Bloggaz With Attitude

So to my surprise I find out that Ingerland are playing a crucial qualifier against Russia, yesterday. Playing at footie.

Just shows how I am not even bothering to follow Brit news these days. I had no idea.

So anyway, last night, I have already arranged to go to my book-thumping event - well I call it that, but they call it a book-reading club. It is not a book-club: we each bring a book and talk about it, read out a passage, and then have a discussion, sometimes about the book. Each meeting inspires me, and brings new writers and books to my attention.

Oh and we all bring something to eat and drink... scoff, scoff, guzzle, glug, glug.

So before I go out I stick the digi-box thing to record the match.

So I warn everyone at the meeting not to mention the footie. OK. And we have good evening.

So I get home, get a beer, switch on the telly - Ingerland, Ingerland, Ingerland... I switch on my mobile and some damn Canuke sent me a text congratulating on the win.

Do you remember that episode - "No Hiding Place" - from Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads, when they spend the day avoiding news of the match result... well, sometimes, such things make me believe in poetic justice.

Feb 1960 (ice-off-blue) by Ben Nicholson from the Tate Collection’s website.

Sixty pages in: so far, so good. Wondering what to bring up at the PWRG, it occurred to me that there might be some connection between White’s shifting narrative POV and the epigraphic quotation from Ben Nicholson. Nicholson was a cubist painter; and cubism, of course, is all about exploding the POV. The epigraph says that art and religion are similar in that they both attempt to realize the infinite (or words to that effect). Are White’s narrative tricks, changing from first to second to third person in a single sentence, also an attempt to realize the infinite? Maybe so. It’s very well done– I haven’t been at all confused by this unusual device. And it’s not experimentation without purpose. The narrative voice feels somehow disembodied, floating above the people and events described. This shifting narrative POV acts like a window whereby the concrete events of the story open onto a greater mystery, and a subtle, ethereal wind permeates the whole.

The library has just one book from the Booker longlist and I got it today: Seven Lies by James Lasdun. It’s short, which is reason enough for praise (after reading Amin Maalouf’s Balthazar’s Odyssey I’m a bit weary of shaggy-dog tales). Also, a man called Self liked it plenty. So, to borrow a line from Caddyshack, I’ve got that going for me.

In 1971 John Balaban went to Vietnam to record ca dao, lyric poems passed down orally through generations. Guided by a sympathetic monk, he traversed the war-torn southern countryside, capturing some five hundred ca dao on tape. Most of these poems had never been written down, not even in Vietnamese. In Ca Dao Vietnam: Vietnamese Folk Poetry Balaban presents forty-nine of these stunning, crystalline lyrics in English translation.

The introductory essay suggests that the unassuming, mostly anonymous ca dao are quintessential expressions of Vietnamese culture. “Agrarian dynasties with a cultural continuity of millennia have left few monuments more enduring than the oral poetry and song known today as ca dao.” Linguistic and formal analyses show ca dao to be both ancient (perhaps many thousands of years old) and endemic to Vietnam. In this, they differ from Vietnamese literary poetry, which borrows heavily from Chinese tradition.

As Balaban states in the introduction, “Ca dao are always lyrical, sung to melodies without instrumental accompaniment by an individual singing in the first person…The range of ca dao includes children’s game songs, love songs, lullabies, riddles, work songs, and reveries about spiritual and social orders.” They are informed by a keen, rural sensibility which sometimes appears in brilliant nuggets of folk wisdom.

I am a Mo Village girl. I wander about selling beer, chance to meet you. Good jars don’t mean good brew. Clothes well-mended are better than ill-sewn. Bad beer soon sends you home. A torn shirt, when mended, will look like new.

Many of the poems take love as their subject, but patience and duty generally overrule passion. Buddhist notions of karmic destiny foster a romantic quietism and the necessary social coordination of village life makes the fulfillment of individual desire something less than a priority.

HE: In the long river, fish swim off without a trace. Fated in love, we can wait a thousand years.

SHE: Who tends the paddy, repairs its dike. Whoever has true love shall meet. But when?

A concubine’s bitter lament, a drifter’s carefree song, a jungle soldier’s stoic verse: they are wonderfully varied in tone as well as subject, but all share a vivid sense of metaphor born of the intimate observation of nature. Ca dao are miracles of evocative concision. Simplicity and understatement are the rule.

A tiny bird with red feathers, a tiny bird with black beak drinks up the lotus pond day by day. Perhaps I must leave you.

I wonder how the ca dao tradition has fared these past thirty-odd years. Balaban writes that already in 1971, the people of Saigon thought the tradition was dead. It was only when he took to the road and talked with country folk that he discovered ca dao to be alive and well. Hopefully they are thriving still, despite Vietnam’s increasing economic growth. It would be a shame to lose these verbal treasures, honed over generations, washed smooth in the river of time.

P.S. In a moment of pure, internet magic, Google discovered some of Balaban�s recordings here. Enjoy them there, or go to his own page for a track list, info on his other books and links.

I like this guy, and not just because he�s named Gyorgy. (Can a 29 year old get away with patronizing a nonagenarian? Not likely, but where’s the harm in trying?) I like him because he�s a true blue bibliophile. He�s obviously read everything you can imagine reading and quite a lot more that you can�t even imagine. And I like him because he�s a duece of a raconteur. You know he�s told this story about a thousand times. It�s got a kind of nacreous perfection to it:

… in March 1938, I offered some of my poetry translations to the publishers Uj Idok. They offered me a contract to translate the 1000 most beautiful poems in world literature. When the publisher�s head, Miss Andrassy, who looked rather like a woman from an Italian renaissance painting, asked me when I�d have it ready, I asked for four years. �I have a lot of reading to do: I�ll submit the manuscript after the World War,� I said. She replied: �After the World War? It�s already been.� She couldn�t believe there�d be another. In the end, we agreed on a deadline of 1942. I finally completed the first version of the anthology in spring 1988. It�s now being reissued, with another 500 poems. I don�t regret chasing down great poems all my life. I learned something that few people know: that Japanese, Chinese, Persian and Arab poetry has just as much value as European poetry.

That�s what I want to learn! But does he actually read all of those languages? Amazing. Meanwhile my Spanish, rarely used even in its heyday, quietly gathers dust in some climate-controlled storage of the mind. And that�s not all the sad news. Faludy points out the grim fact that my generation is sinking into an age of darkness�as if I didn�t know it already.

In the US, people read 35 to 40 per cent fewer books now than 20 years ago. And the numbers continue to fall. Of courses, we�ve seen this before. Around 350AD, people stopped reading. At the time of Marcus Aurelius, there were 88 libraries in Rome. Under Constantine the Great there was only one. I think we stand before a great crisis, which is consuming literature.

Oh! when will I be able to recount the sociological trends of the ancient world with such assurance? There�s only one thing for it: I�ve got to hit the books. And it�s true what they say, nature helps the one who helps one�s self. Call it a minor miracle if you wish, but the local library actually has one of Faludy�s books in circulation. It�s a biography of Erasmus, with the pithy title of… Erasmus. Which is perfect because I know next to nothing about Erasmus. That�s one of the few benefits of ignorance, pretty much everywhere you turn there�s something to be learned. So the too-be-read list gets a little bit longer. [Link is from The Literary Saloon]

It would be wrong, however, to dismiss, as so many commentators have, the wide variety of Caesarean sensuality as simply the viciousness of twelve abnormal men. They were, after all, a fairly representative lot. They differed from us—and their contemporaries—only in the fact of power, which made it possible for each to act out his most recondite sexual fantasies. This is the psychological fascination of Suetonius. What will men so placed do? Alfred Whitehead once remarked that one got the essence of a culture not by those things which were said at the time but by those things which were not said, the underlying assumptions of the society, too obvious to be stated. Now it is an underlying assumption of twentieth-century America that human beings are either heterosexual, or through some arresting of normal psychic growth, homosexual; the family is central; all else is deviation pleasing or not depending on one’s own tastes and moral preoccupations. Suetonius reveals a very different world. His underlying assumption is that man is bisexual and that given complete freedom to love—or, perhaps more to the point in the case of the Caesars, to violate—others, he will do so, going blithely from male to female as fancy dictates. Nor is Suetonius alone in this assumption of man’s variousness. From Plato to the rise of Pauline Christianity, which tried to put the lid on sex, it is explicit in classical writing.

Gore Vidal, from his 1959 essay �Robert Graves and the Twelve Caesars.�

Last week I checked the Oxford Book of Essays out from the local library without looking to see exactly what was inside. Later, when I opened the thing and scanned the table of contents I was pleasantly surprised to see Gore Vidal�s write-up on Suetonius listed there. I recently finished reading The Twelve Caesars and found it every bit as fascinating as he did. Unfortunately I wasn�t equipped with Whitehead�s advice on getting at the essence of a culture, which Vidal puts to such good use. In addition to the question of sexual norms, certain preconceived ideas about political power are addressed in the essay. Suetonius, Vidal says, shows us a world in which it is taken for granted that men pursue and exercise power for the mere pleasure of it. It�s politics as a great game of king-of-the-hill. Vidal suggests that in American democracy, this fact is obscured by all sorts of myths, for instance the noble desire to serve the people. It�s interesting stuff. I wonder where else Whitehead’s advice might be applied?