Category Archives: books

Catching up on New Scientist the other evening I spotted an interesting piece attached to an article entitled “God’s place in a rational world“:

An Alternative reading of literature

Religion is not the only aspect of the human condition that could do with a little more rationality, said some delegates at Beyond Belief II [a symposium of scientists who don’t buy into the god meme]. Jonathan Gotschall, who teaches English literature at Washington & Jefferson College in Pennsylvania, proposed marrying literary studies with a scientific style of inquiry.

Gottschall has already made waves among his colleagues by conducting an experiment on how people respond to literature. From interviews with readers about their responses to books, he has shown that in general people have similar reactions to a given text. This runs counter to the conventional idea that the meaning readers take from literature is dependent more on their cultural background than what the author intended. It also appears not to make sense, as literature is grounded in subjective rather than objective experience.

Gotschall, however, argues that the same can be said for literary criticism: the field is awash with irrational thought, he says, largely because most literature scholars believe that the humanities and science are distinct. As a result, literary theorists rely on opinion and conjecture, rather than trying to find solid, empirical evidence for their claims, he says. By adding an element of scientific thought to literary criticism, Gottschall says, we could unearth hidden truths about human nature and behaviour.

Interesting idea. Needs thinking about. My literarist friends please note!

Virtue and Art

The great artists of the world are never Puritans and seldom respectable. No virtuous man – that is, virtuous in the YMCA sense – has ever painted a picture worth looking at, or written a symphony worth hearing, or a book worth reading.

[HL Mencken]

On Marriage

While we are sort-of on the subject of marriage, here’s an insightful quote from chapter two of Anthony Powell’s novel Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant:

A future marriage, or a past one, may be investigated and explained in terms of writing by one of its parties, but it is doubtful whether an existing marriage can ever be described directly in the first person and convey a sense of reality. Even those writers who suggest some of the substance of married life best, stylise heavily, losing the subtlety of the relationship at the price of a few accurately recorded, but isolated aspects. To think at all objectively about one’s own marriage is impossible, while a balanced view of other people’s marriage is almost equally hard to achieve with so much information available, so little to be believed. Objectivity is not, of course, everything in writing; but if one has cast objectivity aside, the difficulties of presenting marriage are inordinate. Its forms are at once so varied, providing a kaleidoscope, the colours of which are always changing, always the same. The moods of a love affair, the contradictions of friendship, the jealousy of business partners, the fellow feeling of opposed commanders in total war, these are all in their way to be charted. Marriage, partaking of such – and a thousand more – dual antagonisms and participations, finally defies definition.

Not really so unlike today …

… England’s burgeoning prosperity, carried on a tide of coal and woollens and overseas ventures, and London’s unassailable claim to be England’s only city worth a fart, … with a boom that drew thousands of new dwellers to the capital each year, from across the land and from across the seas. And so the monasteries had at last been cleared, or their better halls kept and taken over for use by the city’s wealthy … grand town houses of the nobility now stretched along the Strand, each with its private stairs down to the Thames, for boats were the fastest and least troublesome way to travel about the crowded city, … and Thomas Gresham’s Royal Exchange, with its great open piazza and arcaded colonnade and hundred shops for goldsmiths and armourers and financiers, had opened on the east end of Cheapside, heralding London’s arrival as the great centre of European trade and finance it had become.

And with the grandeur of prosperity came the squalor of prosperity, for each year the city burst a bit more to accommodate the destitute and the adventurers and the ambitious and the refugees drawn by hope or impelled by need. Within the city, hovels and tenements jostled with grand houses and merchants’ stalls; just beyond the gates, beyond the reach of the law of the good bourgeois aldermen, the filthy cottages of the poor crowded along the main roads to the north and the east, colonizing the fields where cattle had grazed but a few years before. Farther out, the brick kilns of Islington attracted the more desperate, the homeless unemployed looking for a warm place to sleep while they scrounged for work. And across the river, to the south, the suburb of Southwark teemed with shipwrights and sailors and semi-skilled craftsmen and foreigners and prostitutes, and with the crowds who frequented prostitutes and the bull-baitings and bear-baitings nearby.

The watermen who jammed the Thames calling “Westward ho!” and “Eastward ho!” for fares, and the carriers who carted in water to all who could afford to save themselves from the sickness and death of drinking right from the foul river; and the speculators who divided up some of the old decaying palaces of the wealthy into rude tenements, and the prostitutes, and the bull-baiters, and the butchers, and the tavern keepers, and the prison wardens, all saw little to choose between grandeur and squalor: demand was demand, and prosperity was prosperity.

It was not democracy; but London’s hugger-mugger jumbling together of rich and poor, merchants and seamen, aristocrats and tradesmen, cosmopolitans and vagabonds, foreigners and yokels, meant that all kinds of men crossed paths in London’s streets and alleys and churches. The parish register … lists them all in their succinct catalogue of baptisms, marriages, and burials: knight, parson, stranger; baker, cobbler, carpenter; gentleman, silkweaver, scrivener; merchant, blackamoor, vintner, broker, sugarmaker, porter. And so they all lived upon and walked upon the same streets, and rubbed elbows in the same taverns, and occasionally even the same prisons; and they heard things, and knew things, well outside the conventional stations that Elizabethan society assigned to men.

From: Stephen Budiansky, Her Majesty’s Spymaster: Elizabeth I, Sir Franis Walsingham and the Birth of Modern Espionage; Plume/Penguin; 2006; ISBN 0452287472

What is Your Dangerous Idea?

Steve Mirsky has written an interesting column in the”Antigravity” series in September issue of Scientific American. It talks about a book with the title What is Your Dangerous Idea? edited by John Brockman in which scientists and intellectuals pose what they consider to be dangerous (mostly intellectual) ideas.

Some of the ideas quoted in the article include:

The planet is fine. The people are f*^#ed … the planet’ll shake us off like a bad case of fleas.
The idea that we should all share our most dangerous ideas.
Test the hypothesis first posited as a child that a red towel tied around the neck will indeed confer the ability to fly.

Mirsky ends with

Bertrand Russell’s truly treacherous notion: “I wish to propose … a doctrine which may, I fear, appear wildly paradoxical and subversive. The doctrine in question is this: that it is undesirable to believe in a proposition when there is no ground whatsoever for supposing it true.” The danger of ignoring this doctrine can almost certainly be found in the politics or world events stories on the front page of today’s New York Times. On whatever day you read this.

You can find the full article here.

So what is your dangerous idea? Add a comment to tell us! If nothing else it’s a fun game!

Oh, what, mine? Well let’s start with: Ban the motor car and the aeroplane!

Zen Mischievous Moments #133

Today’s Daily Telegraph reports on Clive James interviewing himself at the Edinburgh International Books Festival. The article includes:

Did we know, he asked, that by decree, no rank below Major could wear make-up in the Romanian army during the war – a gem first divulged to him, incidentally, by Anthony Powell.

Full article here.

[With thanks to Julian Allason]

Depressed

I’m tired. Horribly tired. Not coping. Don’t know how I’m managing to do anything. Having anxiety dreams. Depressed. Very depressed. Despite the anti-depressants. And it isn’t even winter when I know I do struggle. I don’t know why. Noreen says I’m doing too much; I’m always doing things which are “duty” and that I haven’t had a break in weeks. I guess she’s right, what with work, the Anthony Powell Society, sorting my father’s estate, and the trust, and my mother’s tax, and …

… and this weekend a very close friend died; the other end of the country. Well Victor was 82; he had heart problems and Parkinson’s; was old enough to be my father; and was my best man all those years ago. Although we talked only infrequently, I shall miss Victor; he was the nearest person I knew, probably ever will know, to being a true polymath. So now I must give time not just to his funeral (and that may mean taking the funeral service) but to his estate, because I am one of his executors, and I promised. (Oh and just as I did for his wife when she died a couple of years ago.)

But all I am doing is things which I have committed to do; it’s not as if I’m taking on anything new; but I still can’t keep up. At 56 I’m working harder than ever before, at a time when the system is no longer full of it’s youthful vigour – we none of us can do at 56 what we could at 26, leave alone at 16; simple biology.

So it’s no wonder I never get a break and I’m tired and depressed. And as Noreen also tells me I don’t spend any time “playing” – by which she means doing what I want to do, when I want to. How can I; there’s no time!

What’s the answer? A big lottery win so I can afford to retire? Sounds good. If only!

Friday Five: My Life Wouldn't be the Same Without …

Apologies to everyone for the long silence: been very busy at work in the last few weeks; just now beginning to surface. So let’s catch up with this week’s Friday Five

My life would not be the same without this…

1. Song/movie/book:
Well as you’ll all expect by now I’m going to be very predictable and nominate a book: Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time. Now there’s a surprise! But I could almost as well have chosen one of any number of albums or classical pieces.

2. Person:
Dare I nominate anyone except my wife? Yes I dare, but I won’t! Noreen has to be the nomination, although clearly my parents have to be a very close second.

3. Place:
Now this is really difficult. Much as I moan about it my first inclination is to say London — ‘cos it’s where I was dragged up and the place I know best. But there are other places where “I’ve left a bit of me”: Forde Abbey in Dorset would be one, and Lyme Regis another.

4. Event:
Another difficult one! I’m going to have to think about this for a minute or few. Strangely I don’t remember events well, perhaps because I don’t have a highly visual memory. There aren’t too many events which stand out and probably none for which I can replay the whole video in my head, only odd snapshots. Even things like our wedding and my doctoral graduation are fairly fuzzy memories. Clearly our wedding would have to be high on the list, as would the Anthony Powell Centenary Conference in December 2005; also the funeral for our friend Robbie at which I was the “celebrant” and my father’s funeral. Probably in that order.

5. Self-indulgence:
Don’t think I have too many doubts here. It has to be beer. I always enjoy good beer — by which I mean traditional English real ale, or quality Continental lager and white beer. My second choice would be food. No real wonder I’m the size I am!

[Brought to you courtesy of Friday Five.]