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some people definitely have too much time on their hands

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no-one got to me like this today.

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This is my night life

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I thought this was an interesting angle on street art.

The bit about the council asking him to clean it up made me laugh too.

[cc]

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just saw this on Gizmodo - I like.

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Still my favourite Dilbert ever…

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This :

took this :

solid icy touch
warms your fingers somehow
very yellow man

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I got caught up another bloody captain meme-o. I blame the strangely compelling Rockstar Mommy

I AM: here, now.

I SAID: it would all be fine, nothing to worry about.

I WANT: to make myself clear but I lack the confidence to be concise.

I WISH: I could just keep walking, forever.

I HATE: that feeling you get when you suddenly realise you were hopelessly wrong.

I MISS: the excitement of new discoveries

I FEAR: failure

I HEAR: pineapples are very cheap this time of year

I WONDER: why why why why why, she ran away … my little runaway, run run run run runaway.

I REGRET: lack of foresight, lack of eyesight, not looking, not seeing. When I should have.

I AM NOT: sure if I’m right, but I am sure I might be.

I DANCE: like a disco guru in my head, and like your drunk uncle on the floor.

I SING: along to only two songs

I AM NOT ALWAYS: so indecissive, er, or am I ?

I MADE: it all up, everything, the world around me and my perception of it is no more than a dream I’m yet to wake from.

I WRITE: long hand with a pen when I’m out and full speed on the hot dark keys when I’m back.  I’m not sure it matters what I write sometimes, it’s the clatter and tap as the words form themselves in the space between my mind and my hands that calms me as it closes the shutters outside and opens all the doors inside.

I CONFUSE: easy, use small words and keep it simple, stupid.

I NEED: to find some peace. But I also hate it when it’s quiet, the silence is deafening.

I SHOULD: get away with it.

I START: the day with coffee strong enough to melt the cup.

I FINISH: every book I start, even if it takes me forever to struggle through a turgid dissapointment of a bad book choice.

I BELIEVE: in miracles, since you came along, you sexy thing.

I KNOW: that if anyone reads this they won’t get this far down so I can say whatever I like from here on in.

I CAN: make a menu selection in the time it takes to say “pan fried catfish”.

I CAN’T: sleep deep.  I either doze or dream.

I SEE: someone else in the mirror.

I BLOG: therefore I am, avoiding doing proper writing.

I READ: every word that passes; packets, paper, post.  Possibly for posterity.

I AM AROUSED BY: Injustice, wonder, perfection.

IT PISSES ME OFF: when my network connection slows inexplicably.

I FIND: my way better without a map.

I LIKE: big skies but also high rise, hot summers but also cold winters, going away but also coming home.

I LOVE: the journey as much as the destination.

and yes, I am expecting you to complete all of this yourself, all of it, no sneakily missing bits out, right.

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in response to K7’s tagged :

What were you doing 10 years ago?
1996…left one job, spent redundancy cash on a trip to the Seychelles, started new job in central Brighton, passed professional certification, spent winter in front of the fire in cold flat.

What were you doing 5 years ago?
2001..House all done up, bought big sofa, working in the city building a new engineering team, mainly drinking in the Tap and the Basketmakers.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
2005…working far too much, sleeping far too little. Read For Whom The Bell Tolls, spent alot of time on Palimpsest.

5 Bad habits you have
buying more books than I can read, spending more time online than I have, drinking more than is safe, cynicism, looking up restaurant menus in advance of visiting them and deciding what I’m going to have days before I get there.

5 People you would like to do this: Digger, da.vebrig.gs, HoneyPotts, maxivida, ono no komachi

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a photo I’m happy with. It just came out right somehow, no post-processing apart from a slight crop, I’m pleased with the composition and the light/colour balance.

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Bills Produce Store, North Road, Brighton.

Served Straight Up.

Having read the other reviews of this little gem, it’s become apparent that it
is in fact impossible to write about it without using the word “cornucopia”.  In this matter, I am, of course, no exception.  Maybe they would have named the shop thus if it wasn’t the second incarnation of the existing business in Lewes and if there wasn’t already a shop on Queens road
with that name. 

Anyway, onwards to the meat of the matter.  A combined cornucopia of organic veg, packed produce incorporating a cool café greats you as you peer round the front door of the old bus depot turned dodgy car park on North Road.  A very cool café at this time of year, in fact bloody freezing, so much so that the staff are even handing out hot water botles to the shivering punters.  The excellent strong coffee helps here though as does the everso slightly off beat breakfast menu and the tempting specials on the hanging boards overhead. 

This well tuned concept is already a proven success with the original Lewes outlet and it’s ideal for Brighton’s North Laine.  This buying the products to take away will likely come back to sit down in the café.  Those sampling the breakfast specials and larger lunches are surrounded by tempting arrays of bright fresh fruit and veg and are quite likely to stock up on their way out. 

The overall theme here is honesty ; scrubbed wood furniture, concrete floor, exposed ducting and a fully open professional kitchen add to the friendly staff and quirky payment system ; they take your name, you go and pay, there’s no bill at Bills.

Estia, Hampton Place, Brighton

A veritable mezedopolis

Ignore the 80’s white-out effect inside and just concentrate on the menu.  Estia is very much the home of the mezze so the idea is to eat an array of Greek Cypriot dishes as they emerge from the kitchen one by one.

A bit like a serialised Tapas adventure.  there’s also some conventional size dishes, so if you’re not quite up for the main event, it’s still perectly possible to sample some simple, classic Greek dishes.

Fish features strongly of course with prawns, shellfish and swordfish all making an appearance. The standard beef stifado also gets a mention though. 

There’s a Bargain drinks list and friendly family service completes the picture making Estia an interesting choice for a big eating night out.

Las Iguanas, Jubilee Street, Brighton

The Half Brazillian.

Ten out of ten for effort with this new venture in a newly developed street along side the new Library.  Las Iguanas really wants us to love it but unfortunately the best rating they’re going to get is “quite nice”.  That may be a bit harsh, there’s nothing actually wrong with the menu or the cooking, and the atmosphere is certainly helped by the 2-for-1 BOGOF drinks offers.  It’s just all a bit of a fake and that’s proving difficult to hide.

The bar though is an instant hit, cool, quite cosy and with a decent cocktail list (including a 10 year old cachaça).  It’s already become a top local drinking den.  So, go for a brazillian themed tex-mex if you fancy it but make sure you hit the bar after.

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The Londoner
Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner that I still quite like the tube.  Even though I avoid it completely most of the year, occasionally I go to www.tfl.gov.uk, look up the genius map and plan a journey.  The now rarity of the experience makes me forgive and forget the heat, the closeness of punters and the unique smell arising from bodies, grease, grinding metal and electrical windings.  I’m transported back to the days of my youth, mounting the Waterloo escalator and descending into a smokey fog cut through with the glow of the red on yellow ticket machines announcing their 20, 40 and 50p fares.  Today it’s a little bit different, but only a subtle, little bit.  The Bakerloo trains have been updated, I’m less worried about the wooden floor collapsing now, and of course we have the supposedly calming female voice telling us what’s coming up.  Except I’m not relaxed, I’m more tense now, I preferred it when we had a hilarious (and quite often drunk) real person cracking gags about elastic band drives and doors to stand clear of.  Now we have the anodyne, pre-recorded ethereal presence telling us what’s what and where’s next.  No vote of confidence there though since it’s so blatantly pre-programmed to the point of total banality.  What’s she going to say when the ship goes down ?  “You have committed an illegal operation, A system error Has occurred, Please save your data and shut down you applications, the system will restart in 10 seconds, 9 seconds….”
Fortunately on this December lunchtime there was no drama, just a short few stops from Embankment to Paddington, pick up a ticket and board the Great Malvern Express for the short run to Oxford.

The Pitt Rivers Museum

Fortune favoured this traveller who woke up at Reading with plenty of time to enjoy the smooth swish through the green swathes of Oxfordshire.  Jump off the train, a short trot to the hotel, check in, dump belongings and head straight out to the Pitt Rivers collection at the back of the Oxford University Museum of Natural History.  Heading off St. Giles and down the alley past the side entrance of the Lamb and Flag, the museum is pretty hard to miss, it’s quite ornate on the outside but that’s nothing to the interior.  The first sight that hits you once inside is the roof.  Soaring beams surround myriad glass segments making a collosal greenhouse in Victorian neo-gothic splendour.  It’s huge, stunning, incredible and dwarfs even the largest exhibits in the collection below.  At this time of year, the T-Rex skeleton stands astride a small twinkling christmas tree which is almost comic in proportion to the pre-historic beasty above it.  The rest of the displays are no less impressive though and the museum maintains a distinct focus on education rather than entertainment.  Tucked away in the far corner were my favourite specimens, African and an Asian elephant skeletons standing side by side showing all the extreme size bones and joints required to support these great beasts.  Onward to the Pitt Rivers collection and what a treasure trove of worldwide anthropology it is.  There’s just too much to take in, a forest of exhibits and cases, each stuffed with individually labeled and carefully catalogued items separated by subjects such as writing tools, religion, death of enemies, clothing, weaving, boats, human figures, animal figures, dwellings, flutes, harps, imbibing instruments, and a hundred or more more.  It’s impossible to pick a subject, all you can do is gaze over the sheer range of objects and come away with a little new knowledge and wondering what will pop up on the next visit.  Nowhere near enough time to even get half way round before closing time so a last look round some favourites and off for a restorative Guinness in the Bird and Baby.  Or as the sign says, “The Eagle and Child”.  Nice boozer whatever it’s called.  I didn’t realise how much I actually missed the traditional English pub now that my locals have all been replaced by scrubbed wood bars with clear windows and ironic snacks.  This one’s a classic inn with dark wood panelling, lots of individual rooms to hide away in and a real sense of drinkers down the ages, the echoes of their singing and slurping embedded in the fabric of the building.  Seriously cold outside so had to have another stout or two before sprinting underdressed, freezing but merry back to the Randolph.

The Randolph Hotel

This is a pretty fancy establishment and almost lives up to its’ promise and price tag.  The building is certainly impressive and can hold its’ own among the greats around it, the staircase is suitably grand and the rooms have a more than acceptable finish.  Although only here for one night, I made sure I sampled as much of the hospitality as practical and headed straight for the Morse Bar to assess the quality of liquid refreshment provision.  A totally professional bar manager makes quality service look almost effortless.  She’s a great loss to the Czech Republic and absolutely makes this place.  Bit of a shame about the punters though, generally a bunch of self-agrandising ageing ego-tossers.  Then again, who else is going to pay £8.30 for a G&T (er, well I did but I didn’t realise quite how much that second drink was going to add to my bill at the time).  On to the in-house restaurant with its’ slightly limited and conservative menu, but again, above average for this type of establishment.  The numerous staff couldn’t be nicer, even to a young scruffian like me although they need a little education on the drinks front.  The Wine list was OK as far as it went, only the Argentinian Malbec appealed and even then it was probably a few years too young to be drinking today.  The best of the restaurant’s offerings came towards the end of the meal, the special cheese menu had my name written all over it with some of my favourites making an appearance.  Show me a list which includes Swaledale, yarg, Golden Cross and Oxford blue and I’m more than happy. 

Looking out of the grandiose windows and the attraction of this place is obvious.  The location could not be better.  An easy walk from the station, backing right on to the main fun-fair of the town centre, and round the corner from the pubs of Jericho and St. Giles so no complaints there.  I am going to have one more price hike related whinge though - £4 for 20 minutes internet access is information highway robbery.  At those rates I’d be better off out in the street, looking for blue chalk and connecting portable wi-fi to unguarded routers.

Breakfast in Jericho
Up not so bright but pretty early (for a Saturday) and off out to meet JD for breakfast.  Totally misjudged the distance on the google map so was half running to the Jericho Cafe when she caught me up along Walton Street.  Approaching out of the blinding sunlight, all I could see was a green coat and a massive halo for a moment and then the fabulous Digger emerged and lead me to her favourite local eatery.  It’s so strange in a way to meet a web friend in real world, we know so much about some parts of the surface of each others’ lives but without any of the background or substance behind it.  We’ve seen the holiday pics, voted on our photo comp entries, read our reviews and commented on our opinions, but it’s all without context.  And for the most part it still is, nowhere near enough time to talk about all the threads that brought us together, let alone all the others yet undiscovered.  Palimpsest and Flilckr featured of course and even discussing such web entrenched subjects face to face seems strange at first.  Liberating to be able to say out loud all the things you’ve thought about though, especially with someone who understands the detail.  Then there’s the City of London factor.  Being an expert in old buildings, JD knows more about what lies below my working environment than anyone could imagine.  I like Paternoster Square and Temple Bar, I like to take pics of them, whereas she’s dug it up and studied the whole history of the layers beneath.  To quote my favourite Vulcan, “fascinating”.
A couple of coffees and a simple breakfast to clear our heads of the previous evening’s extravagances and we were off on our architectural tour of this unique city. 

The Sights

Quick pit stop at chez Digger for her to don warmer gear and we could start seeing sights.  First of all, the gargantuan Oxford Universtiy Press which dominates Jericho, it’s truly as massive in its’ physical presence as it has been in the world of literature and publishing.  On through the eateries and lights of Clarendon street, back along St. Giles to cross Broad St. and round the corner to our first bookshop of the day.  QI really is quite interesting.  Partly for the esoteric layout of the shelves which eschew A-Z by author for a wilder scheme of labels like ‘first love’, ‘you are here’ and ‘perestroika’. Also for having a booze bar below - perfect, books upstairs, drinks downstairs, it’s like they read my mind.  Managed to exit safely with only two new volumes so felt I’d got off lightly. 
Onwards and outwards, through the covered market with it’s array of meaty treats hung up as nature intended.  I was glad the fully furry wild boar was securely trussed as it looked quite menacing even though it was dead meat.  Still, a much more respectfully honest method of displaying wares than the anonymous, homogenised, shrink wrapped, polystyrene packaged faux food that fill the supermarket shelves.

A quick step across shopping high street hell and straight into the shadow of Tom Tower at the gate of Christchurch college and on round the corner outside the city walls to the meadow beyond.  After being inside the walled city, the sky opens up and the town recedes inside its’ honey stone shell.  The cold crisp December air rushed through us taking the rest of the hangover away and by the time we made it to the river I was feeling almost human and could trust myself to take a pic or two.  First the crocket-ated spires of Magdalene set against the bluest sky I’d seen all year.  Then past some excellent photo-ops which I completely missed and over the road to the jewel of Oxford, Wren’s Radcliffe Camera.  A superb combination of style and function, it’s hard to imagine anything more impressive yet subtle being built before, after or ever (except the gherkin obviously but I’m under its’ spell so biased).  Then, best of all there’s a convenient church tower right next door so you can climb up and get a better view.  Pay the people at the entrance of St Mary the Virgin, go through the anonymous red door, climb a hundred spiral steps and you can squeeze past a few other lucky sightseers to get the best view of the city.  I love climbing up the tallest point to get those unique perspectives of a place and this was no disappointment.  Just like going up the south-west pylon of Sydney harbour bridge, this feels like a special place reserved for those who know (or serendipitously stumble upon) the best locations from which to see a place.  The tower itself is highly ornate but in Oxford it has alot of competition.  The views are excellent, the whole city laid out before us on four sides and the best way to get a real sense of the location.  From here you can see out to the hills beyond, follow the curve of the high street, appreciate the relative positions of the landmarks, and look across the rooftops to our next stop-offs. 

Next up the Bodleian Library.  As if the first few sites weren’t impressive enough, this one is in another league.  There is nowhere even remotely like this place anywhere I’m sure, and I’m just talking about the building, not even taking the unique business of the place into consideration. My head was already spinning before we went in, but going through the entrance and into the Divinity school rendered me speechless.  Being inside a completely stone carved cavern of such intensity could have been too much to take in but the watery winter light through the leaded glass panes and the soft glow of the stone creates such a peaceful atmosphere that all you can do is sit down and soak it up.  Impossible to capture on camera but I reckon JD had a pretty good go.  She described it as - not bad - but I think that means she likes it !

Exiting into the blinding sunlight and biting winds, we stepped through the arch to the front of the Sheldonian Theatre, Wren’s first commission according to the expert.  Some Ice sculptures here from the night before were in no danger of melting much but I missed the point of them until I read about them here.  The Sheldonian itself is another celebration of form and function even if the front is curiously round the back.  Good to see a great historic building like this still in every-day and varied use though.  These elderly Oxford buildings are still very much part of the modern city and I think that’s part of its’ charm ; the 21st century going about its’ business in 17th century surroundings.

Over the road from the Sheldonian sits the most dangerous shop in the area.  Yes, Blackwells was waiting and there was no way we could avoid a visit.  Considering the size and reputation of the place, I think I did quite well only coming out with three short slim volumes.  The technique employed here is to pick up a small number of titles very quickly to satisfy the irresistible book buying urge.  Not an ideal solution but it does avoid the massive build up of the ToBeRead pile while still providing the giddy, guilty pleasures of prohibited indulgence.  Blackwells was certainly impressive though, especially the vast downstairs room, I felt quite dizzy by the time we made it out, back on to Broad Street.  Sadly, our tour time was up, we had to go our separate ways and back to our respective hectic seasonal activities, but I’d had a great day.  Seeing a historic city like Oxford with an expert local guide gives so much more insight into the place, its’ buildings and its’ people.  I can only hope I would be able to do half as good a job at showing someone around my adoptive home town.

Coming Home
After quickly dealing with the jovial door staff at the Randolph to collect my left luggage and stuff into it the bad books I’d bought, I half jogged to the station to catch the 13:30 back to London.  It ran a bit late, the circle line was shut (of course) requiring a swift re-calculation of tube routes (Bakerloo to Oxford Circus, change on to Victoria line) and I got collared by a tourist asking directions at Victoria but I still made the 15:04 Brighton Express which had me home by 4pm.  Oxford to Brighton in two and a half hours, that’s got to be some kind of record.

I love seeing new cities, I like the great outdoors too but I’m a towny at heart.  There’s something about filling in the map in your mind that excites me.  I just have to go down this street and that for no other reason than I’ve never been down them before, I just have to know what’s down there, where it leads, what it connects to.  This is much less fun in a purpose all-in-one built city with a grid system as there’s no mystery then, just up, down, left, right.  I so much prefer the organic nature of old towns, London is excellent for this as the layers of roads and alleys has turned and twisted over the millenia to create the organic mass it is today and the different way it will be tomorrow.  Brighton also has its’ share of dark walkways and hidden passages known only to the most dedicated wanderer.  There’s a silent satisfaction in weaving from one side of town to the other without walking more than a pace or two along a crowded thoroughfare.  Oxford has it all too, even within its’ compact walls there’s plenty of ducking and diving to be done.  The difference here is the buildings you pass on the way, architectural wonders from ages gone by spring up at every turn.  Gargoyles look down from every vantage point like gothic CCTV cameras.  Yes there’s modernity creeping in occasionally but it’s obviously tightly reigned to the point where it’s almost invisible.  Obviously I’ll have to go back and visit again, there’s more than a fistful of museums left un-trod, loads of pubs left undrunk in, probably even a few bookshops left un-scoured.  I will be back, back to see Digger and thank her properly with a Vodka Martini or a perfect pint. Most of all back to bask in the honey stone light of this gem set in the gorgeous green of England’s heart.

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Chapters 1 and 2.5 are published here, really not sure if it’s a complete flight of fantasy, a promising sketch or a pile of pants - time will tell. It’s probably better than Greetings MrB - Ch. 16 though.

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London : Imperial City, Cafe Spice, St John, Numero Uno, Comptoire Gascon
Dublin : Mermaid, Jaipur, Tante Zoes, Badass
Amsterdam : Green Planet
South Africa : Reuben, Codfather, Bar de la Med, La Petite Ferme
Edinburgh : David Baan, Witchery
New Zealand : Mexican Cafe, Istanbul, FBB, Epic, Dux Deluxe, Fireplace, Blue Ice
Australia : Ricky Ricardos, Siagon Bay

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Dublin 2005 :

South Side.
The soaring economy is embracing the Euro and selling the HQ dream to the highest bidder. The evidence is everywhere but most simply shown by the canopy of cranes covering the skyline. Further in to the older, more preserved zones, it’s all Georgian splendor surrounding the ultra-modern. The renowned Irish wit is ever present in the architecture of now. Slightly right of centre sits the peace and order of the government yards which carefully quietens the ferocity of the politics enacted within. On then to the National Gellery which proudly devotes a whole room to the accidently found Caravaggio, whose discovery itself is a classic Irish tale. Round and about the traffic is bottlenecked by the continual construction works making the bustling capital even busier on the historic streets and thoroughfares. Everyone flashes past you in a blur of motion ; the shoppers, the tourists, the get-up-and-goers, the wheelers and the dealers.

North Side.
Collapsing and mostly ruined, the north side gives away the city’s not so distant past. Nothing can stop the progressive development of the south side though and some of it even inches its’ way over the thin blue strand of the Liffey. Pockets of modernity begin to sprout in the fertile lands across the water. A coffee shop here, a new job centre there, but still interspersed with a dead barbers shop and a massage parlor for now though. The millennium spike sits here ready to count the invoices stacked up by the boom-boom town over which it towers. And the biggest news in Dublin this week : Roy Keane and Manchester United parting company.

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Las Iguanas - Latin American Restaurant & Cachaçaria

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The Argus - the guide - Food & drink

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[–CHILLICHEESE–] » Blog Archive » A room full of mirrors

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There’s an extraordinary light emanating from the basement darkness of the National Gallery’s “Caravaggio: The Final Years”. The massed ranks of art punters create a dense thicket through which these masterful pieces can just about be viewed. The light or, more accurately, the light gradient in all of the paintings here serves a dual purpose. First and most simply, the changing intensity highlight’s prominent characters in the story and demotes the supporting cast to the shadow. Almost instantly second and more stunning is the depth of focus which makes objects appear to edge out into the world of the viewer. The table in “Supper at Emmaus”, Salome’s silver platter holding the severed head of John the Baptist, the plaintiff fingers of Peter’s denial saying “Who me Sir ?, No Sir.” This drawing of the eye through the combination of composition and colour / light balance is brilliantly executed and far more subtle and powerful than the similar stunts pulled by Rembrandt to illuminate and flatter his Dutch Berger paymasters. In fact you could even say Caravaggio occupies an altogether higher realm of complexity. Just as complex is the treatment of the subjects of each painting which are all famous tales from Christian myth and legend but told decidedly from the artist’s point of view. By promoting certain characters’ place in the composition, the emphasis of the story shifts. A glance or an expression or just the angle of a flexed digit transform a basic representation of a well known text into his individual narration with as much personal and political bias as he can get away with. The unique aspect to this specific collection is the display of contrast in Caravaggio’s work during the last few years of his life. So, we get to see couplets of the same picture with a five or six year gap between them and this gives a fascinating insight into his turbulent situation and shifting inner consciousness. As he tires of life on the run after being banished from Rome for his crimes, his work starts to loose tone and colour. The expressions are notably more down-turned. Even then, the passion behind the work remains overwhelmingly naked and all-consuming. The artist’s passion is also expressed through the sheer level of detail he includes. From behind the crowds of hyped up visitors and standing ten feet away, you see the painting and you read the story. Squeeze through the throng to get up close and personal and a whole new set of objects come into focus. My personal favourites are the table, it’s cloth and victuals in “Supper at Emmaus” and the sparks flying up from the accusing fingers in “The Denial of St Peter”. Minor players in the big picture they maybe but they are perfectly executed additions which make these paintings deserving of their place in art history and a long queue in a crowded gallery.

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Reading these stories gives a sense of witnessing the birth of the Russian novel. This is especially exemplified by “The Overcoat” in which the downtrodden Bashmachkin struggles to maintain both his lowly position as perpetual titular councillor and his ever more threadbare overcoat. His name and rank alone are enough to provide a snapshot of his plight since “Bashmachkin” is roughly derived from “shoe-er”, or more literally “stuffer”, and the “titular councillor” is nine grades down the civil service ladder. His humble position in society is merely the background to the misfortunes that befall this most pathetic of characters. “The Overcoat” charts the temporary, slightest rise in prosperity followed by the almost inevitable fall into ruin and ultimate demise of Akaky Akakievich Bashmachkin. As we follow the trail of disaster his life leaves, it becomes impossible not to feel for the character and to wish that he could drag himself out of the pit of despair he inhabits. The payback finally comes at the end of the story as Bashmachkin’s ghost haunts his persecutors and so justice is finally done. This ending speaks volumes about the Russian soul and its’ fondness for the underdog. Some cultures would view this sad character as no more than a miserable wretch but Gogol shows us that, in Russia, he can be as much loved as the greatest hero and the injustices he suffers must be avenged.

The other stories in this collection are somewhat lighter and told in a conversational and comic style. Extensive hyperbole is employed in the manner of an after-dinner story teller who must exaggerate wildly to further amuse his audience. The title story “Diary Of A Madman” also depicts the intensely hierarchical nature of Russian society while giving an insight into nineteenth century European politics. Even so, it is peppered with comic farce. As we continue through “The Nose” and “How Ivan Ivanovich Quarrelled With Ivan Nikiforovich”, the surreal comedy takes over and we are presented with a document-eating pig and a snuff-sniffing corpulent magistrate just to add to the general hilarity.

Much of Gogol’s wit and humour may be lost in the translation (I may never know) but even if a quarter comes across then it is still an outstanding work and essential reading for all lovers of Russian literature. From the serious to the surrealist, from Dostoevsky to Tolstoy, they all salute Nikolai Gogol.

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I’ll have to admit to the most shallow of reasons for buying this book, namely it’s position at number 1 in the sci-fi masterworks series. I’d never heard of Haldeman, his work, or his Vietnam veteran credentials, I was curious, that’s all. This curiosity was not immediately quenched as the first two chapters, while written in an engaging style, didn’t offer any specific reason for the primary list position. Half way through, however, and it becomes quite obvious. This book ticks almost all the classic sci-fi boxes : Superluminal travel and the personal problems created by relativity, check. Mysterious invading aliens who want to conquer our corner of the galaxy, present. A military “Star Fleet” made up of marines in space, yes sir. One of my favourite aspects is the multiple future societies which Haldeman shows us by taking advantage of Einstein’s event horizon phenomenon where high velocity travel causes the speeding spacemen to age much less than their earth-bound cousins. The soldiers come back to a different Earth each time and we can trace the changes in society over a few thousand years.
The author’s own military experience gives this story an extra dimension. This is a soldiers tale, written to show the futility of war and the sacrifices made by the combatants. The futuristic setting frees him from having to write about specifics and concentrate on the issues and even though the narrative is delivered in a gruff bluff voice, there’s an overwhelming sense of sensitivity throughout.
I’ll give this one 4/5, the plus four for the handling of the problems facing uni-directional time travellers and minus one for the cheese factor.

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For Whom The Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway.

A tale of tragic heroism and human hope, this is the most powerful of the many novels which describe life behind the lines of the Spanish civil war. Told from the viewpoint of an American volunteer sent to blow up a bridge at the onset of a crucial battle, this story has more passion and emotion than some of Hemingway’s other works but still retains his perfectly terse style.

The immediate difference from other similar novels is the language. All the spoken Spanish is relayed in literal translation so the form and flow of the sentences is unchanged even though most of the words are converted to English. The Spanish grammar gives authenticity to the dialogue and much of the story is told through the conversations between the central character and his band of mountain guerrillas. This makes the text more like a play in some parts, only reverting to the novel form when the dialogue is introspective.

The pace is unrelenting and consistent throughout although there are changes in perspective and peaks and troughs of action followed by calm. Some great individual episodes stand out, El Sordo’s stand and Pillar’s tale provide the background and the history lesson. The tragedy here is that both sides share more in common than they have differences but this is only realised after the fighting ceases with the annihilation of one group and the tears of the other. In contrast, the suddenly in love story of Robert and Maria is full of innocence and purity transcending the surrounding ugliness and brutality of war.

One of the most powerful aspects of the book is the heartfelt motivation behind a just struggle. This seems even more outstanding today when we are surrounded by unsupported wars of greed and power. The terrible truth of having to fight against and kill people from your own country in order to save it is something which western Europe has not had to face for some time now but this story must have been even more poignant when published in 1940 just after the end of the war it depicts.

Hemingway often offers the reader contrast and this is no different. Here though it’s shown through the protagonist, Robert(o), who is full to burning with emotion despite his icy exterior and detached nature. It’s through the difference between his thoughts and his actions that we begin to understand the strain of having to suppress natural human instinct in order to fight for the intellectual right. It’s the examination of a subject from all sides that creates a complete and convincing image. However, given the author’s personal involvement in the real events of the day, a little political bias is perhaps to be expected. This area is best explored in the scenes involving the higher echelons of the Loyalist army with the Russian generals fighting their own, separate war. This third angle on the situation adds a view of the bigger picture as well as increasing tension in the plot.

By the time we get to the final action sequence, all the characters have become real enough to not only illicit sympathy but also give us an insight into each individual, their hopes and especially their fears. I would say that this makes it almost impossible not to read the last chapter in one frantic page turning sitting. The suspense is almost painful and it’s becomes essential to get to the conclusion, even if your train has just arrived at your station. I only narrowly avoided having to perform the perilous ‘walk and read’ manoeuvre.

Having the story end exactly as it begins, lying on the forest floor surrounded by the smell of pine needles, is an almost unnecessary cherry on the cake but still a nice touch. It’s been 2 weeks now and I’m still thinking back to many sections of this book. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the bags of dynamite, the wineskins, the smoky cave, or the band of terrified freedom fighters. The tension at the bridge and the struggle against futility will also stay with me for a long time and that’s surely the measure of fine fiction.

pigeon | No Comments »

Sorry, I had to save this by mercilessly ripping it from Memex

Dear President Bush,

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from you and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination… End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Leviticus 15: 19-24). The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Leviticus 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination (Leviticus 11:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this? Are there ‘degrees’ of abomination?

7. Leviticus 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Leviticus 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Leviticus 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? (Leviticus 24:10-16). Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Leviticus 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help.

Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.

Your adoring fan,

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