Sunday 19 December 2010
Wednesday 1 December 2010
SARAH AND JULIAN
Do we really believe that the reason Interpol has put out an international warrant for WikiLeaks supremo, Julian Assange, is because of alleged rape charges from Sweden? Admittedly such charges are serious but there are few alleged rapists who set Interpol's sirens blaring and fewer still whose appearance on the 'Red List' corresponds with their appearance, for entirely different reasons, across the front pages of the world's media for three consecutive days.
Interpol is merely being opportunistic, attempting to remind people that it still exists and how good its post hoc work usually is! But, fair's fair, the global police are not the only ones we might accuse of opportunism.
What about Sarah Louise Palin, poster girl of the American right and wielder of the flaming sword of righteousness? "Julian Assange has blood on his hands and should be hounded like an Bin Laden," she is reported to have said, adding that, "He is an anti-American operative." Julian Assange, incidentally, is Australian.
You know, until this outburst, I had been inclined to dislike the slippery Mr Assange and to like, for largely physical reasons, the booby Mrs Palin. I have now changed my mind but not so much because of Palin's stridency but because the material that Mr Assange's site is offering to the world, is genuinely fascinating and often, to my mind, reassuring.
I am glad, for example, that Britain, Russia and the US have been concerned about the possibility of Pakistani weapons-grade uranium getting into the wrong hands. I was equally glad to discover that, since I last thought about it, China has grown up and, at least if the information that they are bored and somewhat embarassed by North Korea is true, see themselves correctly as part of the global Real-Politik. And again I am glad to discover that Prince Andrew is both royal and random.
Have these revelations really been anything more than slightly annoying to the US? I mean they hardly add up to Bin Laden's 9/11 atrocities.
Interpol is merely being opportunistic, attempting to remind people that it still exists and how good its post hoc work usually is! But, fair's fair, the global police are not the only ones we might accuse of opportunism.
What about Sarah Louise Palin, poster girl of the American right and wielder of the flaming sword of righteousness? "Julian Assange has blood on his hands and should be hounded like an Bin Laden," she is reported to have said, adding that, "He is an anti-American operative." Julian Assange, incidentally, is Australian.
You know, until this outburst, I had been inclined to dislike the slippery Mr Assange and to like, for largely physical reasons, the booby Mrs Palin. I have now changed my mind but not so much because of Palin's stridency but because the material that Mr Assange's site is offering to the world, is genuinely fascinating and often, to my mind, reassuring.
I am glad, for example, that Britain, Russia and the US have been concerned about the possibility of Pakistani weapons-grade uranium getting into the wrong hands. I was equally glad to discover that, since I last thought about it, China has grown up and, at least if the information that they are bored and somewhat embarassed by North Korea is true, see themselves correctly as part of the global Real-Politik. And again I am glad to discover that Prince Andrew is both royal and random.
Have these revelations really been anything more than slightly annoying to the US? I mean they hardly add up to Bin Laden's 9/11 atrocities.
OH NO, NOT THE WORLD CUP AS WELL
We're on the eve of FIFA's decision about where to allocate the 2018 World Cup and the tension is palpable. England's "World Cup Team", not to be confused with people who actually play football have, for example, worked themselves up into a lather about the airing of a BBC Panorama programme strongly suggesting three of the current FIFA decision makers took bribes, substantial bribes, from ISL (International Sports & Leisure) in the 1990s.
The Sun has this morning, I understand, written an open letter to FIFA explaining that their decision makers should not think the British people are against the idea of hosting the football World Cup, whatever impression the BBC may have made. Well this British person does not want to host the World Cup - the Olympics were already, to my mind a step too far (for example making London to only city to host the Games three times) - we don't need the cost and disruption of the World Cup as well.
But my opposition is not just about the money, not just about the fact we will have another bout of construction projects a la Crossrail which, when questioned, are commended to us with the statement, "for the Olympics", it is also specific opposition to football.
I have always felt, that football is a sport played by and watched by hooligans. The sport promotes tribalism and often descends into racism, it promotes the deification of physical attributes over the intellectual, it lifts men (inevitably men) of few moral positives to become role models, it underpins all the tedious conversations heard in bars and greasy spoons throughout the land and, worst of all, it promotes the wearing of manmade fibres.
That said, I would not be averse to Spurs winning the League or the Cup.
The Sun has this morning, I understand, written an open letter to FIFA explaining that their decision makers should not think the British people are against the idea of hosting the football World Cup, whatever impression the BBC may have made. Well this British person does not want to host the World Cup - the Olympics were already, to my mind a step too far (for example making London to only city to host the Games three times) - we don't need the cost and disruption of the World Cup as well.
But my opposition is not just about the money, not just about the fact we will have another bout of construction projects a la Crossrail which, when questioned, are commended to us with the statement, "for the Olympics", it is also specific opposition to football.
I have always felt, that football is a sport played by and watched by hooligans. The sport promotes tribalism and often descends into racism, it promotes the deification of physical attributes over the intellectual, it lifts men (inevitably men) of few moral positives to become role models, it underpins all the tedious conversations heard in bars and greasy spoons throughout the land and, worst of all, it promotes the wearing of manmade fibres.
That said, I would not be averse to Spurs winning the League or the Cup.
Thursday 11 November 2010
There comes a time when only the Goons will do
The Plasticine Man
Minnie: Henry, the dog wants to come in.
Henry: That naughty dog, always forgetting his keys. All right, come in, Psycho.
Seagoon: Psycho?
Henry: Yes, he's our pet mad dog, you know. Come in, you naughty Psycho.
Announcer: Woof, woof.
Henry: Where have you been, you mad dog?
Announcer: Out in the mid-day sun.
Seagoon: AHHH! He talks!
Henry: I told you he was mad.
Seagoon: But dogs can't talk!
Henry: I know, I've told him. He never listens. May as well talk to a brick wall, you know.
Minnie: Henry, the dog wants to come in.
Henry: That naughty dog, always forgetting his keys. All right, come in, Psycho.
Seagoon: Psycho?
Henry: Yes, he's our pet mad dog, you know. Come in, you naughty Psycho.
Announcer: Woof, woof.
Henry: Where have you been, you mad dog?
Announcer: Out in the mid-day sun.
Seagoon: AHHH! He talks!
Henry: I told you he was mad.
Seagoon: But dogs can't talk!
Henry: I know, I've told him. He never listens. May as well talk to a brick wall, you know.
Friday 22 October 2010
Life by a Thousand Cuts
I have been musing about the spending cuts recently announced by the UK's coalition government and thinking specifically about whether civil disobedience, as advocated by some extremists can be effective here.
Looking back 20 years to the Poll Tax riots might suggest that disobedience segueing to violence remains a powerful tool in British politics. And I am not certain that times have changed. Even so, the structural difference between refusing to pay money and not being given any is important.
For Poll Tax dissenters, the straightforward approach was not to pay the tax, so in fact, the Trafalgar Square rioters were the tip of the disobedience iceberg. It's hard to see how disobedience could work the other way around.
Could the unemployed return to the concept of the Jarrow Marches? Probably not for the simple reason that - particularly for those on falsely claimed disability benefits - the business of marching to London sort of proves the suspicion that many benefit recipients are physically (if not mentally) able to work.
The whole point of the Jarrow marches was to prove that able bodied men were not being given an opportunity to work - rather a different thing.
However, lest I sound too much like the middle class conservative that I am, there is for me, a key misunderstanding that infects some of the howling about the cuts - for example about outlawing the concept of 'a Council house for life'.
The notion, as I understand it, is that those who have the misfortune to live in council houses will periodically be tested to see whether they are earning too much to remain in said accommodation and whether, in fact, they could be taking their first steps on the housing ladder.
Well it's possible the move from council house to house ownership could be accomplished directly in certain parts of the country (although I doubt it). From where I sit in London, it's risible even to imagine such a direct shift.
But it should not be about the housing ladder nor the Thatcherite mantra of house ownership. There is nothing wrong with renting and a lot that's right. By far the majority of denizens of continental Europen cities do not own properties (at least in the cities). It's a rental culture with proper protections and competition between big, indeed institutional, landlords.
The vast majority of foreign white collar workers in this country rent property. It makes them more flexible/mobile and gives them a chance to see and live in different parts of a city (or, possibly, the country). I fear natural born Brits may have to think in the same terms.
In the future An Englishman's home will be someone else's castle!
Looking back 20 years to the Poll Tax riots might suggest that disobedience segueing to violence remains a powerful tool in British politics. And I am not certain that times have changed. Even so, the structural difference between refusing to pay money and not being given any is important.
For Poll Tax dissenters, the straightforward approach was not to pay the tax, so in fact, the Trafalgar Square rioters were the tip of the disobedience iceberg. It's hard to see how disobedience could work the other way around.
Could the unemployed return to the concept of the Jarrow Marches? Probably not for the simple reason that - particularly for those on falsely claimed disability benefits - the business of marching to London sort of proves the suspicion that many benefit recipients are physically (if not mentally) able to work.
The whole point of the Jarrow marches was to prove that able bodied men were not being given an opportunity to work - rather a different thing.
However, lest I sound too much like the middle class conservative that I am, there is for me, a key misunderstanding that infects some of the howling about the cuts - for example about outlawing the concept of 'a Council house for life'.
The notion, as I understand it, is that those who have the misfortune to live in council houses will periodically be tested to see whether they are earning too much to remain in said accommodation and whether, in fact, they could be taking their first steps on the housing ladder.
Well it's possible the move from council house to house ownership could be accomplished directly in certain parts of the country (although I doubt it). From where I sit in London, it's risible even to imagine such a direct shift.
But it should not be about the housing ladder nor the Thatcherite mantra of house ownership. There is nothing wrong with renting and a lot that's right. By far the majority of denizens of continental Europen cities do not own properties (at least in the cities). It's a rental culture with proper protections and competition between big, indeed institutional, landlords.
The vast majority of foreign white collar workers in this country rent property. It makes them more flexible/mobile and gives them a chance to see and live in different parts of a city (or, possibly, the country). I fear natural born Brits may have to think in the same terms.
In the future An Englishman's home will be someone else's castle!
Thursday 16 September 2010
WAKE UP, RICHARD, AND SMELL THE INCENSE
You know, if God didn't exist, I suspect Richard Dawkins would have to invent him so that he could stridently shout down that existence.
I have a great deal of time for the Professor although I haven't met him since tutorials in the Zoology Department at Oxford in South Parks Road in the 1970s but I do think that today's contribution to the debate about the Pope's UK 'State Visit' is publicity opportunism - and a bad example of same. And let's remember that the Pope isn't God (not even the Catholics claim this).
"Go home to your Mussolini-concocted principality, and don't come back," says RD in today's (16/9/10) The Times. 'Mussolini-concocted' !?! Oh surely he can rant better than this.
'Concocted' is more cocktail-mixing than religious orthodoxy. I mean the Vatican may be spicing up the communion wine but there are few spirits here (sorry about that).
This surely cannot be the real Dawkins speaking, not the greatest neo-Darwinist of the age, not the writer of The Selfish Gene and The Blind Watchmaker.
Perhaps I am guilty of transferring hope to belief here (although there's a lot of this about on the other side of Cardinal Kasper's aggressively atheist divide), but I believe that Prof Dawkins has about him more aggressively atheist advisers than he is and he has tumbled into their way of thinking without fully believing their dialectic. And I have met one such adviser - a meeting that strenghthened, not diminished, this opinion.
You know, I am beginning to wonder whether this is all about Oxford. Pullman whose books are banned to Catholics is Oxford through-and-through and so is Dawkins. Let's remember that Cardinal Newman preached regularly at St Aloysius at the top end of St Giles in Oxford after his 'conversion' and that the Pope has taken up Newman's "Heart shall speak unto Heart" mantra as a theme of his visit.
I don't know what Sebastian's teddy-bear would say!
I have a great deal of time for the Professor although I haven't met him since tutorials in the Zoology Department at Oxford in South Parks Road in the 1970s but I do think that today's contribution to the debate about the Pope's UK 'State Visit' is publicity opportunism - and a bad example of same. And let's remember that the Pope isn't God (not even the Catholics claim this).
"Go home to your Mussolini-concocted principality, and don't come back," says RD in today's (16/9/10) The Times. 'Mussolini-concocted' !?! Oh surely he can rant better than this.
'Concocted' is more cocktail-mixing than religious orthodoxy. I mean the Vatican may be spicing up the communion wine but there are few spirits here (sorry about that).
This surely cannot be the real Dawkins speaking, not the greatest neo-Darwinist of the age, not the writer of The Selfish Gene and The Blind Watchmaker.
Perhaps I am guilty of transferring hope to belief here (although there's a lot of this about on the other side of Cardinal Kasper's aggressively atheist divide), but I believe that Prof Dawkins has about him more aggressively atheist advisers than he is and he has tumbled into their way of thinking without fully believing their dialectic. And I have met one such adviser - a meeting that strenghthened, not diminished, this opinion.
You know, I am beginning to wonder whether this is all about Oxford. Pullman whose books are banned to Catholics is Oxford through-and-through and so is Dawkins. Let's remember that Cardinal Newman preached regularly at St Aloysius at the top end of St Giles in Oxford after his 'conversion' and that the Pope has taken up Newman's "Heart shall speak unto Heart" mantra as a theme of his visit.
I don't know what Sebastian's teddy-bear would say!
Wednesday 15 September 2010
DECLINE AND FALL IN OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
I have just been reading Dickens - one has to from time to time - and, as luck would have it, picked up 'Our Mutual Friend' in which, Dickens is self-consciously trying to be funny in his descriptions of people and places and, fortunately for moi, succeeds handsomely in this endeavour.
Consider the comment about the cheese in Mr Wilfer's house: "This was a neat and happy turn to give the subject, treats being rare in the Wilfer household, where a monotonous appearance of Dutch-cheese at ten o'clock in the evening had been rather frequently commented on by the dimpled shoulders of Miss Bella. Indeed the modest Dutchman himself seemed conscious of his want of variety, and generally came before the family in a state of nervous perspiration."
Greater, comedy is, however, to be found in the wooden-legged, 'literary' gent, Silas Wegg, who has struck a bargain with the illiterate Mr Boffin to read through the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire which Mr Boffin originally thinks to be the Rooshan Empire. (Mr Wegg explans that the difference between the two empires should be 'dropped' until such time as Mrs Boffin is not present.)
"Then Mr Wegg in a dry unflinching way, entered on his task; going straight across country at everything that came before him; taking all the hard words, biographical and geographical; getting rather shaken by Hadrian, Trajan and the Antonines; stumbling at Polybius (pronounced Polly Beeious, and supposed by Mr Boffin to be a Roman virgin, and by Mrs Boffin to be responsible for dropping it); heavily unseated by Titus Antoninus Pius; up again and galloping smoothly with Augustus; finally, getting over the ground well with Commodus; who, under the appelation of Commodious, was held by Mr Boffin to have been quite unworthy of his English origin, and "not to have acted up to his name" in his government of the Roman people."
And that whole ride in one sentence!
Consider the comment about the cheese in Mr Wilfer's house: "This was a neat and happy turn to give the subject, treats being rare in the Wilfer household, where a monotonous appearance of Dutch-cheese at ten o'clock in the evening had been rather frequently commented on by the dimpled shoulders of Miss Bella. Indeed the modest Dutchman himself seemed conscious of his want of variety, and generally came before the family in a state of nervous perspiration."
Greater, comedy is, however, to be found in the wooden-legged, 'literary' gent, Silas Wegg, who has struck a bargain with the illiterate Mr Boffin to read through the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire which Mr Boffin originally thinks to be the Rooshan Empire. (Mr Wegg explans that the difference between the two empires should be 'dropped' until such time as Mrs Boffin is not present.)
"Then Mr Wegg in a dry unflinching way, entered on his task; going straight across country at everything that came before him; taking all the hard words, biographical and geographical; getting rather shaken by Hadrian, Trajan and the Antonines; stumbling at Polybius (pronounced Polly Beeious, and supposed by Mr Boffin to be a Roman virgin, and by Mrs Boffin to be responsible for dropping it); heavily unseated by Titus Antoninus Pius; up again and galloping smoothly with Augustus; finally, getting over the ground well with Commodus; who, under the appelation of Commodious, was held by Mr Boffin to have been quite unworthy of his English origin, and "not to have acted up to his name" in his government of the Roman people."
And that whole ride in one sentence!
IL PAPA
As I write, Pope Benedict is about to start his state visit of Britain and, in response, various celebrities - a catchall title that includes the likes of Stephen Fry and Philip Pullman - have written to the newspapers condemning said tour.
I hold no candle for the Pope but I do think that there is considerable irony in allowing, indeed encouraging, visits by Heads of State of countries that formally undertake violence against sections of their own population and yet protesting against one who, while he may have committed sins of omission in failing to seek out child abuse and, worse, in attempting to cover it when discovered, cannot be accused of sponsoring such horrific behaviour.
But perhaps the opprobrium should be the greater because Benedict is a spiritual rather than a political leader and there is therefore a sense in which he must be measured more stringently against a moral benchmark. So that would suggest that child abuse in Catholic schools is somehow worse than the mass murder of children at the Haut de la Garenne Orphanage in Jersey or worse than that caning schoolmaster who has recently been brought to book by a group of his formerly striped pupils?
No, despite the sensibilities of some and the (sometimes artificial) outrage of others, the Pope's visit should go ahead and it should do so for a series of pragmatic reasons.
First, a majority of British catholics would like the Pope to visit. Second he is the spiritual leader of something towards a billion and a half people. Third, how would it look to the populations of Brazil, Ireland, Paraguay even Poland (not to mention Italy) if he was blocked access to the UK just as if he was some rabble-rousing Mullah?
And fourth, this country has a long and colourful history of entertaining worse than him.
I hold no candle for the Pope but I do think that there is considerable irony in allowing, indeed encouraging, visits by Heads of State of countries that formally undertake violence against sections of their own population and yet protesting against one who, while he may have committed sins of omission in failing to seek out child abuse and, worse, in attempting to cover it when discovered, cannot be accused of sponsoring such horrific behaviour.
But perhaps the opprobrium should be the greater because Benedict is a spiritual rather than a political leader and there is therefore a sense in which he must be measured more stringently against a moral benchmark. So that would suggest that child abuse in Catholic schools is somehow worse than the mass murder of children at the Haut de la Garenne Orphanage in Jersey or worse than that caning schoolmaster who has recently been brought to book by a group of his formerly striped pupils?
No, despite the sensibilities of some and the (sometimes artificial) outrage of others, the Pope's visit should go ahead and it should do so for a series of pragmatic reasons.
First, a majority of British catholics would like the Pope to visit. Second he is the spiritual leader of something towards a billion and a half people. Third, how would it look to the populations of Brazil, Ireland, Paraguay even Poland (not to mention Italy) if he was blocked access to the UK just as if he was some rabble-rousing Mullah?
And fourth, this country has a long and colourful history of entertaining worse than him.
Sunday 12 September 2010
IN THE NAVY
I picked up a copy of Alec Guinness's autobiography, "Blessings in Disguise", this morning and found myself in the chapter about his time in the navy during the second world war. Like many such books, this one seems to rest on a series of short (occasionally pithy) stories and the one about Guinness's movement towards the RN is, I believe worth retelling here.
The chapter is headed, 'Damage to the Allied Cause' and begins as follows:
"The Colonel stood with his back to the sitting-room fire, warming his shoulders and his behind. He was very small. He wore a hairy tweed suit and, although he was trying to be helpful, he only managed to look rather cross. He was a revered 'uncle', but no relation, of my dear friend Peggy Ashcroft, who had kindly arranged for me to be interviewed by him. This was in 1940.
"'Drive a car?' asked the Colonel.
'I'm afraid not,' I said. The Colonel looked crosser, so I added, 'Sir,' which mollified him slightly.
'Motor bicycle?'
'No, I am afraid I don't do anything like that.'
'Sport? Rugger? Cricket?'
'Absolutely no. Sir.'
'My niece says you act.'
'Yes.'
'Well, that's that. I suggest you offer your services to the Royal Navy. Good afternoon.'"
The chapter is headed, 'Damage to the Allied Cause' and begins as follows:
"The Colonel stood with his back to the sitting-room fire, warming his shoulders and his behind. He was very small. He wore a hairy tweed suit and, although he was trying to be helpful, he only managed to look rather cross. He was a revered 'uncle', but no relation, of my dear friend Peggy Ashcroft, who had kindly arranged for me to be interviewed by him. This was in 1940.
"'Drive a car?' asked the Colonel.
'I'm afraid not,' I said. The Colonel looked crosser, so I added, 'Sir,' which mollified him slightly.
'Motor bicycle?'
'No, I am afraid I don't do anything like that.'
'Sport? Rugger? Cricket?'
'Absolutely no. Sir.'
'My niece says you act.'
'Yes.'
'Well, that's that. I suggest you offer your services to the Royal Navy. Good afternoon.'"
Tuesday 24 August 2010
RUNNING BUT NOT LOSING
About five years later than everyone else, I have just read Ron McLarty's excellent debut novel, "The Memory of Running" about the disfunctional family life but final salvation (via cycling and the love of a crippled neighbour), of one Smithson ('Smithy') Ide: fat, drunken Vietnam vet.
As always, the dust wrapper of this book, carries extensively edited and apparently supportive comments from reviewers including one quote from the Philadelphia Enquirer that gives Mr Ide an honourable inclusion in the list of fictional American losers. (Other names weren't listed by I am sure Updike's Rabbit Angstrom and two or three of John Irving's interchangeable characters would be among that crowd.)
Like others of his fictional ilk, Ide is a lower middle class white-collar worker, in his case with a dead-end job as a quality control superviser in a toy production factory. But his position within society has set me to wondering whether contemporary British literature includes any similar figures.
Of course we have working class heroes and anti-heroes, and earlier writing, for example by Dickens or George and Weedon Grossmith, contains a number semi-respectable individuals who are above labourers in their employment but hardly in any other way.
Some have told me that Ide's equivalent position in today's British literature is almost exclusively occupied by women.
Sad if true.
As always, the dust wrapper of this book, carries extensively edited and apparently supportive comments from reviewers including one quote from the Philadelphia Enquirer that gives Mr Ide an honourable inclusion in the list of fictional American losers. (Other names weren't listed by I am sure Updike's Rabbit Angstrom and two or three of John Irving's interchangeable characters would be among that crowd.)
Like others of his fictional ilk, Ide is a lower middle class white-collar worker, in his case with a dead-end job as a quality control superviser in a toy production factory. But his position within society has set me to wondering whether contemporary British literature includes any similar figures.
Of course we have working class heroes and anti-heroes, and earlier writing, for example by Dickens or George and Weedon Grossmith, contains a number semi-respectable individuals who are above labourers in their employment but hardly in any other way.
Some have told me that Ide's equivalent position in today's British literature is almost exclusively occupied by women.
Sad if true.
Wednesday 14 July 2010
POETRY IN THE FLESH
Last night, uncharacteristically, I went to a poetry reading given by a new young talent, Adam O'Riordan, who was marking the publication of his first collection of poems, "In the Flesh" at Peter Ho's bookshop, "Clerkenwell Tales" in Exmouth Market, London.
O'Riordan is a serious young man (probably made the more so by a year in Grasmere courtesy of the Wordsworth Trust) who said in answer to my question, that death, preservation, erasure - the subjects or undercurrents of a number of his poems - were often the focus of youth, pointing out that Eliot wrote "Prufrock" when he was only 22. He (O'Riordan) was therefore not drawn by the reiteration of my mother's comment that Wordsworth would have been the best poet in the language had he had the sense to die young!
As I wrote to Peter Ho, directly after the event, I was led to musing about how O'Riordan's father felt (or possible feels) about him. We gathered from the introduction and also from one of the poems in the book, that O'Riordan père was something of a trade unionist - a teacher of shop stewards or some such - whereas his son is an Oxford educated (Brasenose) poet without, at least as far as his writings betray, any strong political leanings.
Anyway, leaving those musings aside, I do commend the book and I'll leave O'Riordan, appropriately, with les derniers mots - here the last two lines of a brief poem about preparing and eating oysters:
I swallow an ocean into silence and peristalsis,
it hangs like a four-letter word in my gullet.
Friday 9 July 2010
VALE
One of my very best friends just died and at the funeral I had the strange sense of divorce, of the end of relationships. Not so much, then, about the loss of the individual but about irreversible change. Many people say that among other things, a divorce means a partitioning of friends: his friends / her friends and rarely if ever shall the twain meet again.
As I said, I felt the same, standing in my former friend's garden in south London only a few days ago. Here again was a partition taking place as the thought came to me that, except perhaps at the anticipated memorial service, I will never see the family - neither the widow northe children, again.
At least not without effort and being a witness to death makes one so very weary.
As I said, I felt the same, standing in my former friend's garden in south London only a few days ago. Here again was a partition taking place as the thought came to me that, except perhaps at the anticipated memorial service, I will never see the family - neither the widow northe children, again.
At least not without effort and being a witness to death makes one so very weary.
Tuesday 15 June 2010
COME ON ENGLAND
This is not about the World Cup. It is instead a brief musing about meaning. What does, "Come on England" mean? Should there be a comma and, frankly, if there were would it make any difference?
"Come on board" makes sense. "Come on England" does not make sense, certainly not in the way that "Allez la France" does.
I wonder whether the phrase is a corruption of the much more gentle, "Come along, England"?
Possibly, or is the preposition used in the sense of "Trot on", or "Get on with it"?
Or perhaps I don't know what I'm on about.
"Come on board" makes sense. "Come on England" does not make sense, certainly not in the way that "Allez la France" does.
I wonder whether the phrase is a corruption of the much more gentle, "Come along, England"?
Possibly, or is the preposition used in the sense of "Trot on", or "Get on with it"?
Or perhaps I don't know what I'm on about.
WHERE ARE YOUR SISTERS WHEN YOU NEED THEM?
This is a question about the BP disaster and it has to do with the absence of support - either predatory or (possibly) altruistic from the oil majors also known as the seven sisters. It is also a question about whether a problem that is either impossible to solve or (hopefully) simply very difficult to solve is helped by the threats, potential legal action and, frankly, jingoist bluster emanating from the White House.
If BP could have solved the oil leak quickly, it would already have done so. The interesting point for me, is that none of remaining six of the 'Seven Sisters': Shell, Exxon, Texaco, Socal, Gulf (BP is of that number) etc, has - to use an Americanism - stepped upto the plate to help out. In fact the silence from this group of usually vociferous, buccaneering businesses has been deafening.
Certainly these companies may be having closed-doors conversations with Obama but little, if you'll pardon the black humour, has leaked out. Why? Because they don't know how to solve the problem either and they're surely not going to try and be found to fail which, I think is a great pity (I mean the trying not the failing). The cost of failure should not be so high but undoubtedly any action, by say, Chevron would, almost automatically involve that group in some sort of class action suit - a result to be avoided at all costs.
Obama is electioneering. His usually diplomatic, intellectual approach has deserted him on this occasion and, I would argue, to no great advantage for either the inhabitants or businesses of the northern Gulf of Mexico (let alone the shareholders of BP). Financial compensation is one thing but the destruction of a way and a quality of life is more than a monetary issue and it might be better to get all interested parties - the sisters, academics, the locals and so on, working together rather than shouting about unsatisfactory responses and forecasting doom as the hurricane season approaches.
Try this. Set you mother, sister, child or friend a brain-teaser. One of those, "If I have three eggs and my brother has a blue ball and my sister is twice as old as her aunt when she was first on a pony" sort of problems. These things are for most people damn nearly impossible to solve in a calm environment. But if you keep shouting, "Get it solved, get it solved, I'm going to take all your money, get it solved," I would argue the success rate in terms of a solution to said problem will be low to zero.
Let's some sisterly support here and worry about the money later on.
If BP could have solved the oil leak quickly, it would already have done so. The interesting point for me, is that none of remaining six of the 'Seven Sisters': Shell, Exxon, Texaco, Socal, Gulf (BP is of that number) etc, has - to use an Americanism - stepped upto the plate to help out. In fact the silence from this group of usually vociferous, buccaneering businesses has been deafening.
Certainly these companies may be having closed-doors conversations with Obama but little, if you'll pardon the black humour, has leaked out. Why? Because they don't know how to solve the problem either and they're surely not going to try and be found to fail which, I think is a great pity (I mean the trying not the failing). The cost of failure should not be so high but undoubtedly any action, by say, Chevron would, almost automatically involve that group in some sort of class action suit - a result to be avoided at all costs.
Obama is electioneering. His usually diplomatic, intellectual approach has deserted him on this occasion and, I would argue, to no great advantage for either the inhabitants or businesses of the northern Gulf of Mexico (let alone the shareholders of BP). Financial compensation is one thing but the destruction of a way and a quality of life is more than a monetary issue and it might be better to get all interested parties - the sisters, academics, the locals and so on, working together rather than shouting about unsatisfactory responses and forecasting doom as the hurricane season approaches.
Try this. Set you mother, sister, child or friend a brain-teaser. One of those, "If I have three eggs and my brother has a blue ball and my sister is twice as old as her aunt when she was first on a pony" sort of problems. These things are for most people damn nearly impossible to solve in a calm environment. But if you keep shouting, "Get it solved, get it solved, I'm going to take all your money, get it solved," I would argue the success rate in terms of a solution to said problem will be low to zero.
Let's some sisterly support here and worry about the money later on.
Thursday 13 May 2010
AROUND THE FOUR CORNERS
This is primarily to be a picture post showing some images of a trip in late April and early May that started at the Options Conference in Phoenix AZ and finished in Boulder CO. Many places of great interest were visited on the way, particularly exciting if one is, as I fear I am becoming, something of a rockaholic.
So from Phoenix via Sedona to Flagstaff. To a sacred Navajo extinct Volcano, to the Grand Canyon National Park and then staying in Page AZ. Then Monument Valley, the Valley of the Gods, an old Native American settlement called (something like) Betatakin and then Moab and the Arches National Park. Finally over the Rockies, pausing at Vail before arriving in Boulder.
Thursday 22 April 2010
CARAJILLO MORNINGS
I don't think I'd ever come across the name carajillo before. I'd had coffee laced with brandy once in a while but had not heard of its formalization until the mornings of the MAR Hedge Conference in Barcelona.
I don't remember the year - sometime around the turn of the millennium - when those (few) of us, who made the trip found ourselves holed-up in the Arts Hotel (or vice versa). Others liked its modern steel construction with walk-ways at different heights leading, irrelevantly to different floors like some metal-based, latter day Hogwarts. I did not - but this was partially due to a failure with the multi-button electric controls by the side of my bed. While others revelled in views across what I seem to remember was the Olympic Port, I lived, for those three nights in near Stygian gloom never able to open the blinds and afraid of calling the maid with a random guess.
I certainly remember I was not the only one to find the Hotel Arts too modern. Michael Goldman, then of Momentum prior, I think, to the purchase by Pioneer, was giving the key-note speech for which he had prepared overhead slides (remember those)? But the hotel had no such projector and Michael was confined at 9.15 on Day 1, to holding up the slides and expressing an earnest desire that we, the audience, should be able to see them as well. He certainly described them well - it was almost as good as being there, if you see what I mean.
I also remember that the shortage of delegates quickly informed the speakers that there was little point in the normal intensive networking campaign. And so people like Mark Cohen, Steve Solomon's right hand man, and Man Investments Director, John Kelly - never a man to waste time - hobnobbed with lesser folk such as me, down the carajillo cafés.
Was Matthew Tewkesbury there before he took over his cousin Monroe Trout's business? I think so. Certainly I met Pari Rajkotia, then of Bear Stearns and now Pari Lake and not of Bear Sterns, for the first time. And Elle Anderson and a fine man from Double Alpha (Charlie Zaffuto?) who won the prize for the shortest taxi journey when he fell out of a bar, fell into a taxi and asked for the Hotel Arts. The unexpected result of this request was that the driver got out of his seat, walked round to the other side of the cab, and re-opened the door. In short, where Charlie had been was where he still wanted to be.
And he was not the only Charlie in action. Charles Bathurst and his jacuzzi made an important contribution, so did Charles Macmillan and his valiant attempts to teach the nearby barmen to make Flaming B52s. I remember him saying that when they (the barmen) got the hang of it at about 3.00am, the night became 'terrible'.
All this and many untold tales, goes to reinforce the importance of a good breakfast!
I don't remember the year - sometime around the turn of the millennium - when those (few) of us, who made the trip found ourselves holed-up in the Arts Hotel (or vice versa). Others liked its modern steel construction with walk-ways at different heights leading, irrelevantly to different floors like some metal-based, latter day Hogwarts. I did not - but this was partially due to a failure with the multi-button electric controls by the side of my bed. While others revelled in views across what I seem to remember was the Olympic Port, I lived, for those three nights in near Stygian gloom never able to open the blinds and afraid of calling the maid with a random guess.
I certainly remember I was not the only one to find the Hotel Arts too modern. Michael Goldman, then of Momentum prior, I think, to the purchase by Pioneer, was giving the key-note speech for which he had prepared overhead slides (remember those)? But the hotel had no such projector and Michael was confined at 9.15 on Day 1, to holding up the slides and expressing an earnest desire that we, the audience, should be able to see them as well. He certainly described them well - it was almost as good as being there, if you see what I mean.
I also remember that the shortage of delegates quickly informed the speakers that there was little point in the normal intensive networking campaign. And so people like Mark Cohen, Steve Solomon's right hand man, and Man Investments Director, John Kelly - never a man to waste time - hobnobbed with lesser folk such as me, down the carajillo cafés.
Was Matthew Tewkesbury there before he took over his cousin Monroe Trout's business? I think so. Certainly I met Pari Rajkotia, then of Bear Stearns and now Pari Lake and not of Bear Sterns, for the first time. And Elle Anderson and a fine man from Double Alpha (Charlie Zaffuto?) who won the prize for the shortest taxi journey when he fell out of a bar, fell into a taxi and asked for the Hotel Arts. The unexpected result of this request was that the driver got out of his seat, walked round to the other side of the cab, and re-opened the door. In short, where Charlie had been was where he still wanted to be.
And he was not the only Charlie in action. Charles Bathurst and his jacuzzi made an important contribution, so did Charles Macmillan and his valiant attempts to teach the nearby barmen to make Flaming B52s. I remember him saying that when they (the barmen) got the hang of it at about 3.00am, the night became 'terrible'.
All this and many untold tales, goes to reinforce the importance of a good breakfast!
Tuesday 23 March 2010
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
There are books that seem to follow me, to be part of my thoughts or at least my experience, without my ever having read them. Mostly this is because of dictionary references. In the Penguin Dictionary of Curious and Interesting Words, for example, frequent mention is made of 'Darconville's Cat' by Theroux about which I know no more than I have just written - and yet I have heard of it often.
Another book, often referred to in Brewer's 'Reader's Companion' (a book that no one, save me, seems to have heard of these days), is 'Gil Blas'. A few days ago, I knew nothing of Gil or his exploits, and still don't, but I know a little more of this book that I could not formerly have placed within three centuries (1720s), nor guess at its author (Alain-René Lesage) until a few days ago.
Now, courtesy of eBay, I have a handsome if worn copy in front of me - a nineteenth edition of a translation of this long adventure, by Smollett - and I have to say I look forward to it immensely particularly after glancing at the jaunty style of the opening page, indeed the opening sentences:
"My father, Blas of Santillane, after having borne arms for a long time in the Spanish service, retired to his native place. There he married a chamber-maid who was not exactly in her teens, and I made my debut on this stage ten months after the marriage. They afterwards went to live at Oviedo, where my mother got into service, and my father obtained a situation equally adapted to his capacities as a squire. As their wages were their fortune, I might have got my education as I could, had it not been for an uncle of mine in the town, a canon, by name Gil Perez. He was my mother's eldest brother, and my god-father. Figure to yourself a little fellow, three and a half feet high, as fat as you can conceive, with a head sunk deep between his shoulders, and you have my uncle to the life. For the rest of his qualities, he was an ecclesiastic, and of course thought of nothing but good living, I mean in the flesh as well as in the spirit, with the means of which good living his stall, no lean one, provided him."
How good is that for an opening? But I'll have to wait to discover whether I am really reading Smollett or Lesage. And also whether I am the only person who has never come across this book where all others read it years ago and have moved on.
Another book, often referred to in Brewer's 'Reader's Companion' (a book that no one, save me, seems to have heard of these days), is 'Gil Blas'. A few days ago, I knew nothing of Gil or his exploits, and still don't, but I know a little more of this book that I could not formerly have placed within three centuries (1720s), nor guess at its author (Alain-René Lesage) until a few days ago.
Now, courtesy of eBay, I have a handsome if worn copy in front of me - a nineteenth edition of a translation of this long adventure, by Smollett - and I have to say I look forward to it immensely particularly after glancing at the jaunty style of the opening page, indeed the opening sentences:
"My father, Blas of Santillane, after having borne arms for a long time in the Spanish service, retired to his native place. There he married a chamber-maid who was not exactly in her teens, and I made my debut on this stage ten months after the marriage. They afterwards went to live at Oviedo, where my mother got into service, and my father obtained a situation equally adapted to his capacities as a squire. As their wages were their fortune, I might have got my education as I could, had it not been for an uncle of mine in the town, a canon, by name Gil Perez. He was my mother's eldest brother, and my god-father. Figure to yourself a little fellow, three and a half feet high, as fat as you can conceive, with a head sunk deep between his shoulders, and you have my uncle to the life. For the rest of his qualities, he was an ecclesiastic, and of course thought of nothing but good living, I mean in the flesh as well as in the spirit, with the means of which good living his stall, no lean one, provided him."
How good is that for an opening? But I'll have to wait to discover whether I am really reading Smollett or Lesage. And also whether I am the only person who has never come across this book where all others read it years ago and have moved on.
Thursday 18 March 2010
REMEMBERING VICTOR
I was thinking last night about my career, if we can laughingly call it that, in or around the hedge fund industry. And I wondered whether it would be possible to create a show or speech - or alternatively write a humourous book - about the goings on one has witnessed over 25 plus years, or indeed has been party to.
Well that takes a lot of planning but I did think I might mention my encounter with Victor Niederhoffer whose fund, some may remember, collapsed in the late 1990s after, as I understand it, Victor chose to double up a losing but highly-geared position into a falling market.
My experience with Victor was earlier than that, some time at the beginning of the 1990s when, I assume for marketing reasons, he chose to promote himself and his business for the first time in London.
In those days such presentations by investment stars - and Victor was an ex-Soros star - were rare indeed and Victor's forthcoming presentation attracted considerable attention from among the great and the good in the City and the more so because the advance publicity said it was going to be about 'investment and harmony'. Well the mathematicians among us know that harmonics are an important strand of applied mathematics and City people, who knew less of this, at least considered maths must underpin a cogent and successful investment strategy and the overlay of music might open new doors to profits which they had not known existed.
I should say two things here. First, I would not want Victor Niederhoffer to be confused, in investment terms at least, with his brother Roy Niederhoffer who, so far as I know, continues to run a well-respected alternative investment business. Second, despite the fact that I set up the London Victor Niederhoffer presentation, I was not there for the core of the event. We had doubled up events that luncthime and I believe I was supporting a press conference for one exchange or another - so most of the rest of my description is a first hand account from my then colleague Sue Gourlay.
We knew things were unusual when we had to arrange for a piano at the event (which took place in The Howard Hotel on the Embankment) and moreover had to arrange rooms not only for Victor but also for his accompanist. But what really confused the audience on the day was that when the presentation began, rather than the usual slide show with charts and graphs, Victor intoned the story of his life, psalmically, to the playing of his pianist. This went on for some while and then, apparently Victor said something like, "Well you've heard enough from me. For the remainder of our time, I'll play the piano and my accompanist will tell you something of the lives of the great composers."
The general view of those privileged guests who attended this unique occasion (there were something over 100 of them), was that Victor might or might not be an investment genius but they thought they'd pass on the opportunity. One man took a contrary position and put in a fair chunk of money. No names, I'm afraid but let's simply say he was the head of one of Britain's biggest alternative investment houses. Sadly, because of Victor's collapse, this investment went from sharp to flat only a few years later.
Well that takes a lot of planning but I did think I might mention my encounter with Victor Niederhoffer whose fund, some may remember, collapsed in the late 1990s after, as I understand it, Victor chose to double up a losing but highly-geared position into a falling market.
My experience with Victor was earlier than that, some time at the beginning of the 1990s when, I assume for marketing reasons, he chose to promote himself and his business for the first time in London.
In those days such presentations by investment stars - and Victor was an ex-Soros star - were rare indeed and Victor's forthcoming presentation attracted considerable attention from among the great and the good in the City and the more so because the advance publicity said it was going to be about 'investment and harmony'. Well the mathematicians among us know that harmonics are an important strand of applied mathematics and City people, who knew less of this, at least considered maths must underpin a cogent and successful investment strategy and the overlay of music might open new doors to profits which they had not known existed.
I should say two things here. First, I would not want Victor Niederhoffer to be confused, in investment terms at least, with his brother Roy Niederhoffer who, so far as I know, continues to run a well-respected alternative investment business. Second, despite the fact that I set up the London Victor Niederhoffer presentation, I was not there for the core of the event. We had doubled up events that luncthime and I believe I was supporting a press conference for one exchange or another - so most of the rest of my description is a first hand account from my then colleague Sue Gourlay.
We knew things were unusual when we had to arrange for a piano at the event (which took place in The Howard Hotel on the Embankment) and moreover had to arrange rooms not only for Victor but also for his accompanist. But what really confused the audience on the day was that when the presentation began, rather than the usual slide show with charts and graphs, Victor intoned the story of his life, psalmically, to the playing of his pianist. This went on for some while and then, apparently Victor said something like, "Well you've heard enough from me. For the remainder of our time, I'll play the piano and my accompanist will tell you something of the lives of the great composers."
The general view of those privileged guests who attended this unique occasion (there were something over 100 of them), was that Victor might or might not be an investment genius but they thought they'd pass on the opportunity. One man took a contrary position and put in a fair chunk of money. No names, I'm afraid but let's simply say he was the head of one of Britain's biggest alternative investment houses. Sadly, because of Victor's collapse, this investment went from sharp to flat only a few years later.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
BORROWER OR LENDER
G K Chesterton once said that, "A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells the truth about its author." I wonder if this is the same of givers and - perhaps the lesser breed - recommenders of books.
Books as gifts split into many categories including: something known and already requested, something new and fashionable (winners of the Man Booker prize, 'Parrot and Olivier in America' - that sort of thing), an anodyne compilation ('The Classic 1000 Cocktails', 'Comic Quotes'), an unwanted accent to a hobby ('Material Obsession: Contemporary Quilt Designs', 'The Galata Guide to Medieval Half Groats: Edward III to Richard III'), or - repeat or - a risky intellectual contribution such as 'Montaigne's Essays' or 'Endless Forms Most Beautiful: The New Science of EvoDevo'.
Yet gifts are one thing but it seems recommendations are often another. "You must read this" when commonly stated often means, "I haven't read it but you should" or "I have read it and was rather bored by it but it sounds good and I may have missed the point so to ensure you don't think the less of me I am suggesting strongly that you read it so at least you'll be in the same boat." This latter is often the subliminal reason behind the foundation of book clubs.
Rarely but luminously, there are exceptions to all of the above and I have had the pleasure, in the last four days, of being immersed in one such: 'Body and Soul' by Frank Conroy. Mr Conroy is one of those whose fame such as it is came late in his life/his literary career. And I gather that fame grew for him as a result of his memoir: 'Stop-Time' which I have yet to read rather than because of 'Body and Soul'.
The book was given to me, elegantly wrapped in newspaper which seems in wrapping paper terms to be the new 'black', with a strong admonition from the giver that this was one of the greatest books he had read ... this was his private first edition copy ... that this was writing that was sort of like Vaudeville: wonderful but rarely encountered these days. In short, kind of a heavy trip to have laid upon one during a birthday party sing song.
But for once the recommender was right and even more rarely I opened the book and started reading ('War and Peace' notwithstanding) only a few days after the gift was made and only a couple of days after I had written my thank yous saying that no matter what, this precious tome would be returned.
So enough drivel. 'Body and Soul' is about the development of, and experience of being, a piano virtuoso and I gather Mr Conroy was a talented jazz pianist which gives some gravitas to his writing. The music is mixed with some post-war Jewish gilt, family disfunction and just here and there some unexpectedly slippery sex.
Claude Rawlings, our hero, hails from a poor New York background and lived originally in the sort of deep appartment room where, as Woody Allen once said, in the Wall Street Crash you had to jump out of the window and up onto the sidewalk.
Claude has a god-given musical talent that attracts teachers, watchers, sponsors and scholarships. One of the key relationships is with Fredericks, one of the great interpreters of Mozart. And with this there is a lot of satisfactory, heatwarming dialogue, for example this section when Fredericks asks the young Claude to partner him in the Mozart Double Piano Concerto at a music festival in Long Island:
"It would be nice to have more time," Fredericks continued, brushing a mote from his sleeve, "but we'll have to make do. We'll be using the Breitkopf and Härtel edition, and I suggest you take a very close look at the orchestral music with Mr. Weisfeld. We didn't do much of that before and it's important. Study it."
"Yes, sir."
"I can manage four piano sessions with you. I'll let you know the dates. The first will be devoted to the twenty-two bars after the entrance. Now, I know you'll probably be playing the whole thing night and day, but remember, first we'll be digging into those twenty-two bars. We'll get them right, and the rest will follow."
"I understand."
"Excellent." Fredericks stood up. Claude jumped from his chair and they shook hands. "I'm looking forward to this," Fredericks said. "It's such an elegant piece."
They went upstairs to find Weisfeld in the front, staring out the window. "It's a lovely day out there today," he said, as if, for some reason, surprised.
"All is arranged," Fredericks opened the door and the bell tinkled. He looked up at it, "E-flat! How appropriate!"
From inside they watched him enter the Rolls, which pulled away from the curb like a great black ship gleaming in the sun.
"Well," Weisfeld said, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, "this is quite a development."
"I can do it. I can do it."
"Of course you can. He knows you can, or he wouldn't have suggested it."
"With an orchestra," Claude whispered.
"With Fredericks!" Weisfeld reminded him. "Maybe the best Mozart player alive."
"I can't believe it" Claude said. "I mean, just like that? Just ..." His voice trailed off.
"It's the ways things happen sometimes."
For several minutes they stood in silence, watching the street. Claude felt a brief electric shiver over his whole body, the hair on his arms standing erect. "Oh, my god," Claude said suddenly, panicked.
"What?"
"I forgot to ask him what part I'm going to play, one or two."
"We discussed it," Weisfeld said. "The second part. The lower one."
Claude blew out his cheeks and released the air. "Okay. Okay, good."
"It's the part Mozart played," Weisfeld said.
.
Books as gifts split into many categories including: something known and already requested, something new and fashionable (winners of the Man Booker prize, 'Parrot and Olivier in America' - that sort of thing), an anodyne compilation ('The Classic 1000 Cocktails', 'Comic Quotes'), an unwanted accent to a hobby ('Material Obsession: Contemporary Quilt Designs', 'The Galata Guide to Medieval Half Groats: Edward III to Richard III'), or - repeat or - a risky intellectual contribution such as 'Montaigne's Essays' or 'Endless Forms Most Beautiful: The New Science of EvoDevo'.
Yet gifts are one thing but it seems recommendations are often another. "You must read this" when commonly stated often means, "I haven't read it but you should" or "I have read it and was rather bored by it but it sounds good and I may have missed the point so to ensure you don't think the less of me I am suggesting strongly that you read it so at least you'll be in the same boat." This latter is often the subliminal reason behind the foundation of book clubs.
Rarely but luminously, there are exceptions to all of the above and I have had the pleasure, in the last four days, of being immersed in one such: 'Body and Soul' by Frank Conroy. Mr Conroy is one of those whose fame such as it is came late in his life/his literary career. And I gather that fame grew for him as a result of his memoir: 'Stop-Time' which I have yet to read rather than because of 'Body and Soul'.
The book was given to me, elegantly wrapped in newspaper which seems in wrapping paper terms to be the new 'black', with a strong admonition from the giver that this was one of the greatest books he had read ... this was his private first edition copy ... that this was writing that was sort of like Vaudeville: wonderful but rarely encountered these days. In short, kind of a heavy trip to have laid upon one during a birthday party sing song.
But for once the recommender was right and even more rarely I opened the book and started reading ('War and Peace' notwithstanding) only a few days after the gift was made and only a couple of days after I had written my thank yous saying that no matter what, this precious tome would be returned.
So enough drivel. 'Body and Soul' is about the development of, and experience of being, a piano virtuoso and I gather Mr Conroy was a talented jazz pianist which gives some gravitas to his writing. The music is mixed with some post-war Jewish gilt, family disfunction and just here and there some unexpectedly slippery sex.
Claude Rawlings, our hero, hails from a poor New York background and lived originally in the sort of deep appartment room where, as Woody Allen once said, in the Wall Street Crash you had to jump out of the window and up onto the sidewalk.
Claude has a god-given musical talent that attracts teachers, watchers, sponsors and scholarships. One of the key relationships is with Fredericks, one of the great interpreters of Mozart. And with this there is a lot of satisfactory, heatwarming dialogue, for example this section when Fredericks asks the young Claude to partner him in the Mozart Double Piano Concerto at a music festival in Long Island:
"It would be nice to have more time," Fredericks continued, brushing a mote from his sleeve, "but we'll have to make do. We'll be using the Breitkopf and Härtel edition, and I suggest you take a very close look at the orchestral music with Mr. Weisfeld. We didn't do much of that before and it's important. Study it."
"Yes, sir."
"I can manage four piano sessions with you. I'll let you know the dates. The first will be devoted to the twenty-two bars after the entrance. Now, I know you'll probably be playing the whole thing night and day, but remember, first we'll be digging into those twenty-two bars. We'll get them right, and the rest will follow."
"I understand."
"Excellent." Fredericks stood up. Claude jumped from his chair and they shook hands. "I'm looking forward to this," Fredericks said. "It's such an elegant piece."
They went upstairs to find Weisfeld in the front, staring out the window. "It's a lovely day out there today," he said, as if, for some reason, surprised.
"All is arranged," Fredericks opened the door and the bell tinkled. He looked up at it, "E-flat! How appropriate!"
From inside they watched him enter the Rolls, which pulled away from the curb like a great black ship gleaming in the sun.
"Well," Weisfeld said, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, "this is quite a development."
"I can do it. I can do it."
"Of course you can. He knows you can, or he wouldn't have suggested it."
"With an orchestra," Claude whispered.
"With Fredericks!" Weisfeld reminded him. "Maybe the best Mozart player alive."
"I can't believe it" Claude said. "I mean, just like that? Just ..." His voice trailed off.
"It's the ways things happen sometimes."
For several minutes they stood in silence, watching the street. Claude felt a brief electric shiver over his whole body, the hair on his arms standing erect. "Oh, my god," Claude said suddenly, panicked.
"What?"
"I forgot to ask him what part I'm going to play, one or two."
"We discussed it," Weisfeld said. "The second part. The lower one."
Claude blew out his cheeks and released the air. "Okay. Okay, good."
"It's the part Mozart played," Weisfeld said.
.
Wednesday 3 February 2010
From Serve to Stroke
I have met few great sportsmen but hearing about Andy Murray's reduction from Briton to Scotsman over last weekend, led me to think about a drink I had with David Sawyer, in the 'Old Tom' pub in Oxford in the early 1970s. David who?
Sawyer was a good American tennis player - good not great although he might have become so had he stayed on court. I think he was one of those excellent young college players whom the Americans produce from time to time, the most famous being John McEnroe, of course, who got through to the quarters or semis at Wimbledon when still a college amateur.
But Sawyer gave up tennis because he didn't like, he said, the psychology of the game. Whereas duffers like me concentrate merely on getting the ball back, players of Sawyer's potential class and anyone in the higher rankings, know it's a question of dominating the other person - making them loose confidence and therefore quality - in Sawyer's terms, "You have to grind them down".
And of course the grinding may be overt - such as when Sampras in his heyday destroyed the excellent Boris Becker in that 1995 Wimbledon final when having the lost the first set tie-break Pete then played perfect tennis taking the next three sets 6-2, 6-4, 6-2 and to my recollection, missing no services, returns of service nor lines.
Or it may be more subtle when - for me the mark of a tennis champion - you refuse to give way on break points in the way that Federer did against Murray a few days ago and so created the (very real) impression of invincibility which it is pointless to challenge.
But Sawyer gave up tennis and became a rower winning, I think a silver medal for the USA either in eights or fours at the 1972 Munich Olympics. He then went to Oxford where, it became clear, he was either genetically indisposed to feel pain or exhaustion or was so bloody-minded that he'd fight on through no matter what.
He said to me he very much preferred being a part of a 'crew' rather than being on his own on court and he also, more jocularly preferred facing backwards (although in his case from the stroke seat, this again meant he ended up looking at the failing opposition).
Sawyer's strength of body and of character became legendary at Oxford but in fact, it was this that probably cost Oxford the Boatrace in 1973 when, it is said, Sawyer refused to allow the boat back to the banks (before the start) to empty it after hitting a series of bad waves and, it was claimed at the time, then lost with one of the greatest crews the university had ever produced and with a boat half filled with the Thames.
Despite this loss, I would strongly argue that Sawyer and his spirit were the starting point for what has become known as the Revival which led Oxford to win 17 of the next 19 races. Not bad for a base-line jockey!
Sawyer was a good American tennis player - good not great although he might have become so had he stayed on court. I think he was one of those excellent young college players whom the Americans produce from time to time, the most famous being John McEnroe, of course, who got through to the quarters or semis at Wimbledon when still a college amateur.
But Sawyer gave up tennis because he didn't like, he said, the psychology of the game. Whereas duffers like me concentrate merely on getting the ball back, players of Sawyer's potential class and anyone in the higher rankings, know it's a question of dominating the other person - making them loose confidence and therefore quality - in Sawyer's terms, "You have to grind them down".
And of course the grinding may be overt - such as when Sampras in his heyday destroyed the excellent Boris Becker in that 1995 Wimbledon final when having the lost the first set tie-break Pete then played perfect tennis taking the next three sets 6-2, 6-4, 6-2 and to my recollection, missing no services, returns of service nor lines.
Or it may be more subtle when - for me the mark of a tennis champion - you refuse to give way on break points in the way that Federer did against Murray a few days ago and so created the (very real) impression of invincibility which it is pointless to challenge.
But Sawyer gave up tennis and became a rower winning, I think a silver medal for the USA either in eights or fours at the 1972 Munich Olympics. He then went to Oxford where, it became clear, he was either genetically indisposed to feel pain or exhaustion or was so bloody-minded that he'd fight on through no matter what.
He said to me he very much preferred being a part of a 'crew' rather than being on his own on court and he also, more jocularly preferred facing backwards (although in his case from the stroke seat, this again meant he ended up looking at the failing opposition).
Sawyer's strength of body and of character became legendary at Oxford but in fact, it was this that probably cost Oxford the Boatrace in 1973 when, it is said, Sawyer refused to allow the boat back to the banks (before the start) to empty it after hitting a series of bad waves and, it was claimed at the time, then lost with one of the greatest crews the university had ever produced and with a boat half filled with the Thames.
Despite this loss, I would strongly argue that Sawyer and his spirit were the starting point for what has become known as the Revival which led Oxford to win 17 of the next 19 races. Not bad for a base-line jockey!
Tuesday 12 January 2010
LOST HORIZON
I have just this moment finished reading James Hilton's book, "Goodbye Mr Chips". What a genuinely touching story - a novella I suppose we would call it now - and one which stands four-square in the midst of the British tradition of public school writing.
Reading the preface to this 1969 edition, I find there were significant difficulties when Hilton delivered his manuscript or, more likely, typescript. The commission was for a 3,000 word short story for The British Weekly but Chips actually runs to over 17,000 words - too short for a conventional book and far too long for a short story. In the end the magazine's editors apparently decided the material was far too good to ignore but, equally, too difficult to serialize so they chose to publish it as a special Christmas supplement. The same sort of solution was adopted by the novella's US publishers a few months later.
My reason for mentioning this touches a conversation I had the other day with the estimable Emma Davey and followed a remark made by the technology journalist, Jonathan Margolis, in his regular page in the FT's 'How to Spend It' magazine. Margolis was reviewing a new electronic book reader - one of those gizmos which can store many hundreds of books in a structure little different from a large-screened mobile 'phone.
He wrote that while he was not against such devices, he felt that they needed to develop beyond displaying the author's words as if they were no more than an extended email.
Emma and I agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly. With both of us from a publishing background (mine albeit only a brief one), we remain conscious that typography has a lot to do with conveying information and that, for the moment at least, an electronic reader provides only a few of the valuable sensations that should arise from handling and reading a physical book.
To name one: there is the quality of the paper and, more directly the book's weight. The notion of a 'weighty tome' comes into play here but there's also the reverse. I for example take great pleasure in my smallish collection of paperback Penguin books published during the strictures of the second World War with, therefore, thin paperstock and a small print size to cut down on wastage. Few of these books have survived (at least in my shelves) in anything more than ordinary condition but they each have a story to tell beyond the words printed.
Another very important - and again tactile - aspect of a physical book than cannot even be mimicked by an electronic version is the sense of progress through the pages. How near one is to the end, how we know, for example, just by opening to the next chapter, how soon the denouement of a detective novel will occur - and conversely how much fighting there still is to take place before "War and Peace" reaches its conclusion.
(With this in mind, I must mention a reviewer's jibe at Norman Mailer's massive book about the CIA - "Harlot's Ghost". He said that the most frightening thing about the book were the words on the last page: To be continued ).
All of which brings me back to "Goodbye Mr Chips" and the fact that in a paperback or hardback copy (if such exists), one knows from the beginning that this will be a short, fine tale. One recognizes, with pleasure that Mr Chips' reminiscences will be succinct and will finally drift to a distinct Horizon - one which is not lost in that other world of computer Chips.
Reading the preface to this 1969 edition, I find there were significant difficulties when Hilton delivered his manuscript or, more likely, typescript. The commission was for a 3,000 word short story for The British Weekly but Chips actually runs to over 17,000 words - too short for a conventional book and far too long for a short story. In the end the magazine's editors apparently decided the material was far too good to ignore but, equally, too difficult to serialize so they chose to publish it as a special Christmas supplement. The same sort of solution was adopted by the novella's US publishers a few months later.
My reason for mentioning this touches a conversation I had the other day with the estimable Emma Davey and followed a remark made by the technology journalist, Jonathan Margolis, in his regular page in the FT's 'How to Spend It' magazine. Margolis was reviewing a new electronic book reader - one of those gizmos which can store many hundreds of books in a structure little different from a large-screened mobile 'phone.
He wrote that while he was not against such devices, he felt that they needed to develop beyond displaying the author's words as if they were no more than an extended email.
Emma and I agreed with this sentiment wholeheartedly. With both of us from a publishing background (mine albeit only a brief one), we remain conscious that typography has a lot to do with conveying information and that, for the moment at least, an electronic reader provides only a few of the valuable sensations that should arise from handling and reading a physical book.
To name one: there is the quality of the paper and, more directly the book's weight. The notion of a 'weighty tome' comes into play here but there's also the reverse. I for example take great pleasure in my smallish collection of paperback Penguin books published during the strictures of the second World War with, therefore, thin paperstock and a small print size to cut down on wastage. Few of these books have survived (at least in my shelves) in anything more than ordinary condition but they each have a story to tell beyond the words printed.
Another very important - and again tactile - aspect of a physical book than cannot even be mimicked by an electronic version is the sense of progress through the pages. How near one is to the end, how we know, for example, just by opening to the next chapter, how soon the denouement of a detective novel will occur - and conversely how much fighting there still is to take place before "War and Peace" reaches its conclusion.
(With this in mind, I must mention a reviewer's jibe at Norman Mailer's massive book about the CIA - "Harlot's Ghost". He said that the most frightening thing about the book were the words on the last page: To be continued ).
All of which brings me back to "Goodbye Mr Chips" and the fact that in a paperback or hardback copy (if such exists), one knows from the beginning that this will be a short, fine tale. One recognizes, with pleasure that Mr Chips' reminiscences will be succinct and will finally drift to a distinct Horizon - one which is not lost in that other world of computer Chips.
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