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"This work" is licensed under CC BY 4.0“Ever tried? Ever failed? No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Samuel Beckett

A handful of posts back I gently mourned the lack of a decent (IMHO!) Sunday Paper here in western Canada and breathed an authored sigh of relief at the discovery of The Atlantic magazine – by way of compensation.

As it happens I had not originally intended the subject of that missive to be my quest to find an agreeable journal here on the island, but rather an appreciation of a particular article that I had come across within the digital variant of my new favourite source of commentary.

The piece concerned is titled “The Fine Art of Failure” and is by the Canadian novelist, Stephen Marche. In fact, the article was adapted from the Marche’s slim Field Notes volume – “On Writing and Failure” (the which is also apparently subtitled – “On the Peculiar Perseverance Required to Endure the Life of a Writer”). I was so taken with the article that I Amazoned forthwith and purchased the real thing.

Marche’s premise is that it doesn’t matter how famous or well-respected one becomes as a writer – the main focus of one’s existence is exactly the same as for the complete beginner… that of being continually rejected (albeit at a somewhat elevated level). Marche writes:

Failure is the body of a writer’s life. Success is only ever an attire. A paradox defines this business: the public only see writers in their victories but their real lives are mostly in defeat“.

Much of this slim tome is made up of the sort of anecdotes that should be taken to heart. A few pages in Marche discusses the “cruel species of irony [that] drove the working life of Herman Melville“:

“His first book was Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life, pure crap and a significant bestseller. His final book was Billy Budd, an extreme masterpiece he couldn’t even manage to self-publish. His fate was like the sick joke of some cruel god. The better he wrote, the more he failed”.

For those dreaming of literary success Marche is clear-eyed:

The internet loves to tell stories about famous writers facing adversity. … What I find strange is that anyone finds it strange that there’s so much rejection. The average telemarketer has to make eighteen calls before finding someone willing to talk with him or her. And that’s for s*** people might need, like a vacuum cleaner or a new smartphone. Nobody needs a manuscript”.

…or a song …or a play …or a screenplay …or a painting! Marche acknowledges that his thesis is not restricted to the literary arts. It is the same all over.

I cannot recommend this slender volume enough to anyone who harbours the creative urge. It is strangely and contrarily reassuring to all those of us who had – at some point – to choose between keeping the stacks of rejection letters or throwing them away (or indeed burning them!) and giving up the whole idea.

You know who you are!

 

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“Good news is rare these days, and every glittering ounce of it should be cherished and hoarded and worshipped and fondled like a priceless diamond.”

Hunter S. Thompson

It is hardly feasible – no matter how hard our forefathers may have attempted so to do back in the bad old colonial days – to relocate to the far side of the world without making changes to the way one lives. Such modifications may turn out to be unexpectedly significant or even life-changing. Lesser amendments, on the other hand, might go virtually unnoticed in the moment – though perhaps acquiring greater import with the passage of time and with the benefit of hindsight.

I am writing this – for instance – on a Sunday. Back in the UK a key part of the Sunday ritual would have been the quick trip out in the morning to purchase coffees and a stack of Sunday newspapers. My personal and long standing favourite was The Observer – now part of the Guardian group.

When we came to Canada we looked around for a substitute; only to discover that there really isn’t one…  at least, not in a truly satisfying sense. There are some multi-part weekend papers to be sure, but they are very meagre fare by comparison to their British counterparts. They lack weight in all senses and are sadly not able – in my view – to  boast columnists or journalists of a comparable calibre to their UK equivalents.

It is, of course, quite possible to purchase British newspapers – including The Observer – in Canada… if one is prepared to wait for half a week and to pay a hefty premium for so doing. We are – needless to say – not!

It is further a fact of life these days that pretty much everything print-based has now been moved (or duplicated) online. It is certainly possible to read all of the titles with which we are familiar on the tiny screen, though some are protected by pay-walls to which I am not prepared to donate. Not all of these transitions online has been effected in an agreeable form. The Independent (my daily paper of choice in the UK when I had time to read such a thing) is now an online only journal that is sadly (but inevitably) beset by advertising. No big deal in itself were it not that the implementation in this case results in the screen constantly refreshing and jumping about as one tries to read – in the service of dandling fresh adverts before one’s weary eyes. The whole experience is so irritating that I was obliged to withdraw a routine contribution to their funds and to look elsewhere.

With the BBC website now a shadow of its former self – though still indispensable – I find myself now a subscriber to The Guardian – something that I had not anticipated. Though The Guardian‘s politics have always found favour in our household we have often thought them to be a little too po-faced to be likeable and their writers a little over-fond of the sanctimonious.

A year or so back I found myself searching furiously for a new source of cultural and current affairs analysis; a journal with its heart in the right place but still attractive to writers who knew how to turn a phrase and to frame a persuasive argument. I found just such in The Atlantic – that venerable literary magazine that has evolved into an influential platform for long-form storytelling and news-maker interviews. In addition to its monthly edition it produces a most useful daily digest of articles during the working week – and I would not now willingly be without it.

I recommend it – regardless of where in the world you reside.

 

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David Crosby
1941 – 2023
Jonathan Raban
1942 – 2023
RIP

Joe Mabel, Jonathan Raban 07, CC BY-SA 3.0
Eddie Janssens, David crosby-1547297410, CC BY-SA 4.0

It is a sad fact that the passing of those who have shaped our lives – those who have, in some form or other, become our heroes through the years – should occur with increasing frequency as the years go by. It is also the case that these sad occasions come thicker and faster during the winter months.

Such is life… and death.

This week two huge figures in my personal pantheon have gone beyond this place:

David Crosby was a major musical figure for much of my life and, whereas CSN(Y) were maybe not quite in my premier league of immortal bands, I found myself coming back to them again and again as the years passed. What drew me in were, of course, the sublime harmonies… to which I still routinely refer whenever I have a harmony of my own to write. For this – and for the bittersweet songs – much respect. ‘Helplessly Hoping’ indeed…

Jonathan Raban was a year younger than was Crosby but, I suspect, hailed from a very different world. The Guardian’s obituary starts:

The British author, who lived in the US, blended memoir and travelogue in books that were often inspired by the sea

Another Guardian piece is entitled:

Jonathan Raban: his travel writing could pierce your heart

What’s not to like?

Raban’s best book – for my money – is “A Passage to Juneau“. What appears on the surface to be an account of a sailing trip from Seattle, up the Inside Passage to Juneau in Alaska, is actually a disquisition on the death of Raban’s father and the slow-motion wreck of his own marriage. It is also a revelatory and sublime introduction to the Pacific Northwest – and thus not to be missed.

David Crosby – Jonathan Raban – Rest in Peace…

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Peter Brook
1925 – 2022
RIP

There is little that I could write about the towering figure of post-war British theatre that was Peter Brook that could not – and will not – be far better addressed elsewhere. His influence on the theatre was immense, even once he had retreated to Paris and was less frequently seen in the UK. Sadly I was too young to catch the productions at the Royal Shakespeare Company that cemented his reputation (the which famously included ground-breaking productions of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream‘ and ‘Marat/Sade‘) and I only saw the filmed version of ‘The Mahabharata‘.

Brook was – of course – not only a theatre practitioner, but also a teacher, a thinker and a writer on the subject of the noble arts. Theatre students today would do just as well to seek out his many books. A quick hunt around my shelves reveals copies of ‘The Shifting Point‘, ‘There are no Secrets‘, ‘The Tip of the Tongue‘ and – of course – ‘The Empty Space‘ – without which I would not be.

A sad loss to the theatre and to the world.

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Antony Sher

1949 – 2021

RIP

It is, sadly, that time of year when those who are elderly or infirm – or who have been fighting against illness or disease – are perhaps at their most vulnerable. It should come as no surprise that amongst the number of those who pass at this time there will inevitably be found great men and women whose loss – though no more profound than those less known – may touch a greater number of those of us who remain.

It is but a few days since Stephen Sondheim was mourned in these jottings – and of course in many other fora. Now comes news of the passing of the great Shakespearean actor – Antony Sher. Sher was born and brought up in South Africa in the 1950s and 60s, before fleeing to London to train to be an actor. His record as a great Shakespearean – with the Royal Shakespeare Company and with other prestigious companies – is detailed splendidly in many other places and one could do worse than to start with Wikipedia.

Sher also wrote a number of books and his memoir of the year in which he played Richard III at the RSC – a role that cemented his reputation – was published in 1985 as “The Year of the King“.

Sher was married to Greg Doran – the Artistic Director of the RSC. I had the very great fortune to meet both men whilst working at my penultimate school. Doran had – as I recall – been invited to judge one of the School’s many competitions and Antony Sher accompanied him. At the dinner that inevitably follows such events I found myself sitting beside the latter for a while. I had just read his autobiography – “Beside Myself” – in which he wrote movingly about his relationship with his late father. At that point (in the early 2000s) my father had also recently died and we had a conversation about the effect that this has on one. He was entirely gracious and thoughtful and I was most grateful that he had been prepared to be so open with someone that he had not previously met.

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“The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work”

Emile Zola

I am currently reading “The Gift”, by the estimable Lewis Hyde. I shall have more to say about the book once I have finished it, but already all manner of fascinating thoughts and notions have been triggered thereby.

Sadly, as befits my increasingly elderly status, I cannot now recall exactly how I came to the book in the first place, though I feel certain that it must have been referenced in something else that I was investigating. That is normally the way these things happen – to me in any case. I do know that I was greatly attracted by this quote from the foreword by Canadian icon – Margaret Atwood:

[A] classic… If you want to write, paint, sing, compose, act or make films – read ‘The Gift’”

One motif from the book has already attracted my attention and formed itself into the outline of a song. I certainly did not set out with this in mind, but the muse – as we all surely know – works in wondrous and unexpected ways…

…as became all the more apparent late one night last week.

I find quite frequently that one of more elements of a new song will unfurl themselves relatively rapidly and without my having any real idea as to how this has happened. At this point I might well get stuck – with no idea how the piece will proceed from its temporary conclusion.

My normal procedure – with a view to jump-starting proceedings – is to play/sing repeatedly that which I have already written, in the hope that the next part of the composition will suddenly reveal itself to me by emerging organically from the elements that I already have. This sometimes has the desired effect but as often as not simply results in my straining way too hard for a result and ending up with nothing of any use.

Now I am a night owl. The Girl heads for bed reasonably early but I often get in a couple of hours work before I follow her. This I was doing the other night, in my search for a suitable chorus for the new track. I could feel that my efforts were going nowhere and – having an early start the following morning – I decided to call it a day.

I shut everything down in the studio – doused the lights and tip-toed upstairs in the dark. No sooner than I had emerged onto our main floor than the whole chorus arrived in my head – out of nowhere! Not only did I get the melody and the phrasing but also the harmonic progression and half of the words.

Now – how did that happen!

Of course – to ensure that my flash of inspiration was not lost to posterity I was obliged to scuttle back downstairs, to power everything up again and to rapidly commit this latest gift to my recording software – lest I should forget it again overnight…

What a wondrous thing is the creative process!

Thank you…!

 

 

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A very dear friend here in Victoria gave me for Christmas a copy of Bob Woodward’s 2020 book on Donald Trump – ‘Rage‘. This friend is building an excellent reputation for giving me thoughtful and imaginative gifts – particularly in the form of books that should be read – and this is no exception.

Now – some readers might well demur.

Trump is gone – thank heavens!” – they may say. “Why would you not just consign all thoughts thereof to the dustbin of history?“.

The reason for not so doing, of course, is that one must always be on guard and must without fail be able to recognise the enemy. That Trump was elected in the first place is scary enough. That he might be so again – or that someone in his image could so do – is an ongoing, clear and present threat.

At one point in the book Woodward recalls an English professor at his college who advised him that – to be an effective biographer – the writer must find true ‘reflectors‘ of his subject – ie: those who know the subject intimately and can provide perceptive character assessments. Woodward toys with the notion of casting Jared Kushner (Trump’s son in law) in the role, but decides that he is too much in thrall to the man himself.

What changes his mind is advice that Kushner gives to unspecified others on how to understand Trump. He points them in the direction of four texts:

  • A piece on Trump by Pulizter Prize-winning columnist from the Wall Street Journal – Peggy Noonan. Noonan writes:

We are not talking about being colorfully, craftily unpredictable, as political masters like FDR and Reagan sometimes were, but something more unfortunate – an unhinged or not fully-hinged quality that feels like a screwball tragedy.

Noonan continues: “Crazy doesn’t last. Crazy doesn’t go the distance. Crazy is an unstable element that, when let loose in a stable environment, explodes.

  • Kushner’s second text is ‘Alice in Wonderland‘ – and specifically the Cheshire Cat! Kushner paraphrased the cat:

If you don’t know where you are going, any path will get you there.

  • The third text is Chris Whipple’s book – ‘The Gatekeepers: How the White House Chiefs of Staff Define Every Presidency‘. In a section on Trump added in 2018 Whipple wrote that:

Trump ‘clearly had no idea how to govern’ in his first year in office, yet was reluctant to follow the advice of his first two chiefs of staff – Reince Priebus and John Kelly“.

  • The final text is Scott Adam’s (the creator of the Dilbert comic strips) book – ‘Win bigly: Persuasion in a World Where Facts Don’t Matter’. Adams argues that:

Trump’s misstatements of fact are not regrettable errors or ethical lapses, but part of a technique called ‘intentional wrongness persuasion’Trump ‘can invent any reality’ for most voters on most issues and ‘all you will remember is that he provided his reasons, he didn’t apologise and his opponents called him a liar like they always do’.”

Kushner adds:

Controversy elevates message… A controversy over the economy – and how good it is – only helps Trump because it reminds voters that the economy is good. A hair-splitting fact-checking debate in the media about whether the numbers were technically better decades ago or in the 1950s is irrelevant“.

Remember that these are texts that Kushner – a fervent acolyte of the then-president – volunteered by way of trying to help others to understand Trump. Woodward concludes:

When combined, Kushner’s four texts painted President Trump as crazy, aimless, stubborn and manipulative. I could hardly believe that anyone would recommend these as ways to understand their father-in-law, much less the president they believed in and served“.

We would be wise – to quote Thomas Cranmer – to: “Read, mark, learn and inwardly digest…

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I thought it only fair that I should add quick addendum to my previous missive on the difficulties of turning out blog content using WordPress 5.5 (the latest update at the time of writing) – should one be wedded (as am I) to the ‘Classic’ editor rather than whatever it is that WordPress want us to adopt now.

My complaint (should you have missed that message) was that the ‘Classic’ editor (which WordPress is trying to phase out) ceased to work after the recent upgrade to WordPress 5.5.

After further research online I have ascertained that the problem actually lies elsewhere – probably with one or more third party plugins that get referenced by the editor.

OK – now this is going to get a tiny bit technical, but I promise to keep it as simple as possible.

These older plugins had continued to work across previous upgrades because the WordPress build itself used to include a library called Jquery.Migrate – the purpose of which was to provide a mechanism for out of date code to continue to operate even if using deprecated methods. WordPress have now removed that library – hence the pain.

Some good-hearted folk from the Open-Source community have kindly and generously provided a workaround in the shape of a new plugin – Jquery.Migrate.Helper. This gets tools such a the Classic Editor working again – albeit with a constant background cacophony of warning messages.

WordPress seems to be determined to be shot of the whole affair, however, which doesn’t bode well for future upgrades… regardless of the veritable howls of protest from around the community.

Now – what else does that remind you of?

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I am not a happy bunny!

I consider myself to be a long-term user of WordPress – the platform on which this blog is constructed. I have used the software since establishing the blog in 2012, but have also built a number of websites on it and have cheerfully recommended the platform to others looking to establish any sort of web presence themselves.

I am – to put it mildly – a fan.

I am not – however – a fan of some of the things that they have done recently.

When one writes routinely and regularly – an activity which requires speed and accuracy – one demands that the tools that one uses do a good, efficient job without getting in the way of the creative process. Such folk – and particularly those who are growing a bit long in the tooth (such as I) – do not like their tools to change because that interrupts the process, disrupts the flow and requires an agonising re-learning period just at the point that one is trying to focus elsewhere – on that which is being created!

The editor that one uses (or used to use) in WordPress is fairly basic, but it is simple – not unlike using a word processor such as Word. It had its drawbacks but many of us loved it and knew intimately its various foibles.

In their wisdom WordPress decided to replace it. Many of us old farts immediately disliked the new tool – a very different beast called the Block Editor. WordPress claims that it is simple to use. Well – let me tell you – it ain’t! Now – I realise this is the equivalent of some teenager telling you that his new mobile device is ‘simple’ to use. That is because it is – to him! Not so the rest of us…

Fortunately – in this case WordPress relented slightly and allowed us old buggers to continue using the ‘Classic’ editor whilst the hip young things got on and did whatever the heck it was that they wanted to do. So that was OK – until the recent upgrade to WordPress 5.5. Now – though the Classic Editor is still visible and can still be opened – lots of bits of it don’t work anymore. It is for that reason that this post looks a mess – ‘cos I can’t access the tools that I am used to employing to format it properly. I can’t format the image – I can’t add tags – I can’t look at the page in raw text mode – I can’t tell how many words I have written…

In fact – I can’t at the moment tell what it is going to look like when published – so my apologies if it is simply unreadable!

Bah!

Not impressed!

 

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“In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing.
About the dark times.”

Bertolt Brecht, motto to Svendborg Poems, 1939

This poignant motto appears at the head of the last collection of poems published by Bertolt Brecht during his lifetime. He was by then living in exile from Nazi Germany in the town of Svendborg on the Danish island of Funen.

The ‘dark times’ to which he refers are, of course, considerably darker even than those which afflict us now, but a search on the InterWebNet for uses to which this brief motto has been put reveals a plethora of such instances in recent times – starting with the invasion of Iraq in 2003 and gathering pace since 2016. The latest of which I am aware was by Chris Riddell for his cartoon on the Corona virus lock-down in the UK for last Sunday’s Observer newspaper.

When I first became aware of Normal Lewis’ wartime memoir – through Francesco Patierno’s film, shown on the BBC toward the end of last year – the current COVID-19 crisis did not even feature on the roadmap of impending concerns. Now, of course, contemplation of conflicts still sharp in the living memory has become something of a pastime – or more accurately a ‘pass-time’, since many of us are unable to follow our preferred pursuits and must needs instead find alternative ways to occupy the time that hangs heavy on our hands. It has become quite the thing to compare our current trials and tribulations with those of the generation that lived through the last world war.

There are good reasons for so doing – though even better ones for exercising finer judgement. We do indeed live in unprecedented times. As things stand we have no idea how this is all going to pan out, or into what reality we might emerge on the other side. When we look back we can discern no other period since the last war in which so many people’s lives were simultaneously thrown into chaos by such a crisis – be that through the direct touch of the pandemic itself, or through loss of employment, income or – even worse – of friends and loved-ones.

Writing about my father’s war-time experience in Italy – contemporaneous with that of Norman Lewis – I suggested that he had subsequently spoken very little about his experiences there. My mother would describe how she went outside to watch the vapour trails over south London during the Battle of Britain, but otherwise she likewise gave little away about how the war had affected her and those close to her.

We know – we think we know – from our readings of history, from novels and poetry and from the many film and TV productions concerning the war and its aftermath – just how broken and fragmented was the world in the latter half of the 1940s. Populations had been destroyed or displaced, the greater part of a generation had lost their lives, families and societies had been torn asunder, economies wrecked and great expanses of the old world reduced to piles of rubble. How could the world – the lives – ever be rebuilt?

Yet many of those who lived through that period chose not to – or simply could not – speak thereof… and the world – as it does – moved on.

In this age of instant and incessant ‘communication’ there is perhaps a case for saying rather less and listening – and thinking – rather more…

…and – yes! – I am aware of the contradiction in so writing.

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