "innate" gift and an "instinct"; yet neither has produced any evidence linking their ideas to specific functions and areas of the brain--another clear sign that they are dealing with the "mind" rather than the "brain". There is something decidedly pre-Socratic about the way, psychiatrists and psychologists allow themselves to blithely talk about the "mind" without any real understanding of the human "brain". The evolutionary psychologists tend to be equally deductive when speaking about the importance of human genes: everything (they say) can be explained by genes--but many of these psychologists have an ignorance of the human genetic make-up that is only equalled by their lack of knowledge concerning the human brain! For instance, we are continually given the old fact that the human genetic make-up is more than 99% the same as that of a chimpanzee. However, we rarely hear that dandelions share 35% of their genetic make-up with humans! Perhaps, then, the important point would be to try and understand why a disparity of less than 1% between humans and chimpanzees make us so profoundly different.

The present dualism that exists between "brains" and "minds" is certain to continue until more profound connections are made between the functioning "brain" and the "mind" that thinks and feels. In the final analysis, it is likely to be neuro-science that makes these essential connections rather than the more pretentious but less effective "science" of psychology.

2008-01-09T21:15:00.000-08:00

Muhammad Ali

Muhammad Ali was always bigger than life. He conquered the world and left the world in awe in the process. From the beginning there were many nay sayers, though Ali ended up by confounding them all. Ali's greatest opponent, Joe Frazier in 1996, at the opening of the Atlantic Olympic Games, famously expressed the wish that Ali would throw himself into the Olympic fire after lighting it!

Boxing afficionadoes sometimes insist Louis or Marciano were better, but a great fighter must be judged by the quality of the opposition he dominated. Ali was fighting in what must surely be considered the golden age of boxing and defeated opponents of the calibre of Floyd Patterson, Sonny Liston, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Ken Norton and Oscar Bonavena as well as a host of lesser luminaries such as Jerry Quarry, Ernie Shavers, Al "Blue" Lewis, Henry Cooper and Michael Spinks. His final humiliation at the age of 37 at the hands of Larry Holmes was just a case of age catching up with the great man (enabling his former sparring partner--later a fine champion himself--to defeat him).

More than being a great champion, Ali was a great man. He gave hope to the hopeless and showed that someone with true talent and a lot of self belief to back it up, could conquer an often hostile world.

2008-01-07T02:58:00.000-08:00

Origins of Language

That's interesting, Mark. As you know, I've criticized Chomsky for being an innatist and closet idealist. I am not easy in my mind with innate postulations, but in this one instance I am prepared to go along with it. Why? Because it's a retrospective postulate that seems to cover the present facts. Children DO have an
extraordinary ability to pick up languages and this would suggest that all languages do conform to universal parameters. Similarly, behaviorist learning techniques cannot adequately account for the speed and creative ways in which children learn languages. As people get older, perhaps they conform more to behaviorist models: though punishment and reward techniques will always have some success.

Some psychologists seem to believe that it's very important that we know how language developed and the moment it happened. This doesn't concern me too much. It's basically an unknowable, though further scientific developments based on the discovery of new data (ancient human remains, etc.) might eventually shed some light on the matter (or maybe not). In the meantime, I am not so interested to follow every new psychological theory about where language comes from--an activity that often strikes me as Pre-Socratic in character (deductive and not based on evidence).

As far as I can see, Wittgenstein's later philosophy leads to relativism. There are multiple logics (he says) that only make sense in the context of particular arguments. In this he seems to be in agreement with Foucauld and his idea of discourses that don't have any absolute truth as a necessary part of their function. Furthermore, the later Wittgenstein also repudiated the idea that there is any necessary logical connection between language and the real world. In this respect, his later ideas mirrored those of Saussure.

2007-12-28T00:46:00.000-08:00

Bhutto Killing

Just before Christmas, there was a rally in the small Sicilian town of Corleone against the Mafia. Corleone used to be the home of the Italian Mafia and Mario Puzzo even used the name as the surname of his fictional Mafia family in "The Godfather". Now, however, people are sick of the Mafia in Corleone and, young people in particular, want a Mafia free life. Their idealism is encouraging, but when we see the terrible things that happen in the Balkans, Iraq, the states of the former Soviet Union and Pakistan we should realize that the Mafia is a state of mind rather than an actual place and that it is by no means limited to Italy and America. The levels of lawlessness currently consuming Pakistan are extreme even for that bloody nation and the latest outrage has been the assassination of former Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto.

It is difficult to believe that Bhutto and her husband Ali Zardari were totally innocent of the corruption charges that dogged them so persistently and caused the early termination of both Bhutto's spells as PM. At a conservative estimate, the Bhutto fortune is said to be over a billion US dollars and Zardari was famous during his wife's tenure in office for awarding contracts on the basis of kickbacks. It is impossible that Benazir Bhutto knew nothing of this: either she was actively involved with her husband's shady activities, or was complicit in her silence. Either way, it is clear that Bhutto was a woman with a fierce sense of pride and a genuine sense of destiny concerning her own right to direct the political destiny of Pakistan. Bravely, she returned when it would have been easier to enjoy her vast wealth in exile--and now she has paid the price.

Benazir Bhutto was a courageous woman and belonged to the genus of superstar politicians. She was never supposed to be successfully assassinated: near misses were all part of the Bhutto myth, but somehow the idea that a single suicide bomber could confound all that prestige and privilege never seriously occurred to anyone. Once again we are reminded of the fragility of life and how (to quote another victim of the bullet, John Lenin) life is something that happens to you "while you're busy making other plans".

2007-12-23T03:24:00.000-08:00

Calypso of the Appenine Way

Here is the conclusion to the first chapter of my novel.....

The whole conversation with its inevitable lack of transparency was beginning to bore me and I finished up my beer and ordered another one. Mario did the same, this time ordering beer. Eva was less than half way through her orange juice and Sharokh seemed to be deliberately going slow with his small beer.

“What’s the matter with you, Sharokh?” I enquired. “Do you intend to make that small beer last all night?” I understood that the Iranian would be driving Eva home and that he had a responsibility to not drink too much, but this in no way stopped me from taking a little fun; pot shots, at his expense.

“It is the car, John”. Sharokh replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “As you know, it’s only six months since I passed my test and I don’t want to drink too much as it could lead to a preventable accident. “Would you forgive me if we were in an accident and Eva was to be injured?” I looked at Sharokh’s face closely, but could detect no hint of irony on it.

“No, of course not”, I replied seriously. “You are certainly doing the right thing in not drinking too much. “On the other hand, I am unsure as to why you decided to get a house so far away from the centre of Parma. Wouldn’t it have been better to be more central?” At this point, Eva joined in the conversation.

“That question is easily answered, John. We took the apartment in Felino because it was far cheaper than anything we could find in Parma of a similar size and quality.” Of course, I was well aware that this had been the reason for their choice; but I was still in the mood to turn the knife in the wound a little.

“But surely, when you take into consideration the amount you pay for the car and petrol, it would have been cheaper to live in the centre.” Again, I knew that what I was saying was nonsense, but it was amusing to see Sharokh twisting around to explain his present impecuniousness. In the Shah’s Iran, his family had been related to the Royal Family and all of them would have been killed by the revolutionaries if not for their contacts who’d been able to convey them secretly out of the country: Sharokh and his brother to Perugia in Italy and his parents to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. In Perugia, Sharokh had met Eva who had convinced him to come to Parma with her. Sharokh’s brother remained in Perugia as night watchman in a small hotel.

All this while, Sharokh had been staring at me in some irritation. “Surely, you know better than that, John. You are a driver yourself and you know that while the petrol is expensive, housing is a lot more costly. In Felino, I’d say we have everything we wish. It is a beautiful small village and the people are friendly too. We have already made friends with several couples who live nearby.”

Now it was my turn to get angry. “Oh yes, and who might they be? I must say Sharokh that it seems to me that you are making this drive to Parma on a very regular basis. Felino is an extremely backward place and the people are suspicious of strangers rather than friendly. As for these great ‘friends’ you have made, I’d be glad to know exactly who they are.” At this point, Eva made a hurried interjection.

“Sharokh is exaggerating. There is an Italian couple living in an apartment close to ours who we sometimes meet on Sunday afternoons for a drink and a game of cards in the local bar. There is really nothing to it.” At this point Sharokh interrupted Eva with a tightly constricted voice.

“Is it not true that we have been their guests for lunch and dinner on several occasions? Isn’t it also true that they’ll be coming over to eat with us tomorrow night? Certainly, I have come to regard them as friends and I think that you have too.” I was listening with attention and curiosity as Eva made her reply.

“Sharokh, they are acquaintances. Are we so desperate for friends and general acceptance here that as soon as we see someone a couple of times they are regarded as dear soul mates? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we don’t want to spend all our time only with each other: that would be merely boring. However, try to keep things in perspective instead of forever spreading stories about new friends!”

I felt that Eva’s answer pretty much covered all the bases--and I was confirmed in this idea as I watched Sharokh sink into a lugubrious silence, a look of utter hopelessness etched on his features. At this point Mario seemed to wake up from his personal preoccupations and began to speak with Sharokh whom he had always viewed favourably due to the perception that they had both been ill-treated by fate in the same way. Of course, I was aware that the two really shared little in common. Sharokh had nobody but Eva to support him in Italy and the daily job he did in the factory was absolutely essential to his health and well-being. On the other hand, Mario, although his father had frightened him by making him work in a factory for a spell, was the favoured son of a rich engineer who would always make sure he was taken care of. Sharokh was also aware of these discrepancies, but as long as Mario was too naive--or perhaps just too young--to see them, he was happy to play the part of senior big brother on the factory floor who always had a younger colleague’s interests at heart.

“Sharokh, how much was your car?” asked Mario. “I am thinking of buying a second hand Fiat from one of my friends, but I’m not sure how much I should pay.”

“Our car was obtained at a special price through the help of a friend in Perugia”, answered Sharokh. “Tell me Mario, how old is the car you are thinking about buying?” Mario shook his head vaguely.

“I’m not exactly sure, but I’d say it’s probably at least ten years old. It could be more.”

Sharokh looked business-like. “In that case, don’t pay more than three or four million lire. How much is your friend asking?”

“He wants seven million lire”, Mario replied.

“Don’t pay it!” responded Sharokh decisively. “You will undoubtedly have engine problems with a car so old and very likely difficulties in obtaining parts as well. You will be tearing your hair out in a month if you pay such a price--and I can guarantee that you will no longer view this person who is selling you the car, as a friend anymore. Actually, I would advise you not to buy the car at all as it’s at least ten years old. I would advise you, rather, to look carefully for a car that is no more than five years old. You should be able to obtain such a car for no more than five or six million lire. I don’t think your friend is really doing you any favours by offering you his car at such a price.”

Eva and myself kept quiet during this discussion, not having the slightest interest in Mario’s intention to buy himself a second hand car. Personally, I was aware that the price was not of great importance as Mario’s father would pay as long as he was convinced of the necessity for his son to own a car.

“Thanks so much for your help, Sharokh”, responded Mario gratefully. I am sure that I would have foolishly bought that car at my friend’s asking price if not for having had this eye-opening little talk with you.” Sharokh laughed.

“My friend, please don’t think about it at all. Are we not brothers of the factory floor? What would comradely relations be coming to if one factory worker was not able to help another?” At these words Mario laughed and nodded.

“Yes, I still feel myself to be a factory worker. Most of my friends still work there and I have little in common with the people I am now mixing with in the Liceo. Once a worker, always a worker.”

I was fully aware how fatuous these words of Mario’s were--and so was Sharokh. However, we both felt a need to keep silent now. Confronting Mario with the obvious would do neither myself nor Sharokh any good. At this point, Sharokh asked me a loaded question.

“John, how is Eleonora these days? We haven’t seen her for so long. Is she still studying Law at the university during the day and then working in that office by night?” I took a quick glance at Eva’s pallid face before answering.

“Yes, she is fine and continues to study and work. In fact she should be finishing at the office in a few minutes.” Sharokh nodded enthusiastically.

“Why, isn’t the office just around the corner from here? Why don’t you go and get her and bring her here? It would be nice to chat with her after so long.” Eva looked uneasily from Sharokh to myself.

“Probably she is tired and hungry”, the German girl commenced. “We should allow her to eat and sleep.” Sharokh laughed.

“Well, she can eat here--sleep as well if she likes! Do go and get her John. I’d really like to see her.”
I glanced at Eva’s face and saw that it was hard and white. Sharokh was looking at me triumphantly, while Mario had a whimsical look on his face. To tell the truth, I actually wished to see her myself, so I slowly nodded my head.

“Yes indeed, why not. Order another round of drinks and wait for me here. I should be back in about ten or fifteen minutes.” I rose from my seat, thanked Paolo and walked to the door. Through the window I could see that it was now snowing harder than ever.

Dove vai?, enquired Paolo as I pushed open the door and made ready to plunge into the storm tossed night.
Vado per prendere Eleonora I explained to the old Sicilian, who in response gave me a knowing smile. Ah...la bionda?

Si, I responded, suddenly tight and angry inside. Proprio la bionda. A presto. I left the comfort of the birreria and hurried back in the direction from which we had come.

As I walked quickly ahead, I could easily see that the street was now completely covered with a fresh coating of undisturbed snow. What on earth could I say to Eleonora to get her along to the birreria on a terrible night like this? Perhaps the mere knowledge of Eva’s presence there would act as a kind of challenge and make her come. However, I suddenly realised that there were no guarantees. It would be perfectly possible that she would refuse the outing and return to her warm apartment. I glanced at my watch: just coming up to ten. That meant I still had a few minutes. By the time Eleonora had checked everything and was ready to leave the office, the time had usually ticked around to at least five past ten.

At the end of the road, just past the cinema showing the movie about ‘The Doors’, I turned sharply to the left into one of the main thoroughfares of the town: Via Mazzini. Now I was once again protected by the great porticoes. Few people were to be seen traversing the great street--and the few that could be discerned were mostly hurrying along with their heads inclined and their eyes fixed upon their feet. I could find no obvious explanation for their behaviour except to think that perhaps they were minutely examining their shoes for storm damage that might show up in the light of day. Italians, as everybody knew, were neurotic about their shoes.
After about five minutes I ducked into the little boxed-in enclave where the entrance to Eleonora’s office lay and pressed the buzzer. After a wait of about ten seconds a familiar voice came on the intercom.

Si? Chi e’?

Sono Io. Apri la porta.

The door in front of me gave a sudden jerk and opened heavily. I pushed it forward and all the lights along the winding stairway suddenly lit up. For a moment I stood in the vestibule, a sudden feeling of stark fear unmanning me. Finally, however, I began the steep climb up to the first floor where Eleonora’s office lay. I knew that she would, in all likelihood be alone there, as most of the bosses left around nine-thirty, leaving the competent (if crazy) Eleonora to close up.

I wondered why I felt so nervous. When was the last time I’d seen Eleonora? I made a quick calculation and realised that it had already been more than a week. In a certain sense, a little bit of Eleonora went a long way. Nevertheless, most of my waking hours were filled with dreaming about her--and my dreams themselves were simply Eleonora’s: they belonged to her! She knew very well about the complete infatuation she created in men--and she fostered that craving. It might even be said that while her men lived off their infatuation for the beautiful red-haired girl, Eleonora herself got off on being the sole object of their infatuation. Nothing was more likely to end a relationship with Eleonora than the knowledge that a man who was with her was taking an inappropriate interest in another woman. She was Ulysses’s Calypso entrapping a man in her personal space and after that, never permitting him to leave again. Like Ulysses, her man might spend each day weeping on the shore, but the evening belonged to her--and her Queenly charms could never be resisted.

During the time it had taken for these thoughts to formulate in my mind, I’d reached the landing of the first floor and, glancing to the left where I knew the office to lie, I saw the familiar glass door with the painted message on it: Fernando Bertinotti, MD. Through the door, I could see Eleonora sat alone, behind her computer, at the secretarial desk. She was looking towards me and smiled as the temptress Circe might have smiled at Ulysses’s men before inviting them into her castle to become pigs.

I took a deep breath and walked in.

2007-12-22T15:27:00.000-08:00

Comments from the TED Site

I had a lot of criticisms to make about Steven Pinker's talk on violence (on the TED site and embedded above). These comments were put up on the TED site--and naturally, lots of people disagreed. Part of the discussion is shown below (chronology moves from bottom to top):

Sandro Magi – December 18 2007
I'm glad we've converged. I don't think Pinker wanted to detract from the dangers of war, as we all know they can be quite devastating. Biological warfare stands to become particularly dangerous. I agree that state coercion is a serious problem, and I took Pinker's presentation as an appropriate counter-response to sensationalist media coverage and terrorist propaganda driving people to give governments enough rope to hang us with. Also, the less rope the government has, the more difficult it would be for them to unilaterally declare war and unleash nuclear horrors on the world. I think it's a worthy goal, and very much in line with your own ends. If anything, Pinker's presentation bolsters your own agenda for limiting state coercion, as any additional security or controls the state seeks are clearly unnecessary.

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 18 2007
For me, the modern state's surveillance of the individual and perpetual threat of violence against bodies is a subtle extension of violence itself. If Pinker only wants to make the point that I am less likely to die at the hands of another male than in tribal society, then no doubt that is fair enough. On the other hand, his model doesn't take into consideration the fact that any future world war--unlike past world wars--is likely to prove devastatingly destructive for the human race with nuclear arsenals released on both sides.

Flag this comment Sandro Magi – December 17 2007
wallen, I feel we are talking past each other. No one has ever questioned that in terms of absolute numbers the 20th century has probably been the bloodiest in history; that's a natural result of scaling the population up.

The entire point of this talk, is that the *relative* level of violence has decreased, ie. the violence per capita. To throw out numbers, where perhaps >30% of people in tribal societies died at the hands of another human, only 4.5% died in such a fashion in the 20th century.

The absolute and relative numbers are two very different quantitative measures, and while the the former is ideally the number we'd like to reduce to zero, the latter is an indicator that progress is being made. So I strongly disagree with your assertion that it's not of gripping importance, as everyone's quality of life has improved as a result of that very real progress.

Also, these type of facts are important to combat the environment of fear and suspicion that governments seek to engender in their populations in order to justify their power grabs, an end I would think you would support. Only by spreading these facts can we hope to counter the rhetoric of fear.

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 17 2007
As the world population has almost quadrupled in the last 100 years, I would imagine that murders and civil violence are at an all time high too. Really, for me, whether I am more or less likely to be killed at the hands of another male in this century, is not of gripping importance. Humans have always been capable of killing each other and still are. At a conservative estimate at least 150 million people have died in wars in the 20th century--and I repeat that is far, far more than in any other century in human history. Moreover, it has been nasty mechanized war. Therefore, I repeat that one could also make a model where the 20th century is viewed as the most violent in human history. Pinker interprets the figures in the way he wishes too--and others will do the same.

Flag this comment Sandro Magi – December 17 2007
wallen, your analytical approach suffers from selection bias: warfare is not the only cause of death, nor may it even be a predominant source of human-caused death. As such, it would not be a reliable measure of our likelihood of dying at the hands of another human. What about muggings? First, second and third degree murders?

The state of warfare today is clearly more dangerous than it has been in the past, and yet we can argue that there are fewer wars, and they are resolved more quickly and decisively. Where is the modern equivalent of the Hundred Year war? Where are the Crusades, or the invading armies of Genghis Khan, Alexander or Rome? Humans often suffer from selection bias, particularly in our memories, and as such, we can forget how blood thirsty our history has really been.

However, you may be right that more died in warfare than in the past. That's irrelevant though, as that is only part of the statistical probability that factors into my likelihood of death by another human. But if you truly believe the raw data supports your view, then perhaps you can point me to this data that I may inspect it myself. A quick search turned up this:

http://users.erols.com/mwhite28/warstat8.htm#Total

Which supports Pinker's assertion that the likelihood of me dying at the hand of another human this century is very low (4.5%); further, I find it very hard to believe that I have a smaller chance of dying at the hands of a human on the streets of 18th century London.

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 17 2007
Sandro, personally I see someone interpreting statistics in a way that is suitable to him and then saying it's scientific. I can reasonably claim the exact opposite of Pinker on the basis of the raw data. I can set up a model that totals up the number of people killed in warfare throughout the centuries and say that as the 20th century saw far more people killed in warfare than any previous century, that century is, in fact, the most violent century of all. As for Foucault having his critics--don't we all? Even Pinker no doubt! All thinkers have their critics and it's easy to find pages and pages of criticism of just about everybody on the web. This is no doubt just ,as all thinkers make lots of errors. In fact, such close attention from those who disagree is usually a sign of relative success rather than failure!

Flag this comment Sandro Magi – December 17 2007
john wallen, indeed the statistics are not the same, as Pinker and others have already pointed out. But you are convinced of the contrary, so no need to dwell on this.

I will instead agree with you that the centralization of power can easily result in the abuse of power; this very lesson can be seen in communist states without "benevolent dictators", and even in the U.S. where the Constitution is being subverted as we speak. However, it does not follow that concentration of power is necessary and sufficient for its abuse. Systems of governance which appropriately distribute powers with checks and balances can eventually address any injustices, and the benefits of such governance on the whole outweigh the injustices. Capitalism is a good start in this regard, as it distributes control into many hands, rather than concentrating it in a few; it's only a partial solution however.

As for Foucault, many of his arguments are widely discredited elsewhere [1], though he was likely right about some things. Also, I do not believe that I proposed any interpretation of the data beyond what Pinker himself stated.

I don't understand your question regarding the economic base, but I will interpret it as a question about the economic differences between capitalist and tribal societies: econonmics is the study of resources. We now place far more strain on resources than we ever have in the past, and despite this additional resource contention, we have lower rates of violence per capita, when one would expect the contrary all else being equal. Thus, all else is not equal, and Pinker outlines 4 reasons he has heard for this trend. Neither he nor I can say whether any of those reasons are correct, but the facts stand regardless: people now experience greater stability and safety than they have in the past [2]. If you mean something else, please clarify.

Finally, science subsumes philosophy, and we should all endeavour to support our beliefs with facts, and abandon them should they fail the appropriate tests, despite how cherished they may be; progress is made only by scientific discovery, not by rhetoric.

[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michel_Foucault#Criticisms_of_Foucault
[2] on average of course, which is the realm of statistical reasoning; specific locales and times will affect the likelihood of experiencing violence.

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 16 2007
Sandro I tend to accept Foucault's ideas on violence. Of course this is to sound a rather unusual note in this mostly self congratulatory forum for evolutionary psychology. Foucault believed that with the development of the modern state, people with power had greater possibilities than ever before to inflict violence on their own people (I wonder if Pinker included Stalin's estimated murder of 20 million of his own people in his figures?). Foucault particularly referred to the power of the "bio-state" that controls its citizens from the cradle to the grave (and kills them if necessary). Anyone interested can read his conclusions. I don't see why I should explain them to a clearly unsympathetic audience. Furthermore, I have a life to lead and have no time for posts of enormous length such as Sandro's admirable effort. In the end those who are already convinced will support Pinker. I will just say that Sandro's explanation/interpretation of the statistical data is really quite absurd. What about the economic base? Statistics for a hunter gatherer society are hardly likely to be the same as for a highly developed capitalist society.

Flag this comment Sandro Magi – December 16 2007
craig plescia, you'd be hard-pressed to argue that indirect violence is more prevalent nowadays, not just because of a lack of reliable data, but because such violence was very prevalent in the past as well. Re: apathy, as Pinker's presentation demonstrates, apathy over a stranger's suffering is at an all-time LOW in the history of humanity. Where 100 years ago people would think 'better him than me', people now actually openly protest against such acts.

Fred Feuerstein, conflict over resources are probably the oldest wars known to humanity. The increased use of open trade means we are more likely to resolve any shortage of resources peacefully than ever before.

Rashad Samedzade, his point is that fewer people have been dying in conflicts since the 50s, and he outlined the reasons shortly after. For instance, consider how peaceful history would seem if no one actually reported the wars. Increased news coverage does not imply an increase in news; if anything, increased coverage of conflicts elsewhere is just a sign that there is no local news; no news is good news!

A good point was raised though: what if the reduction in violent death is due to improved medicine and technology. To that I say: we're still better off! Pinker also noted many instances of documented societal norms which demonstrate a marked decrease in our acceptance of cruelty, such as burning a cat alive for entertainment; those are very hard to dispel so easily.

Gregory Scott, I found his treatment of human naivete and "selective memory" to be appropriately light. I think he was making the point that we all fall prey to Bacon's "Idol of the Den" where we romanticize certain notions despite all evidence to the contrary.

Audrey Manning, Pinker never said that people have changed or have become less violent, one of his points was that we have changed the circumstances such that we are better able to minimize violence (centralizing authority to commit violence). In the constant nature/nurture debate, there is considerable room for changing attitudes towards appropriate conflict resolution, despite an inherent survival instinct. Nowadays people rarely resort to sword duels or knife fights for an insult.

George Alexander, the fact that such biblical acts are no longer WIDESPREAD is the convincing part of Pinker's argument. That they're still practiced "somewhere" is irrelevant.

Klavs Sedlenieks, the fact pre-horticultural "tribes" didn't have a village to invade because they weren't in the same location for very long contributed to the decreased incidence of violence. Also, the rise of horticulture increased the population and subsequently the pressure on scarce resources, so of course increased violence results. The only way to decrease pressure on resources is remove consumers or increase production. Both have happened frequently in our history.

Maxx Toler, absolute numbers are irrelevant when dispelling fears based on probability; do you care that hundreds of thousands die in car accidents when you get in your car? Probably not, as the likelihood of you dying in a crash are small. You are correct that circumstances matter though, and while we perhaps are not less violent biologically speaking, we have established ways to curb that violence.

Larry Ray, you have raised an excellent point. The increased centralization of power in authorities has resulted in increased dangers to the public as a whole.

maniza naqvi, the widespread viewing of such violent materials may in fact curb violent tendencies. If you need any further convincing that we live in a less violent time, then take a look at your average life expectancy. If you're older than 30 and you lived even a few hundred years ago, you would likely be dead right now.

Adam Hicks, the false reality addressed in this talk is the nostalgic view that the past was a relative utopia, and that society is falling into the crapper. In reality, the past is riddled with murder, maiming, cruelty, and domestic abuse, and these were ACCEPTED practices. Despite the fact these sometimes still occur, the key there is SOMETIMES. The very fact that most people are now actually horrified of these very concepts is proof of the thesis. Your comments on Western society identify you as one of the people Pinker was addressing with this talk: one who criticizes western ideals, while reaping its benefits. Western ideals are the absolute worst, except for all the others.

Stan Barton, I think it's pretty obvious that president's have significant clout on violent issues. If Clinton were still in office, would the U.S. be in Iraq right now? I'd say it's far less likely, as Clinton promoted more peaceful resolutions than Bush. As a Canadian, I'm only indirectly affected by the U.S.'s choice of president, but this point should be loud and clear. I agree with you that the rise of economics has curbed nations' tendencies to wage war. Economics shapes many aspects of our lives, as affluent cultures are less likely to kill each other, reproduce, and so on. Perhaps the bureaucracy of economics will one day stop all wars? "I'm sorry Mr. President, all our money is tied up in trade investments at the moment. Perhaps you'd like to file a protest and increase tariffs instead?"

Stewart Mayart, the very fact that we have fewer violent deaths per capita DESPITE our increased pressure on resources is the salient point to take from this talk.

Zac Albrecht-Heiks, one cannot morally judge a species or a race or a people, one can only judge individuals. Thus, if there is less violence, then fewer of us are violent, and more of us are good. I would certainly praise my son for going for choosing the non-lethal resolution if there was a choice.

Pradeep KallurViswanathaRao, that they are different is entirely the point. Our norms are less violent.

Darrell Kern, I fail to see what GG&S contributes to this. Every person here, including yourself, who has judged Pinker for his presentation, as nervous, shifty, or outright evil as you have, is guilty of the very attitudes that result in violence: demonizing. Pinker himself covered this in his talk, where people "looked after their own", and the rest were demonized as subhuman to justify their cruel treatment. Your false dichotomy of "us vs. them" serves only to increase tensions and demonize "the enemy" as justification for pending cruelty. Your use of the very tactics which you criticize Pinker marks your entire comment as the epitome of ironic hypocrisy.

James Mikkelsen, when dealing with probabilities, absolute numbers are meaningless. If the birth rate sky rocketed, the death rate should similarly sky rocket all else being equal. The fact that it didn't is evidence that all else is not equal, and what changed to produce this reduction in violence is the very subject of the talk.

Benjamin Funar and Darrell Plank, I whole-heartedly agree. Idolizing the past is a sure sign of our biases and selective memory.

john wallen, as I stated earlier, population growth has nothing to do with statistics (except when performing the initial analysis of course); the trends that hold for 1,000 people hold for 1,000,000,000 people, all else being equal; if 50% died violently in the past, then 50% should be dying violently now. That they aren't is the historical improvement of which Pinker speaks. Further, your implication that coercion and threat are somehow "new" to this century is completely ludicrous; most mammals use the threat of violence to maintain their alpha status in the pack. Institutionalizing force is nothing new either; go talk to the Catholic Church and their Inquisitors in particular, as they have almost 2,000 years of history to teach you. If you meant something else, please clarify.

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 16 2007
I don't believe the relevant question is the one you pose at all. Perhaps this is the relevant question for you: it certainly isn't for me. For me, the relevant question is: have we evolved to a point where violence or the threat of violence is less important than it was in the past?-and the answer, quite obviously, is "no". If all Pinker wants to say is that because the population keeps increasing, then as a percentage of the population less men will die in wars, then that is rather a non-point! No doubt if this process continues, we will suffer the violence of civil strife as people battle for scarce resources. At heart, Pinker is a Utopian who believes that everything is always getting better.

Flag this comment Chris Anderson – December 16 2007
John, it makes no sense to focus on gross numbers. The 20th century may have seen a lot of people die in war, but it also saw vastly more people live long, happy lives than ever before.... both factors driven by the explosion in population. The relevant question is what are the chances that any ONE human life will be cut short by violence. And you get to that answer by looking at PERCENTAGE of a given population killed by wars or violence. So Pinker is correct to focus on that measure, and the fact that it has plummeted over the past few thousand years is indeed counter-intuitive. That is what makes this talk important.

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 15 2007
Jose, it's clear that man is not becoming less violent. The 20th Century has been the most violent in history. This is not merely a scientific question, but a social question too. Pinker says: "Our ancestors were far more violent than we are". I totally reject this and deny that there is anything scientific about such a statement. Pinker uses warped statistics (as pointed out in the blog you mention). Population has quadrupled in the 20th century, so his statistics are way out of kilter. If he'd made a graph of the NUMBERS of people killed in warfare throughout history then the 20th century would easily have come out on top with over 100 million deaths. Furthermore, Pinker totally ignores work by thinkers such as Foucault in this area, which has demonstrated that in modern societies violence has become institutionalized with the THREAT of violence often becoming more important than violence itself. Pinker wants to imply that evolution (of man and society) is making man less violent: a conclusion that is qualitatively and quantitatively untrue. Only the methods of coercion change.

Flag this comment José Tavares – December 15 2007
John:

Here's an excerpt of the blog you've linked:

"(...) Now, Steven Pinker was not happy with such vagueness and developed the idea that children's innate grasp of grammar is a product of natural selection rather than mind per se. Natural selection developed the neural networks conducive to language acquisition when it became necessary for people to speak. On the basis of this flimsy distinction, Pinker came up with the idea that language is an "instinct"."

That's not a scientific blog nor does it contain any scientific references.

While I do agree that 'violence' is not decreasing on a per-individual basis, that's precisely because, just like 'the mind' & the 'language ability', it's a product of evolution.
Probably, Pinker wants to stress that, still in accordance with evolution, the interplay between our modern cortexes & the 'reptilian complex' allows us to have more control on our instincts/emotions/feelings, as 'aggressiveness' is somewhat less necessary to survival. Actually, it hasn't been proven that our 'r-complex' has receded or in any other way been modified but through this interplay with the upper cortexes. This can lead to a less determinat role of 'aggressiveness'.

Pinker is a cognitive psychologist, much on the same trend as Daniel Denett.
Behavioural neurobiologists (like Damasio & others), have a different perspective on what concerns the mechanisms which drive the evolutionary brain and its emergent manifestations.

I can only state that, if the harwired potential for language is based on the brainstem, like any instincts, language itself must have come from the interplay of this primitive brain with the more recent 'brain', the Lymbic System and the Neo-Cortex. And, this interplay would become hardwired, as well.

Cheers!

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 15 2007
For more information on why Pinker is so wrong, see:

http://ulyssesonithaca.blogspot.com

Edit | Delete john wallen – December 15 2007
Those "inconvenient facts" are fairly meaningless. For example, they clearly don't take into consideration huge population growth in the last hundred years. Furthermore, Pinker's "subliminal" message is that we are improving and becoming less violent. This is clearly untrue; we have merely made violence more subtle: coercion or the threat of coercion still underpins everything we do. It's a bit like the MAD period between the U.S. and the Soviet Union: actual violence might not take place, but that is only because the THREAT of destruction hangs over us all.

2007-12-20T23:12:00.000-08:00

Calypso of the Appenine Way

Chapter One of my new novel continued......

Via Garibaldi was filled with shadows and half light as we made our way along the great central artery of Parma that connected the outside suburbs with the very centre of the city itself. Along this thoroughfare there were shops and commercial dealers of every description: jewellery shops, ice cream shops, tobacco shops, small restaurants and big restaurants. Most of all, however, there were the boutiques and clothes shops run by independent artisans. To my jaundiced north European eye, they appeared to be all grossly over priced. Nevertheless, even to a sceptic like myself, most of the materials looked handsome and well made. Horses for courses, I thought. Parma was one of the richest provincial cities of northern Italy and most of the locals were more than well enough heeled to delight in over-spending for their necessary trifles in life. Eva pretended to take the same attitude as myself to the over-priced luxury of Parma; yet as with most women, one felt that it wouldn’t take much to make a rebel of her and send her screaming and possessed into a melee of berserk shoppers waving her hard earned lire over her head like some half demented lunatic.

As we passed the gelateria at which we’d stopped earlier that night, Mario seemed to perk up and he looked long and hard through the glass front of the shop hoping to catch the eye of the dark haired girl within. However, I could make out that she was surrounded by five or six customers and mostly obscured from our sight.

“I think Mario is in love”, I confided to Eva still clinging next to me and warm at my side.

“Really?” she replied questioningly. “With Ilaria, you mean?”

I took a quick look at Mario who was now walking alongside us--and seeing that his face never changed its expression I decided that it would be OK to rib him a little.

“Oh yes, always with Ilaria”, I replied. However, one such as Mario is unable to keep all his loving for only a single woman. On our way to ‘La Bussola’ this evening, we took a gelato in this place--and it seemed to me that the poor girl who served us, was infatuated with our brave Rudolf Valentino here.”

Eva laughed while Mario responded by giving me a dirty look and saying nothing.

“What on earth will Ilaria say if she finds out that you have roving eyes Signor’ Mario?” asked Eva bending over and across me in order to look in Mario’s face and see what emotion it might be registering: I thought surliness was the predominant feature.

“Don’t listen to John, Eva. He is only joking. Yes, of course; Eva is my woman and I love her very much. Nevertheless, seeing how changeable women can be, it is never a bad idea to keep another in reserve--just in case anything should go wrong.”

“And what might go wrong?” enquired Eva, a little nettled by Mario’s words in spite of herself.

Mario shrugged. “Who can say? It is clear though that a little fame or flashiness can often turn their hearts away from one who loves them deeply. If this were to happen, a man would look foolish indeed if he had not provided another beauty for himself; in reserve, so to speak.”

Eva laughed; but I could see that Mario’s words had irritated her. “And why might a woman leave a partner except for the common enough occurrence of a man cheating on her, or not treating her with the respect and dignity she craves and deserves?”

Mario shrugged again. “I wouldn’t know Eva. However, I am convinced that it is best for both men and women to prepare for all possibilities in their relations with each other.”

Eva gave a strained laugh. “I see you have been spending too much time with John, Mario. These are his ideas I’m sure.”

This time Mario shook his head lugubriously. “No Eva. These are my own ideas--though I respect John’s viewpoints very much. It is my own experience with women that has led me to these--admittedly somewhat sour--conclusions.”

I knew that Eva was thinking of Sharokh. Clearly, he loved her dearly and would do absolutely anything for her. Yet here she was with me, a well known double-dealer. Looked at dispassionately (if that was possible), Eva’s actions seemed to support the truth of Mario’s words--and she didn’t like it.

By now we had reached the end of Via Garibaldi and the mounted statue of the great man himself came into view on our right. We took a turn into Via Mazzini and once again passed all the bars in Piazza Garibaldi, before taking refuge from the still falling snow flakes under the porticoes that led back to Eleonora’s house and office. Everything was darker than before and few people seemed to be any longer abroad in the swirling, snow infested night. When we were about half way down the porticoed arcade of Via Mazzini, it was time to cross the wide, undefended road and take the small side street down to the birreria, ‘Oktoberfest’. As we crossed the street, three abreast, the snow, which over the last half hour had been coming down ever stronger, whirled around our forms and covered everything with a fine sliver of white. In particular, our overcoats and scarves picked up the snowflakes in abundance so that to anyone we came upon unexpectedly, we would give the impression of being three shapes freshly returned from Hades’s underworld--possibly on some hopeless mission sanctioned by the goddess Persephone herself.

The street lights burnt strangely dim as we entered into the small side street that led down to the birreria and passed the little cinema on our right which this week was showing a new biopic of the sixties group, “The Doors”. I knew that Mario was a great fan of the group and also that he’d been along to see the movie with Ilaria a couple of evenings before. So far, I’d forgotten to ask him of his impressions of the film, so now, as we approached the yellow light of the silent birreria, I decided to ask him about the movie.

“So how was this movie, Mario? Worth the entrance fee?” Mario seemed to consider deeply for a few moments before replying.

“Certainly worth the entrance fee, though far from being wholly satisfactory.”

Oh?” I responded. “What was wrong with it then.”

“Nothing in particular”, replied Mario. “The only real problem was that it was made as a biopic and so the director felt the need to cover everything. The story was too long and wide ranging to be adequately treated of in just a couple of hours. This was the main difficulty. However, there were other smaller ones too. Certain parts of the real story were romanticised while others were glossed over entirely.”

I nodded my head in an understanding fashion. “Plenty of good music anyhow?” Mario’s face creased up into a smile of sheer pleasure confirming what I already knew: that he loved Jim Morrison and the music of ‘The Doors’.

“Oh yes”, he confirmed redundantly. “The music is always something special.”

We were now outside the birreria and through the glass I could see the Sicilian, Paolo, waiting behind the counter. He was alone, but no doubt his three sons, I thought, were busy serving the student clientele in the basement below. As he saw us, through the glass window, he waved his hand vigorously in the air and shouted his greetings. I pushed open the door and we entered into his establishment.

Buona sera amici miei. Che piacere di riverdervi su questa notte brutta e tempestosa! There was always a certain level of irony in Paolo’s words--and so it was this evening. Paolo and all his Sicilian family had become good friends during my stay in Parma. He helped in various ways--particularly with information.

Grazie Paolo, I replied. E’ davvero una notte brutta. Siamo qui per incontrarci con Sharokh, l’uomo di Eva.” At these words, Eva gave me a dirty look, while Mario’s face was expressionless and conveyed nothing. Paolo simply shook his head with a non e’ qui.

“It seems he’s not yet arrived”, I said to Eva, a little amused at her obvious irritation.

“Yes, thank you, John. I can speak a little Italian” (her Italian was quite brilliant and far better than mine). “It’s only 10: 40 PM and I imagine he’ll be here in a few moments now.”

The three of us took our places at the single table on the top level, which was right next to Paolo’s counter. I ordered German lager for myself and Mario and Eva ordered spremute, or crushed orange juices. The drinks had just arrived, when Sharokh walked into the birreria and offered us all his greetings. He exchanged a few words with Paolo, whom he knew quite well, before ordering a small beer and sitting down next to Eva. He appeared to be in high good humour, but he often seemed this way and I was doubtful about how much of the true Sharokh I was really seeing on these occasions. Much of his bonhomie was clearly for Eva’s benefit. He wanted it to be clear to her that he harboured no suspicions regarding her behaviour and that myself and Mario were regarded as deep and sincere friends. It was a dangerous game he was playing and it was only because of my own infatuation with Eleonora that the pretense had been allowed to continue for as long as this. I attempted to make some small talk.

“Anything interesting happen in the factory today?”, I enquired. Sharokh shook his head.

“Nothing interesting ever happens in that damn place, except on the last Friday afternoon of every month when we all receive our pay--not that we get much.” I knew that Sharokh picked up about a million and a half lire monthly. As he said, it wasn’t a lot; but it did enable him to keep some dignity and get out of the house instead of always begging for money and being underfoot. Perhaps, it even assuaged his pain somewhat, as he didn’t know what Eva was getting up to while he was slaving away in the motor factory.

Eva looked uncomfortable at Sharokh’s words and she asked him if he’d paid the rent to the landlord before setting out to pick her up that evening. Sharokh confirmed that he had indeed done so. Eva and Sharokh lived some kilometers outside Parma in a little village called “Felino” On arrival from Perugia, they’d had to pay six months rent in advance, a sum that had come directly from Eva’s pocket. Now, the six months had finished and they were back to paying on a more regular monthly basis again.

2007-12-20T12:37:00.000-08:00

Derrida's "Of Grammatology"

In chapter two of his famous book "Of Grammatology", Derrida challenges the Saussaurean idea that the signifier is arbitrary and that speech has primacy over writing. I would actually agree with him on both issues, though Derrida himself seems to find the proof of his belief in elliptical statements of an ever more bewildering nature:

"Now we must think that writing is at the same time more exterior to speech, not being its “image” or its “symbol,” and more interior to speech, which is already in itself a writing. Even before it is linked to incision, engraving, drawing, or the letter, to a signifier referring in general to a signifier signified by it, the concept of the graphic [unit of a possible graphic system] implies the framework of the instituted trace, as the possibility common to all systems of signification. My efforts will now be directed toward slowly detaching these two concepts from the classical discourse from which I necessarily borrow them. The effort will be laborious and we know a priori that its effectiveness will never be pure and absolute."

Derrida seems to say that writing is not a mere "sign of a sign", but in some sense has primacy over speech. It (language) "implies the framework of the instituted trace": that is to say that all other forms of discourse are implied within it. Speech has already been "written" and has no primacy over writing, while the latter contains the necessary elements of all other discourse within its more finished structure.

Chomsky wasn't too taken with Derrida's ideas, regarding them as meaningless obscurantism.

"Noam Chomsky has expressed the view that Derrida uses "pretentious rhetoric" to obscure the simplicity of his ideas. He groups Derrida within a broader category of the Parisian intellectual community which he has criticized for, on his view, acting as an elite power structure for the well educated through "difficult writing" and obscurantism. Chomsky has indicated that he may simply be incapable of understanding Derrida, but he is suspicious of this possibility." (WIKIPEDIA on Derrida)

My own belief, is that when Saussure allowed that the signifier applied not to reality but to a concept in the mind, he was opening the door to a theory that could give primacy to writing. If speech is only expressing a concept in the mind, then that concept is surely best expressed when all the resources of language have been brought to bear on it! In other words, the initial interpretation (in speech) is simple and probably inadequate to express all the richness and ambiguity of the mind's concept. It is only after words have been honed, in writing, that language is able to best express the complexity of the mind's concept.

2007-12-17T12:23:00.000-08:00

Calypso of the Appenine Way

Continuing with chapter one of my novel:

Eva smiled pleasantly at Sacchetti and extended her hand. “A pleasure to meet you Signore.”

“Lorenzo...call me Lorenzo”, tut-tutted the infatuated one. “Up close I see that you are even more beautiful than I had previously thought.”

I could not disagree with Sacchetti. Eva was a beauty--even if an understated one (unlike the majority of Italian girls). Tonight she was wearing a heavy red overcoat against the inclement weather but her petite beauty shone clearly through. Eva had the prettiest face imaginable with a lovely mouth and rose bud lips. Her skin was clear of any blemish and fair like alabaster. She liked to keep her brown hair short, but the style suited her very much. In addition to her beauty, Eva was also one of the most intelligent women I’d ever met, a polyglot who spoke nearly all the major European languages. She had helped me a lot with my Italian even though I was not a particularly quick student (being by no means a natural linguist like her).

Eva took her place at the table and ordered a pizza and a glass of red house wine. Lorenzo’s eyes hardly left her face as she stared down at the menu and spoke with the waitress. I had invited the man over as a joke, but now his puppy dog dedication was beginning to try my patience. Or was it a most unreasonable jealousy that I was beginning to feel?

“Tell us a little about yourself, Lorenzo”, I suddenly began. “Are you from Parma? What is your job?”
As the bald Italian began to speak, I noticed that his ingratiating smile remained fully directed at Eva. “Yes, I am from Parma. Last year I finished my engineering course at the university and now I am working for my father’s engineering company here. It is only my first year so I am mostly still learning the ropes.”

“And do you have some sweetheart?” I enquired of him mischievously. “No doubt a man like yourself, educated, refined, fortunate, will have committed himself to some beloved fidanzata many moons ago.”
I observed Eva almost choke herself on her wine as she listened to my words. Mario, on the other hand, appeared distant: almost as if he wasn’t listening to our conversation. Perhaps he was still struggling with the problematic situation to be faced with Ilaria.

Lorenzo shook his head. “No I am not currently fidanzato. While at university I had a close relationship with a fellow student called Alicia. However, after graduation we drifted apart. Her home is in Padova where she has now returned to live with her parents. Furthermore, I recently heard that she will soon marry the son of a close friend of her father’s. I wish her all happiness for the future. Our relationship had gone as far as it could have and both of us realised that we were not suited to a lifetime together.”

“What sort of woman do you think would be suitable for a man of your position, Signor’ Sacchetti?” I realised that Eva had asked the question in ironic jest, but nevertheless, I could not prevent a sudden jealousy freezing up my good humour.

Sachetti gave a big sigh. “Ah, what a question to ask! In my job, I need someone who could be trusted to always be dignified in my meetings with potential clients. Beauty and brains should go together. On the other hand, in our private moments, the woman I choose should be funny and playful: not afraid of initiating funny little games that would bring us closer together.”

“I’m sure you will have no difficulty in finding such a woman Signor’ Sacchetti.” Eva’s voice sounded a little cold and I knew that she had already tired of the game with Sacchetti. In spite of her unfailing good humour, Eva had no wish to be the prize wife of a rich and influential man. If such had been her ambition she would never have had anything to do with Sharokh or myself. She was the daughter of a Dusseldorf cobbler and she happily embraced her working class roots. More than anything else she sought stability with a man she loved, though that man was always most likely to be a vice addicted adventurer of a dubious type. Previously there had been Sharokh, now there was...me?

Sacchetti was shaking his head in response to Eva’s earlier remark. “You are wrong my dear Eva...so very wrong! To find the right woman is the most difficult thing in the world. My eventual wife must combine the roles of ambassador, lover, playmate, friend, mother and confidant. Do you think it is so very easy to find a person like that?”

The cold boredom persisted in Eva’s voice as she answered the newly qualified engineer. “I think your world and the world of your parents, your family, must be filled with such admirable women Signor’ Sacchetti. No doubt they are raised to always put the needs of decorum before their own most intimate desires. I am sure you will find such a woman without difficulty.”

Sacchetti shook his head and looked confused. It was clear that he had perceived Eva’s cold indifference to him and his family’s fortune; and also that he was not used to being dismissed so easily as a potential suitor. I was sure he would make a direct attempt to arrange a date with little Eva and his next words confirmed my belief.

“Eva, you are a most beautiful and intelligent woman. It would give me great pleasure if you were to allow me to take you out for dinner at “Il Piccolo Diavolo” one night this week. “Il Piccolo Diavolo” was probably the best and most expensive restaurant in Parma: exclusive too, with tables always at a premium. Obviously Sacchetti was able to exert a little family pressure there. In spite of the bald one’s confidence as he spoke, I felt sure that Eva would disappoint him. Her next words confirmed this.

“Signor’ Sacchetti, you are really too kind. However, this is proving to be a busy time of year for me and I really don’t think I will be able to find the time. Furthermore, I doubt if my live in boyfriend, Sharokh, will be at all pleased if I leave him in order to take an expensive meal with a stranger.”

Damn her! Now she’d made me angry and jealous too! Sacchetti for his part looked like he’d been struck in the face and his words were cold and hard as he commenced to speak. “My dear Eva, please forgive me for my forwardness. I had no idea that you were already as good as married. Of course, I extend to you all my best wishes for a happy future with this man....?”

“Sharokh”, prompted Eva. “His name is Sharokh and he is a factory worker.”

This information was intended as an insult to the rich and well-connected Sacchetti and he took it as such. “Very good. Accept my best wishes once again for your future happiness.” Sacchetti looked at his expensive rolex watch and declared himself to be late for an important appointment. He rose to his feet and gave a little formal bow to us all.

“Good night my friends. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening together.” Having bowed and said these words, the disconsolate and angry engineer left our table and manoeuvered his way through the crowded room to the distant exit without taking a single look back.

Eva flashed me an ironic look. “Do you think I’ve disappointed him? I feel that I stopped being a goddess somewhere among the mouthfuls of pizza.”

Somehow my mood had changed too and I was no longer amused by Lorenzo’s infatuation for Eva. “He is a stupid, pompous fool. Only an untutored ego would take its own worth for granted in such a way. You are worth ten thousand Lorenzos.”

I noticed that Eva’s brows puckered together at these words. She didn’t need me to tell her that she was superior to the likes of Lorenzo, but my heavy disapproval took the fun out of her ironic dismissal. For some moments, there was what is usually called a “pregnant” silence and then Mario asked Eva a question.
“How is Sharokh, Eva? Still working in that car factory?” Mario had always liked Sharokh, probably because his own problems were dwarfed by the Iranians’. Mario had failed his exams and gone to work in a factory. Now his father had given him a way out and within a short time he should be free to go to university or search for better work. In contrast, in spite of his wealthy beginnings, Sharokh seemed doomed to a hopeless life as a factory worker. In spite of this, he always remained positive and upbeat.

“Sharokh is fine, Mario. He is meeting me in the ‘Oktoberfest’ at a quarter to ten. I hope you will both accompany me there later and we can have a drink together.” Mario looked at his watch and seemed to make some calculations. At length he nodded his head.

“Yes, that is fine for me. I need to be up very early tomorrow morning in order to catch the train to Modena, but it’s really OK as long as I get home before midnight.” Eva gave me an inquisitive look.

“And you John? You don’t have any pressing engagement.” I smiled and shook my head with assurance.

“What possible engagement could I have? I suggest we stay here for another half hour or so before strolling slowly to the ‘Oktoberfest’ for 9:45.”

Conversation continued between the three of us in fits and starts, becoming ever more desultory, before Eva recognised an American guy she had worked with in the room. He was sitting with friends, so Eva merely waved over at him. However, he immediately left his friends and came over to say hello. I had met him once or twice and didn’t like him.

“Eva, so nice to see you here”, he gushed in his put on Italian style. “I know I’ve been trying to get you to come here for some weeks, but I’d just about given up on ever really seeing you sat here enjoying yourself with friends.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I thought it was fairly clear that we weren’t enjoying ourselves and that we must have appeared morose to any outsider who had been observing us.

“Eva nodded and smiled. “Yes, well I finished a little late today and John and Mario kindly consented to meet me here. We will be leaving in a few moments as we have an appointment at the ‘Oktoberfest’.” Di Matteo (for such was his name), shot me a quick and inquisitive glance before continuing.>/p>

“That is a pity. I had hoped to introduce you to a few people over at my table.”

“Another time, Di Matteo”, I rudely butted in. We are just picking up the check before leaving. Don’t worry, we are well aware that you are mostly to be found hanging around inside ‘La Bussola’. We will find you another time.” The American gave me a nasty look before making a little formal bow, wishing us a good evening and withdrawing to his own table. As I paid the bill (which also included the cost of Zachetti’s beer), I spoke to Eva with some asperity.

“I really don’t understand what you see in that American idiot. You know that he is of the type who thinks a smooth word can get him whatever he wishes. By talking to him on occasions such as these, you are merely encouraging him to believe that he has a chance of going to bed with you.”

Eva’s eyes flashed her rage. “Sometimes you can be very crude, John. He is an acquaintance, a work colleague: nothing more. Let’s go.”

We stood up and retraced the earlier steps of Lorenzo through the crowded space. As we left, it was clear that the restaurant was far fuller now than it had been on our arrival, about an hour earlier. Outside, the January wind caught us in an unexpected gust that quite took our breath away after the cozy warmth of “La Bussola’s” interior. I suddenly realised that I’d left my umbrella inside the restaurant but felt insufficient concern at the cold and snow to go back and retrieve it. Eva was also without an umbrella.

Silently, each person preoccupied with his or her own thoughts, we walked back in the direction of the town and the birreria: the very same direction that Mario and myself had come from an hour earlier. It was snowing lightly and Eva and I snuggled closely together as we walked along in order to generate some body heat. Mario walked alone, a little distance in front of us. The streets seemed absolutely deserted at that hour and no doubt the worsening weather conditions had kept many would-be revellers indoors this night. Eva, Mario and myself were made of sterner stuff and a little bad weather was hardly likely to make us alter our plans even in the smallest degree. Both Eva and myself were hard bitten north Europeans who knew the very worst conditions that the continent could impose on weary travellers. And Mario? For the time being, Mario was an honorary north European!

2007-12-15T13:47:00.000-08:00

Steven Pinker and Violence

As most people interested in the fields of psychology and linguistics will know, Steven Pinker is a cognitive psychologist best known for his tweaking of Chomsky's idea that children possess a generative or universal grammar. For Chomsky, this meant that all languages conformed to the rules of a kind of "proto" grammar that children possessed instinctively and could apply on the basis of just a few examples. Chomsky, however, didn't spend a lot of time describing where this ability came from: it was "innate" and all children possessed it. In some sense, it could be described as a by-product of mind. Now, Steven Pinker was not happy with such vagueness and developed the idea that children's innate grasp of grammar is a product of natural selection rather than mind per se. Natural selection developed the neural networks conducive to language acquisition when it became necessary for people to speak. On the basis of this flimsy distinction, Pinker came up with the idea that language is an "instinct". In essence, Pinker has been parasitic of Chomsky's ideas, but gives them a smart new twist which has succeeded in putting his name on the academic map. Pinker, in addition to his more serious work has written a lot of science for dummies type stuff. Now, he has a new book ready, entitled: "A History of Violence" and earlier this year he gave a taster of its theme at the TED conference in Monterey, California.

In this short talk, Pinker states his belief that violence has been on the decline for centuries and that today we live in the most non violent period in history. In order to back this up, he inundates his listeners with warped statistics. Apparently male Indians in America had a far higher risk of dying at the hands of another male than we have today. Who would ever have guessed such a thing? Of course, he doesn't take into account that all males in agricultural or hunter gatherer societies were liable to be called upon to defend the tribe. Furthermore, he ignores the way modern society divides human labour: there are particular groups concerned with enforcing law and fighting foreign armies. The deaths may be innumerable, but clearly in a world that has nearly quadrupled its population in the last hundred years, most males are not going to be killed. Pinker, of course, sets up his statistics in a particular and biased way. What would his graph have looked like if he'd counted up the dead killed in wars during the last millennium? Very different in fact! Lowest estimates conclude that more than 100 million people have died in twentieth century warfare. That's far more than in any other century of human history!

In his egotism, Pinker doesn't even bother to look at what past thinkers on the subject of human violence have had to say. In particular, he ignores Michel Foucauld's series of lectures given at the College de France in 1976 under the title, "Society Must be Defended". If he had studied Foucauld, he would have understood that in the modern age, violence has become institutionalized and often operates more on the level of threat: think of America and the Soviet Union during the cold war and the concept of MAD. A war never occurred because the consequences of what would have happened had both nuclear arsenals been released, were too awful to contemplate. In other words the THREAT of annihilation kept war at bay for 45 years! In today's world of modern technological societies, the ever present threat of violence to bodies is successful in preventing most people from breaking the rules

Pinker's analysis is superficial and wrong. Time magazine included this man in its list of the world's 100 most influential people. If that is true, then God help us all!

2007-12-14T12:13:00.000-08:00

Calypso of the Appenine Way

This extract continues the first chapter of my novel, "Calypso of the Appenine Way". I'm not sure whether I'll post anymore after concluding the first chapter. Perhaps it's best to keep people guessing!

“What time is the appointment with Eva?” enquired Mario.

“At 8:30 in ‘La Bussola’” I replied. ‘La Bussola’ was one of our favourite pizzerias, quiet and hidden in a dark back street near Piazza Garibaldi.

“Good”, nodded Mario. “I have had nothing to eat since this morning and I am famished.”
We had instinctively begun to move in the direction of ‘La Bussola’, but Mario stopped outside an ice cream parlour. “I think that I will eat an ice cream before the pizza” he declared solemnly. “My stomach is empty and grumbling.”

Mario locked up his motorino outside the shop and we both walked in. The shop was empty except for the salesgirl and ourselves. I noticed that she was a very pretty dark haired girl with sparkling brown eyes. Mario ordered a huge ice cream and flirted with her a little as he debated which flavours to have. I declined to take an ice cream as I’d eaten only several hours before. After a few moments, we found ourselves back outside, Mario unlocking his motorino while I held his ice cream.

“Actually I always stop at this gelateria”, he informed me. “The girl is beautiful and if things continue going as they are between myself and Ilaria, I may need a new woman soon.”

I knew that Mario and Ilaria had been passing through a bad patch, but I was not aware that things had deteriorated so much.

“What’s the main problem?” I enquired. Mario sighed.

“She wants to change me. Her father can get me a job in a bank after I finish the diploma--but it’s not something I desire. As you know, in Italy the herd mentality is very strong and the older people continually try to divert the younger ones along well known paths. Anyway, I will refuse: the boredom would kill me.”

I looked closely at Mario as he slowly pushed along his motorino. His face was dark and troubled. I knew that he loved Ilaria very deeply and would not lightly let her go. Nevertheless, it seemed that a life spent working in a bank under the cold assessing eyes of Ilaria’s relatives represented a step too far for him: a step he was not prepared to take.

“What about Ilaria herself?” I asked. What kind of work does she want to do?” I knew that at present Ilaria was working as a secretary in her uncle’s computer parts factory.

“She is very intelligent”, Mario replied. “She wishes to become a computer systems analyst and is pursuing various courses at night school. I think she will succeed. However, I can see no future for us if she does a job she loves while I am tied into some low level bank job which I hate. Mathematics is my worst subject and the idea of counting all day and every day fills me with a terrible fear and loathing--disgust even. Perhaps I will finish with Ilaria and pursue this beautiful girl in the gelateria.”

I said nothing. I knew that it would take a major disagreement to rupture Mario’s love match with Ilaria. For his sake, I hoped that they could work it out. Ilaria had already shown her faithfulness to Mario by sticking by him after he had botched his first chance at the high school diploma and, as a result, been condemned to working in the factory for a year.

“Well, you should take it easy”, I advised him. “Don’t take precipitous decisions without thinking them through. Sometimes, when you think about an issue carefully a compromise position emerges that enables one to avoid the more extreme outcomes.”

Mario nodded slowly. “You may be right, but Ilaria will have to accept that I could never work in a bank. If she does this, we may be able to work out the rest in one way or another. Really, it is up to her.”

I gave Mario a sidelong glance and almost smiled. He was very testardo and not too good at understanding other people’s motivations. I felt sure that, given time and effort, he could talk Ilaria around. After all, she loved him. I did not believe that he’d be making a determined effort to acquire the dark haired girl’s love at any time soon.

The issue was obviously a disturbing one for him and he decided to change the subject.

“And what is Eleonora up to these days?”

I hardly knew how to reply and shook my head dispiritedly.

“Some things don’t change Mario. She is, as always, a self centred conniving bitch.”

“But you still love her?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Who can tell? I think she is the debt I must pay for too much bad karma. I see through her; I see her shallowness. Yet she still fascinates me.”

Mario nodded his head slowly. “She is a bitch indeed. A two-timing bitch. I would ask you to drop her if I thought you were capable of doing it.”

I smiled at the thought of the twenty one year old Mario giving me advice about love.

“A certain kind of emotional satisfaction is very hard to find”, I answered. “Who knows why we don’t let certain things go? Obviously I feel that I’d be losing too much, too much that was dear to myself, if I allowed her just to drift out of my life.”

“You love her so much then?”

“I think I hate her more than I love her, but sometimes it is very difficult to tell the difference between these emotions. I feel that the die has been cast and that the present situation needs to be allowed to play out to its natural close.”

“And what does she say?”

I sneered. “Different things every day. She is inconsistent in everything except her beauty and her cunning.”

“So are you not heading for an unpredictable crash landing?”

“Probably. But as I said earlier, fate insists that we follow certain situations to the very end, fino in fondo.”

“Are you sure it is fate that insists my friend? Could it not just be the siren voice of your own ego?”

I smiled and nodded. “Well, perhaps I am like Ulysses strapped to the mast, listening to the sweet siren melodies. Nevertheless, I must listen to the song and, like Ulysses, make preparations so that it doesn’t destroy me.”

“And if the ropes were to break?”

“Then I would descend to Hades with a stupid smile on my face. Life is uncertain, but in rare situations it’s worth making a stand, come what may.”

Mario was silent, apparently turning over my words in his mind. Finally he spoke.

“Here we are: ‘La Bussola’. It seems deserted around here.”

Mario was right. The road on which ‘La Bussola’ lay seemed quiet as the tomb. I looked at my watch: the time was 8:25. Eva would either be waiting inside or hurrying along some nearby street in order to make the arrival time.

“Let’s go inside”, I suggested and we walked slowly towards the bright entrance, Mario still pushing his recalcitrant motorino. Some short distance from the pizzeria we stopped and Marco locked up his motorino. We could hear sounds of revelry coming from within. ‘La Bussola’, in addition to selling fine pizzas, was a famous expatriate restaurant and, inside, one was likely to meet travellers from all over Europe and even beyond. It was a favourite meeting place for me too and I often arranged to meet my friends here.

Inside, ‘La Bussola’ was built in a rustic style with great timbers supporting the bucolic roof. Tables were arranged casually--and most of them seemed already full. A careful examination of the people present confirmed the fact that Eva had not yet arrived and so we allowed a pretty waitress to lead us into a distant corner where a still unoccupied table awaited us. I took a quick glance at the menu before ordering a pizza margherita and a beer. Marco followed my lead and the waitress left us. I had been watching a small bald man for a while who was eating alone at a table near to our own. His eyes never left my face and he seemed in some way fascinated with me. I had the feeling that I’d seen him before and at length he waved his hand, wiped his face with his napkin and came over to stand next to me.

Buona sera, he commenced formally. Vi ricordate di me, signore?

I could not place my finger on exactly where I’d seen him before and shook my head.

Mi dispiace. So bene che ci siamo incontrati prima, ma non ricordo dove.

The man smiled. E’ stata in mensa. Parlavamo di quella Tedesca, Eva.

Now I remembered the man. He had come over once when I’d been eating in the university cafeteria one afternoon. He’d told me that he’d often seen me with Eva and believed that she was, without doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. I had told the story to Eva herself and she’d blushed for pleasure. Still, I knew that she wouldn’t have any real interest in this rather bloated and bald example of the borghese parmigiano.

Although the man had finished eating and was now clearing his bill with the pretty waitress, I invited him to sit down and wait with Mario and myself for the arrival of la bella Eva. He thanked me profusely and with a deep bow sat down. As the waitress returned with his change, Eva’s bald admirer ordered another beer before turning to us both with a smile.

“So you are meeting Eva here tonight? How exciting to have the opportunity of meeting a goddess.”
I smiled. “Yes, I will even introduce you to her Signore....?”

“Sacchetti. Lorenzo Sachetti.”

At that very moment, I picked out the petite figure of Eva making her way towards us in the crowded room. I waved my arm in welcome and turned to the bald Italian.

“My dear Signor' Sacchetti, it seems that your moment has arrived. Here is the beautiful Tedesca on her way to join us now!” Sachetti fixed his eyes on the diminutive form of Eva and seemed to sigh deeply. Within a moment, the smiling figure of Eva was with us and I was introducing her to Sacchetti. “Eva, this gentleman is Lorenzo Sacchetti and he has been admiring your beauty from afar for some months now. In fact ever since he spied us together eating lunch in the Mensa.”

2007-12-11T01:25:00.000-08:00

A History of Violence

In a series of lectures at the College de France in the 1970s, Foucault put forward the interesting hypothesis that history is actually the history of violence. According to Foucault, the history of every constitution retains evidence of every civil upheaval and war that has affected the state in question. Foucault was particularly making a point about the French constitution including, of course, the fundamental changes brought in by the revolution of 1789. However, most influence was always felt from the LAST war or civil upheaval.

This is a thought-provoking hypothesis. It can certainly be applied to European power relationships after the Second World War, with the division of Europe into two hostile camps reflecting the reality of a world controlled by the two new superpowers, America and the USSR. The constitutions of the Eastern Bloc countries, for example, clearly reflected the reality of the USSR's victory over fascist Germany, while the democracies that won the war were free to shape or develop their constitutions as they liked. The instance of Japan is instructive: after losing the war and suffering the devastation caused by the dropping of two atomic bombs, the Japanese gave up on their own world view completely and committed themselves to imitating the American model: even to the point where in many areas they surpassed the original.

Foucault's ideas on history and violence are as relevant today as ever. It is interesting to note that we do not enjoy democratic privileges due to some divine decree: rather, they are the product of successful wars and civil struggles. On the other hand, it can also be said that these same privileges have come about, to a large extent, as the result of successful violence.

2007-12-09T10:14:00.000-08:00

Here's the second extract from my novel. In the Mss. the Italian speech is in italics rather than quotation marks--so that explains the absence of inverted commas for direct speech when Italian is being used.

Calypso of the Appenine Way

PART TWO

1. The Assignation

I came out of the apartment on Via Tiziano, closed the blue door and locked it behind me. From the next apartment I heard the usual sounds of dissention: the old man arguing with his son about a girlfriend perceived to be too common for him.

“Understand Pietro, I know how it feels to be nineteen years old. However, it is foolish to trap yourself in a marriage with that tart merely because she is pregnant. It is all a trick. She knows that you are studying engineering at the university and will make a good catch. Do you really believe that she will be faithful to you? The baby is merely the means by which she controls you. After a while she will resort to type and make a cuckold of you. Is that what you want?”, the old man screamed. “Is that what you want?”

The young man’s reply was dismissive.

“Va fanculo old man. I live my life as I want to. My decisions are not subject to your approval. Have you made such a great success of your own life that you feel qualified to give me orders?”

The old man’s voice quivered with rage.

“Ungrateful wretch; you will be the death of your mother!”

I had heard more than enough and began to walk down the dark spiral staircase to the ground floor below. Usually there was an electric light on the stairs, but for some days all the bulbs had been burnt out and no one had bothered replacing them. It really made little difference as I knew the way down like I knew the back of my own hand. As I descended, I could hear the force of the winter winds buffeting the block of apartments outside. It was a cold January night, a little after seven, and I was meeting Mario in Piazza Garibaldi in just under half an hour. Usually, the walk would take about fifteen minutes, but tonight that time would be doubled due to the wind and at least two inches of snow on the ground. It was unlikely that there would be many people around on such a cold winter’s night.

When I stepped out of the apartment block, I was dismayed to see that the snow had started again. It was coming down thickly and I doubted that I would be able to arrive in Piazza Garibaldi in just twenty five minutes. Still, Mario would wait I thought. What else did he have to do?

Sheltering outside the silent building, I unfastened and then put up my strong blue and white canvas umbrella. It was actually a beach umbrella, but offered equal protection from rain and snow as from the sun. On a really windy night in Parma it might easily be blown inside out, but the weather was not that bad tonight. It was just a typically cold and inhospitable winter’s night in middle January. From the doorway of my apartment block where I still stood I could not see a single person passing by. Only a distant light, further down the road, in the direction of Piazza Garibaldi burned a fluorescent orange in the distance. This I knew was the light of the nearest bar and I resolved to stop by for an aperitivo on my way to the bridge which I would need to cross in order to reach Parma’s central Piazza.

I took a deep breath and thrust the umbrella out in front of me. Next I detached myself from my snug hiding place and plunged into the inclement night. The snow scrunched loudly beneath my feet as I hurried along. A dog barked in the distance and a cat miaowed laconically. It was a wretched evening and I was unlikely to meet many fellow travellers on the way to my appointment with Mario. Did I really have time to stop for an aperitivo? I was already late and if I broke my journey I was unlikely to arrive at Piazza Garibaldi before 7:45 PM. Still, Mario would wait. Yes...he would wait.

After five minutes of breathless battle with the snow and the wind I came abreast of the little bar, “Lo Scrigno”. I pushed open the door and passed into the welcoming heat inside. “Lo Scrigno” was empty but the barman, a familiar acquaintance, called out a pleasant greeting:

Buona sera, Giovanni. Perche sei fuori casa su una notte cosi’ tempestosa?

I hardly knew what to answer, but finally I told the old bar man the truth. I needed to see a friend in Piazza Garibaldi about an important matter that couldn’t wait. The old man’s eyes shone with curiosity. I was his only customer on this dismal evening and a little idle nosiness would no doubt make the time go easier until he could lock up the bar and slip into his warm bed, with his wife, in the small apartment where his family lived over the bar.

Lo so che hai tanti segreti, Giovanni. Comunque, sei Inglese e non capisci bene come le cose vanno qui in Italia. Perche non stai qui con me per un po’? Ti aiutero’ con il tuo cuore spaccato.

Cuore spaccato? I repeated to myself in wonderment. What did this old man know of my life in Parma?
Paolo (for such was the old man’s name) nodded his head wisely and then touched the side of his nose.

Si, signore. Non ti vedo da tanto con quella bella ragazza rossa. Era chiarissimo che eri innmorato di lei.
I gave a disconsolate grunt. What business was it of Paolo’s if I was nursing a broken heart? Anyway, the old man was wrong: it wasn’t true. I told him that he had a fertile imagination like most Italians and that he should mind his own business.

The old bar man smiled knowingly before recommencing.

Ho visto solo due casi di amore veramente grandi. Il primo era personale...ma il secondo era l’amore fra tu e Eleonora.

Non parli senso! I spat out at the old bar man. Did everyone in this small town know everything about me and my deepest needs? Was I merely a source of gossip here for old men like Paolo and his even older wife Silvia? Why did I always feel that everyone in Parma knew everything about me and my problems? Wherever I went, knowing glances were constantly cast in my direction and I felt like the victim of some vast and baffling conspiracy. How did the people know so much? From where did they receive their information? Or was it all just my imagination? Were these emotionally sensitive people in some way able to sense and understand my changing moods--to see my feelings in my face? Perhaps they knew nothing tangible, but merely read an age old story in my darkly flickering eyes?

I finished my drink, paid and quickly left the warm bar, Paolo grinning at me stupidly as I made my exit. Outside, the snow was easing off a little and I didn’t feel the need to reopen my umbrella. I strode on past Via Botticelli on my right: the little road where my English friend Howard Verity lived with his Italian wife, Serena. Probably Howard was entertaining a few Italian guests as he did most evenings around this time. I had been to several of these little get-togethers where wine and food flowed freely, but Howard’s friends with their bourgeois attitudes bored me. Howard himself was beginning to bore me. Most of all, his tedious Italian schoolteacher wife bored me. Serena was a bitch.

After passing the street in which Howard’s home lay, I immediately came abreast of the old church, “San Antonio”. Here a small group of Franciscan monks lived and at least one or two of them could usually be seen hanging around outside the main entrance talking to acquaintances and passers by. Foolish old men with nothing better to do I reflected. Yes, there was someone out now, beneath the portico, talking in baroque tones to an old man with his dog. What on earth did they find to chat about? Human mortality? The grace of God? The faithfulness of dogs?

I passed the two old timers and took a sharp right turn on to the old bridge in the centre of Parma. Now there were more people to be seen, scurrying in this direction and that, determined to complete their unknown business before the snow started again and the clock should slip round another hour. In the distance, as I passed over the old bridge, I could see the burning yellow light shining out from Eleonora’s office on the third floor of the Via Mazzini building. I imagined her sat flirting with some Italian nonentity and cursed. Who could resist her red hair and sexy dark throated tones? She laughed with the dark saturninity of one who knew everything about her power over the male species. I cursed her silently.

Just now, my business was not with Eleonora and I crossed the bridge and strode past the building where the Italian girl crouched, sharpening her claws. The time was 7:45 PM and I was already more than quarter of an hour late for my appointment with Mario. But Mario would wait--if he had even arrived as of yet! Why not stop off for an espresso in the bar opposite Eleonora’s office and next to the apartment where she lived? They--her friends--would see me and I would see them (which was not necessarily a bad thing). Also, I could warm up a little prior to the exertions of the evening.

Inside the little cafe, I found there were about thirty people sat around or stood at the bar drinking mostly strong spirits. I felt a little hungry, so I ordered a panino with prosciutto crudo and a Jack Daniels whisky. The middle aged bar man recognised me but decided to say nothing--though he did glance over at a group of three or four men who sat at a table in the far corner of the room drinking from a large decanter of wine. I’d seen them before and thought them to be friends of Fabio’s. Naturally, they would report all my movements back to headquarters. Already, I sensed their interest in me and their eyes fixed quizzically on my back. One of them was dressed in a black overcoat, similar to my own, with a blue scarf around his neck. Obviously they had been sat drinking for a while, although it was hardly hot inside the bar: the outside door opened too frequently for that in order to let in frozen customers from the street.

It seemed that the boy in the black overcoat was paying me particular attention and he hardly attempted to disguise his interest. I felt pretty sure that he’d once eaten lunch with Eleonora and myself in the mensa at Parma University. I remembered that his manners had been charming--though he hadn’t actually said very much. Now he watched me with his pale blue eyes and whispered to his colleagues alternately. After a while, his friends began to steal surreptitious glances in my direction. I decided that it would be better to be moving on, so I finished the last bite of my panino, paid the bill and walked slowly out of the bar into the porticoed arcade outside. It had started snowing again, but at least I didn’t need to open my umbrella. The portico gave adequate protection from the inclement evening and I pushed on towards Piazza Garibaldi, now only a hundred meters ahead. The porticoed arcade was well lit and lots of people were to be seen flowing in both directions. One well-known face was caught in the light as he came pushing towards me from the opposite direction. On suddenly seeing me, his jaw dropped involuntarily and he hurriedly buried his chin in his scarf before hurrying past without an acknowledgment. I had been tempted to quote T.S. Eliot at him:

“Stetson, you who were with me in the ships at Mylae!”

Still, I reflected, it would hardly have been appreciated--and I really owed the man a severe beating rather than an ironic turn of phrase. I had lived in Parma for over two years now and too many people knew me, or knew of me: Indeed, I was almost famous! Two years! I reflected: so little real time had passed and yet water had hurtled under the bridge in a veritable torrent. The life I had lived before coming to Parma already seemed unreal and distant to me. Here, I had embraced my destiny in the midst of a people who lived constantly on the edge of their emotions. Some I loved and some I hated, but all demanded a response. Indifference was not an option.
Suddenly I passed out from the porticoed enclosure and there in front of me lay the almost deserted expanse of Piazza Garibaldi. In the summer, the many bars situated there, put out tables and chairs so their guests could relax in the mild summer air. In contrast, tonight everything seemed silent and glum as I headed towards the spot where I had arranged to meet Mario: beneath the equestrian statue of Garibaldi himself, in the very centre of the exposed piazza. Well before I arrived at the base of the impressive statue, it was apparent that Mario wasn’t there. I now had the problem of trying to figure out whether he was late himself or had got bored with waiting and gone home. I reflected for a moment. Knowing Mario, I decided that it was far more likely that he had not yet arrived. I looked around the desolate square and saw few signs of life in any direction. I would give him until eight I resolved. After that, I had to be getting under way.

Perhaps five minutes later, I spied Sceriffo ambling over to the spot where I waited. I despised the man, but sometimes he could give information that it was difficult to pick up anywhere else--always provided you were ready to buy him a drink.

Buonasera, called the uneducated voice as he neared the spot where I stood. Perche sei fuori su una notte cosi’ brutta?

I understood that I’d have to begin by replaying the earlier conversation I’d had that evening with the old man in the bar near to my house.

Ho un appuntamento col mio amico Mario. Dobbiamo parlare di qualcosa e dopo andremo in ristorante.

Solo tu e lui? shot back the odious Sceriffo. Non sembra il modo in cui ti comporti di solito.

I wasn’t in the right mood to fence with Sceriffo tonight and therefore I asked him a direct question.

“Have you seen Fabio this evening?”

Sceriffo shook his head. “No, I think he is at the university studying for a pressing exam. Some of his friends are in the bar opposite Eleonora’s office.”

I nodded my head. “Yes, I saw them sat down there just ten minutes ago.”

“They all like and respect you”, whined the unctuous Master of Ceremonies.

I nodded my head. “That’s good to know, Sceriffo.” I was looking beyond the slightly hunch-backed figure in front of me to another, approaching at speed, on an old motorino. The quickly moving figure was well wrapped up against the weather in a blue padded coat, red scarf and white hat pulled down over the ears. It was Mario and he pulled up beside us cutting out the engine on the little motorino. There was a big smile on his face.

Buona sera he intoned for Sceriffo’s benefit and then shook me by the hand.

“Sorry that I am late John”, he told me in his Italianate English, “but Ilaria phoned and I had to speak to her for a while”.

“That’s no problem”, I told him. “Shall we take a walk?”

Mario understood that the suggestion to take a walk was intended to get Sceriffo off our backs, so he nodded and we moved off together, Mario pushing his ancient motorino over the snow covered pavement. Ci vediamo, he shouted briefly over his shoulder at the little hunchback and Sceriffo waved his hand and smiled slyly.

It really wasn’t the kind of night to be walking aimlessly round, but we felt the need to communicate in open spaces when everyone we met seemed to have an ear cocked.

“How was your study today?” I asked Mario. After working for several years, he’d gone back to school and was taking his high school diploma this year.

“Tiring, as always”, he replied. Mario attended a private school in Modena and needed to travel in both directions by train--a journey of one hour each way. Nevertheless, he rarely complained much as he knew his father was paying a lot of money in order to nullify his son’s past mistakes. “What about you?” he enquired.

I shook my head. “Nothing special: the usual stuff. I received a phone call from Eva and she said that she wanted to meet us tonight in the pizzeria as she’s been working in central Parma all day.

Mario raised his eyebrows. “Oh yes? And what about Sharokh?”

Sharokh was Eva’s live in Persian boyfriend, who though born to great riches in the Iran of his birth, had been expelled with all his family after the revolution without a dollar to his name. Now he worked as an operaio, or factory worker. Eva was looking to dump him and we had formed a clandestine relationship--although Eva would have been more than happy to have made it more public. Eva came from Dusseldorf in Germany and, together with Mario, she was one of the very few people I completely trusted in Parma. I certainly never trusted Eleonora.

2007-12-07T15:19:00.000-08:00

Semiotic Analysis

I thought I'd try out a semiotic analysis and see what kind of results would be generated. Susan Hayward (no, not the movie star!) has done something similar with the above photo of Marilyn Monroe. She claimed that on the denotative level this is clearly a photo/picture of the actress, Marilyn Monroe. On a connotative level, it makes us think of her glamour, beauty and sexuality. Finally, on a mythological; level, it invokes the Hollywood dream machine that is both creative and destructive. Let me now try something similar with an image which advertises the movie I saw yesterday, "American Gangster".

On a denotative level we are dealing with superimposition and montage. There is a picture of Manhattan with a large superimposed picture of a well-dressed black man holding a gun over the top. The words "American Gangster" appear in white on a black background. The picture has many single signifiers which combine into more sophisticated signifying patterns. Firstly, it is the picture of the man that dominates and makes us think that he must have Manhattan in the palm of his hand: in some way he is dominant and controls the city. This is emphasized by the gun and the good clothes: the gun, together with the size of the image, speaks of the man's power; the beautiful clothes show that his control is secure and that he has the time to enjoy the good things of life. The fact that everything seems to be black speaks of what is hidden and unknown, dangerous and "evil". All this is juxtaposed with the words, "American Gangster". This suggests that the figure of the man holding the gun is in some way archetypal: he is American and also a dangerous criminal.

On what Barthes described as the "mythological level", the picture makes a statement to people who share the cultural values of America. "American Gangster" makes us think of other movies and ideals that begin with the same word: "American Beauty", "American Lives", etc. It also connects with the most powerful American image of all: the "American Dream". "The American Dream" is always of success in whatever field one chooses--even if it's crime! The subliminal mythological level of operation conveys what members of the same culture and mind set might approve of even in a gangster: he has chosen his own path and succeeded at it, thus living and justifying the American dream. Thus, on this mythological level, the image in its totality conveys the meaning that in this society--the society that uses such images--the most important thing is to succeed: this is to say that on the deepest level American society approves of crime as long as it is successful (a conclusion that could never be stated by any member of the culture directly, but which is manifested in images such as this).

2007-12-07T04:05:00.000-08:00

American Gangster

The last three or four movies I've seen at the cinema have been very disappointing and, half an hour into "American Gangster", I thought I was attending yet another turkey. However, after a fairly disjointed first thirty minutes that seems to jump around all over the place in order to establish the foundations of the story, "American Gangster" settles down into a compelling morality tale of good versus evil. Of course, all the best gangster movies are of this type: though the narrative tries to confuse us about what is right and wrong and even provides instances of how the bad guys' family morality and idea of "friendship" may be superior to that of the good guys, in the end, we know that the gangsters are going to have to take a fall. "American Gangster" is in the tradition of Cagney, Edward G. Robinson and, more recently, "The Godfather"--even though the events are based loosely on a true story.

"American Gangster" tells the story of Frank Lucas who during the Vietnam War, cornered the drugs market in Harlem by buying directly from sellers in South East Asia. It is said that at one point he was making more than a million dollars a day. Russell Crowe plays the slobbish law enforcement officer who, amongst so many crooked policeman, just happens to have an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for honesty. Crowe finally tracks down his man and Lucas' sentence is reduced in return for information on crooked policemen in the New York City Drugs Squad. This information eventually leads to the astonishing revelation that more than three quarters of the drug squad policemen are crooked.

This is a high quality movie with excellence in every area. Ridley Scott directs and "American Gangster" is a better movie than his more famous past collaboration with Crowe, "Gladiator". Crowe himself plays the oafish police officer who for some reason just happens to be obsessed with honesty, to perfection. His wife suggests in the divorce court room that he is honest about material things so that he can buy himself credit to be dishonest emotionally and, given what we see of Crowe's character, this seems a likely enough suggestion. Denzil Washington is a fine actor and soon dismisses the idea that he is too much of a "nice guy" to portray Lucas. On the couple of occasions that Lucas loses his temper, Washington comes across as truly intimidating.

I predict that "American Gangster" is destined to become an accepted masterpiece of the genre.

2007-12-04T07:11:00.000-08:00

Is the "Signifier" Arbitrary?

Anyone interested in linguistics will know that for Ferdinand Saussure, the father of modern structuralism, post-structuralism and semiotics, there existed a "signifier" and "signified": the "signifier" was the linguistic term or phrase used to convey meaning and the "signified" was the object referred to. However, that is not quite true. Saussure bracketed the referent (or "thing-in-itself") and declared that the "signifier" referred not to something in the real world, but to a concept in our minds. This is to say, that for Saussure, the linguistic phrase was representative of our "idea" of reality--but not necessarily reality as it really is. For example, we know very well what a corner is--but where does a corner begin and end? Our perception tells us one thing, but possibly the reality is something else. For these reasons of verification, Saussure avoided saying that the signified is an object in the real world: on the contrary, the signified is only a concept in our own minds. The signifier, for Saussure was "arbitrary", in the sense that there was no necessary connection between the linguistic phrase and the thing or idea represented. For example, "a house" could just as easily be called "a shoe" as long as everyone accepted the new meaning ("A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" as Shakespeare puts it).

In his "Tractatus-Logico-Philosophicus" Ludwig Wittgenstein proposes the idea that language has a common logic with reality. Admittedly, he eventually renounced this point of view--but is there any way in which Saussure's theories about epistemology could be interpreted as supporting this early Wittgenstinian idea? It would certainly seem that the theories involved are mutually exclusive, as if language is "arbitrary" there can be no common logic between it and reality. However, the earlier point about Saussure "bracketing the referent" becomes vital here. If the signifier does not refer to a real thing, but to a concept in our minds, then it may be possible to assume that though language does not share a common logic with reality, it does have a common logic with our perception of reality (which might be constructed from Chomsky's "universal grammar"?). Furthermore, if our perception of reality portrays a more or less "true reality" then we might reasonably say that language shares its logic with reality. Of course, the objection would be: "To what extent does our perception of reality reflect reality as it really is?" Personally, I believe that all living creatures perceive the world more or less as it truly is: this is necessary for survival in an often hostile environment.

Was Wittgenstein possibly wrong to discard his early model?

2007-12-03T12:28:00.000-08:00

Music as the Food of Love

The young Nietzsche believed Richard Wagner to be the world's new saviour through his music dramas. In this belief he had been profoundly influenced by the pessimism of Arthur Schopenhauer. In Schopenhauer's philosophy, music was given the highest position amongst the arts (which were themselves seen as superior to the sciences, as the artist created something out of his own mind, rather than merely discovering what was already there) because it did not rely on the medium of representation to express what was universal.

Many of Schopenhauer's views about music and art no doubt appear quaint and wrong headed to us today. However, his idea that music may be the quintessential art due to its (relative) lack of reliance on representation may be true (though of course, it is actually relayed and interpreted to us through the composer's score, the conductor's interpretation and the musicians' instruments). Certainly the following Prelude to Monteverdi's opera, "Orfeo", might strongly influence us to go along with Schopenhauer's idea. The sonic effects are truly marvelous and profoundly uplifting. It used to be said that Perri's opera, "Dafne", written in 1597 was the oldest surviving opera--but given that it actually appears to be lost, Monteverdi's "Orfeo" is most likely the oldest opera extant.

2007-12-03T04:53:00.000-08:00

SEMIOTICS

This so called "science" of symbols and signs began respectably enough with the Saussaurean "signifier" and "signified". Since that time, however, it has spawned a thousand university media and communication courses, eventually reaching such a point of absurdity that one wit was moved to remark: "Semiotics tells us things we already know in a language that nobody will ever understand." In other words, modern semiotics is filled with incomprehensible jargon--a situation made even more confusing by the fact that Americans mostly follow the model of their countryman Charles Sanders Pierce,while most Europeans follow the Saussaurean model. Stricly speaking, the American branch speaks of "Semiology" while the European term is "Semiotics"--and many of the concepts, though fundamentally different, are customarily mixed up together into a semiotic mash. Furthermore, some of the jargon is odd and pretentious. For example, "a text" in semiotics is not just a literary work, but any encoded message which uses "signs". Many teachers of "communication studies" from the eighties will remember searching the newspapers and magazines for interesting photos to be deconstructed for bias and attitude. As every discourse that uses signs is a "text", then unsurprisingly, the receiver of the message is "the reader"--even if the message is encoded in a picture or on film. Film studies has become popular in the last twenty years, as semiotic theorists have tried to demonstrate that "denotation" and "connotation" exist in movies as in literature. The denoted is that which is shown--but nothing is ever shown without connotations. In a movie, the connotations are provided by the camera angles, what is included and excluded, the narrative structure, etc.

So is there anything in semiotics, or is it just an aging modernist or post-modernist philosophy past its prime? Roland Barthes is famous for his semiotic deconstruction of Balzac, but it has been said that if you strip away the jargon, what Barthes does is not actually very different from the practices of traditional literary criticism. Certainly, semiotics is full of various kinds of pretentiousness--and yet some very fine theorists of language still hold to it even in the modern age. Umberto Eco is probably the best known contemporary semiotician, having written at least two influential books on the subject. His popular novel, "The Name of the Rose" is also said to contain a conscious semiotic structure. It is certainly true that any writer, will appreciate that what he does for most of the time, is combine very conventional words into very conventional sentences. It is only by embedding meaning through images and signs in a work, at crucial points, that what is written comes to possess a particular character--and the better able a writer is to do this, the more interesting his work will be (though no doubt the actual process is mostly unconscious). Perhaps what we need now is for someone to construct a dictionary of the most influential "signs" in western civilization. After we are clear about that, it might be easier to assess the "science" of semiotics itself.

2007-12-02T11:40:00.000-08:00

Calypso of the Appenine Way

I have just finished writing a novel with the above title. I think it's not bad and, intermittently, I'm going to post a few sections on this Blog. The first is below.

Prologue

The first time I met Eleonora, I was walking along Via Mazzini with Howard Verity. Howard had a way of suddenly darting into a moving wave of people, extracting a person from the crowd - invariably a woman - and kissing her on both cheeks in the Italian way. Usually, the people singled out in this manner were middle aged, often friends and acquaintances of his wife. On this occasion, however, the recipient of his attentions was a young, and very beautiful, red-haired girl.

I took the girl’s hand, and in her eyes I saw that look a man recognises so well in a woman’s glance. It was obvious that she expected me to kiss her in the same manner - but I didn’t do so. A multitude of conflicting thoughts pushed through my mind in the space of a few seconds, and I decided, even in those moments, that this was something to be developed in the future. Even the natural warmth of her hand held special electricity for me - as if very strong positive and negative energies had suddenly been forced together.

How to describe Eleonora? How should I describe this girl who, in the course of just a few years, was to bring me so much that was very wonderful, and yet misery as well? What are words? How should we use them? What is their power?

If I could think that, theoretically at least, a pen could have the power to capture reality, and hold it in some beautiful guise for all time, then a half-page description of this girl would be a worthy lifetime’s work. But words are sometimes treacherous, subtly shifting their meanings, and undermining perfection at the most unexpected moments, imparting only sad shadows of those significant events which have transfused and enriched our lives, like melancholic photographs, recording all the humdrum narrative of every-day without any further significance or meaning.  

Eleonora was beautiful by any standards - but I have known many beautiful women, and none of them were like her. Her power lay more in a combination of simplicity, intelligence, and beauty: and your knowledge that finally the emotional truth would always prove most powerful in her relationships with the world.

Like most desirable people, she possessed an innate sense of her own uniqueness and beauty, and through this quality, created desire in others. When I first met her, she would have been about twenty-five, and in the prime of all her gorgeousness: though, in any case, I do not think that a beauty such as hers - rare and simple - would be susceptible to the aging process.

She was very proud of her hair. On that first occasion we met, it fell, tumbling thick and beautiful, all fiery red - even approaching orange in color - over her perfect shoulders and breasts. the cut of her face in its strong, almost masculine, symmetry was reminiscent of bold profiles taken straight from Italy’s Roman past. Below her high, strong cheekbones, was a geometrically structured aquiline nose, and a strong, voluptuous mouth, which was shaped like a bow with a final and triumphant upward turn at each extremity of her lips. Her chin was perfectly proportioned, and suggestive of great strength of character and independence of mind. the searing green eyes were set in that great, fine head like emeralds in a golden vault, and her spiritual and emotional life was clearly to be discerned in their constantly changing aspects. The beautifully classic and symmetrical face was lightened and made more sympathetic by a gently endearing shower of soft, red freckles.

The lines and proportions of her body were, in a word, perfect. Her dress sense enhanced her obviously very clear sense of personal identity. On that particular day, I remember, she was wearing a bright yellow cardigan, which provided a bold and gorgeous contrast to the thick red hair falling all over it.  

Generally speaking, it would be accurate to say that Eleonora dressed in a diversity of classic styles, though often with great ebullience of form and colour. She occasionally surprised me, and I still vividly remember the sight of her striding down the road; lovely strong legs eating the distance, in the shortest of short, tight black miniskirts. Her long, thick - at that time, almost waist-length - flaming-red hair, falling and blowing around her perfect breasts and thin, thin waist. Never have I known a girl whose outward form more accurately indicated her inner spirit; and maybe in this simple and truthful combination of beautiful things lay the secret of her continual fascination.

2007-11-30T06:56:00.000-08:00

Is Tom Hicks Going to Sell?

The latest rumours are clear. Tom Hicks wants to sell his majority share in Liverpool F.C. He has provisionally set the price at 1 billion U.S. dollars--which city analysts describe as "ludicrous". Furthermore, the persistent Dubai Holdings, which got turned over by previous Chairman John Moores' greed for a few extra million, are in the picture again and look willing to make another offer. Rick Parry, senior Liverpool executive for the day-to-day running of the club, has declared that he knows nothing about Hicks having such a plan--but that doesn't mean much. The man himself has angrily denied the rumours, but there are substantial reasons to believe that Hicks might be glad to get rid of the Liverpool franchise just a few months after taking over.

First of all, Hicks is not a "soccer" man and knows little about the game. He does run successful American sports franchises and it was his friend George Gillet (apparently the two are not so friendly anymore!) who convinced him to get involved with Liverpool. Since then, the two American tycoons have seen the world credit market take a downturn and they have been struggling to finance the loan deal needed to pay for the new 76000 stadium. This is one thing. Another has been the very public row with Rafael Benitez the manager of Liverpool. It seems that as an American tycoon, Hicks is used to having his employees living in the shadow of the sack: "cross me and you're out" seems to be his philosophy--and no doubt the American felt it would be the same at Liverpool. However, there are many things Hicks didn't realise. First of all, Liverpool is traditionally a poor area of Britain that often tends towards the extreme side of socialism. Liverpool F.C. became world famous under Bill Shankly in the sixties on the basis of a combination of Liverpudlian and Glaswegian working class values. Shankly even changed the kit to all red in order to emphasise the point. Whatever happened in the rest of Britain, Liverpool F.C. would always be a bastion of working class pride. This tradition was continued by Paisley, Fagan, Dalglish, Souness and Evans. No one is sure of Rafa's politics, but he has embraced the down-to-earth values of the club: these include a simple morality which says that every man should be given his chance. Not all supporters have loved Rafa's rotation policies and occasional fits of egotism, but in three and a bit years he has done OK, winning the Champions League, FA Cup and reaching another Champions League final. He has also done OK in the Premiership amassing a points total of 82 (a Liverpool record) just two years ago. In other words he definitely deserves to have the chance to complete his strategy at Anfield before being judged--and that still has three years to run. Hicks is the old fashioned boss of the type who is very willing to forget past successes after a few under par performances--and it was essentialy this, together with Rafa's insubordination over transfer plans, that led to the very public row between the two men (over which Hicks was said to be "incandescent" with rage). The Kop and Liverpool supporters, however, remember the successes and have vocally supported their manager in the stand-off. What can Hicks do? Sack Rafa and become the most hated man in the history of LFC? Also, could he get a better man to replace Rafa? (who remains one of the best coaches in the world). What would be the result of a downturn in results if Rafa left? Finally what would happen if the great Spanish players of the club--Torres, Alonso and Reina--all wanted out after Rafa's departure? Even Gerrard might go if he thought Liverpool were facing another long rebuilding exercise. Of course, all this would greatly devalue the club--which would also mean the devaluation of Hicks' financial assets. In the final analysis then, Hicks, as things stand at present, would be crazy to sack Rafa.

No doubt all these thoughts are going through Hicks' head right now--and it is quite possible that he has decided that the best solution is to prepare an exit strategy. If "knowledge is power" as the French philosopher Michel Foucault contended, then Hicks' lack of knowledge about football in general and Liverpool in particular, makes his position as owner peculiarly vulnerable. Let us hope that after thinking things over in a level headed fashion, he decides that the best thing to do is sell his shares to someone who has a greater passion for the traditions of the club (hopefully Dubai Holdings, that apparently is still interested in spite of being cheated by Moores first time round).

2007-11-29T11:29:00.000-08:00

Foucault and Virtual Reality

Foucault died a long time before computers became a serious part of our everyday life, but I often ask myself what the great proponent of "knowledge=power" would have made of it all. We are all beginning to live "virtual" lives which are separate from our actual identities and, in some cases, even a substitute for them. It might reasonably be said that many of us have a "virtual identity" that seems just as real as our true everyday selves where we react bodily with people. More than this, we might also say that online identities have a certain indestructibility which our bodily selves are lacking: online friends don't get sick for example and exist not bodily, but somewhere "out there" in cyberspace. If online friends die, we are spared their dying throes; we simply find new virtual friends and forget the ones that don't appear any longer. Everything is sanitized and the unpleasantnesses of "bodyliness" where we need to excrete waste materials and fill our bellies with animal flesh is forgotten. In front of our computers we become something akin to the jelly like creatures that existed somewhere deep inside the mechanized Daleks in the Dr. Who series of the 1960s: hidden and superior.

I am really thinking and trying to develop ideas as I write this down. Perhaps Foucault would believe that online activity was depriving us of our ability to interact with other human beings. Maybe he would think that the whole world was effectively being manipulated and used by Microsoft and the other big computer companies like Apple and Intel. What, perhaps he would ask, is driving the search for ever faster computers and programs? I am sure he would dismiss the idea that this development was happening for the benefit of the individual or consumer. Undoubtedly, given his fascination with methods of surveillance, he would clearly understand the ways in which the Internet could give the state and other controlling organizations ever more subtle systems of observation and control. On the other hand, I'm sure Foucault would also see the potential "transgressivity" of computers and the way in which they, no doubt unintentionally, give power and knowledge to anyone who can surf the still largely unregulated Internet. No doubt a great struggle is just beginning for control of the knowledge and power given by the Internet and computers. At this stage, it is by no means clear who will eventually emerge as "guardians" of the "knowledge" that computers give. Everything is still in a profound state of flux: governments will fall, revolutions will take place, old methods of organizing power structures will be discarded and new ones be adopted. Censorship will grow and online access to some groups denied. The picture is hazy and too much in fluid motion, too much at the mercy of whim and design, to be at all predictable. One thing, however, is sure: everything is changing and we are living on the cusp of momentous new methods of directing power and of establishing irresistible systems of control over both actual and virtual bodies. On the other hand the knowledge that computers give seems to also include an unpredictable element that may equally enable discontents to acquire power and knowledge, turning it against the more traditional controlling elements in society.

2007-11-25T06:51:00.000-08:00

Benitez Out?

As a long time supporter of Liverpool F.C., I'm very sorry to see the present mess between the manager and the owners playing itself out in the press. From what Rafa Benitez has said--and reading a bit between the lines--he could be sacked by his American bosses: and he may even want to be sacked (which would be a sad comment on how quickly events at Liverpool have spiralled downwards since the summer). Benitez is a top manager and can walk into another job without any problems. Could the present row be making him consider the possibility of cutting his losses, taking his contractually guaranteed six million pounds (in the event of a sacking) and making himself available as the next England manager?

Sadly, it's all gone pear shaped since the summer. At that time, the Americans thought they had Superman as their coach and splurged out on Torres. Given that they don't know much about the game, but know only too well what it means to win and lose, they will not have been impressed by Benitez's feeble European campaign which even now can only be rescued by two outstanding performances in the weeks ahead. If Liverpool crash out at this stage then twenty million pounds will be lost. In spite of this Rafa has been asking for money to strengthen his squad in January. No doubt the Americans think they are being reasonable in saying to him effectively: "We gave you what you wanted in the summer; now let's wait and see if you qualify for the next stage of the European tournament before we discuss spending more money". The problem is that Benitez is right in saying the Americans should think about the transfer window now and that by doing so they'll save money in the long run.

The water has been muddied further by the fact (as rumour has it) that the Americans are finding it difficult to raise the five hundred million pounds they need to build the new 76000 seater stadium they promised. The money will be a loan and the present world credit squeeze is giving them problems. If they get the loan, it will be at a far higher rate of interest than they had planned on and, indeed, might make taking the loan unviable without raising ticket sales or selling players. In other words, Benitez is asking for more transfer money just at the time of greatest uncertainty for the American tycoons. Benitez's request has revealed a major fault line in the Americans' financing plans and naturally they are furious with Benitez for embarrassing them at a tough time. For his part, Rafa Benitez had thought a new era was beginning at Liverpool with the American takeover: at last, as he thought, he'd be able to compete financially with Manchester United and Chelsea. However, that idea is now proving to have been a costly illusion.

The probability is that Benitez will leave. His remarks may have been untimey for his American bosses, but it is unlikely that such a highly respected coach will accept a public reprimand that makes it sound like he's on trial. Furthermore, I guess that RB is particularly incensed by the point he keeps repeating: that Hicks has told him Rick Parry is now in charge of buying and selling players. Apparently, before Bill Shankly came, the directors used to pick the team, but that was another age. There is no way a top coach in the modern world is going to accept not being in charge of transfers. In these, circumstances, it is unlikely that Benitez will continue at Liverpool for much longer without a major and humbling climb down by Hicks in particular (which I don't think is going to happen).

In many ways all these present problems are the result of Parry and Moore's bad decision to sell the club to two Americans who are famous for juggling money which isn't their own. The alternative was the fabulously wealthy Dubai Holdings which, in my opinion, would have given the club the money it needed, without recourse to giant debts and refinancing. Furthermore, they would have left the running of the club in the manager's hands. As things have turned out, Gillette never had enough capital and Hicks is only interested in using loan capital on the Liverpool project, which is not particularly high on his priority list.

Unfortunately, Liverpool F.C. look like being the losers as this messy internecine war plays itself out to its predictable conclusion.