Russ Stover* is one of my best friends back in West Virginia. His younger brother, Brian, has had emphysema for many years and has now been placed on the list for a double lung transplant. Brian and his wife will travel to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Centre for the transplant and will stay in Pittsburgh (about a hundred miles from home) for two to four months while he receives follow-up treatment.
If, that is, they raise enough money from hot dog sales, silent auctions and a sponsored fishing tournament to pay their expenses and the portion of the treatment not covered by insurance.
(I know some of the people reading this know the Stover family and/or live in the area -- the fishing tournament page contains information about where to send donations.)
* Yes, he has heard that joke about his name, thank you.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Time for a smock wedding
The British government needs to forgive all unsecured debt dating from before 2007. I say this partly for selfish reasons, not because I have debts myself (I don't) but because I've been working flat out to deal with other people's. Our department, which usually concentrates on mortgages, has been drafted in to help the unsecured department with a huge influx of proposals from debt counsellors acting for our customers. Whenever we begin to feel we've made a dent, another several hundred letters arrive and wipe out our progress. Lately at the end of the day I can't tell whether I'm ill or just exhausted: I'm not good for much except curling on the sofa and following the same thoughts round and round my head.
The letters have a standard format. There's a carefully itemised summary of the debtor's income and essential expenses: each tin of pet food, the morning paper, the children's pocket money. Oh, and the debt management company's fee, amounting to 10% or more of disposable income. Then a list of debts, often taking up more than one page, and finally the offer of payment -- usually a few pence to the pound. We reject them all. It's my employer's policy not to deal with companies that charge for advice, when there are charities that will help people prepare the same budget and make equally pitiful offers for free.
For all that each budget is a summary of an individual's life, after a while they do all blend together. The surprising thing is that most of these people aren't poor, as we would normally understand the term. They're generally on pretty good incomes -- earning more than me, in many cases -- and when you subtract their essential expenses, it seems they should have several hundred pounds left over each month. But then you turn the page and see tens or hundreds of thousands of pounds of unsecured debt -- often more than the debtors could raise by selling their house (which probably has a hefty mortgage or three secured on it anyway), sometimes more than they can hope to earn in the rest of their working life. And this debt was never accumulated to buy anything they really needed. There are store cards from expensive clothing shops; mail-order catalogues selling gifts and gadgets; holiday timeshares; personal loans to pay for weddings (a depressing proportion of these couples are no longer together).
Although these borrowers' homes are not at stake (not with us, anyway), I find the unsecured debtors far more dispiriting than my usual mortgage customers. If someone stops paying their mortgage, it's often because catastrophe has struck: a lost job, an illness, an unexpected pregnancy. You can work with them, arrange for them to make token payments till they're back on their feet (with, of course, a huge chunk of extra interest and fees to worry about later). But with the unsecured debtors, there is no calamity to be overcome. They've simply dug themselves into a hole they can never get out of.
You could convincingly argue that these people are to blame for their own predicament, for living beyond their means and wanting instant gratification. True. But when so many people fall prey to such temptations, surely those who encouraged and enabled -- and profited from -- their behaviour bear some responsibility. It's clear that before the financial crisis forced them to tighten up their criteria, many lenders handed credit out to anyone who asked, with no regard to the "responsible lending" constantly vaunted in the industry. What definition of "responsibility" embraces giving a credit card to someone who already has seven, or a £30000 personal loan to a pair of cleaners? These were not the "doorstep lenders" so often vilified in the press, but allegedly respectable companies.
I'm aware that a debt amnesty would cause many businesses to shut down -- creditors, collections agencies, the "counsellors" who take people's few remaining pence with the promise of easing their misery. So much the better. It's time to shed the excesses of the past few years and start over again, humbler but wiser.
The letters have a standard format. There's a carefully itemised summary of the debtor's income and essential expenses: each tin of pet food, the morning paper, the children's pocket money. Oh, and the debt management company's fee, amounting to 10% or more of disposable income. Then a list of debts, often taking up more than one page, and finally the offer of payment -- usually a few pence to the pound. We reject them all. It's my employer's policy not to deal with companies that charge for advice, when there are charities that will help people prepare the same budget and make equally pitiful offers for free.
For all that each budget is a summary of an individual's life, after a while they do all blend together. The surprising thing is that most of these people aren't poor, as we would normally understand the term. They're generally on pretty good incomes -- earning more than me, in many cases -- and when you subtract their essential expenses, it seems they should have several hundred pounds left over each month. But then you turn the page and see tens or hundreds of thousands of pounds of unsecured debt -- often more than the debtors could raise by selling their house (which probably has a hefty mortgage or three secured on it anyway), sometimes more than they can hope to earn in the rest of their working life. And this debt was never accumulated to buy anything they really needed. There are store cards from expensive clothing shops; mail-order catalogues selling gifts and gadgets; holiday timeshares; personal loans to pay for weddings (a depressing proportion of these couples are no longer together).
Although these borrowers' homes are not at stake (not with us, anyway), I find the unsecured debtors far more dispiriting than my usual mortgage customers. If someone stops paying their mortgage, it's often because catastrophe has struck: a lost job, an illness, an unexpected pregnancy. You can work with them, arrange for them to make token payments till they're back on their feet (with, of course, a huge chunk of extra interest and fees to worry about later). But with the unsecured debtors, there is no calamity to be overcome. They've simply dug themselves into a hole they can never get out of.
You could convincingly argue that these people are to blame for their own predicament, for living beyond their means and wanting instant gratification. True. But when so many people fall prey to such temptations, surely those who encouraged and enabled -- and profited from -- their behaviour bear some responsibility. It's clear that before the financial crisis forced them to tighten up their criteria, many lenders handed credit out to anyone who asked, with no regard to the "responsible lending" constantly vaunted in the industry. What definition of "responsibility" embraces giving a credit card to someone who already has seven, or a £30000 personal loan to a pair of cleaners? These were not the "doorstep lenders" so often vilified in the press, but allegedly respectable companies.
I'm aware that a debt amnesty would cause many businesses to shut down -- creditors, collections agencies, the "counsellors" who take people's few remaining pence with the promise of easing their misery. So much the better. It's time to shed the excesses of the past few years and start over again, humbler but wiser.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Austerlitz and moths
Since the weather has turned cold and rainy, I've been reading larger portions of Austerlitz at once. I'm not sure how to express just how astonishing this novel is. It isn't quite like anything I've read before. It's one of those books that, once you have spent half an hour or so reading it, casts its shade over the rest of your day. At first I just found it fascinating, and several times since I reached the middle it has brought me almost to tears.
I don't want to reveal too much since you really should read it yourself (unless you already have), but I'll quote this passage from fairly early on in the book, in which Austerlitz recalls going mothing with his school friend Gerald and Gerald's great-uncle Alphonso:
A couple of days ago, when it was warmer, we had our windows open for the first time this year, and several moths flew in as usual. I kept recalling this passage as I studied the subtle colours and patterns in their coats.
I don't want to reveal too much since you really should read it yourself (unless you already have), but I'll quote this passage from fairly early on in the book, in which Austerlitz recalls going mothing with his school friend Gerald and Gerald's great-uncle Alphonso:
I do remember, said Austerlitz, that the two of us, Gerald and I, could not get over our amazement at the endless variety of these invertebrates, which are usually hidden from our sight, and that Alphonso let us simply gaze at their wonderful display for a long time .... Some had collars and cloaks, like elegant gentlemen on their way to the opera, said Gerald; some had a plain basic hue, but when they moved their wings showed a fantastic lining underneath, with oblique and wavy lines, shadows, crescent markings and lighter patches, freckles, zigzag bands, fringes and veining and colours you could never have imagined, moss green shot with blue, fox brown, saffron, lime yellow, satiny white, and a metallic gleam as of powdered brass or gold.
A couple of days ago, when it was warmer, we had our windows open for the first time this year, and several moths flew in as usual. I kept recalling this passage as I studied the subtle colours and patterns in their coats.
Monday, 27 April 2009
Blackbird emergency
In the park yesterday we saw a male blackbird hunched uncomfortably in a conifer tree, giving a low trill now and then. After a few minutes he flew down and began to forage in a ditch, but with quick, furious movements, as if that weren't his real purpose. Then suddenly, at some signal, he flew into a tree across the path. The tree's branches started to heave and the air exploded with chip-chip-chipping alarm calls. We saw robins and wagtails flying out of the tree to safety, and a small ground-loving bird or rodent hurtled into the shrubbery near my feet. Finally I saw a flash of black and white through the leaves. A magpie was raiding the blackbirds' nest.
Although I have a certain fondness for these much-maligned crows, their habit of preying upon other birds' nestlings is their least attractive trait. A few years ago we came across one trying to peck a young jay to death on the pavement. It flew away when it saw us, and we took the bloodied little fledgling home and called the RSPCA. It chirped forlornly from its cardboard box until the officer arrived. She found its wounds were more superficial than we'd feared; when she picked it up, it lifted its immature wings above its back like a pastiche of Noah's dove.
Yesterday I found myself wanting to try to scare off this intruder as well, but the tree was on the other side of a fence and I couldn't get close enough. We didn't stay to watch the scene play out. On the way home we were cheered up by the sight of an intact nest in a tree on our street. We couldn't tell what species it belonged to because we could see only the mother's eye peering at us through the leaves.
Although I have a certain fondness for these much-maligned crows, their habit of preying upon other birds' nestlings is their least attractive trait. A few years ago we came across one trying to peck a young jay to death on the pavement. It flew away when it saw us, and we took the bloodied little fledgling home and called the RSPCA. It chirped forlornly from its cardboard box until the officer arrived. She found its wounds were more superficial than we'd feared; when she picked it up, it lifted its immature wings above its back like a pastiche of Noah's dove.
Yesterday I found myself wanting to try to scare off this intruder as well, but the tree was on the other side of a fence and I couldn't get close enough. We didn't stay to watch the scene play out. On the way home we were cheered up by the sight of an intact nest in a tree on our street. We couldn't tell what species it belonged to because we could see only the mother's eye peering at us through the leaves.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Hopkins and bluebells
Over the past week the gardens and parks of Harrow have become filled with bluebells. Next weekend during the bank holiday, we hope to go out to Kew Gardens, where there's a whole woods of them surrounding Queen Charlotte's cottage.
These flowers always remind me of Hopkins' famous journal entry from May 1870: "I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful than the bluebell I have been looking at. I know the beauty of our Lord by it." I suppose one could argue with his logic, but it's hard not to be touched by the sentiment. I think it would be difficult to read Hopkins' journals and not like him: they are more accessible* than his poems and, thank heaven, do not contain the querulousness and moralising that too often creep into his letters to friends (whom he seems to have felt a duty to convert).
He goes on to try and analyse the bluebell's beauty:
This is typical of the young Hopkins. He tries again and again to understand just what it is about a particular sight that strikes him: water passing through a lock ("a mass of yellowish boiling foam .... Being heaped up in globes and bosses and round masses the fans disappear under it"); an overcast sky ("Clouds showing beautiful and rare curves like curds, comparable to barrows, arranged of course in parallels"); and, one February: "The slate slabs of the urinals even are frosted in graceful sprays."
Shortly after World War I, when Hopkins' poems were first published and it was becoming clear that he was more than just another Victorian gentleman who scribbled verse in his spare time, an old lay brother from Stonyhurst was interviewed about his memories of his fellow Jesuit: "Ay, a strange young man crouching down that gate to stare at some wet sand. A fair natural [simpleton] he seemed to us, that Mr Hopkins."
When we visited Hopkins' grave in Glasnevin, on the outskirts of Dublin, I wanted to bring some bluebells, but there were none available in the florists and no place where we could gather them wild. I bought some roses and lilies instead, like those in "Lines for a Picture of St Dorothea" -- not his best poem, in my opinion, but the only one I could think of that mentioned specific flowers.
Hopkins' actual grave isn't marked -- he wasn't famous when he died, and even if he had been, as a member of the Society of Jesus he might still have been buried in their communal plot. Instead, there's a memorial in the middle of the gravesite, in the form of a stepped pyramid with a cross on top. On each little step is carved the names and dates of the Jesuits buried there. I hope the Society didn't mind too much my climbing on to their memorial to put my flowers above Hopkins' name and trace his name with my fingers. Chris is not a poetry lover, but he was moved by the dates on Hopkins' inscription -- he hadn't realised how short his life was.
I wrote a poem myself about that visit, and when I thought it was finished I showed it to an acquaintance whose verdict was "Getting there quite nicely." I couldn't decide where else it needed to go or how to get there, so I left it alone.
*In terms of language, I mean. They're a lot harder to get hold of than the poems, because they've fallen out of print and copyright law is stupid.
These flowers always remind me of Hopkins' famous journal entry from May 1870: "I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful than the bluebell I have been looking at. I know the beauty of our Lord by it." I suppose one could argue with his logic, but it's hard not to be touched by the sentiment. I think it would be difficult to read Hopkins' journals and not like him: they are more accessible* than his poems and, thank heaven, do not contain the querulousness and moralising that too often creep into his letters to friends (whom he seems to have felt a duty to convert).
He goes on to try and analyse the bluebell's beauty:
Its inscape is mixed of strength and grace, like an ash tree. The head is strongly drawn over backwards and arched down like a cutwater drawing itself back from the line of the keel. The lines of the bells strike and overlie this, rayed but not symmetrically, some lie parallel. They look steely against the paper, the shades lying in the bells and behind the cockled petal-ends and nursing up the precision of their distinctness, the petal-ends themselves being delicately lit.
This is typical of the young Hopkins. He tries again and again to understand just what it is about a particular sight that strikes him: water passing through a lock ("a mass of yellowish boiling foam .... Being heaped up in globes and bosses and round masses the fans disappear under it"); an overcast sky ("Clouds showing beautiful and rare curves like curds, comparable to barrows, arranged of course in parallels"); and, one February: "The slate slabs of the urinals even are frosted in graceful sprays."
Shortly after World War I, when Hopkins' poems were first published and it was becoming clear that he was more than just another Victorian gentleman who scribbled verse in his spare time, an old lay brother from Stonyhurst was interviewed about his memories of his fellow Jesuit: "Ay, a strange young man crouching down that gate to stare at some wet sand. A fair natural [simpleton] he seemed to us, that Mr Hopkins."
When we visited Hopkins' grave in Glasnevin, on the outskirts of Dublin, I wanted to bring some bluebells, but there were none available in the florists and no place where we could gather them wild. I bought some roses and lilies instead, like those in "Lines for a Picture of St Dorothea" -- not his best poem, in my opinion, but the only one I could think of that mentioned specific flowers.
Hopkins' actual grave isn't marked -- he wasn't famous when he died, and even if he had been, as a member of the Society of Jesus he might still have been buried in their communal plot. Instead, there's a memorial in the middle of the gravesite, in the form of a stepped pyramid with a cross on top. On each little step is carved the names and dates of the Jesuits buried there. I hope the Society didn't mind too much my climbing on to their memorial to put my flowers above Hopkins' name and trace his name with my fingers. Chris is not a poetry lover, but he was moved by the dates on Hopkins' inscription -- he hadn't realised how short his life was.
I wrote a poem myself about that visit, and when I thought it was finished I showed it to an acquaintance whose verdict was "Getting there quite nicely." I couldn't decide where else it needed to go or how to get there, so I left it alone.
*In terms of language, I mean. They're a lot harder to get hold of than the poems, because they've fallen out of print and copyright law is stupid.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
Gogol and the "culture of laughter"
For reasons I'm not clear on, The Daily Telegraph yesterday included a supplement published by Rossiyskaya Gazeta, the state-sponsored Russian newspaper. Needless to say, this did not take a hard-hitting look at the current state of Russia, its policy toward its near neighbours, the murder of opposition politicians, lawyers and journalists at home and abroad, etc. (I don't usually read the Telegraph, so I don't know how its own reporters cover these issues.) Instead, the supplement was published to celebrate London's Russian Language and Literature Week, which I have to admit I wasn't previously aware of.
One article by Eugene Popov celebrates the bicentenary of Nikolay Gogol (the author of two of my favourite stories, "The Nose" and "The Overcoat") and discusses his influence on Russian literature. Being an obvious puff piece, the article doesn't mention that Gogol had a very dark side, as shown in the hideous anti-Semitism and anti-Polish sentiment of Taras Bulba. But I found this observation very interesting:
When I first started reading Soviet literature, one thing that puzzled me was how writing born of such a terrible time could be so, well, funny. Even when the overall effect of a work was devastating, the tone of the writing and individual incidents within the story suggested an authorial tongue in cheek. Maybe Gogol can indeed take the credit.
By the way, I would include Andrey Platonov among Popov's "mockers", but he doesn't often appear in lists like this. Maybe he wasn't famous enough at the time? Much of his best work couldn't be published till after his death.
One article by Eugene Popov celebrates the bicentenary of Nikolay Gogol (the author of two of my favourite stories, "The Nose" and "The Overcoat") and discusses his influence on Russian literature. Being an obvious puff piece, the article doesn't mention that Gogol had a very dark side, as shown in the hideous anti-Semitism and anti-Polish sentiment of Taras Bulba. But I found this observation very interesting:
These two Gogols defined the main trends of Russian literature for years to come.
One strand is educational and moralising, while the other is about Gogol’s “culture of laughter” (a term coined by academician Dmitry Likhachev). Both have seen great achievements and still do. “The educators” were Lev Tolstoy, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Vasily Grossman and the “back to the soil” writers who emerged in the late Soviet period.
“The mockers” were Mikhail Zoshchenko; Mikhail Bulgakov; the dramatist Nikolay Erdman; the officially banned Absurdists of the 1920s-30s, led by Daniil Kharms, who was killed in prison; Vasily Aksenov, leader of the Khrushchev “thaw”; and the renowned underground author Venedikt Yerofeyev, whose novel Moscow Stations, which depicted an alcoholic’s mystical journey round Brezhnev’s Russia, was given the “Gogolesque” subtitle of “poem”. ...
The “culture of laughter” suits our new literature better than the old didactic one, hopelessly compromised by long years of triumphant Soviet propaganda; by the end of the totalitarian Communist state, readers were allergic to any kind of preaching or exhortation.
When I first started reading Soviet literature, one thing that puzzled me was how writing born of such a terrible time could be so, well, funny. Even when the overall effect of a work was devastating, the tone of the writing and individual incidents within the story suggested an authorial tongue in cheek. Maybe Gogol can indeed take the credit.
By the way, I would include Andrey Platonov among Popov's "mockers", but he doesn't often appear in lists like this. Maybe he wasn't famous enough at the time? Much of his best work couldn't be published till after his death.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Beggars
Since moving to the city I've had a faint but persistent fear of becoming homeless. Not of literally losing our home -- even when we had our worst trouble, I knew we could stay with Chris's family if necessary. What I fear is being assaulted or meeting with an accident in central London, losing my money, identification, phone or glasses, and being unable to get anyone to listen to me. I fear having my story dismissed as a beggar's ploy and being consigned to the human detritus that is sifted continually round the city.
Maybe this is why I always feel the urge to talk to beggars. When I worked for the Public Record Office, I saw a young man every afternoon sitting on a blanket near Farringdon station. I used to stop and chat for a few minutes before catching my train home. Before he realised that I was coming every day, he used to start each conversation with a different plea for money -- a lost train ticket, a need to phone a sick relative, etc. Later, when he noticed that I bought the Big Issue from a vendor up the street, he asked me for £10 so he could get his own supply. Occasionally I gave him a few pence, or a bottle of soda when the corner shop had a two-for-one offer. Once when it was raining I gave him an umbrella. But mostly we just talked.
One day he seemed in lower spirits than usual. When I approached he delivered a muttered rant about the world and showed me a forearm scored with shallow but carefully patterned cuts.
"You know, I used to do that myself," I said. He looked like he had not been expecting this response. "You can get medication to stop it," I went on. "Like when you take cough medicine and it buries your urge to cough. It suppresses the urge to hurt yourself until ... until whatever's really bothering you can be sorted out." I paused, realising the idiocy of what I'd just said, and my eye fell on the open beer can next to him. "But you'd have to stop drinking," I added.
He nodded and launched into a long explanation, which was rooted in good sense (how could he register at a surgery without an address, or get benefits to pay his prescription charges without paperwork? What, exactly, would he have to fill his days if he did stop drinking?), but branched off into other realms. At the end of it he kissed my hand loudly and said, "If you're ever down and need someone to talk to, I'm your man."
I can't say for sure that I wouldn't have taken him up on his offer, except that I never saw him again. Sifted elsewhere, I expect.
Maybe this is why I always feel the urge to talk to beggars. When I worked for the Public Record Office, I saw a young man every afternoon sitting on a blanket near Farringdon station. I used to stop and chat for a few minutes before catching my train home. Before he realised that I was coming every day, he used to start each conversation with a different plea for money -- a lost train ticket, a need to phone a sick relative, etc. Later, when he noticed that I bought the Big Issue from a vendor up the street, he asked me for £10 so he could get his own supply. Occasionally I gave him a few pence, or a bottle of soda when the corner shop had a two-for-one offer. Once when it was raining I gave him an umbrella. But mostly we just talked.
One day he seemed in lower spirits than usual. When I approached he delivered a muttered rant about the world and showed me a forearm scored with shallow but carefully patterned cuts.
"You know, I used to do that myself," I said. He looked like he had not been expecting this response. "You can get medication to stop it," I went on. "Like when you take cough medicine and it buries your urge to cough. It suppresses the urge to hurt yourself until ... until whatever's really bothering you can be sorted out." I paused, realising the idiocy of what I'd just said, and my eye fell on the open beer can next to him. "But you'd have to stop drinking," I added.
He nodded and launched into a long explanation, which was rooted in good sense (how could he register at a surgery without an address, or get benefits to pay his prescription charges without paperwork? What, exactly, would he have to fill his days if he did stop drinking?), but branched off into other realms. At the end of it he kissed my hand loudly and said, "If you're ever down and need someone to talk to, I'm your man."
I can't say for sure that I wouldn't have taken him up on his offer, except that I never saw him again. Sifted elsewhere, I expect.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Words without songs
Today sees the British publication of the first volume of Clinton Heylin's exhaustive study of Bob Dylan's songs. Apparently Heylin discusses every known composition, in the order that they were written (which is often quite different from the order they were released). He's even found a suitable Dylan lyric to serve as the title for his project: Revolution in the Air. Where do people come up with these ideas?
To be serious, I've long wished that more of my favourite musicians would get the kind of treatment that Ian MacDonald gave the Beatles in Revolution in the Head. So I was very interested to hear of Heylin's work, but there's one question I need to answer before I decide whether to buy it. Does Heylin actually discuss the musical aspect of Dylan's songs (as MacDonald, a composer himself, did so skilfully for the Beatles)? Or does he just write about the lyrics, like a thousand lazy reviewers before him?
I can understand why people write about the lyrics: anyone who's taken a high-school English course can "analyse" the words to a song, whereas writing in detail about the music takes more specialised knowledge. But it's frustrating, because it means these writers (and quite possibly their readers) are, at best, considering only half of the musician's work. There's a reason the artist didn't just write those words down in a book.
Unfortunately, the few advance reviews I've found haven't answered my question, being mainly written by lazy critics themselves. But they have reminded me that Dylan must have had more silly things written about him than any other musician alive. One piece in The Times begins, "Just like the singer himself, the debate about whether Bob Dylan is as good as John Keats never goes away for long." I know what they mean. I can't leave my house without falling over people who are arguing about that. And if it's not Dylan and Keats, they're debating whether Paul Newman was really as good as Dostoevsky*, or whether Edward Gorey was really as good as Le Corbusier. It's annoying.
I'll have to go to the bookstore today and check Heylin's book out for myself. I hope the local Waterstone's actually stocks it ...
*Chris settled this one by pointing out that Dostoevsky's spaghetti sauce was terrible.
To be serious, I've long wished that more of my favourite musicians would get the kind of treatment that Ian MacDonald gave the Beatles in Revolution in the Head. So I was very interested to hear of Heylin's work, but there's one question I need to answer before I decide whether to buy it. Does Heylin actually discuss the musical aspect of Dylan's songs (as MacDonald, a composer himself, did so skilfully for the Beatles)? Or does he just write about the lyrics, like a thousand lazy reviewers before him?
I can understand why people write about the lyrics: anyone who's taken a high-school English course can "analyse" the words to a song, whereas writing in detail about the music takes more specialised knowledge. But it's frustrating, because it means these writers (and quite possibly their readers) are, at best, considering only half of the musician's work. There's a reason the artist didn't just write those words down in a book.
Unfortunately, the few advance reviews I've found haven't answered my question, being mainly written by lazy critics themselves. But they have reminded me that Dylan must have had more silly things written about him than any other musician alive. One piece in The Times begins, "Just like the singer himself, the debate about whether Bob Dylan is as good as John Keats never goes away for long." I know what they mean. I can't leave my house without falling over people who are arguing about that. And if it's not Dylan and Keats, they're debating whether Paul Newman was really as good as Dostoevsky*, or whether Edward Gorey was really as good as Le Corbusier. It's annoying.
I'll have to go to the bookstore today and check Heylin's book out for myself. I hope the local Waterstone's actually stocks it ...
*Chris settled this one by pointing out that Dostoevsky's spaghetti sauce was terrible.
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Why was a digital system used for the sound?
Two incidents connected to Vasily Petrenko and his recording of Shostakovich's 11th have me thinking I should book a visit to the optometrist. First of all, yesterday Petrenko told me he'll be conducting the National Youth Orchestra of Britain at the Proms on 8 August. I mean he told me personally, after I posted a comment on his blog saying I was sorry to see he wasn't playing the Proms this year. I'd somehow managed to overlook his name on the web site. His Prom isn't one of those I have pre-booked tickets for, but I feel like I should go to it now anyway.
Meanwhile, I've still been trying to find a way to write about the Shosty 11 without sounding like an idiot. Writing about music, especially classical music, is always daunting for me, so I decided to take a look at Gramophone's review of the recording to see how they did it. In the midst of their generally positive assessment, I found (or so I thought) an intriguing criticism: "the timps and bells could have been more sympathetically milked".
Fascinating, I thought. In what way does a percussionist "milk" the timpani or bells, and how do you know if they're doing it sympathetically? Imagine the amount of knowledge and experience that would enable a listener to make that kind of distinction. No wonder I feel like such a novice.
I turned these thoughts over in my head all afternoon before mentioning them to Chris, who pondered for a moment and said, "Are you sure they didn't say 'miked'?"
I checked, and he was right. They had.
I can only excuse myself by saying that 1) I would've spelled it "mic'd", and 2) I was concentrating so hard on what they said about the performance that I forgot they would also review the recording technique. In fact, this is one of the major differences between pop and classical reviews. People who think of classical fans as old-fashioned would be astonished to see how much attention the classical-music press pays to modern recording technology. There are no nostalgic vinyl fans here, and no musicians who record on analogue to get a homelier sound. Classical magazines regularly review and run ads for audio equipment that would cost me several months' salary (which is one reason I don't read them very often).
Meanwhile, I've still been trying to find a way to write about the Shosty 11 without sounding like an idiot. Writing about music, especially classical music, is always daunting for me, so I decided to take a look at Gramophone's review of the recording to see how they did it. In the midst of their generally positive assessment, I found (or so I thought) an intriguing criticism: "the timps and bells could have been more sympathetically milked".
Fascinating, I thought. In what way does a percussionist "milk" the timpani or bells, and how do you know if they're doing it sympathetically? Imagine the amount of knowledge and experience that would enable a listener to make that kind of distinction. No wonder I feel like such a novice.
I turned these thoughts over in my head all afternoon before mentioning them to Chris, who pondered for a moment and said, "Are you sure they didn't say 'miked'?"
I checked, and he was right. They had.
I can only excuse myself by saying that 1) I would've spelled it "mic'd", and 2) I was concentrating so hard on what they said about the performance that I forgot they would also review the recording technique. In fact, this is one of the major differences between pop and classical reviews. People who think of classical fans as old-fashioned would be astonished to see how much attention the classical-music press pays to modern recording technology. There are no nostalgic vinyl fans here, and no musicians who record on analogue to get a homelier sound. Classical magazines regularly review and run ads for audio equipment that would cost me several months' salary (which is one reason I don't read them very often).
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Burrowing bees
The woods near work are filled with fat red tawny mining bees. The other day I spent a while watching one on a little slope above the footpath. As she hovered over the ground, her wings blew away dirt and leaves in a circular pattern, like the blades of a helicopter. She circled over the slope and the leaf litter below, touching down on a spot as if to test it, then rising again. Finally she chose a suitable place and began to dig with startlingly strong black legs. Within a few minutes she was almost hidden; you would only have known she was there from the rustling of forest detritus and the occasional buzz when she changed position. Each female lays her eggs inside her own burrow and stocks it with pollen for her young, whom she will never see (they will emerge the next year, after she has died).
Tawny mining bees are slow-moving and not at all aggressive. Sadly, these traits make them easy targets for fearful or cruel people, and I often see them crushed along the pathways.
Tawny mining bees are slow-moving and not at all aggressive. Sadly, these traits make them easy targets for fearful or cruel people, and I often see them crushed along the pathways.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Nabokov's last novel
A little item in The New York Times tells us that Nabokov's last (unfinished) work, The Original of Laura, will be published in the U.S. and Britain on 3 November. Before he died, Nabokov asked his son Dmitri to burn the manuscript, but Dmitri has decided (the article doesn't say why) to allow it to be published instead.
I have mixed feelings about this sort of thing. On the one hand, I know the sadness of coming to the end of a deceased author's works and realising there's nothing left to read. A posthumous publication then can be an unexpected treat.
But it also seems to me that all too often, it turns out there's a reason an author didn't choose to publish a work in his or her lifetime. Literary superstars, in particular, can sometimes fall victim to Tupac Shakur syndrome, with money-hungry publishers bringing out more and more juvenilia and other dreck that shouldn't have seen the outside of a desk drawer.
I'll probably read The Original of Laura, but since I found Nabokov's last two published novels, Transparent Things and Look at the Harlequins! to be disappointing, I wonder what the chances are of my liking this one. And unfinished works always leave me a bit sad and frustrated (I refuse to read Patrick O'Brian's unfinished 21st instalment of the Aubrey-Maturin series for just this reason). At least they haven't hired someone else to finish Nabokov's book for him; that really would be a travesty.
I'm actually a lot more excited about the Times' revelation that "In 2010 Penguin plans to release a collection of Nabokov’s poems that have not previously appeared in English."
I have mixed feelings about this sort of thing. On the one hand, I know the sadness of coming to the end of a deceased author's works and realising there's nothing left to read. A posthumous publication then can be an unexpected treat.
But it also seems to me that all too often, it turns out there's a reason an author didn't choose to publish a work in his or her lifetime. Literary superstars, in particular, can sometimes fall victim to Tupac Shakur syndrome, with money-hungry publishers bringing out more and more juvenilia and other dreck that shouldn't have seen the outside of a desk drawer.
I'll probably read The Original of Laura, but since I found Nabokov's last two published novels, Transparent Things and Look at the Harlequins! to be disappointing, I wonder what the chances are of my liking this one. And unfinished works always leave me a bit sad and frustrated (I refuse to read Patrick O'Brian's unfinished 21st instalment of the Aubrey-Maturin series for just this reason). At least they haven't hired someone else to finish Nabokov's book for him; that really would be a travesty.
I'm actually a lot more excited about the Times' revelation that "In 2010 Penguin plans to release a collection of Nabokov’s poems that have not previously appeared in English."
Saturday, 18 April 2009
April at the Wetland Centre
We went to London Wetland Centre today in the hope of seeing some ducklings, but we were obviously a couple of weeks early because the only babies we saw were a couple of coot chicks. We were, however, charmed to discover a swan sitting on her eggs right under the statue of Sir Peter Scott.
If you click on these pictures for the bigger versions, you can see the eggs.
In the South America section, the black-necked swans were also nesting, with the male standing guard over the female and hissing at anyone who peered too closely.
Elsewhere, three male mallards kept up an incessant muttered quacking as they followed an indifferent-seeming female. Eventually she took off and all three of them flew after her, one of them ruffling my hair as he passed overhead. The eiders, too, were more vocal than I'd ever heard them, the males constantly making their surprised-sounding coo and the females responding with short grunts. Two of the males got into a short but fierce tussle, yanking each others' feathers with their beaks. Meanwhile, another group were peacefully napping against a wall.
I was pleased to find a group of smews, striking-looking birds that I don't get to see that often. Their males, too, were being quite aggressive with each other.
In the half of the centre reserved for wild birds, I saw a common sandpiper, which -- according to the centre's own notes -- was the first known to have visited this spring.
The centre is full of wildflowers and alive with bees, dragonflies and butterflies. Although I only have a point-and-shoot camera, a comma stayed still long enough for me to take a fairly close-up picture:
Everywhere, feral ring-necked parakeets flew and shrieked over our heads. I hadn't seen them at the centre before, but they seem to have been turning up in more places lately.
In the South America section, the black-necked swans were also nesting, with the male standing guard over the female and hissing at anyone who peered too closely.
Elsewhere, three male mallards kept up an incessant muttered quacking as they followed an indifferent-seeming female. Eventually she took off and all three of them flew after her, one of them ruffling my hair as he passed overhead. The eiders, too, were more vocal than I'd ever heard them, the males constantly making their surprised-sounding coo and the females responding with short grunts. Two of the males got into a short but fierce tussle, yanking each others' feathers with their beaks. Meanwhile, another group were peacefully napping against a wall.
I was pleased to find a group of smews, striking-looking birds that I don't get to see that often. Their males, too, were being quite aggressive with each other.
In the half of the centre reserved for wild birds, I saw a common sandpiper, which -- according to the centre's own notes -- was the first known to have visited this spring.
The centre is full of wildflowers and alive with bees, dragonflies and butterflies. Although I only have a point-and-shoot camera, a comma stayed still long enough for me to take a fairly close-up picture:
Everywhere, feral ring-necked parakeets flew and shrieked over our heads. I hadn't seen them at the centre before, but they seem to have been turning up in more places lately.
Friday, 17 April 2009
No thanks, I'm in the Official Fanclub
I hope this doesn't spoil anyone's plans, but I think I may be going to hell. Facebook suggested God as a friend for me, and I rejected him.
He showed up in my recommendations because two of my "friends" (both old acquaintances from West Virginia) had become fans of his.* Yes, someone set up a fan page, complete with profile picture. (It shows a cross. No Jews need apply, I guess.)
I remember a delightful teacher at Birkbeck who beamed as he drew our attention to what he said was an often-overlooked piece of sarcasm in the Bible. It occurs in Psalm 50 (or at least that's the number in my Jerusalem Bible -- as I recall, the numbering of the Psalms has got muddled over the years and is different in different translations. It's somewhere in the high 40s or low 50s, anyway), where God scorns mankind for trying to win his favour with offerings of food. Our teacher suggested adding italics to bring out its true tone:
(This is an oft-repeated theme in the Old Testament, perhaps most famously expressed in Hosea: "What I want is love, not sacrifice; knowledge of God, not holocausts.")
I'm thinking that if God wanted virtual martinis or eggs that hatched into puppies, he wouldn't tell us about that, either. The two Facebook fans I mentioned earlier make a lot of other proclamations on the site about their religious/political views (they make no clear distinction between the two spheres), and I have to say that concern for love and the knowledge of God does not feature prominently. Concern about what other people do with their genitalia is more like it.
*I should confess here that I did recently become a fan of W.G. Sebald (I'm still reading Austerlitz -- I'll tell you more about that some other time), who is even less likely to contribute to his Facebook page than God is. In my defence, I acted on the assumption that the fan page had been set up by his publishers, who could give us exciting news about posthumous publications or critical studies or whatever.
He showed up in my recommendations because two of my "friends" (both old acquaintances from West Virginia) had become fans of his.* Yes, someone set up a fan page, complete with profile picture. (It shows a cross. No Jews need apply, I guess.)
I remember a delightful teacher at Birkbeck who beamed as he drew our attention to what he said was an often-overlooked piece of sarcasm in the Bible. It occurs in Psalm 50 (or at least that's the number in my Jerusalem Bible -- as I recall, the numbering of the Psalms has got muddled over the years and is different in different translations. It's somewhere in the high 40s or low 50s, anyway), where God scorns mankind for trying to win his favour with offerings of food. Our teacher suggested adding italics to bring out its true tone:
If I were hungry, I would not tell you,
since the world and all it holds is mine.
Do I eat the flesh of bulls,
or drink goats' blood? ...
You sit there, slandering your own brother,
you malign your own mother's son.
You do this, and expect me to say nothing?
Do you really think I am like you?
(This is an oft-repeated theme in the Old Testament, perhaps most famously expressed in Hosea: "What I want is love, not sacrifice; knowledge of God, not holocausts.")
I'm thinking that if God wanted virtual martinis or eggs that hatched into puppies, he wouldn't tell us about that, either. The two Facebook fans I mentioned earlier make a lot of other proclamations on the site about their religious/political views (they make no clear distinction between the two spheres), and I have to say that concern for love and the knowledge of God does not feature prominently. Concern about what other people do with their genitalia is more like it.
*I should confess here that I did recently become a fan of W.G. Sebald (I'm still reading Austerlitz -- I'll tell you more about that some other time), who is even less likely to contribute to his Facebook page than God is. In my defence, I acted on the assumption that the fan page had been set up by his publishers, who could give us exciting news about posthumous publications or critical studies or whatever.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Surprised and grateful
Last night there was a lovely surprise waiting for me when I came home from work. In the post was an envelope from my friend and fellow blogger here in Harrow, Siewpeng Lee. I know Siewpeng through her business, Organic-Ally, which sells organic cotton products designed to reduce paper and plastic use -- handkerchiefs, napkins, shopping bags, gift bags to replace wrapping paper, etc.
Inside was a gift she'd hand-embroidered to celebrate my new citizenship:
I'm always amazed by how kind people can be, and reminded how lucky I am. Thank you, Siewpeng!
Inside was a gift she'd hand-embroidered to celebrate my new citizenship:
I'm always amazed by how kind people can be, and reminded how lucky I am. Thank you, Siewpeng!
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Blackbirds: the plot thickens
Shortly after dawn yesterday I saw our male blackbird sitting in the tree outside our kitchen window, with not one, but two females on the branch just below him. At first the females seemed preoccupied with keeping out the chill, sitting very still with their feathers fluffed around them. Then one of them (I knew it was our regular female because of her reddish breast) seemed to wake up and get annoyed by the other's presence. She chased her first to a branch on the other side of the tree, then out of the tree altogether. The male ignored all this and sat as if contemplating something in the distance, his orange beak showing bright in the early-morning grey. All the while a fat pigeon, happily oblivious, was crashing around in yet another part of the tree.
The other male blackbird has also taken to hanging around again, and the regular male seems to feel the need to patrol not just our downstairs neighbours' garden, but the two adjacent as well.
The other male blackbird has also taken to hanging around again, and the regular male seems to feel the need to patrol not just our downstairs neighbours' garden, but the two adjacent as well.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Or maybe I had "prima" stamped on my forehead
A while back I was walking down Gower Street when a man stopped me and asked if I spoke Spanish.
"Un poco," I said, figuring he was a lost tourist.
Whereupon he told me he was studying ophthalmology at UCL and asked if I was familiar with how the pupil contracts and expands in response to light. I was so busy struggling to match my rusty Latin American Spanish with his rapid-fire Spanish Spanish that I didn't see anything odd in this until he asked me to demonstrate the phenomenon by taking my glasses off and looking into the streetlight.
At this point I hurried away, but I have questions:
"Un poco," I said, figuring he was a lost tourist.
Whereupon he told me he was studying ophthalmology at UCL and asked if I was familiar with how the pupil contracts and expands in response to light. I was so busy struggling to match my rusty Latin American Spanish with his rapid-fire Spanish Spanish that I didn't see anything odd in this until he asked me to demonstrate the phenomenon by taking my glasses off and looking into the streetlight.
At this point I hurried away, but I have questions:
- Was there more to that scam, or did he just have a miosis fetish?
- Does he hang around the streets of London all day waiting to meet a woman with glasses who can speak Spanish? Because that must take longer than it would in most American cities.
Monday, 13 April 2009
Nobody likes me. Waaah.
(Warning: Whining ahead.)
When I got my British citizenship, I thought it would be fun to celebrate by getting together with some of the friends I have made during my nine years in this country. Since I got my acceptance and ceremony date on very short notice, I decided to wait a couple of weeks before the celebration. So at the beginning of this month, I sent out invitations to friends in and around London, asking them to come to dinner at my favourite restaurant this coming Saturday.* I asked 15 in total; I knew they probably wouldn't all come, but I wanted to include as many people as possible. I also requested that people respond by today, so I would know how many to book for.
(By the way, if you're reading this and you didn't get an invitation, you're still very welcome to come along. But I'm afraid I can't pay anyone's airfare.)
Two weeks later, I have two definite acceptances. Two others said they would try to come, depending on what else was going on. Three people sent nice notes to say they wouldn't be able to make it. That leaves 8 -- yes, eight -- people who have not replied at all, not even to acknowledge that I'd invited them. At this point, I'm not sure whether to chase people up for their responses; book a table just for the people who have accepted or tentatively accepted, and let anyone who turns up without an RSVP take their chances; or cancel the whole thing.
I know we all probably overestimate how important our personal milestones are to others. And I don't want to throw a fit and act like I think people owe me something. But really, these aren't strangers I accosted on the street; they're all people I've got to know quite well through work, study or church, and in many cases I've attended their own celebrations. It makes me a little bit sad to know that my invitation wasn't worth a few minutes of their time.
Do you think Veggie Inn will make some tofu worms for me to eat?
* And yes, I was planning to pay, though I never know how to say so without sounding crude.
When I got my British citizenship, I thought it would be fun to celebrate by getting together with some of the friends I have made during my nine years in this country. Since I got my acceptance and ceremony date on very short notice, I decided to wait a couple of weeks before the celebration. So at the beginning of this month, I sent out invitations to friends in and around London, asking them to come to dinner at my favourite restaurant this coming Saturday.* I asked 15 in total; I knew they probably wouldn't all come, but I wanted to include as many people as possible. I also requested that people respond by today, so I would know how many to book for.
(By the way, if you're reading this and you didn't get an invitation, you're still very welcome to come along. But I'm afraid I can't pay anyone's airfare.)
Two weeks later, I have two definite acceptances. Two others said they would try to come, depending on what else was going on. Three people sent nice notes to say they wouldn't be able to make it. That leaves 8 -- yes, eight -- people who have not replied at all, not even to acknowledge that I'd invited them. At this point, I'm not sure whether to chase people up for their responses; book a table just for the people who have accepted or tentatively accepted, and let anyone who turns up without an RSVP take their chances; or cancel the whole thing.
I know we all probably overestimate how important our personal milestones are to others. And I don't want to throw a fit and act like I think people owe me something. But really, these aren't strangers I accosted on the street; they're all people I've got to know quite well through work, study or church, and in many cases I've attended their own celebrations. It makes me a little bit sad to know that my invitation wasn't worth a few minutes of their time.
Do you think Veggie Inn will make some tofu worms for me to eat?
* And yes, I was planning to pay, though I never know how to say so without sounding crude.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Easter miscellany
Last night at the Easter Vigil, while we were waiting for the flame from the Paschal candle to reach us, an old lady in our pew lost patience and lit her candle with her cigarette lighter. Her friend told her off and she put it out again.
The Vigil went very well this year -- although there was once again a cheesy Powerpoint slideshow during the first few readings, at least this time it didn't crash. Two people were baptised during the Mass, which reminded me of my own baptism on this night eight years ago. I'm not sure I had seen another adult baptised since then, although a number had been received into the Church.
I was also pleased that I got to hear my favourite hymn (which is sung only at this time of year, and not very often then), albeit only as an instrumental. I wasn't able to find a good performance of it online that included the words, but here's a pretty guitar version:
(The fellow who made this video seems like an interesting person, as can be seen from his slightly old-fashioned web page.)
Thinking about this hymn made me realise how many of the Easter songs and meditations I have heard have equated Easter with spring -- rebirth, new life, etc. -- and it occurred to me that this metaphor actually doesn't apply to half the world. Maybe my readers in South America and Australia can tell me what imagery is used in their countries.
In England, no one would think of celebrating Easter without hot cross buns, which I knew of only from a nursery rhyme when I lived in America. A perennial complaint among curmudgeons is how early these buns appear in the shops -- often right after Christmas. More troubling to me, though, is the fact that most of the storebought buns are awful: flabby, too sweet, and often without a hint of spice.
So I make my own, taking a few liberties with the traditional recipe. Being lazy, I make the dough up in the bread machine. I replace the egg with yogurt, the candied peel (which I hate) with fresh orange zest, and the currants with raisins (more flavourful and without the nasty hard seeds). The original recipe I used called for a teaspoon of "mixed spice". Not having such a thing in my cupboard, I use the combination of spices below. Saffron isn't traditional in hot cross buns, but it is traditionally found in Russian Easter breads, and if you can't use it to celebrate the Resurrection, when can you use it? Ginger probably isn't traditional either, but I like it.
By far the hardest part is making the crosses with a paste of flour and water. Try as I might, my hot cross buns come out looking more like sand dollars. But the taste makes up for it.
Slightly Irregular Hot Cross Buns
For the dough:
130 ml milk (dairy, rice or soya)
125 ml water
4 tablespoons yogurt (dairy or soya)
50 g butter or margarine, softened
50 g caster or granulated sugar
1 tsp salt
1/4 tsp saffron (about two generous pinches)
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp ground ginger
Zest of one orange
115 g raisins
450 g plain (all-purpose) flour
2 tsp yeast (suitable for bread machines)
For making the crosses:
40 g plain flour
3 tablespoons water
1 tsp vegetable oil
Put all the dough ingredients, in the order that they are listed, into the pan of your bread machine and run the machine's dough cycle.* Shortly before it ends, lightly grease two baking trays and line a large bowl with flour.
The dough will be very soft and sticky. Turn it out into the floured bowl and sprinkle some extra flour on top. Flour your hands well, too, and divide the dough into 12 equal portions, placing them on the baking trays. (Most recipes call for moulding them into balls with your hands, but in my experience that's not going to happen. Just shape them into neat circular piles on the tray.) Cover the trays with tea towels and leave the buns to rise for 20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 220° C/425° F/gas mark 7.
Make up the paste for the crosses, put it into a plastic bag and snip off a small corner. (If you have fancy piping equipment, you can use that instead.) As best you can, make a cross covering the top of each bun.
Bake until the buns are golden brown, 15-25 minutes. Let them cool on a rack (despite their name, they are not eaten hot). When they are cool, you can put a sugar glaze on them if you want, but I don't usually bother.
*Some machines will beep at a certain point in the cycle to let you know it's OK to add fruit, nuts, etc. If yours is one of them, you can wait for the signal to add the raisins. However, it will do no harm to put them in at the beginning. My machine's manual warns they may get chopped up by the kneading blade, but I've never known it to happen and it wouldn't be a big deal if it did.
The Vigil went very well this year -- although there was once again a cheesy Powerpoint slideshow during the first few readings, at least this time it didn't crash. Two people were baptised during the Mass, which reminded me of my own baptism on this night eight years ago. I'm not sure I had seen another adult baptised since then, although a number had been received into the Church.
I was also pleased that I got to hear my favourite hymn (which is sung only at this time of year, and not very often then), albeit only as an instrumental. I wasn't able to find a good performance of it online that included the words, but here's a pretty guitar version:
(The fellow who made this video seems like an interesting person, as can be seen from his slightly old-fashioned web page.)
Thinking about this hymn made me realise how many of the Easter songs and meditations I have heard have equated Easter with spring -- rebirth, new life, etc. -- and it occurred to me that this metaphor actually doesn't apply to half the world. Maybe my readers in South America and Australia can tell me what imagery is used in their countries.
In England, no one would think of celebrating Easter without hot cross buns, which I knew of only from a nursery rhyme when I lived in America. A perennial complaint among curmudgeons is how early these buns appear in the shops -- often right after Christmas. More troubling to me, though, is the fact that most of the storebought buns are awful: flabby, too sweet, and often without a hint of spice.
So I make my own, taking a few liberties with the traditional recipe. Being lazy, I make the dough up in the bread machine. I replace the egg with yogurt, the candied peel (which I hate) with fresh orange zest, and the currants with raisins (more flavourful and without the nasty hard seeds). The original recipe I used called for a teaspoon of "mixed spice". Not having such a thing in my cupboard, I use the combination of spices below. Saffron isn't traditional in hot cross buns, but it is traditionally found in Russian Easter breads, and if you can't use it to celebrate the Resurrection, when can you use it? Ginger probably isn't traditional either, but I like it.
By far the hardest part is making the crosses with a paste of flour and water. Try as I might, my hot cross buns come out looking more like sand dollars. But the taste makes up for it.
Slightly Irregular Hot Cross Buns
For the dough:
130 ml milk (dairy, rice or soya)
125 ml water
4 tablespoons yogurt (dairy or soya)
50 g butter or margarine, softened
50 g caster or granulated sugar
1 tsp salt
1/4 tsp saffron (about two generous pinches)
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp ground ginger
Zest of one orange
115 g raisins
450 g plain (all-purpose) flour
2 tsp yeast (suitable for bread machines)
For making the crosses:
40 g plain flour
3 tablespoons water
1 tsp vegetable oil
Put all the dough ingredients, in the order that they are listed, into the pan of your bread machine and run the machine's dough cycle.* Shortly before it ends, lightly grease two baking trays and line a large bowl with flour.
The dough will be very soft and sticky. Turn it out into the floured bowl and sprinkle some extra flour on top. Flour your hands well, too, and divide the dough into 12 equal portions, placing them on the baking trays. (Most recipes call for moulding them into balls with your hands, but in my experience that's not going to happen. Just shape them into neat circular piles on the tray.) Cover the trays with tea towels and leave the buns to rise for 20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 220° C/425° F/gas mark 7.
Make up the paste for the crosses, put it into a plastic bag and snip off a small corner. (If you have fancy piping equipment, you can use that instead.) As best you can, make a cross covering the top of each bun.
Bake until the buns are golden brown, 15-25 minutes. Let them cool on a rack (despite their name, they are not eaten hot). When they are cool, you can put a sugar glaze on them if you want, but I don't usually bother.
*Some machines will beep at a certain point in the cycle to let you know it's OK to add fruit, nuts, etc. If yours is one of them, you can wait for the signal to add the raisins. However, it will do no harm to put them in at the beginning. My machine's manual warns they may get chopped up by the kneading blade, but I've never known it to happen and it wouldn't be a big deal if it did.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Blackbirds nesting
Yesterday, staring out the window during the long fast, I made an exciting discovery: Our female blackbird is building a nest in the hedge right under our kitchen window!
While she flew in and out of the hedge with bits of twig and grass in her beak, a curious little drama was playing out in the garden next door. I recently mentioned that we seemed to be down to one male blackbird, but yesterday there were two again. One bird was mainly staying hidden in the hedge on the opposite side of the garden from the nest, only occasionally emerging on foot. The other -- I presume the female's mate -- was much closer to the hedge where the nest was being built, but seemed to be pacing nervously and was clearly very agitated by the other male's presence. Every few seconds, he made a low circular flight to the opposite hedge and back, as if warning off his rival; and every time the other male came into view, he swooped over and landed a few inches away from him, though I never saw him actually attack.
According to the RSPB, the chicks will hatch about two weeks after laying and fledge about two weeks after that. If food is plentiful enough, the parents will raise two, three or even four broods.
While she flew in and out of the hedge with bits of twig and grass in her beak, a curious little drama was playing out in the garden next door. I recently mentioned that we seemed to be down to one male blackbird, but yesterday there were two again. One bird was mainly staying hidden in the hedge on the opposite side of the garden from the nest, only occasionally emerging on foot. The other -- I presume the female's mate -- was much closer to the hedge where the nest was being built, but seemed to be pacing nervously and was clearly very agitated by the other male's presence. Every few seconds, he made a low circular flight to the opposite hedge and back, as if warning off his rival; and every time the other male came into view, he swooped over and landed a few inches away from him, though I never saw him actually attack.
According to the RSPB, the chicks will hatch about two weeks after laying and fledge about two weeks after that. If food is plentiful enough, the parents will raise two, three or even four broods.
Friday, 10 April 2009
Paper chase
I realised recently that if Ocado ever stops delivering a free copy of The Times with our groceries, 10% of my ideas for posts will disappear. The copy we received last evening contained a really puzzling story headlined "Festival Hall's paper sculpture was the work of notorious child sex murderer".
It seems that for about six months, the Royal Festival Hall has been displaying a paper sculpture of a miniature orchestra and chorus, made entirely from the score of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Cute. The Hall bought the sculpture for £600 (the paper edition of The Times originally said £1500, but that seems to have been corrected for the online version) from the Koestler Trust, a charity that encourages prisoners to create art as part of their rehabilitation. A placard nearby has attributed it to an anonymous prisoner.
Now The Times, for reasons I really cannot understand, has taken it upon itself to find out who that prisoner is. And it turns out he makes a worthy demon: Colin Pitchfork, sentenced to life in 1988 for raping and murdering two teenagers.
The two journalists involved in the story do some stretching to explain why revealing this is in the public interest. We're told that Pitchfork received about half the fee that the Hall paid for his sculpture -- although he is legally entitled to earn money from his work; if I remember correctly, he is only prevented from profiting directly from his crimes (e.g., by selling his story). Then they try the "How will the victims' families feel when they see the work?" line. But, as they admit, neither the victims' families nor anyone else knew who had created the sculpture until The Times chose to report it to the world.
Their crowning argument, though, is even more ludicrous: "The sculpture may be Pitchfork’s key to release."
Back in 1988, when Pitchfork was sentenced, the trial judge recommended that he be considered for early release in 20 years if he seemed to have reformed sufficiently. In 1994, the Home Secretary increased his minimum prison time to 30 years. A High Court judge upheld this decision, stating that while "this is the first case of this type which I have seen where the progress made by the applicant can properly described as exceptional," the terrible nature of Pitchfork's crimes made reducing the minimum sentence "wholly inappropriate".* Pitchfork is now appealing against the High Court ruling, as he has a legal right to do, and asking for an earlier release.
The Times' reasoning seems to be: Pitchfork's lawyers may use his artistic achievements as evidence of his reformed character; the sculpture in the Festival Hall is one of those achievements; therefore, the Festival Hall wants to help spring murderers from prison. The paper tries to add meat to this argument by dragging out Libby Purves to opine that "Colin Pitchfork's art cannot repay the debt of the lives he took" (which should silence the hundreds of people who were making that claim) and that "anybody who had been really touched by Beethoven — by the sacredness and serious humanity of his work — would make it clear that, having stolen two young lives, he humbly submitted to society’s decision about his liberty."
Of course, all of this has nothing to do with the real reason The Times have dug up this story. It seems to be universally accepted that nothing associated with a criminal, and particularly a sex offender, can possibly have any redeeming value, and the simple discovery of such a connection seems to be enough to justify expunging the work from polite society. I wouldn't be entirely surprised if a tabloid suggested we all eat the brains of our ancestors to avoid becoming infected by the evil aura of Carleton Gajdusek.
And with Myra Hindley dead, and Ian Huntley keeping frustratingly quiet, the press need a new bogeyman, someone they can hold up before the public and say: If we reform the prison system, allow for the possibility of rehabilitation, acknowledge criminals as human beings with inherent value, then this monster may someday walk among us again.
The Times' strategy has worked, at least in the short term: the Festival Hall has removed the sculpture and apologised for any "offence".
I wonder if one day Luke's account of the Passion will be amended to avoid "offending" modern moral sensibilities:
"The other [criminal] ... said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.' And Jesus said, 'Remember a monster like you? At the expense of the Galilean taxpayer? It's political correctness gone mad.'"
* For some reason The Times has omitted the paragraph with these quotes from the online version.
It seems that for about six months, the Royal Festival Hall has been displaying a paper sculpture of a miniature orchestra and chorus, made entirely from the score of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Cute. The Hall bought the sculpture for £600 (the paper edition of The Times originally said £1500, but that seems to have been corrected for the online version) from the Koestler Trust, a charity that encourages prisoners to create art as part of their rehabilitation. A placard nearby has attributed it to an anonymous prisoner.
Now The Times, for reasons I really cannot understand, has taken it upon itself to find out who that prisoner is. And it turns out he makes a worthy demon: Colin Pitchfork, sentenced to life in 1988 for raping and murdering two teenagers.
The two journalists involved in the story do some stretching to explain why revealing this is in the public interest. We're told that Pitchfork received about half the fee that the Hall paid for his sculpture -- although he is legally entitled to earn money from his work; if I remember correctly, he is only prevented from profiting directly from his crimes (e.g., by selling his story). Then they try the "How will the victims' families feel when they see the work?" line. But, as they admit, neither the victims' families nor anyone else knew who had created the sculpture until The Times chose to report it to the world.
Their crowning argument, though, is even more ludicrous: "The sculpture may be Pitchfork’s key to release."
Back in 1988, when Pitchfork was sentenced, the trial judge recommended that he be considered for early release in 20 years if he seemed to have reformed sufficiently. In 1994, the Home Secretary increased his minimum prison time to 30 years. A High Court judge upheld this decision, stating that while "this is the first case of this type which I have seen where the progress made by the applicant can properly described as exceptional," the terrible nature of Pitchfork's crimes made reducing the minimum sentence "wholly inappropriate".* Pitchfork is now appealing against the High Court ruling, as he has a legal right to do, and asking for an earlier release.
The Times' reasoning seems to be: Pitchfork's lawyers may use his artistic achievements as evidence of his reformed character; the sculpture in the Festival Hall is one of those achievements; therefore, the Festival Hall wants to help spring murderers from prison. The paper tries to add meat to this argument by dragging out Libby Purves to opine that "Colin Pitchfork's art cannot repay the debt of the lives he took" (which should silence the hundreds of people who were making that claim) and that "anybody who had been really touched by Beethoven — by the sacredness and serious humanity of his work — would make it clear that, having stolen two young lives, he humbly submitted to society’s decision about his liberty."
Of course, all of this has nothing to do with the real reason The Times have dug up this story. It seems to be universally accepted that nothing associated with a criminal, and particularly a sex offender, can possibly have any redeeming value, and the simple discovery of such a connection seems to be enough to justify expunging the work from polite society. I wouldn't be entirely surprised if a tabloid suggested we all eat the brains of our ancestors to avoid becoming infected by the evil aura of Carleton Gajdusek.
And with Myra Hindley dead, and Ian Huntley keeping frustratingly quiet, the press need a new bogeyman, someone they can hold up before the public and say: If we reform the prison system, allow for the possibility of rehabilitation, acknowledge criminals as human beings with inherent value, then this monster may someday walk among us again.
The Times' strategy has worked, at least in the short term: the Festival Hall has removed the sculpture and apologised for any "offence".
I wonder if one day Luke's account of the Passion will be amended to avoid "offending" modern moral sensibilities:
"The other [criminal] ... said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.' And Jesus said, 'Remember a monster like you? At the expense of the Galilean taxpayer? It's political correctness gone mad.'"
* For some reason The Times has omitted the paragraph with these quotes from the online version.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
It still counts as "starting"
This week I have been under various stresses that I can't or won't discuss here, and have simultaneously lost the ability to sleep for more than three hours a night (these two things are probably reinforcing each other). So it was only this afternoon that I was able to force my brain to take in the first sentence of Austerlitz. Fortunately, it is one that makes me want to keep reading when I'm more fully conscious:
For utterly shallow reasons, this reminded me of the first sentence of Jacques Roubaud's Hortense is Abducted: "The weather was warm and beautiful, so we couldn’t have been in Belgium."
That's about as erudite as I can manage to be this evening.
In the second half of the 1960s I travelled repeatedly from England to Belgium, partly for study purposes, partly for other reasons which were never entirely clear to me, staying sometimes for just one or two days, sometimes for several weeks.
For utterly shallow reasons, this reminded me of the first sentence of Jacques Roubaud's Hortense is Abducted: "The weather was warm and beautiful, so we couldn’t have been in Belgium."
That's about as erudite as I can manage to be this evening.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Proms 2009
We can't book tickets till Monday after next, but the BBC has let us press our noses against the shop window for this year's Proms lineup. No prizes for guessing which composer I searched for first -- we'll definitely be requesting tickets for the Eighth Symphony with Valery Gergiev and the LSO, and the Eleventh with Semyon Bychkov and the BBC Symphony Orchestra. I may try to go to the Ninth and Tenth as well, but it depends partly on Chris's patience.
Some other possibilities are the First Night, including Poulenc's Concerto for Two Pianos; the Budapest Festival Orchestra playing Prokofiev's Overture on Hebrew Themes, Bartók's Second Violin Concerto and Dvořák's Seventh Symphony; the act that I persist in calling (thanks to a misread album cover) The Sixteen Harry Christophers in an all-Handel programme; Martha Argerich playing Ravel, Prokofiev and Mussorgsky; and one of the chamber music performances at Cadogan Hall, featuring Bach's Partita No.3 in E major and Bartok's Sonata for Solo Violin.
Even if you're far from London, it's worth checking out the Proms listings, because all of the concerts should be available to listen to online.
Some other possibilities are the First Night, including Poulenc's Concerto for Two Pianos; the Budapest Festival Orchestra playing Prokofiev's Overture on Hebrew Themes, Bartók's Second Violin Concerto and Dvořák's Seventh Symphony; the act that I persist in calling (thanks to a misread album cover) The Sixteen Harry Christophers in an all-Handel programme; Martha Argerich playing Ravel, Prokofiev and Mussorgsky; and one of the chamber music performances at Cadogan Hall, featuring Bach's Partita No.3 in E major and Bartok's Sonata for Solo Violin.
Even if you're far from London, it's worth checking out the Proms listings, because all of the concerts should be available to listen to online.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Spring
All the shady patches in the woods now are filled with violets. Further down the hill, these give way to lesser celandine, and then, on the sunniest parts, to daisies, dandelions and common selfheal. Lately on my lunchtime walks I've been seeing handsome reddish-brown butterflies with eyespots on their wings, though I glimpse them for only a second before they fly away. My best guess was that they were meadow browns, though it does seem early for those to be about. The only other butterfly I can find resembling them in the guides is the wall, but that is rare and usually only seen around the coast. (Update: I've since had a better look at these and have discovered that they're actually peacocks.)
On Saturday the park was full of robins trying to pair off, chasing rivals out of their territories or just hunting for worms. At lunchtime the other day I saw a great tit apparently nibbling the buds of a tree, occasionally seeming to twirl itself round the twig it was perched on and breaking into its two-note chirping song -- either answering another bird I couldn't hear, or simply singing to itself.
Meanwhile, in the neighbours' garden, one of the male blackbirds seems to have won out over his rival: I haven't seen two males in the garden together for a long time. Instead, the male and female emerge from the shrubs to forage together several times a day.
On Saturday the park was full of robins trying to pair off, chasing rivals out of their territories or just hunting for worms. At lunchtime the other day I saw a great tit apparently nibbling the buds of a tree, occasionally seeming to twirl itself round the twig it was perched on and breaking into its two-note chirping song -- either answering another bird I couldn't hear, or simply singing to itself.
Meanwhile, in the neighbours' garden, one of the male blackbirds seems to have won out over his rival: I haven't seen two males in the garden together for a long time. Instead, the male and female emerge from the shrubs to forage together several times a day.
Monday, 6 April 2009
Obama and Brown on Afghanistan
After hearing about Afghanistan's disgusting proposed marriage law (now "under review" by President Karzai, who blames "misinterpretation" by the West), I wondered how President Obama would react. I found my answer in the transcript of Saturday's press conference:
I can't help comparing this to Gordon Brown's account of his conversation with Karzai:
Well, first of all, this was actually a topic of conversation among all the allies. And in our communication -- communiqué, you will see that we specifically state that part of this comprehensive approach is encouraging the respect of human rights. I think this law is abhorrent. Certainly the views of the administration have been, and will be, communicated to the Karzai government. And we think that it is very important for us to be sensitive to local culture, but we also think that there are certain basic principles that all nations should uphold, and respect for women and respect for their freedom and integrity is an important principle.
Now, I just want to remind people, though, why our troops are fighting, because I think the notion that you laid out, Major, was that our troops might be less motivated. Our troops are highly motivated to protect the United States, just as troops from NATO are highly motivated to protect their own individual countries and NATO allies collectively. So we want to do everything we can to encourage and promote rule of law, human rights, the education of women and girls in Afghanistan, economic development, infrastructure development, but I also want people to understand that the first reason we are there is to root out al Qaeda so that they cannot attack members of the Alliance.
Now, I don't -- those two things aren't contradictory, I think they're complementary. And that's what's reflected in the communiqué.
I can't help comparing this to Gordon Brown's account of his conversation with Karzai:
"I phoned the president immediately about this because anybody who looks at Afghanistan will be worried if we are going to see laws brought in that discriminate against women and put women at risk," Brown said.
"I made it absolutely clear to the president that we could not tolerate that situation. You cannot have British troops fighting, and in some cases dying, to save a democracy where that democracy is infringing human rights.
"[Karzai] responded by saying this law would not be enacted in the way it has been presented."
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Red pandas
I was sad a few years ago when the red pandas were moved out of London Zoo. I always loved visiting these beautiful, gentle-looking creatures, which are unfairly eclipsed by the giant panda (to which, as it turns out, they're not even closely related). I used to watch for a long time as they climbed about their enclosure on their unique fur-insulated paws.
The good news is that the pandas are back at the zoo. The bad news is that they're part of the revamped children's section, so we won't get to see them unless we borrow one of Chris's cousins for the day. I always fear I'll be accused of being a pervert if I go into a place like that without a child in tow. It might not be the best thing for my nerves, anyway: it's hard enough watching parents let their kids scream and bang on the enclosures in the main part of the zoo. I hope ZSL have given the animals a space where they can get away from the kids if they need to -- especially since red pandas aren't nearly as tame as they look, and have very sharp claws.
To learn about efforts to conserve the red panda, which is classified as Vulnerable by the IUCN, see the Red Panda Network's website.
The good news is that the pandas are back at the zoo. The bad news is that they're part of the revamped children's section, so we won't get to see them unless we borrow one of Chris's cousins for the day. I always fear I'll be accused of being a pervert if I go into a place like that without a child in tow. It might not be the best thing for my nerves, anyway: it's hard enough watching parents let their kids scream and bang on the enclosures in the main part of the zoo. I hope ZSL have given the animals a space where they can get away from the kids if they need to -- especially since red pandas aren't nearly as tame as they look, and have very sharp claws.
To learn about efforts to conserve the red panda, which is classified as Vulnerable by the IUCN, see the Red Panda Network's website.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Women's sport
I understand little of any sport, least of all cricket, but I am somewhat intrigued by the latter when I see the local amateur teams playing it in the park near our house. Maybe it's precisely because it has a reputation for being so complicated.
Anyway, whenever the sport has come up, I've wondered whether women ever play it. I knew about women's football --if only because the U.S. team are, or were, quite good -- but I'd never heard of women's cricket. None of the British people I asked knew whether it existed either.
Now two stories in yesterday's Times -- one from the main news section and one from the times2 supplement -- have revealed that not only is there such a thing as women's cricket, but England's women's team recently won their third World Cup, something about which I heard nothing on the news at the time.* This makes it all the more strange that women's cricket doesn't get more attention, because you'd think English cricket fans would be interested in a form of the sport that England actually wins.
*Although to be fair, sports news on the radio stations I listen to is usually taken up with reports of (male) footballers having tantrums over their salaries or beating people up outside nightclubs, rather than with actual sporting events.
Anyway, whenever the sport has come up, I've wondered whether women ever play it. I knew about women's football --if only because the U.S. team are, or were, quite good -- but I'd never heard of women's cricket. None of the British people I asked knew whether it existed either.
Now two stories in yesterday's Times -- one from the main news section and one from the times2 supplement -- have revealed that not only is there such a thing as women's cricket, but England's women's team recently won their third World Cup, something about which I heard nothing on the news at the time.* This makes it all the more strange that women's cricket doesn't get more attention, because you'd think English cricket fans would be interested in a form of the sport that England actually wins.
*Although to be fair, sports news on the radio stations I listen to is usually taken up with reports of (male) footballers having tantrums over their salaries or beating people up outside nightclubs, rather than with actual sporting events.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Shostakovich and the clock
I've been listening a lot to Vasily Petrenko's new recording of Shostakovich's 11th Symphony on Naxos. I may even try to write about it in more depth, although I fear that writing intelligently about classical music is a skill I may not possess. For now, though, I'll take the easy route and write about the cover. Naxos are quite proud of Petrenko, whom they've signed up for the full cycle of Shostakovich symphonies, and they've uncharacteristically produced a slipcase for the CD with a large picture of the (admittedly rather nice-looking) young conductor. Inside that, though, is a photo of Shostakovich I'd never seen before:
I'm not totally sure about the copyright status of the photograph, but in any event, I couldn't find a copy of it that wasn't part of the album cover. Please buy from Naxos; they produce wonderful recordings.
In this photo from 1957 (the year of the symphony's completion), the composer is shown in his flat, apparently resetting one of his clocks. He leans over a desk cluttered with books of manuscript paper, tubes of ink, brushes, newspapers and the inevitable ashtrays and packs of cigarettes. Behind him, a frilly lampshade stands in ridiculous contrast to the rest of the room. From the look on his face, Shostakovich is either concentrating very hard on setting the clock precisely or wishing that the camera weren't there (or possibly both).
The picture was taken by Oleg Tsesarsky, who worked for a number of photojournalistic magazines in the Soviet Union, so presumably it was used in an article about the composer. The pose seems unusual, but Shostakovich is said to have insisted on synchronising all the clocks in his flat, so maybe the picture was meant to illustrate that aspect of his personality.
In this photo from 1957 (the year of the symphony's completion), the composer is shown in his flat, apparently resetting one of his clocks. He leans over a desk cluttered with books of manuscript paper, tubes of ink, brushes, newspapers and the inevitable ashtrays and packs of cigarettes. Behind him, a frilly lampshade stands in ridiculous contrast to the rest of the room. From the look on his face, Shostakovich is either concentrating very hard on setting the clock precisely or wishing that the camera weren't there (or possibly both).
The picture was taken by Oleg Tsesarsky, who worked for a number of photojournalistic magazines in the Soviet Union, so presumably it was used in an article about the composer. The pose seems unusual, but Shostakovich is said to have insisted on synchronising all the clocks in his flat, so maybe the picture was meant to illustrate that aspect of his personality.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
God save Tudor houses, antique tables and billiards
I guess it's quite fitting that the beginning of our British citizenship experience involved getting in a queue. We had to have our bags searched before going into Harrow Council's unlovely "members' lounge" (for members of what, I'm not sure) where we would wait for the next hour.
My friend Carol and I drink in the ambiance of the Members' Lounge. I'm not deliberately winking at the camera, it's just an example of my unequalled talent for getting caught at the wrong moment.
In the lounge, each of the 50 or so prospective citizens was given a number. We were called up one by one to show our invitation and ID; then we were directed to another table where they registered us to vote. Finally, at 3:30, they had finished with everyone and we were led through into the council chambers where the actual ceremony would take place. This was a much more promising room with UN-style circular seating.
It was at this point that I discovered Harrow Council had turned me into an atheist for the afternoon. I'd told them I was happy to take an oath (in which you swear by God), but they'd put me down to take an affirmation (in which you don't). Since these promises are made in a group rather than individually, they'd divided the room into half, one side for the oath and one for the affirmation. When I pointed out their mistake, they told me the God half was already full, so if I really wanted to take the oath I would have to leave and wait to become a citizen at the next available ceremony. I decided to go ahead with the affirmation instead: it has the same legal force, and I can always talk to God on my own.
The ceremony began with a councillor making a speech about the London Borough of Harrow and its various cultural features (including, oddly, its two main shopping centres). He welcomed us here and said he hoped we would enjoy our new life as citizens.
Each side of the room stood to take the oath or affirmation, in which we swore allegiance to the Queen, and the citizenship pledge, in which we promised to abide by the UK's laws and "respect its rights and freedoms". Then each of us was called up to receive our citizenship certificate and medal. Guests weren't allowed to take photos during the actual ceremony (they had a professional we could buy pictures from if we wanted), but Chris and Carol took some afterward:
And then, after a quick karaoke version of "God Save the Queen", it was all over. The actual ceremony took about half an hour in total.
I was impressed by the way they streamlined the various tasks involved in joining British society -- signing people up for the voters' roll at the ceremony was a very good idea, and with our certificates they gave us a pack including a passport application.
In the lounge, each of the 50 or so prospective citizens was given a number. We were called up one by one to show our invitation and ID; then we were directed to another table where they registered us to vote. Finally, at 3:30, they had finished with everyone and we were led through into the council chambers where the actual ceremony would take place. This was a much more promising room with UN-style circular seating.
It was at this point that I discovered Harrow Council had turned me into an atheist for the afternoon. I'd told them I was happy to take an oath (in which you swear by God), but they'd put me down to take an affirmation (in which you don't). Since these promises are made in a group rather than individually, they'd divided the room into half, one side for the oath and one for the affirmation. When I pointed out their mistake, they told me the God half was already full, so if I really wanted to take the oath I would have to leave and wait to become a citizen at the next available ceremony. I decided to go ahead with the affirmation instead: it has the same legal force, and I can always talk to God on my own.
The ceremony began with a councillor making a speech about the London Borough of Harrow and its various cultural features (including, oddly, its two main shopping centres). He welcomed us here and said he hoped we would enjoy our new life as citizens.
Each side of the room stood to take the oath or affirmation, in which we swore allegiance to the Queen, and the citizenship pledge, in which we promised to abide by the UK's laws and "respect its rights and freedoms". Then each of us was called up to receive our citizenship certificate and medal. Guests weren't allowed to take photos during the actual ceremony (they had a professional we could buy pictures from if we wanted), but Chris and Carol took some afterward:
And then, after a quick karaoke version of "God Save the Queen", it was all over. The actual ceremony took about half an hour in total.
I was impressed by the way they streamlined the various tasks involved in joining British society -- signing people up for the voters' roll at the ceremony was a very good idea, and with our certificates they gave us a pack including a passport application.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Reading update
I've finally given up on The Cairo Trilogy. I struggled on with Palace of Desire for a while, but it just wasn't getting any better. Kamal's philosophical and emotional wranglings, while I'm sure they were very relevant to Egyptian society at the time, were so dull I found myself flipping ahead to find out when his chapters would be over. The only parts that held any narrative interest were the various affairs of Yasin and his father, and even these seemed tawdry, repetitive and unimaginative. I ended up feeling like I was reading pornography, not because the writing was particularly explicit, but because character after character seemed to exist purely for the role they played in these sordid encounters.
I was particularly disappointed that Maryam and her mother -- who in Palace Walk seemed refreshingly normal, their relatively liberated lives a cheerful counterfoil to the repressiveness of el-Sayyid Ahmad's household -- both turned out to be depraved sluts later in the story, almost as if Mahfouz were saying that el-Sayyid Ahmad's attitude toward women was the correct one. In fact, with the spirited Khadija relegated to life as a bitter housewife, all the women in this book seem to fall into one of three categories: repressed, neurotic "traditional" women; crazed nymphomaniacs; and "entertainers", who work as both musicians and prostitutes. (There's also Aida, the Westernised beauty who is the object of Kamal's affections, but since she's seen entirely through Kamal's lens it's hard to tell what she's really supposed to be like.) Mahfouz may be making a point about the options open to women in Egyptian culture, but surely he could have done this while portraying his female characters as three-dimensional human beings.
I did enjoy Palace Walk, and I really liked a couple of short stories by Mahfouz that I read a few years ago, so I'll probably give some of his other works a try. But I don't think I'll be returning to the Trilogy for some time, if at all.
As you may have gathered from the LibraryThing widget on the right, my next book is Austerlitz. I may not get a chance to start it until next week, though.
I was particularly disappointed that Maryam and her mother -- who in Palace Walk seemed refreshingly normal, their relatively liberated lives a cheerful counterfoil to the repressiveness of el-Sayyid Ahmad's household -- both turned out to be depraved sluts later in the story, almost as if Mahfouz were saying that el-Sayyid Ahmad's attitude toward women was the correct one. In fact, with the spirited Khadija relegated to life as a bitter housewife, all the women in this book seem to fall into one of three categories: repressed, neurotic "traditional" women; crazed nymphomaniacs; and "entertainers", who work as both musicians and prostitutes. (There's also Aida, the Westernised beauty who is the object of Kamal's affections, but since she's seen entirely through Kamal's lens it's hard to tell what she's really supposed to be like.) Mahfouz may be making a point about the options open to women in Egyptian culture, but surely he could have done this while portraying his female characters as three-dimensional human beings.
I did enjoy Palace Walk, and I really liked a couple of short stories by Mahfouz that I read a few years ago, so I'll probably give some of his other works a try. But I don't think I'll be returning to the Trilogy for some time, if at all.
As you may have gathered from the LibraryThing widget on the right, my next book is Austerlitz. I may not get a chance to start it until next week, though.
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