Club Troppo

From this site, via Kathy G, regarding Charlie Chaplin.

They were dreadfully poor. Charlie’s parents were third-string strolling players. His father died early of alcoholism; his mother was often in asylums, whether through drink or because of periodic mental illness. Whenever this happened, Charlie and his brothers had to shift for themselves on the streets of London. Robert Flaherty used to tell the story of one of these times: ‘It was a rainy winter night. Charlie, who was about eleven, had no place to sleep and was sheltering under an overhanging roof. A solid-looking man came by, took a look at the boy, and asked him what he was doing there. Charlie told his story. The man stroked his chin for a moment and said, “Well, I’ve a bit to eat at my place. I’ve only one room, but you’re welcome to stay the night if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” They went to the man’s furnished room, where Charlie slept on a pallet at the foot of his host’s bed. Next morning when he woke, the man had gone, but Charlie found a note saying, “If you’ve no place to sleep tonight, come here.” Charlie had to avail himself of his friend’s help for many nights, but always in the morning the man had gone to his work. Charlie became curious about what that work might be. One morning he managed to wake early. The man was taking out of the closet and measuring in his hands a long, strong rope with a noose at the end of it. He was the common hangman.’

And, in case you’re intersted, the book program is broadcasting from the Clunes Booktown, some festival in which Clunes - which is near Ballarat - invites booksellers to have a big book sale in Clunes - this weekend. And there are other attractions. Listen all about it on that ornament to public broadcasting - the Book Show. (Continued)

Valid till 1 June (Continued)

A fascinating review of Craig Venter’s autobiography. Naturally I’m sympathetic to this guy who looks like he values scientific creativity and achievement above other things, and will improvise through the miasma of institutions that exist to further science to get what he’s after. But what would I know? It’s a pretty interesting read though, so have a look if you get the time.

Well books actually! But the heading above was the caption of an early Leunig cartoon - with the graphic being . . . yes, a tong sale. And remember, print the linked coupon out as many times as you like for separate book purchases.

A while back I posted a brief endorsement of a Guy Rundle piece, which brought forth a reference to another essay by Rundle. I disagree - sometimes to the point of strong irritation with some of the things he says, especially in the last half of the piece, but I recommend it to all comers nevertheless.  What Rundle has to say is very interesting, as are the three books his review essay is about.

Here’s a nice passage:

Gray’s extended and devastating assault on the latest and possibly last stage of political religion in the current cycle: the virtual quadripartite symmetry of al-Qa’da’s “Islamo-Jacobinism”, American Christian fundamentalism, the transmogrified Trotskyism of neo-conservatism, and the smooth and lethal market evangelising of neo-liberalism.

They meet in the 9/11 years, in “my god is bigger than your god”; in 23-year-old interns running the Baghdad stock exchange; in Mark Steyn’s belief that Iraq would look like the American midwest in the space of 18 months; in the serial foolishness of Francis Fukuyama, a Saturday morning cartoon Hegel; in the immense suffering caused by the doctrinaire imposition of the Washington consensus; even in, especially in, the neo-atheists, such as Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens, whose idea of a post-religious humanity is so shot through with monotheistic categories that it becomes a carrier of all the conceptions it seeks to oppose.

A nice mixture of on the money hits and unreasonable assertions - but I guess readers would disagree about what fits in what category.  The essay is fun to read in any event. And I’m afraid I couldn’t work out what this sentence meant.

To suggest that it would never be possible to separate religious from transformational processes and that Gray’s work might be a part of that process is, in the last analysis, an argument from precedent.

But it’s well worth a read.

If you’ve ever been quoted out of context by journalist you’ll know what it’s like to be a fictional character. As a therapist to troubled inhabitants of fictional works, I see what happens when authors abuse characters who are often finer human beings than themselves.

The intelligent and tough-minded Mr Gradgrind is a typical example. Most of you know him only through the confused and sentimental writing of Mr Charles Dickens. In Hard Times, the hapless Mr Gradgrind can hardly open his mouth without inviting some sarcastic commentary from the author. But is Mr Gradgrind able to take the same liberties with Mr Dickens? If only.

(Continued)

Things have been a little dull over the holiday period. So dull, in fact, that I’ve been picking through my receptionist’s collection of novels. First there was that book everyone’s been chattering about recently — Ian McEwan’s Atonement. The second book in her pile was Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Ever helpful, my receptionist had bookmarked it with a copy of Oprah’s reading guide: "How does concern over class status affect Gary…?" asks the guide. Like this apparently:

Oh, misanthropy and sourness. Gary wanted to enjoy being a man of wealth and leisure, but the country was making it none too easy. All around him, millions of newly minted American millionaires were engaged in the identical pursuit of feeling extraordinary — of buying the perfect Victorian, of skiing the virgin slope, of knowing the chef personally, of locating the beach that has no footprints. There were further tens of millions of young Americans who didn’t have money but were nonetheless chasing the Perfect Cool. And meanwhile the sad truth was that not everyone could be extraordinary, not everyone could be extremely cool; because whom would this leave to be ordinary? Who would perform the thankless work of being comparatively uncool?

Which brings us to our reader’s cry for help. Troppo denizen Rex Ringschott wonders " whether it would be considered cool to wear a Kevin-07 T-Shirt in Brunswick St, and if not, where one might go where it would be considered cool."

Mr Ringschott, the pursuit of cool is the deliberate pursuit of social exclusion. As Mr Franzen’s character correctly notes, it is not possible to be cool unless others are uncool. The urge to be cool is a vindictive urge for superiority. Social exclusion is contrary to the stated aims of the Rudd government and, after you realise this, the t-shirt may cause uncomfortable sensations of cognitive dissonance.

At this stage you may be wondering whether the obvious tension between the t-shirt’s message and your intent to look cool is ironic and that irony might be cool. If so, you should be aware that the t-shirt’s message is displayed publicly on your chest while the irony is sealed inside your head. Unless you can find an socially acceptable way to display a fashionably ironic stream of consciousness while walking down the street you will still not be considered cool.

I hope this helps.

The receptionist’s fingers paused over the keyboard. The heat was making it difficult to think and the din of hundreds of amorous black cicadas wasn’t helping. She wanted to show Mr Farrell how completely he’d misunderstood Ian McEwan’s novel, but at the same time she didn’t want to seem like an arrogant know-it-all. After all, it wasn’t Mr Farrell’s fault. In McEwan’s narrative Briony had written a novel. But — and this was the disturbing part — James Farrell had seen a film. No wonder everyone was so confused. Her fingers found the keys and she began:

Dear Mr Farrell,

I was sorry to hear that you went to see Atonement at the cinema and came away unsatisfied. To be honest, I was surprised to hear that they had made Atonement into a movie. I can’t imagine how this could work Judging from your review, neither could the film’s writers or director.

It seems to me that Atonement is a novel within a novel…

(Continued)

Find out if you want to by clicking through when the word appears in this rather fun review of Christopher Hitchens.  Not that Christopher is either my cup of tea or especially interesting.  But he is quite fun to watch - so long as you don’t devote much time to it!

You won’t get any deep insights from Ronnie. The autobiography of Ron Wood, the other Rolling Stones guitarist. What you will get is a stargazing jaunt through the best part of British Rock history. You’ll also get plenty on the booze he’s drunk, the coke he’s used, and the women he’s shagged.

The description he gives of his early years seems to provide an explanation for his trajectory. Growing up in working class Yiewsley. Apparently always surrounded by music, and very often this music is performed by his Dad and his booze sodden mates. Gathering at home for a party-come-singalong around the piano once The Nag’ s Head, the local boozer, had shut for the night. Almost every house in their street had a piano, says Ronnie, because you never could tell where a party might spontaneously erupt, but more often than not the party would be at the Wood’s, with his Dad and his older brothers banging away on musical instruments because Ronnie’s Dad was the life of the party, the street, and very often The Nag’s Head. (Continued)

Valid till 22 November.

Black Inc’s ‘best of’ series are in the bookshops - Essays, Short Stories, Poems.  In scanning the latter of these volumes I read the poem below and bought the book.

White -Water Rafting and Palliative Care

for my late wife, Gloria

If I had understood (when down the river
you and I went swirling in that boat)
that there were those who knew the ways of water
and how to use the oars to keep afloat
–    I might have been less deafened by the worry,
less stunned by thoughts of what lay up ahead
(the rocks, the darkness threatening to capsize daily),
if I had only realised instead
that help was all around me for the asking
–    I never asked, and therefore never knew
that such additional comfort could have helped me
in turn to be more help in comforting you.

I’d have found it easier then to simply hold you
instead of bobbing to and fro so much,
for it was you who seemed to be more tranquil
and I whom death was reaching out to touch.

If only I had had sufficient knowledge
in that white-water rafting I’d have learned
that there were those around us (with life jackets)
to whom I might have, in that turmoil, turned.

Instead, because I had not thought of rivers,
or rocks, or rapids, and gave way to fears
that seeking help might make a man less manly
and liable to betray himself with tears,
I was less useful then, as twilight deepened,
than I might well have been, had I but known:
however wild the waves that roll around us
– no one needs to live (or die) alone …

Bruce Dawe

Review of Tao: On the Road and On the Run in Outlaw China by Aya Goda. Translated from the Japanese by Alison Watts. Published by Portobello Books.

The painting reflects the artist, Young Number Four Son. If you want to paint, you must start by building your character. Paintings are the artist’s soul. If a person has no soul, his paintings will be worth nothing, no matter how good his techniques may be.

Yu Ren (Cao Yong’s first art teacher)

In 1988 a twenty-six year old Japanese student named Aya Goda was backpacking on the Silk Route in Western China. In Kashgar she crossed paths with Cao Yong, an art teacher from Tibet University. (In case your pinyin is rusty: Cao — the surname — is pronounced Tsao). They journeyed together, she became his girlfriend, and when her holiday elapsed she vowed to return to China and meet him at the next opportunity.

Aya duly fulfilled this promise, and the extraordinary events of the next nine months — from February to November 1989 — were the subject of a memoir, that she published six years later. Tao is the Chinese word for the character that means ‘escape’ in both Chinese and Japanese. But the subtitle adopted for this newly published English translation says it all: On the Road and on the Run in Outback China. Life on the run begins almost as soon as the two are reunited in Beijing, where Yong is exhibiting paintings he has brought, in preposterously difficult circumstances, from Tibet. He is a free spirit and an instinctive rebel rather than a political activist, but the pictures are sufficiently subversive to discomfit the authorities. The police haul him in for a harrowing interrogation, after which he opts to flee rather than give them a second chance to incarcerate him. (Continued)