Lockdown Lexicon

 

Lockdown Lexicon

 

Like everyone else who doesn’t have a proper job[1], I’ve spent the last year staring out of my front window when I was supposed to be working. I’m not sure if this beats the previous 20+ years, which mostly involved staring out of an office window. On the one hand, staring at trees is more interesting than the most neglected corner of Wolverhampton city centre; on the other, in late 2019, the street outside my former office was briefly transformed into a film set, when Steve McQueen came to town. It’s a tough one.

 

Recently, I’ve invented a new pastime: courier watching[2]. It seems that everyone now does their shopping online (a phenomenon with many downsides, not really worth the ability to buy almost any book ever published with a couple of clicks). A courier pulled up outside the house, and I speculated which house it was for. There are potentially seven houses that a van parked outside my house could be visiting, although the occupant of one never seems to buy anything other than beer, takeaways and cigarettes.

 

It’s not much of a hobby, I admit, but I think the experience has highlighted gaps in the English language. By my reckoning, we need three new words:

 

Couriosity:         Mild interest caused by seeing a courier’s van parked somewhere near one’s front door and the speculation over who the delivery could be for.

 

Courush:            The modest euphoria caused by hearing a knock at one’s own door and the attempt to recall whether anything is due today.

 

Courenvy:          The crushing disappointment caused by being asked to take in a parcel for the neighbours and the frustration of not knowing them well enough to ask what it is.

 

I probably need to get out more. 

 

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[1] Something that involves real life and meeting people.

 

[2] Ok, I don’t expect it to catch on.

 

Making History

 I was 18 when the Berlin Wall fell; three months later, Nelson Mandela was released. What a time to be young, but I mostly remember being blasé about everything. The night after the Berlin Wall fell, I was talking with some friends. One thought it was the most exciting thing that had happened in her lifetime; I said I didn't think it would make that much difference in the long run. With 30 years' hindsight, I kind of think I was right: can we really say the world in 2020 is any better than it was before 1989? In other respects, I was completely wrong. I had absolutely no right to be so cynical at that age. I didn't know whether the world would be better or worse; it was just an opinion, plucked off the top of my head, to make me feel cooler than my friends.

Over the years, I've tried to become less cynical. On the night of the general election in 1997, I came home from work, and after I'd eaten, I had an hour or so to kill before I went out again, and I toyed with the idea of going out to vote. I lived in a safe Labour constituency, and the result was a foregone conclusion nationally, too; and, despite being desperate to be rid of the Conservative government, I didn't find Tony Blair a thrilling alternative. After some internal wrestling, I decided to vote. This was an historic night and I would probably regret not having been involved more than I would putting my cross in a box. Besides, I don't really agree with not voting anyway. Despite the way things turned out, I don't regret voting that night.

And so, back to 2020. Something big has happened. There are fireworks going off outside (although, I think this may have something to do with bonfire night). But people are thrilled to be rid of a certain, soon-to-be-ex, US President. And I am, too, despite my reservations. A few days ago, I had a good-natured (I hope) disagreement on a social media site because I'd said that a Trump victory would be more conducive to stability. I think several events suggest that Trump and his followers will not go gracefully. Had he won, we might just have shrugged, allowed ourselves a bit of wallowing, and then got on with our lives. Instead, we might be see the beginnings of another American Civil War.

Or perhaps not. I don't know. I hope that once the legal shenanigans are done, Trump finds a way to leave the Whitehouse gracefully, or at least with out too much screaming. It's too easy to imagine some kind of disgruntled 'real USA' forming a state-within-a-state, complete with their own militia. That too, might not happen, and I hope it doesn't. For now, I will allow myself to be happy. When I look back at November 7th 2020, I think I'll remember it as a good day. For all the disruption we might see in the next few months, I think the alternative would have been much worse for the next 4 years.

Novels That Shaped Our World

TV programmes about novels feel a bit like knitted raincoats: they might be a great fit and look like they’ve just come from the town’s finest tailor, but you can’t help the feeling that they’ll unravel if anyone goes so far as to wear one in public. Take the BBC’s NovelsThat Shaped Our World, a series of three programmes examining the Anglophone novel from the perspectives of gender, race and class. It was all very worthy, and I enjoyed watching the series, but I’m not sure I learned anything about the novels – the ones that I’ve read or the ones that I haven’t.

How do you convey a novel on TV? I’m not talking about the problems of adaptation: there are many problems with adaptation, but it’s always possible to enjoy a new text without knowing about the old text: Ten Things I Hate About You can be enjoyed (or not) without any knowledge of Taming of the Shrew. A TV programme that doesn’t show something isn’t really doing its job, but how can you show a novel? Clips of actors reading a passage from the novel in an appropriate setting seem to be as close as we can get.

It isn’t very close though, really. It’s an approach that can convey an idea of what the novel sounds like, and along with a summary, perhaps a vague indication of what its like to read it, and the director’s idea of the setting the novel might evoke. But, this approach is never really going to do much more than scratch the surface of the warp and weft of the language, plot and ideas that make reading an immersive experience. I know people who complain if the actor playing a particular character doesn’t look like the character in their imagination. That’s never bothered me, but the actors reading the PG Wodehouse extracts in this programme rankled: it’s just not how I imagine Jeeves and Wooster to look.

On the other hand, perhaps I’m wrong. The novel is, as we all know, dead or dying. TV might not be far behind it. I read on the bus to and from work every day, but almost every other passenger I see is either listening to music, surfing the web or both. There are more of them than there are of me, and for the most part they are young: the future is, to state the obvious, theirs.

Perhaps a TV programme tells us everything we need to know about a novel, without anyone (apart from the programme makers) having to read it. The programme’s main take is that the novel, as a form, tells us what it’s like to be someone else – which seems reasonable insofar as it goes –  but why waste a week of your life reading Trainspotting when you can spend an hour watching a TV programme that covers everything about class and the novel? Another 2 hours, or so, watching the film and you’d probably know as much as you need to know about being an Edinburgh heroin addict, short of actually becoming one (which isn’t something I’d recommend).

As I said at the start of the blog, I enjoyed all three programmes, which might be as much as I’m entitled to expect.

Never been Hip

I’m writing this while listening to Takin Off by Herbie Hancock – on vinyl. I’ve only been buying vinyl since the end of last year. I spent a few months on a temporary promotion, and when it finished, my team of hip twentysomethings bought me The Queen is Dead. I took this as a massive compliment – it beats socks by a whisker – although with hindsight it might have been a way to keep the old bloke happy while they got on with getting to know their new manager. Whatever the reason, I had to buy a record player, which in turn lead to me buying a lot of vinyl.

Buying vinyl has given me the opportunity to wind up fellow fortysomethings who still listen to CDs: I mean, how old hat can you get? A medium that has now been replaced twice (first by downloads and now by vinyl). I am old enough to remember when CDswere invented and for a while they seemed like an unimaginable luxury that only friends with affluent parents could afford, while I was reduced to listening to illegal copies on cassette. I’ve now got hundreds of CDs, sitting in a disorganised pile in a cupboard. I’ve got hundreds of cassettes too, sitting in several even more disorganised piles in the drawers of a sideboard. These drawers could easily be used for storing something more useful, but I probably won’t get rid of the cassettes until I move house (which isn’t on the cards at the moment).

Cassettes are also making a comeback, according to the BBC website. I don’t know how I feel about all of this. When I was young, men in their forties seemed to be set in their ways, scared of anything new, and happy to carry on doing what they’d been doing since the 1950s. People my age seem to find it easier to keep up with things – a Twitter account, a smartphone, a blog, what’s the big deal? – we aren’t scared of anything new because we’re a generation bought up on change; but just as we’re getting complacent, someone comes along and points out that we also don’t need to be scared of anything new because it isn’t new at all.

So, this morning I sat down after breakfast and listened to a moment’s crackle, before the sound of ‘Watermelon Man’ came out of the speakers, and for a few minutes I feel what it would have been like to be cool in 1962. I wasn’t born in 1962, and I’ve never been cool.

Standing in the Rain

Yesterday I saw A Midsummer Night's Dream at Shakespeare's Globe.  It was the first time I'd seen that particular play, as well as the first time I'd seen a play at the Globe (I went on a guided tour a few years ago, but didn't see a play for reasons that needn't detain us.)

I bought a ticket for the yard, partly to save money - not a fortune, but when added to a train ticket a saving worth making - but also for the hell of it.  I kidded myself that I could feel like a 'groundling' standing in an Elizabethan theatre.  Complete rubbish, of course: aside from anything else modern health and safety rules wouldn't allow the theatre to get that overcrowded.  Nevertheless, the experience was part of the attraction.

And then I saw the weather forecast for yesterday: frequent heavy showers throughout the afternoon.  I told myself I wouldn't let the weather spoil things, without believing a word.  Willpower (indeed) is key to these things and I have loads.  I have willpower by the bucketload.  Indeed, I once willed myself to walk to the garden shed in a torrential downpour.  What's more, I'm a northerner: bit of light blather can't put me off.

The truth is the rain knocked off for most of the afternoon and wasn't that heavy anyway.  I won't say it enhanced the experience, but A Midsummer Night's Dream is quite an earthy play and this was a suitably earthy performance, more than suited to the outdoor experience.  The music was perhaps patchy (some wonderful sitar playing from Sheema Mukherjee and some sleazy jazz guitar, but the occasional detour into the cocktail lounge).  The performances were great, although there was a strange lack of chemistry between Hermius and Lysandra.  There were some modern additions, but these were suitably smutty and not overwhelming.  It's not for everyone, I guess, but if you're up for an experience - linguistic and kinaesthetic - go now.  If you can't go now, go as soon as now has finished.

Books of the Year

Despite a reply I recently posted on a certain social network, I haven't a clue how many books I've read this year.  This isn't unusual.  Below I've listed 5 that I've really enjoyed.  Right now, I would say they are my top 5, but I've probably forgotten about that dazzling collection of poetry I read last January.  Several of these books were published in 2015 – it is unusual for me to be this up-to-date.  I haven't made a list like this before for this reason, and don't hold your breath waiting for one next year.

A Brief History of Seven Killings: Marlon James 

The days of me keeping up with the Booker Prize are long gone (and were brief anyway).  I went to a shop looking for this on a recommendation and found it along with the other shortlisted books.  It's easy to see why this novel won.  I've always been unsure about historical novels: most seem desperate to shoehorn research into the story, or speculate about what Henry VIII was thinking as Ann Boleyn was executed.  A Brief History of Seven Killings centres on the attempt on Bob Marley's life in 1978, but its relationship with historical fact is loose.  It is a book with an epic scope and linguistic experimentation that is as thrillingly inventive as anything Anthony Burgess wrote.

The Most Dangerous Book: Kevin Birmingham 

You don't have to have read James Joyce's Uylsses to enjoy this account of the novel's publication, censorship and eventual triumph.  Birmingham's book is more accessible (understandably) and is a thrilling and thought-provoking story of art and censorship.  Read this if you are interested in how art triumphs over censorship.  And if you haven't read Uylsses, read that as well. 

Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink: Elvis Costello 

It probably does help to be familiar with the work of Elvis Costello before reading this.  There is no ghostwriter, which shouldn't be a surprise – Costello is noted for his ambition as well as a way with words – but manages to be readable and innovative at the same time.  More than anything it is a moving account of the loss of his father, Ross MacManus, but it is also an incisive commentary on pop music from about 1963 to date.

Three Moments of an Explosion: China Mieville 

China Mieville is quite happy to be categorised as science fiction, which is fair enough, and sometimes seems to get a little tetchy about people who say he transcends the genre.  You don't have to be a Marxist to enjoy this collection of short stories, but a fondness for science fiction (and an interest in environmentalism) would help.

The Blank Screen: Blogging: William Gallaher 

Don't read this if you aren't a writer interested in blogging.  Otherwise, do read it: It's rather good.

I have included links for each one.  If you do want to buy one or more based on my recommendation (it's a possibility I suppose) please try to buy from a shop, rather than a tax-avoiding online retailer.  

Viewing Pleasures

Yesterday, I visited London.  Along with some bookshops, I visited the Tates Britain and Modern - galleries I've visited before, but never been able to explore as much as I'd have liked - and the Courtauld Gallery - somewhere I've been meaning to visit for a while.

In the two Tate galleries, I noticed a number of other visitors taking photos, often quite prolifically.  It's something I find irritating, without being entirely sure why.  It doesn't particularly interfere with my viewing, at least no more than the behaviour of other visitors; and, although much of the work in Tate Modern is still covered by copyright law, the gallery staff didn't seem overly concerned, so why should I be?

In Tate Britain, I finally got to see Millais' Ophelia, which wasn't on display the last time I visited.  While I was stood near to this painting, another visitor walked over to it, took a photo with her tablet and then moved on to the next painting she wanted to photograph.  Was this her only experience of the paintings, viewing them on the screen of her tablet?  I don't know.

I can understand why people take photos to remind them of where they've been, but it seems that for some gallery viewers, the only way they feel they can enjoy the experience is through the small screen of a tablet or digital camera. 

This reminds me of Kate Bush's plea to her fans not to film her recent comeback gigs, but it also reminds me of a painting on the wall opposite Ophelia, Waterhouse's The Lady of Shalott.  The painting is based on Tennyson's poem of the same name.  The poem describes a 'lady' forced by an unspecified curse to stay in a tower weaving.  Because of the curse, she is only able to watch the world reflected in a mirror.  Is this what we are becoming, people only able to appreciate the world through a small digital screen?

Perhaps I'm being a bit airy-fairy about it, but it does seem to make the act of visiting a gallery redundant.  If you want to look at images of paintings, there are places they can be seen online.  Surely, to visit a gallery is to admit that there is more to experiencing visual art than just looking at the pictures - an act that can now be done anywhere.