Tuesday, 7 January 2025

Words and Phrases - an Occasional Series: Two Fashionable Words I Avoid

There are words that are strangely appealing to writers, even though they should be resisted in almost all contexts except the context for which they were created. Their allure is the allure of shiny things, when what a writer needs is usually not flashiness but clarity of meaning.

“Shard” is such a word. It is, to be fair, not so much shiny as purple, (as in “purple prose”) - or, if not precisely purple, certainly gaudy. It is a peacock feather word, a glossy substitute for “fragment” or “sliver” or “broken bit”. When encountered in a contemporary poem, it is a disappointing sign that there is probably little point reading further. It serves almost always as an indicator the writer has swooned at the altar of their own poetic rapture.

“Liminal” is another current favourite of writers, although more favoured in prose than in poetry. It is a show-off word. It is supposed to tell the reader that the article they are reading is not a bit of tabloid nonsense but something intellectual. It tells me that I am entering the territory of pomposity. I look for something else to read instead.


Saturday, 28 December 2024

Things I Am Puzzled By - an Occasional Series

 I am increasingly puzzled by the message I'm receiving from many different organs of authority - government, media, corporations - that I should try to minimise activity that uses electricity or other sources of heat, light or locomotive power (because using those things is likely to affect our planet’s climate) and the countervailing pressure I feel I am under to use: bank cards (reliant on electricity) rather than cash to pay for things; electronic devices to interact with government and almost all organisations (more reliance on electricity) rather than talking to a person face-to-face; and AI (enormous consumer of both electricity and water) to “chat” with, for example, my bank, rather than going in and speaking to someone across a counter.


How is minimising the use of power and water compatible with the move towards making us do everything via a screen? 

Friday, 27 December 2024

Reading - The Vanity Fair Diaries by Tina Brown

Until recently I haven't been much of a Kindle reader, but when travelling I have realised an e-reader is a way to indulge my greedy desire to have a vast choice of reading matter without paying extra for luggage or having to deal with heavy cases as I advance in years. And thus, while travelling recently I bought, in a fit of parsimonious jetlag, The Vanity Fair Diaries by Tina Brown for 99p. 

It was, on the face of it, an odd choice, as I don't read Vanity Fair and my vague impression of Tina Brown was the disgustingly English one that she might be a bit 'pushy' - the 'pushy' label is such a brilliant curb to hold back people who might dream of success. Where does it come from, I wonder? Why, if people have drive, is it considered rather sickening in many English circles for them to openly pursue their ambitions? 

I don't know, but one thing is certain - somehow, Tina Brown, although not from the New World, seems to have been oblivious to the notion that she should restrain her work ethic and behave with unpushy decorum. As a result, while still in her thirties she soared across the firmament of magazine publishing, a blazing comet of courage and positivity. While all the way through her diaries I kept wondering whether the goal of producing a glossy magazine was worthy of the ingenuity and constant work she lavished on the task, I nevertheless found the book absolutely riveting. Brown's diaries give a fascinating insight into a particular era and also into what the journey she took as a young English woman in a very competitive field of enterprise in one of the most competitive cities on earth, (New York), was like.

When the book begins, Tina is feeling restless. She is still only in her twenties, but she has already been editing Tatler for some time and she is eager for a greater challenge. When offered the editorship of a failing magazine called Vanity Fair, she grabs the opportunity and hurtles off to live in New York, despite the fact the prospect of the move frightens her quite a lot, particularly as she is leaving her husband behind in London.

What follows is a several stranded story. There is the tale of how she very brilliantly manages to turn Vanity Fair into an enormous financial success, which, at least in her telling, is in large part due to her intense attention to detail, her alertness to the zeitgeist and her ability to spot really good writers and manage them well - plus her obsession with cover photographs, which you slowly realise as the book goes on are among the most important factors influencing magazine sales. 

As well as this purely strategic business story, there is the equally intriguing account of how Brown learns to make her way in the higher echelons of New York society (as well as, to a lesser extent, in Hollywood circles), gaining confidence and achieving an increasing understanding of the way the people she moves amongst think. In this context, her comments about America, most especially New York, versus Great Britain are fascinating. On the one hand, she feels that "the work ethic and energy" in New York "hold you up with invisible hands and make you buoyant when you get out of bed"; on the other, she recognises "how terrifyingly tough NYC is, what an hourly battering it is to stay on top". In America, she says, ''everyone comes at you with such velocity". One reason I found these observations especially interesting is that I think they help one to understand the phenomenon that is Donald Trump. Even though he is no longer young, there is an energy to him that is purely American - and there is also a refreshing energy in the rising generation he has gathered around him. It is an energy that I think people in the old world lack, perhaps inevitably.

Above and beyond these two strands, the business one and the portrait of America, the diaries tell the story of a woman who tries to "have it all". Brown describes with considerable honesty the difficulties of loving your work and your children and trying to keep hold of both without damaging either. She more or less pulls it off, but the struggle involves enormous strain. My heart went out to her as I read. For all our notions of progress, we have not even begun to resolve the dilemma of how brilliant, driven women can have careers and provide the love and attention they feel their children need. Even using the adjective "driven" to describe Brown seems to me to risk casting her in a negative light. Instinctively, many people find ambition in women, particularly women with children, unattractive, even if they don't admit they do. While this visceral reaction might have evolutionary advantages, it makes life difficult for those who are born driven - and it also makes things difficult in the world we now live in, where, to have any chance of owning a place to live, both members of a couple need to work full-time.

In the interstices of the book's three main stories are all sorts of vignettes - Marlon Brando stringing along Brown's husband, (who wants a book out of him), with hours of time in a swimming pool and sauna late in the night, during which Brando recites speech after speech from Antony and Cleopatra entirely from memory; Mick Jagger being hilarious on his motivation for having so many girlfriends; a marvellous scene where Tina and the Kissingers lie on the Kissingers' huge orthopaedic bed watching the start of the Iraq war unfold on television; the revelation that Brown finds Joan Didion rather dull company; glimpses of Robert Hughes while he is writing that work of genius, The Fatal Shore; brushes with Anna Wintour; and on and on.

Strangely, although Brown can see the absurdity of individual situations such as that she describes with the Kissingers, she displays no trace of a larger sense of the silliness of human life. And I realised that this was a huge advantage. To never stop and think, "Is an idiotic magazine really worth draining myself for?" was essential if she was to be successful. If you are unable to take success seriously, you will get nowhere. To be a big shot you need to have faith not only in yourself but in your goal. You can never let yourself glimpse the possibility that what you are scrambling toward may not be worth it - and, luckily for her, that appears not to have been an idea that ever entered Tina Brown's mind. 

By the end of the book I admired Brown for her hard work, her drive and her genuine brilliance in the role she chose for herself. However, there is one thing I have been wondering since I finished reading her Vanity Fair diaries and that is: how is Brown today? Most of us moving into our sixties are aware of having little time left in which to achieve the goals we've always had in the back of our minds - or possibly we've come to the realisation that we won't achieve them. What is it like to have met all your targets in your forties? What do you do with the rest of your life?

Perhaps Brown will release some more diaries and then I will be able to find out.

Saturday, 23 November 2024

The Colours of Mushrooms

I like this. I don't know why. Putting it here means I can find it again easily, look at it some more & maybe eventually be able to explain why it appeals to me. Probably something to do with how it demonstrates the wonderful diversity of the world and the appeal of looking at things from an unusual perspective.

Of course, I could watch a David Attenbrough programme to be reminded of the first bit. But that would mean putting up with David Attenbrough. I may be alone in this but I don't enjoy listening to him or watching him as he travels around the world. Especially now that, having got to an age where he finds travel too exhausting, he has decided that everyone else should be told that travel is a sin.


Tuesday, 29 October 2024

On an Istanbul Ferry



I have never been to Turkey before & I was surprised by this announcement on a ferry across the Golden Horn:

"Dear passengers we would like to remind you that smoking is prohibited indoors and outdoors, in accordance with the will of Allah."

We were on our way to Chore church, which Andrew Graham-Dixon talks about very interestingly 6 minutes into the 8th video in this playlist.

Perhaps when I have time I will do a post about our outing. Chore is a wonderful place. It is now a mosque, which means in one of its rooms a fine mosaic of the Virgin and Child presides over shoeless men & no women all day long:

Actually, as I probably won't in the immediate future get around to a further post on the church, I will add a few of my photographs of its beautiful interior:

















So beautiful. 


Sunday, 27 October 2024

Word of the Month

The word I have noticed I have been using more frequently than usual this month is "dispiriting". 

The continuing phenomenon of marches against Israel in Britain (especially those where police arrest anyone who holds up signs pointing out that Hamas are terrorists) is dispiriting. Leaving aside other aspects of this lunacy, if the protestors are upset about violence and civilian death, as they claim, where were they during the wars in Syria and Yemen? Can it really be pure anti-semitism that brings these crowds of vicious idiots onto the streets?

The hacking attack that has left Internet Archive's library of books inaccessible for some time now is dispiriting in the way all vandalism is.

Searching for a watch strap and discovering none of the ones I used to buy come with brass buckles any more - only buckles made of a silver grey alloy are now made - is dispiriting as I take it as a small indicator that quality is no longer easily available or much cared about. Even things considered to be of very high quality - expensive brand-name goods - do not have the quality of individual craftsmanship. Where is the joy of buying a mass produced handbag labelled Mulberry, compared to the pleasure I had when I was 21 of finding in a tiny street in Venice a bag that was beautifully made and designed by a craftsman in his little workshop? It was an object unlike anything anyone else had bought. It was also expensive but I never regretted buying it. It gave me huge pleasure as an object - and also because of the memory of saving for it, searching for it and finally discovering it. 

The Royal British Legion's decision to stick a sexual politics flag onto their poppy symbol is dispiriting because it suggests that yet another institution has lost its way:

One of the many things we remember with awe and admiration when buying a poppy is the way in which people united and worked together, regardless of their many differences, to fight for what they believed was good. Now the Royal British Legion has decided to introduce division in the name of inclusion. As Roger Scruton pointed out:

"It is not enough to allow homosexual relations between consenting adults: a campaign of 'education' must be introduced into schools and colleges to inculcate the idea that homosexuality is a normal 'option."

Schools and colleges and the Royal British Legion, it seems.

While on the subject of LGBTIQ blah, did you know that the judge who jailed a tubby elderly man for shouting some ugly stuff at a demonstration but let off people who had committed far worse crimes is Master of the Inner Temple LGBTQ+society? I find it dispiriting that the Inner Temple needs such a society and, given that society exists, I hope an Inner Temple Heterosexual Society is also thriving, just for balance.

The jailed elderly man killed himself after a few weeks in jail, by the way. It was predicted that he would have a very hard time in there with AAsiangangs who would victimise him for his anti-immigration views. May he rest in peace along with Britain's freedom(1)

Deeply dispiriting. Especially as the things I have mentioned here do not amount to a comprehensive list of the things I find dispiriting in the world just now.


(1) Regardless of anyone's views on abortion, receiving a large fine for standing silently in a street is an assault on freedom


Saturday, 19 October 2024

Random Thoughts - 19 October 2024

Firstly, until this morning I never knew about this entrancing sculpture The Jockey of Artemision, made in approx 140 BC and part of the collection of the National Archaeological Museum, Athens.

Secondly, what if Keir Starmer had accepted free tickets to see Cosi fan Tutte at Glyndebourne three times, rather than Taylor Swift? Would I be as shocked and disgusted? I fear I wouldn't. Incidentally, if you want an insight into Starmer, I found the episode of Giles Brandreth's Rosebud podcast series in which Brandreth interviewed Starmer very revealing. Not in a good way. 

I should point out that the Rosebud podcasts are entertaining, apart from the Starmer episode - and even that one is worth listening to, if you want to try to understand who Britain's new Prime Minister is. We particularly liked the episode involving Rob Brydon and the one devoted to John Cleese, who seems still to nurse a faint melancholy about never having been appointed a prefect. 

After listening to the Cleese episode, since we were in roughly the right part of England to do so, my husband insisted on making a detour to look at John Cleese's childhood house in Weston-super-Mare. I wouldn't bother, if you were thinking of following suit. I can send you one of the pictures my husband took and you will probably then recognise that it is not a worthwhile use of time.

Speaking of Weston-super-Mare, we ended up there again, several times, shortly after that first Cleese-inspired visit. One of our children was doing some work down by the sea and so we did some grand-parenting while she was busy. 

What is it about British seaside towns? Why do so many of them feel like sets for films about the collapse of civilisation or the world after almost everyone has left to live on Mars? 

There is a great deal of faded splendour in Weston-super-Mare, huge old buildings probably mostly Edwardian, all built with apparent confidence and energy and optimism and now unkempt, often with a superstore or carpark plonked right next to them. Somehow the attempts at grace expressed in the details of the older buildings seem almost laughable, as well as poignant, when viewed beside something made with an almost aggressive lack of regard for aesthetics.

There is a huge sandy beach at Weston-super-Mare, which ought to be attractive to visitors, surely. There are even still donkey rides available on it - when I saw that, I felt I'd gone back in time not just to my childhood but to before the war, as I don't remember donkey rides in my childhood, except in books. There is a fine municipal fountain, but only enormous seagulls frequent it. Perhaps the seagulls eat anyone who comes near, hence their size.

What has happened? Why has so much of coastal Britain - oh all right, so much of Britain generally -' descended into scruffiness? It's more than just poverty; it feels as if there's an almost universal lack of faith that things can be better. And who decided buildings should never aspire to anything beyond function?

I should point out that, once you ignore the groups of drunk men urging you to bring your grandchild over to pat their bull mastiffs who definitely won't bite, and the overweight heavily pierced young people marching about wearing various styles of cheap clothing and coloured hair intended to make them look individual but mostly managing to make them look unoriginal, you can have a nice time. We found a new cafe started up only the week before by some brave and optimistic souls, and a nice little restaurant that is part of a chain but manages to seem individual. I can't remember the name of the chain but each of its outlets is furnished with lots of old wooden tables and chairs and leather sofas, almost certainly bought in country auctions, with the walls absolutely covered with a blizzard of paintings, presumably bought in bulk from the same kinds of places. 

The cumulative effect is rather charming, even though almost all the paintings are really bad - mostly still lives and portraits, with the odd landscape mixed in. Furthermore, sometimes, among all the cheerful tat, one painting shines out at you, obviously better than the rest. In Weston-super-Mare, for example, there was a portrait that seemed to me almost good - and, as it was signed, I was able to look up the artist. His name was Victor Dolphyn and he was Belgian. On the Internet I found that this still life of his sold not too long ago. If I'd had the money and known about the auction, I would have been very happy to buy it for the 800 euros it seems to have gone for: