Amis on Joyce

Finnegan's Wake is a seven-hundred page crossword clue, and the answer is the.

Mr Martin Amis in discussion with Clive James.

Clive James, and Departure

I fly back to Austin, Texas tomorrow to face the counterparts of our National supremacy. Challenge is innate in superiority. Superiority is not without contention. Let the battle commence. Before I go, however, I must take the time sit down and acknowledge Clive James' website as one of the most fascinating, enthralling, and wonderfully constructed resources one might hope to find. With over a thousand pages it's very easy to get lost for hours, referring yourself back to the clock every once in a while only to find another sixty minutes has passed. Amazingly, I first uncovered the website in its first week of broadcast through a tip-off from that pioneer in the arts, Jonny Greenwood. Since then, I've watched it grow and fill it's webspace with more and more high culture; it's a goldmine for anyone with a severe weakness for the arts, like myself. If you don't know where to start, I recommend the Talking In The Library series to which Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Jeremy Irons, and our dear old Stephen Fry have played a part, among many others. Adieu!

Hitchens Videos

Just when I thought I'd watched every second of Hitchens coverage on the web, my searching pays off yet again. Here he mentions that beacon of American comedy, Family Guy. And, superbly, the maker of the upcoming film documenting the series of debates between Hitchens and Wilson, noted below, seems to have sided somewhat with Hitchens during the editing process, certainly more so than in the original trailer. See the latest teaser, here.

P.G. Wodehouse

One of those welcome coincidences has infiltrated my little world. As you well know I've been absorbing myself into Stephen Fry, watching the travel documentaries of Paul Merton, and, as ever, reading the unending flow of superior reason from my master, Christopher Hitchens. One after the other, dear reader, has exposed their total adoration for the works of PG Wodehouse. During one of Merton's trips through Mumbai he discovers a group of Wodehouse enthusiasts who have an extensive appreciation for the work, much like himself. Mr Fry recalls meeting the boy who gave him understanding of the word 'love', while entangling the story with an episode in which he applied aniseed oil to his trouser rolls in the vain hope that passing dogs will follow him down the street. This desire, he claims, was inspired by that similar object of humour, Jeeves. (It's no coincidence that Stephen played Jeeves alongside Hugh Laurie in their television series, Jeeves and Wooster.) And finally, in this months issue of Free Inquiry magazine, Hitchens recounts his series of debates with Douglas Wilson following the publication of their email exchange, regarding religion and morality, entitled, Is Christianity Good for the World?

I found him a man of great kindness and humour with a fondness for P.G.
Wodehouse (an acid test for me).

This fact, however, simply enhances the cornerstone of Hitchens' argument: religion corrupts the otherwise humane. I beg you to see for yourself. Meanwhile, being completely ignorant to the works of Wodehouse, I feel I must do some reading for myself.

The Comic Abroad

As you know, I was reading up on the delightfully guilty early years of Stephen Fry not so long ago and I was happy and surprised to receive the DVD of Stephen's BBC documented trip to the United States of America for Christmas. This isn't the first time that this sort of thing has been done; carting a renowned British comic into a faraway place and allowing the viewer to explore the lesser-known traits of said land alongside our host is clearly a welcoming format. Think of Paul Merton's trips to China and India, where highlights include Paul smoking marijuana with naked spiritualists, Paul suffering the pangs of his fear of flying while aboard a fake tourist jet, and Paul being hit upon by a weirdly criminal hermaphrodite. If you recall, Billy Connolly did a similar thing with his World Tour of Scotland, and I have a feeling he did the same with Ireland. Although I must say, Connolly often succeeds a little too well when trying to be serious. And so, Stephen trots a similar path for our viewing pleasure. What's strange, however, is that these individuals are national treasures, and yet somehow bound by this characteristic. No one, of course, really knows who Stephen Fry is in America (unless they happen to be obsessed with Hugh Laurie, who is American culture). This dynamic lends the proceedings an extra dimension: how will these foreigners respond to Merton's sense of humour, or to Stephen's extraordinary intelligence? After having watched them all, I can report that they both dumb-down their intellect and their wit for their hosts, responding rather than orchestrating. For example, I'm well aware of Stephen's disposition on a number of things, from New Age medicine to fundamentalist religion, but seldom does he challenge or provoke on these matters even to the slightest degree. He might, perhaps, offer an aside to the camera lending his opinion, but I'm afraid he merely becomes an ambivalent bystander, rather than, what I would like to see, a spanner in the works. Merton is content to play the clown, and he does so rather well, but he and Stephen both come across somewhat divided in character. They do, however, make for interesting viewing.

In Subway

This week, rather than venture North, as I normally do, to McDonalds, I went South to that beacon of fast food, Subway to sample the taste of change (determinists may sight subliminal political impetuous here). However, as I sat there with my footlongchickenteriyakionitalianbread I watched as two girls walked through the door, one wearing a Stanford hoodie and the other wearing a Texas basketball jersey. Somewhat perturbed I spilt my Coke. Five minutes later some idiot walked in wearing an Argentina football shirt with those decidedly homosexual baby-blue and white stripes. Well, dear reader, I half expected Coldplay to come on the radio and Christiano Ronaldo to walk in. When will my run-ins with local fast food chains stop? I am surrounded by scum.

Quobama

Joe Klein has written a brilliant summation of the task facing Barack Obama following his underrated inauguration speech. He also reminded me of a segment I forgetfully neglected in my take on the matter. It came during one of Obama's intermittent addresses to the rest of the onlooking world, concerning the matter of international terrorism. I freely admit that this made me straighten my back with some pride.

To those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents [...] You cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

Beckett

Friend, and now sporadic bloggerist himself, Thom has uncovered this classic video of a 1965 recording of Samuel Beckett's screenplay starring Buster Keaton, simply entitled, Film. As Thom points out, it's a perfect encapsulation of self-loathing and the horrors of introspection. The subject is clearly guilty of something, but what we do not know. I couldn't help but be reminded of Dostoyevsky classically tormented protagonist, Raskolnikov, slumbered in his grief, entrenched in a tiny apartment with nothing but his thoughts. A long time ago I realised how rewarding it was to type 'Samuel Beckett' into YouTube. Take this rendition of Waiting for Godot; Alan Mandell plays the part of Lucky who explodes into a stream of consciousness when told to "THINK!". Absolutely brilliant. ("In spite of the tennis.") One of my favorites must also be Jeremy Irons' production of a piece called Ohio Impromptu with its notably similar themes to Film. I think you would enjoy them both in conjunction. Nothing is left to tell.

George Dawes

It's remarkable to see how far Matt Lucas has come from his drumming days on Shooting Stars where he formulated some of his later, classic characters. I remember my father telling me of the time he saw Lucas do stand-up, removing his toupee as he left the stage, much to the rapturous hysteria of the audience. Here's an example:

The Obama Speech

Contrary to what appears to be public opinion, I thought Obama's inauguration address (scroll down) was actually very astute. I was particularly interested to hear of how he addressed the rest of the world (not at all, other than a call for religious unity), and how he bade farewell to my old chum, George W. Bush: tersely, immediately, as if to say "ah, glad that's over with", before reciting with key precision how he intends to reinstate science to its rightful place. As James Wolcott noted also, the use of the word nonbelievers was a welcome inclusion among the frequent references to god. The speech was concise and appropriate; there's no more need to garner every possible vote with grand rhetoric and vocal crescendo. He showed himself to be serious, intelligent, a leader, a doer, and, importantly, a president. I hear he's already ordered an executive bill to close Gauntanomo Bay within the year, and begun work on the Israeli conflict. Here in Tucson pathetic, grimy protesters stand on corners with their biroed placards lamenting Israel for striking the fanatical Muslim Brotherhood. And so it brought me great amusement the other day when my Israeli teammate stuck his entire upper half out of the car window and shouted without sarcasm, "Fuck you, mother fuckers!" How refreshing.

The Crying Light

It's about time I come clean regarding my obsession with Antony and the Johnsons. They've released an absolutely glorious new album, The Crying Light. Antony Hegarty, much inspired by Aretha Franklin, has the most beautiful, haunting voice you're likely to hear from his generation. His style is ambitious, but his band have also taken a step forward, incorporating strings, drums, and a guitar into their compositions, ditching the regular piano. Rather than sticking to the winning formula that earned them the Mercury Prize in 2005, they decided not to invite back cameo vocal performances from the likes of Lou Reed, Boy George, and Rufus Wainwright (who, I admit, sung perhaps the most lovely song, What Can I Do? on I am a Bird Now). The hucksterish, Chaucerian fraud of a music critic at The Guardian, Alexis Petridis, dismisses the first track, Her Eyes are Underneath the Ground, as merely a replay of Hope There's Someone with strings, but I urge you to listen to both and then write to Petridis and his stupid pixie face (I recall well his four star rating of Britney Spears' latest offering). The highlight of the album is One Dove, pushing Antony's vocals to the limit. Yet all of the songs pull you in different emotional directions while steadfastly holding to the same musical formula. I doubt we'll see something like this again from Antony and his band; they've pushed the medium as far as it will go, but anyone who hasn't acquired more than just a taste for his voice will quickly be drawn into this album. Though, theres more than enough orchestral, poetical, articulated mastery here to stoke the fires of my obsession for a while yet.

Stephen Fry - Sentimentalist

To avail balance, in an attempt to respond to my own opinion of the British monarchy, I bring you a quote from Stephen Fry's autobiography of his first twenty years, Moab is my Washpot, (including a heart-warming photo of him playing chess with Hugh Laurie during their first year at Cambridge). Reflecting on his distinctive, and distinguished, bent nose, he likens this imperfection to the the Royal Family:

I think of the monarchy and aristocracy as Britain's bent nose. Foreigners find our ancient nonsense distinguished, while we think them ridiculous and are determined to do something about them one day. I fear that when we do get rid of them, as I suppose we shall, we are going to let ourselves in for a psychic shock of discovering that the process has not made us one jot freer or one ounce more socially equitable than France, say, or the United States of America.

I disagree, of course, but still...

Get in!

What a final that was! One of the best I've seen. Well played, Rocket Ronnie O'Sullivan.

No Surprises

From the goldmine of YouTube, the following masterpiece.

Thomas Paine's Rights of Man

Reading Christopher Hitchens' account of the life and writings of Tom Paine in his contribution to the Books that Changed the World series, Thomas Paine's Rights of Man, you'd be correct in suspecting that it's a book right up my alley. Again, Hitchens has managed to write a book with all the eloquence and consideration of a master that feels like it's been written solely for me. When I was detailing the accounts described in the book to my beloved, from the French Revolution to the American Civil War to Bonaparte's imposition, she uttered with unenthusiastic monotony, "This is going to be another blog post, isn't it?" But how can I help myself, dear reader, when Hitchens paraphrases the sublime poetry of Paine's simple, yet profound renunciations of the monarchy, hereditary principle, and theism? Inspired by Marquis de Lafayette, a member of the French avant-garde, Paine took issue with his old friend, the aptly named, Edmund Burke, and produced a polemic against the British monarchy as means of riposte, retold by Hitchens:

[Burke further disdained any response to Part One of the Rights of Man,
which] left the field clear for Paine to launch a spirited attack on the
hereditary principle, which he ridiculed at length for its self-evident
contradictions. To him, the idea of a hereditary ruler was as absurd as the idea of a hereditary mathematician and put the country at the continual risk of being governed by an imbecile.

The Old Testament lent no further support to the monarchy, as Paine was keen to point out. One wonders what the modern Windsors would do when faced with such a glaring, radical movement sweeping Europe. Further, even more resounding is Paine's abhorrence at the primary theme underlying The Bible's core teaching: the notion of vicarious redemption or vicarious atonement; the very teaching that promotes the concept of accepting one man's death as repentance for your own sins. (This argument has been oft repeated by Hitchens on the debating platform).

If I owe a person money, and cannot pay him, and he threatens to put me in
prison, another person can take the debt upon himself and pay it for
me. But if I have committed a crime, every circumstance of the case is
changed. Moral justice cannot take the innocent for the guilty even if the
innocent would offer itself. To suppose justice to do this, is to destroy the
principle of its existence, which is the thing itself. It is then no longer
justice. It is indiscriminate revenge.

Thus, Paine offers, Jesus dying for our misdeeds is a positively, inherently immoral teaching. These suggestions effectively banished Paine from his birthplace, England, and forced him to France, whereupon he was later imprisoned anyway for his surreptitious combatance against the uprising of Napoleon Bonaparte. In prison he penned most of his conclusive work, The Age of Reason, referencing The Bible from memory alone, as he was wont to do, assured that his American audience would likely have read it. His indictment of the American constitution was supremely effective in assuring its survival even to this very day. Hitchens summarises the historical significance:

No nation had managed to evolve a system of government that did not depend on some form of autocracy. This whole case was now altered by the American Revolution, which had bound itself and its heirs, in the name of the people, to certain inscribed rules and laws which no successor regime was allowed to break.

It's here that one may feel as though they're getting ahead of Hitchens by claiming precisely what Paine later explicated, that the American constitution itself was a form of autocracy. However,

That constitution [serves], not only as an authority, but as a law of control to the government.

This last statement deserves our repetition, and consideration from our English body politic as a brilliant and concise insistence upon the distinction to be made between society and state. Naturally, I could continue to review the material at hand, but some of my readers have already warned me against lengthier texts, claiming they get bored after about 200 words. Inspired, however, I revolt.

Twenty-Four Hours

Written weeks before his suicide in May 1980:

So this is permanence - love's shattered pride
What once was innocence, turned on its side.
Grey cloud hangs over me; marks every move.
Deep in the memory, what once was love.

Oh how I realised how I wanted time
Put into perspective - tried so hard to find.
Just for one moment, I thought I'd found my way,
Destiny unfolded; I watched it slip away.

I never realised the lengths I'd have to go
All the darkest corners of a sense I didn't know.
Just for one moment I heard somebody call:
"Look beyond the day in hand, there's nothing there at all."

Ian Curtis. Joy Division.

The Informers Film Trailer Up

Finally, fellow culture aficionado, the Jarecki film adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis' collection of short stories, The Informers, has come to our screens, albeit not the silver screens just yet. The trailer is up here, at the movie website, including all we need to know. The cast reads like a list of anyone who's anyone in the Hollywood area; I've admired Winona Ryder for a long time since her performance alongside Daniel Day Lewis in Arthur Miller's The Crucible, and Mickey Rourke has returned from the abyss and has been receiving beguiling critical acclaim for The Wrestler, which I haven't yet seen, but anything that brings BEE to a larger audience is no bad thing. I suspect the character played by Jon Foster is Sean Bateman, infamous younger brother of Patrick Bateman, and star of Ellis' Rules of Attraction (if you're acquainted with BEE you'll know that his characters often overlap and intertwine), and Foster seems to have adopted the the role of detestably repellent anti-hero quite well, first perfected by Christian Bale. As you can tell, I cannot wait.

Britain's Nuclear Last Resort

A story has emerged that I find completely fascinating. We're told by the Daily Mail that Gordon Brown has hand-written a "Last Resort" letter of atomic damnation or salvation. Armageddon. To strike or not to strike. Supposedly, the letter has become a traditional means of ministerial indoctrination for our premier, and it's contained in a safe within a safe, a mile below sea level in a British submarine. The letter is to be read solely by the captain of the sub, armed with intercontinental ballistic missiles, and opened only in the event that the Prime Minister, and the anonymous second-in-command have been obliterated by a nuclear attack. Presumably, the letter contains a resounding 'Do it', or an equally resounding 'Don't do it'. One might assume that it's a 50-50 split, depending on individual ethics, raising a thousand unanswerable questions. Tony Blair's letter, we fathom, has since been burned, never read by a living soul. I could go on and on about this. Is it even true? Until now, we've been unaware of this letter, and therefore, cannot be part of the deterrent effect that's so often raised alongside talk of nuclear arms. Why would the submarine be armed in such a way if the letter merely said, 'Firing is now totally pointless, why revenge a matter of inconsequence?' Equally, could the captain choose simply to make his own choice? Perhaps that's precisely what the Prime Minister ordered, thus leaving the fate of millions of innocent people to the whims of a single, however well-trained and well-disciplined, member of the armed-forces. Surely then, nuclear apocalypse might depend upon what he had for breakfast. Look for yourself, I recommend Ron Rosenbaum's piece over at Slate.

Start the week laughing...

As I'm never one to miss an opportunity to direct all credit elsewhere, I feel I must provide a footnote as way of citation for one of my comedy heroes, Stewart Lee.

The Strange Case of the Rational Dentist

Clinton gave me a copy of The Philosophy Gym by Stephen Law for Christmas, which is a terrifically simple and erudite little book that canters through 25 philosophical questions that, at some point, have likely pressed the minds of every reader of this blog. Law is particularly thorough with his reasoning, and at no point could you find holes in his rationality or his logic. He asks the questions from, can there be morality without religion? to, could a machine think? But the chapter that's really crawled under my skin is called 'The Strange Case of the Rational Dentist', which tells the story of the dentist who converses with his patients about their lack of consciousness. In essence, the rational dentist argues that he cannot possibly know that anyone but himself actually has a mind. Acquaintances of philosophy will have no doubt heard the reasoning all before, so if I slip up fairly obviously with what I have to say, then let me know. The rational dentist claims that if he cuts a cherry in half and finds a stone, it is unreasonable to assert that, therefore, all cherries have stones in them. Fair enough. If I take a cupful of water from the sea it won't contain any fish, but of course, there are fish in the sea. The cherry analogy maintains that, just because we know ourselves individually to have a mind, we would be hard-pressed to justify our belief that others too must have a mind. If you cut 1000 cherries in half and find a stone every time, no one would have any problem if you concluded that all cherries have stones. Naturally, we can only experience one mind, our own, and so we're in deep water. In the same way that, if someone asked you whether you love your wife, you would have no definitive way of proving it; you would be able to cite a series of examples that arguably constitute love, but that appeals to relative cultural expectations, and not complete objectivity. You'd have a tough time faulting my logic up to this point. However, Law rightly notes that now we can, with the advancement of 21st Century super science, witness the subtle electrical flourishes of certain areas of the brain when we cry or when we laugh, for example. The areas are distinct and vary very little from volunteer to volunteer. This doesn't mean much, but it does give us a leg-up; clearly the brain we own responds to stimulus in the same way as others. This proves nothing, of course, only that we could say we're like organic robots that interpret stimuli and process them through accorded pre-programming. Good so far. He comes my quibble. Law fails to cite some examples that I would raise if in conversation with him, such as, explain the human imagination; explain novels, fiction and poetry; explain human compassion, love between opposites; irrational hatred, irrational fear; musical talent, sporting talent; explain intelligence or even mental illness. I'm sure I could press further, but I see no valid introspection regarding the above. We could delve into arguments of fatalism or determinism, free will, etc. And if a certain Mr Poulter is reading, I look forward to our future philosophical debates. Otherwise, I strongly recommend Law's book - handy for those inconvenient moments of philosophical confrontation.

Mr Shark

Something that cropped up in conversation a while back was the supposed biological over-performance of the Great White Shark. I'm reliably informed that one of these buggers can smell (in the aquatic sense of the word) a single drop of blood in the sea from over half a mile away. Now, two-thirds of their brain is solely dedicated to this function, so you'd be forgiven for assuming that they're quite adept, but I can't help to think that us humans are, relatively speaking, a bit better than that. When I'm swimming here in the open, dry, and still air of Tucson I can identify when a nearby builder has sparked up a cigarette from a distance of about 100 yards. Granted, I couldn't tell you from what direction it was coming from, but I can sure as hell bet my lungs it's a cigarette alright. If you think for a moment; the scarcity of those particles, in comparison to the vastness of the air, is huge, making my little talent pretty impressive. Seeing as the smoke the builder breathes out will be hot, along with the slow smouldering coming from the tip of the cigarette itself, the gasses will have a tendency to rise. And so, the minute number of particles that eventually drift towards me, on a positively horizontal scale, are few and far between. Nevertheless, my sensory neurons pick it up, even though I'm in no way evolved to smell burning tobacco. It's not as integral to my survival as, let's say, eating. I've also been told that the best way to fend off an unruly shark is to punch it's snout. Ha! Their precious little nose is clearly something they value. My brain doesn't even concern itself that much with smell - certainly not vouching two-thirds of its capacity. Well, Mr Shark, let's be having you.

Knowledge

Just as an aside to what I was saying earlier, King Crimson's Epitaph plays host to a wonderful line, embedded in the second verse, that has reverberated between my ears for some days. When I first heard the song I thought they sang: "Knowledge is our daily bread, if no-one sets the rules". As if that wasn't good enough, the actual lyric caps my assumption:

Knowledge is a deadly friend,
If no-one sets the rules.

King Crimson

My musical horizons have again been stretched after my beloved's old man gave me the remastered version of King Crimson's In the Court of the Crimson King for Christmas. I didn't know what to say at the time having never heard of King Crimson, but I was flattered, given his disposition, to be the subject of some careful thoughts on his behalf. I think he sees me as a potential protege, someone he can sculpt into what he expects for his daughter. Anyway, the album blew me away. It's decades before its time, a true cornerstone of prog rock. One can only ponder what may have become of King Crimson if they hadn't been drowned under the hype of The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Disappointingly, that was the only record they made together, before various members left or moved on. One member, Fripp, their original guitarist, remains, but I'm under the distinct impression that if I were to pick up any other records I would only feel let down. And so, I shan't. The final arrangement on the album, the title track is a classic, but my obvious favorite is the song Epitaph, well put together here. I wouldn't be surprised if I heard it on Top Gear any time soon, especially with that Vietnam special ruffling a few feathers.

Tucson

My strange little surroundings never fail to provide ample ammunition for my imagination. Tucson is now a ghost town, which appears to have tipped the clinically insane woman who lives beneath me into complete disrepair. She's now covered her entire front window (her only source of natural light) with layer after layer of foil, presumably in an attempt to turn her wretched little grief-hovel into some sort of hot house. You know that absurd dialogue I held during my last trip to the local McDonalds? On that occasion the attendant transcribed my name as Robin. Classic. This time, however, I even tried to apply some kind of American twang to my voice, harshening the 'o' sound into more of an 'ah' sound, which turns my name notably middle-eastern: Raab. And yet, despite my efforts, the guy wrote "Brock". I'm going for a record next time.

Comedy Genius

"Racism is entirely at odds with the values of the Carphone Warehouse."

~ Carphone Warehouse official press release following Celebrity Big Brother racism scandal of 2006.

New Year's Frustration

Well, well, humble and noble pilgrim, I have returned to my hole in Tucson. I am thrust 6000 miles away from my beloved after the most exquisite two weeks of my life. Christmas is indeed a wonderful time of year to spend in England. Needless to say, I feel dejected and depressed. Yesterday continued my series of disappointing experiences with British Airways; not only are the seats crammed in to total capacity but I waved goodbye to ol' Blighty in a rather sordid fashion. After a mere hour into the ten hour slog, an Indian woman, resident of California, invited me to swap seats with her. I had a spare seat next to me and she was offering a front row security seat with ample leg-room. On account of her very small child and their obvious desire to sleep throughout the flight I politely agreed and shuffled my way forward. I had cleverly picked up an airport copy of Jeremy Clarkson's Don't Stop Me Now and was quietly enjoying his ongoing exposure of the war on reason with a wide grin when the glam-clad air-hosts dimmed the lights for the evening. It was only then that I discovered my new seat's reading light was non-responsive. No matter, I thought, I'll flip out my personal telly and peruse the comedy options to take my mind off of my heart-wrenching grief. Thwartingly, it didn't work. Whatever buttons I pressed: nothing. The endearingly camp assistants couldn't help me after three lengthy reboots and I sank into my seat for the remainder bereft of all entertainment apart from my worn iPod Shuffle. Tedium ensued. I came extremely close to marching back to my comfortable and dependable former-seat and hoofing the wench and her baby back to where they came from. My British tolerance, recently recharged, compelled me otherwise. You may note also that I'm choosing my words carefully. Clinton has carefully pointed out that I lose my nous with the language when I'm ranting, so he invested me with a proper, hefty, Oxford English Dictionary for Christmas. Anyway, I'm back, with a vengeance.