tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36900772500721008012024-03-18T19:11:54.152+13:00Reid's Reader – A Blog of Book Reviews and Comment.Welcome to REID’S READER, a site renewed fortnightly and devoted to the appreciation and discussion of books old and new by bibliophile, critic and reviewer Nicholas Reid. Each week REID’S READER offers Something New, Something Old and Something Thoughtful to readers and browsers. REID’S READER will sometimes feature guest reviewers and will sometimes offer general book news, but it does not run publishers’ publicity material.
We would be grateful for any donation you can make by way of Paypal.Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05497366104216216952noreply@blogger.comBlogger1216125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-2919024117209153222024-03-11T09:02:00.026+13:002024-03-11T09:02:00.143+13:00Something New<p>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“SLEEPERS AWAKE” by Oli Hazzard (Carcanet,
$28.53)</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">; <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“SPINDRIFT – New and selected poems” by Bob Orr (Steele Roberts, $NZ40);
“SOME BIRD” by Gail Ingram (Sudden Valley Press, $NZ30) ; "RESIDUAL GLEAM - Selected Poems & Translations by Roger Hickin (Cold Hub Press, $NZ28); “TIGERS OF THE MIND”
by Michael Morrissey (Aries Press, $NZ25)</b></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-jfLDJo75xnKGzLErftCIzhMcEIS5w8MxfEa9YPo09Vmls2momkmqiYHL3Q_4nohbuUri-Mq6TTcV3nRdRQ6VEwUR0JtKvjaS-CuULpEPELWFomJylwU6OBnNUPmeM3-1ZQlWEb0y1thtPxoOr-NMQcyLhpkrHuit4iR7B9vOqnTdAyjygQPTsUlgtsz/s200/980img01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="150" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-jfLDJo75xnKGzLErftCIzhMcEIS5w8MxfEa9YPo09Vmls2momkmqiYHL3Q_4nohbuUri-Mq6TTcV3nRdRQ6VEwUR0JtKvjaS-CuULpEPELWFomJylwU6OBnNUPmeM3-1ZQlWEb0y1thtPxoOr-NMQcyLhpkrHuit4iR7B9vOqnTdAyjygQPTsUlgtsz/w243-h323/980img01.jpg" width="243" /></a></b></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Bristol-born but
now resident of Glasgow and teacher at the University of St Andrews,
38-year-old Oliver (“Oli”) Hazzard made his name as a poet with <i>Between Two
Windows</i> (2012) and <i>Blotter </i>(2018). Hazzard is decidedly on the
avant-garde side of poetry, his verse often being cryptic or opaque and in many
cases requiring great scrutiny of the reader before it is understood. Only
rarely does the transparent break through, but when it does it has much to say.
Hazzard’s new collection <i>Sleepers Awake</i> is as much concerned with sound
as with meaning, with a propensity for alliteration – indeed much of it would
play best as live performance rather than as words on the page. Sound is
crucial.</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRN7ZsmWPgBH7Mky2fhH6PiirCgDJ3-CYASynCLjrzI4IFH_ahIVlCBJmEVaMmdDBQkW1dPdmKEx_2fci5BQ9yclh3h7QNBGgYjG_ZraL02izLttSEFtS1jOB7BPqAw3ntr6PU8zkoyqmAi8UiYa-Z6iD4XduHTTngewQ9caA5agKK-T2etYZ0G8JpTPO/s1603/9781800172999.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1603" data-original-width="1000" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRN7ZsmWPgBH7Mky2fhH6PiirCgDJ3-CYASynCLjrzI4IFH_ahIVlCBJmEVaMmdDBQkW1dPdmKEx_2fci5BQ9yclh3h7QNBGgYjG_ZraL02izLttSEFtS1jOB7BPqAw3ntr6PU8zkoyqmAi8UiYa-Z6iD4XduHTTngewQ9caA5agKK-T2etYZ0G8JpTPO/w301-h482/9781800172999.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The first section
of <i>Sleepers Awake</i> is the 70-pages-long “Progress Real and Imagined” which
is best understood as a quest for personal identity but which is also concerned
with the value of poetry itself. There are moments of odd verbal connections,
such as “ <i>‘Morning plaza’ / wet grass / glass / recycling / overflow.</i>” There
are retreats into popular infantilism, such as “<i>Reading Peppa Pig / upside
down / difficulty bludgeons / me as memorable / my own performance / of
exhaustion / memorable</i>”. There are hip sparks of fatalism when <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>accidents and poetry / descend directly
from the air</i>”. Occasionally, too, there are moments when the poet comes
near to being disgusted by his own metier, speaking of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>Poetry without and ideas in it / brimming
with a real stupidity</i>”. And is he referring to poetry or philosophy when he
speaks of “<i>Something so complicated you’ll never be able to understand even
the basic terms involved / Something so simple you understood it a long time
ago, without even noticing</i>.”? At times in this 70-page sequence, he appears
to give up on his self-analysis as “<i>sometimes I will simply list basic
queries / about the nature of my personality / in order to allow for the
possibility that it exists</i>”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">For much of this
section, Hazzard prefers to present his poetry on the page in the form of slim,
scattered verses, but as he nears his goal he turns to blocks of prose. He finally
embraces a mental coalition with reality, even if reality is both complex and
annoying. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The second section
of <i>Sleepers Awake</i> is a collection of individual poems which begin with “Postpositivity
in Spring”, again a quest for identity while dealing with mundane physical reality.
The poem “Living etc.” is a bravura example of Hazzard’s hard-blocked connection
with sound first. Take on the poem’s staccato alliteration thus: “<i>Luke Luck
flocks back to the joke tent or perhaps<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>palace / pacing the loud loneliness, suddenly intimate, / intricate with
internal noise… / clerihew cares.</i>” Many of Hazzard’s poems are presented as
puzzles, conundrum in the context of clashing sound. Also, Hazzard is not an
activist in the current sense of somebody promoting a particular cause. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far from being an ideological call to arms of
some sort, the title poem “Sleepers Awake” (the title taken from a Lutheran
hymn) is literally an account of waking up on a snowy winter day in Glasgow and
taking in the changing moods as the snow slowly retreats and the sun begins to
dominate. Sleepers awake to the day.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In similar style
is the poem “May Face”, which certainly depicts a physical scene. I quote it
here in full:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">This fact of maximum resistance<br />
looking into people’s houses in the evening, early summer<br />
the steeply receding strata of the rooms which have</span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>factored us in already though
unaware, out in the mesh of analytical errata<br />
except as a gnome Q-team listlessly<br />
plugging in and out of public sockets: suck it up<br />
the cold force of certain tags, cabinets, pets, melodies<br />
or suck it up, the Clyde turning turtle<br />
in its inlet, in blue and pink and brown turning<br />
pink and brown and blue. </span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt;">In this case however, “May Face” is a Clyde-side
scene at a certain time of day, but it does become lost in recherche vocabulary
(“<i>analytical errata</i>” etc.) and makes allusions difficult for the reader
to de-code.</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> Standing as he does on a verbal
tight-rope, Hazzard is often weighed down by sound. His “Composed at Erdberg”
relates melancholy to moods to music.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The third
and final section of <i>Sleepers Awake</i> is a 16-part sequence called
“Incunabulum”, printed sideways to accommodate the long lines (I would almost
call them Alexandrines ) which is as much concerned with self-analysis as with
the fading impact of classical literature. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I would advise
readers that, for all its quirky merits, <i>Sleepers Awake</i> is a very
challenging piece of work, not for the faint-hearted or those who do not have
the patience to unravel its meaning.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSAioCWfL1z_OCxjzNgB4OWEKiIj2LbpYKIjpRFNa1DmWP13nndhxY9q4v-9uphrfDW1riyJMwPcUNhwfeLVAmJ8c6oaxJgcgkQq5X9grCJILLpocR8EoMvfGUJBE4CjZM2_YIigwtRBMx6cui9lQIy5REe92ltWxexQVtx4ItB0uYyxCP7II-j_Djwzx/s640/spindrift-new-selected-poems-by-Bob-Orr.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="438" height="459" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSAioCWfL1z_OCxjzNgB4OWEKiIj2LbpYKIjpRFNa1DmWP13nndhxY9q4v-9uphrfDW1riyJMwPcUNhwfeLVAmJ8c6oaxJgcgkQq5X9grCJILLpocR8EoMvfGUJBE4CjZM2_YIigwtRBMx6cui9lQIy5REe92ltWxexQVtx4ItB0uYyxCP7II-j_Djwzx/w314-h459/spindrift-new-selected-poems-by-Bob-Orr.webp" width="314" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In terms of
prosody and approach, Bob Orr is the antithesis of the avant-garde, cryptic Oli
Hazzard. Orr’s poems are lucid, usually straightforward in their presentation
and setting no traps for the unwary. They also show a delight in people and
clearly-presented urban scenes, landscapes and especially seascapes. <i>Spindrift</i>
is subtitled <i>New and Selected Poems</i> for good reason. <i>Spindrift </i>selects
from the ten collections that Orr has had published since the 1970s, and ends
with 36 poems hitherto unpublished. In effect, it is a summary of all Orr’s
best work.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Most of Orr’s
poems are brief. Only occasionally does he expand into longer developed poems
such as bohemian youth that is recalled in “Fairfield Bridge” and “Roads to
Reinga”; or in “River”, one of his longer poems, which combines a grand view if
the Earth’s tectonics with the suffering of being inside in a hospital; or in
his nod to Shelley’s “Ozymandias” with his discursive poem “Hapuakohe”.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The typical Orr
poem sits stark and lean on the page. To take an example from Orr’s early work
“The old road” reads in toto “<i>When you wake / in the deadly calm / of
somewhere around 3 a.m. / the dreams will quickly leave you. / The street is
like a road / across the moon. You hear lions / begin to roar in Auckland Zoo.
/ Across your bedroom wall / a tropical plant / has cast / the huge shadow of a
continent</i>.” Later in his career, he could strip things right down, as in
“Orkney poet” which reads in full “<i>Your meagre / hard-won harvest / from
stony sea-girt acres / barely put food on the table - / bequeathed a banquet to
the world</i>.” And nearer the present time there is this pithy account of a
marriage called “Harold and Gladys” thus “<i>He made it / back / from a war /
that left no tree unsplintered / to marry / his sweetheart / in Morrinsville /
her with / acorn / coloured / hair</i>.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brief, direct statements are Orr’s
forte. In this respect he has the skill of an artist who knows how to leave<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unnecessary things out. Often his work reads
like slightly-expanded haiku, and real haiku turn up in the later sequences
“Buddha chopping wood”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and “Buddha
burning firewood”. Orr’s sharp eye scans not only the sea but the lives of
workers; Auckland in terms of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Freeman’s
Bay, Ponsonby, the Chelsea sugar works and the more shady streets; elegies for,
or allusions to, poets like Pablo Neruda, Anna Akhmatova, Garcia Lorca, Hart
Crane and others. Only occasionally does he go for satire as in “When Muldoon
was king” although there are oodles of irony in his poem “Neal Cassady’s car”.
Pohutukawa are frequently used as a motif ; there are poems about ancestry and in
his more recent poetry more awareness of Maori lore and language. But more than
anything there is the sea – inevitable given that for many years Orr was a
fisherman and sailor. There are many poems about walking on the shore and
imagining sea vistas; much about the fisher folk and their boats; comparisons
of the sea around New Zealand with classical voyages in [Greek] mythology and
much else.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Breath
in the salty sea breezes! This is a very accessible collection which a wide
circle of poetry readers will enjoy.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*. </span></p><p style="margin-left: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNuGhFrpqBZqgwQh18L6hEqVPxqlgzzJLAbJk31qyndFqYdL6OC_EoN1N-i05B6X77vAC-wwRnanL5LOVdwaLHvitWPiB3cbshz7ZtKNZQ_To24I6O-_mhuyPkP4PKulUrA7v8vrPdfXYkTiAnE-F5k7HHlMUHxXW0x6PkklCDOeTf8oRDaOy65Nu-p8r/s842/Some%20bird%20final%20cover.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="596" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNuGhFrpqBZqgwQh18L6hEqVPxqlgzzJLAbJk31qyndFqYdL6OC_EoN1N-i05B6X77vAC-wwRnanL5LOVdwaLHvitWPiB3cbshz7ZtKNZQ_To24I6O-_mhuyPkP4PKulUrA7v8vrPdfXYkTiAnE-F5k7HHlMUHxXW0x6PkklCDOeTf8oRDaOy65Nu-p8r/w293-h413/Some%20bird%20final%20cover.webp" width="293" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Men and boys have
often denigrated or belittled women and girls by calling them<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>insulting names. Often these insults are
related to ornithology, as in “bird”, “chick” etc. Gail Ingram’s <i>Some Bird</i>
is, among other things, a work of feminism and she is intent on pushing back
against such flippant insults. Her work is divided into five sections, each
section reflecting an age in a woman’s growing life, with each stage also being
labelled with a bird name, thus “shining cuckoo” [childhood], “chicky babe” [puberty],
“lovebird” [teenager and early adult], “house sparrow” [married with offspring]
and “crow” [maturity and old age]. In her poem “Language lesson for young girls
1979” she presents the way female stereotypes are reinforced by casual language
from the classroom onwards : “<i>hey <u>chick</u> / let the <u>little lamb</u>
play with the <u>dolly</u> / she’s a <u>tom-boy</u> plays rugby / so <u>butch</u>,
a <u>lezo</u> (behind hands) / come on, <u>show us a little skirt, love</u> /
but don’t wear that dress – what a <u>floozy</u> / words you know for <u>whore</u>?
/ <u>slut</u> / <u>tart</u> / <u>hussy</u> / <u>hooker oh-la-la</u> / <u>bit o’
crumpet on the side psst</u></i>…” and so on with other insults such as
“bitch”, “spinster”, “old maid”, “sex-kitten”, “battle axe”, “old biddy”,
“bag”, “old hag” etc. etc. Her opening poem “Me Too” makes a similar statement.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Some Bird</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> traces the life of a woman with a very clear
narrative.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Shining cuckoo</i>”
A woman goes through the pains of childbirth but her baby is immediately taken
from her. This is because she’s unmarried, it’s 1965, unmarried mothers are
frowned upon, and her baby is given up for adoption. The biological mother is
cut out of the story. The baby is adopted because another [married] woman, who
already has children, has just had a miscarriage and the adopted baby is her
consolation. Gail Ingram suggests the sorrow involved it this – the little girl
growing up and understanding that she is adopted, that she is somehow different
from her siblings, that she will never know her biological mother and that she
is in effect the “cuckoo” in the nest… and the poet is enraged that it is the
[adoptive] father whose family name appears on the girl’s birth certificate.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Chicky baby</i>”
deals with the girl’s experience in puberty and teenagerhood, where, in pairing
up, girls have to conform to boy’s expectations – so the years of having to put
on makeup, smooching with little real pleasure, being taken on dangerous
joy-rides with boys trying to show off in their cars… and when the time comes
for her to be sent to a university hall of residence, the only advice her
[adopted] father can give her is “Don’t get pregnant.” So to the days when
she’s harassed or unwillingly fondled by boys of her age in residence or in
public transport.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>Love bird</i>”
has her falling in love with a guy, and getting married… though the poem
“Love-match”, about the wedding, has a sardonic undertone. And a baby is born,
which changes everything.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<i>House sparrow</i>”
is subtitled “<i>in which the sparrow fluffs up and becomes a mother</i>”. Her
motherhood has moments of worry and fright, as in the poem “Take care of Stu”
where she panics when her child seems to have disappeared. She is always under
scrutiny with judgements about how “good” she is as a mother and how well she
is bringing up her children. More than anything, though, there is the fact that
she has to do all the caring of the children. The two poems “The Provider” and
“That thing between us” are most acute about this – the husband takes it for
granted that he doesn’t have to do the heavy lifting of child-care. … and the
marriage can’t last, even if the breakup is a long time coming. Indeed they are
almost up to middle-age. The poem “Family Trust meeting” says a firm goodbye to
the way she, in younger years, admired flashy young men playing rock music.
She’s her own person…</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Not that older age
(“<i>Crow</i>”) is necessarily easy. The poem “Menopause XIII” suggests why.
She broods on the way older independent women were once tortured or burnt as
witches. She’s not entirely happy with the way feminism has gone since the
1970s (see the poem “Your natural mother marched in 1973”). In short, she is
aware that nothing can be certain in the interactions of women and men.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I am guessing that
some of the narrative presented here is drawn from the poet’s personal
experience, but that is only a guess and I have no way of verifying it.
Besides, the point of the poetry is what is on the page, not in extraneous
guesses. Even more to the point, Gail Ingram is not addressing only the matter
of a woman’s life. <i>Some Bird</i> has poems focused elsewhere. “Pakeha
parent” is a Maori woman worried by the loss of Maori culture. “The Wading
Bird” looks at the degradation of the natural environment. And “I am Pakeha” is
half protest against colonisation but also half awareness of being pakeha.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Nevertheless, it
is the feminist strain that dominates, presented clearly and forcefully. It’s
bracing to read something as clearly articulated.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEha273G-VCxQZHczmC5F9rnVpZc2YoomcYXWs2AkBKL7Ga0JUPW3omoPPbcF_7lcbbui8A7qOZ48r0EK9b0sJAowtBvGWXiyIIKgG6z1G7wwFQLoJH2plERCOVOnNQIbtM7CVEYV8rehofCBXRZpzQwwD0xQapPu40nW7FP-9-BO9EvHIjkE4XUbyC-gpRR" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="362" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEha273G-VCxQZHczmC5F9rnVpZc2YoomcYXWs2AkBKL7Ga0JUPW3omoPPbcF_7lcbbui8A7qOZ48r0EK9b0sJAowtBvGWXiyIIKgG6z1G7wwFQLoJH2plERCOVOnNQIbtM7CVEYV8rehofCBXRZpzQwwD0xQapPu40nW7FP-9-BO9EvHIjkE4XUbyC-gpRR=w315-h405" width="315" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Roger
Hickins’s <i>Residual Gleam – Selected poems & Translations</i> gives us
first Hickin’s own experiences and observations, and then, in the <i>Translations</i>
section, his translations from the Spanish of poems written by nine South American
poets. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">First, then, there
come his poems recalling his childhood (in “Invercargill 1950”) with memories in
a “Workshop Song” and the acute lines “<i>The south wind / blew its cold salty
breath in my face. / The south <u>wind sings wild hymns</u> / in the macrocarpas</i>”.
Then his observation of an ageing bird “Killing the Rooster” where “<i>Once he
was the boss, / with jaunty patriarchal strut, / <u>his raucous sickle voice
reaped stars at dawn</u>. / Now he’s just the extra rooster / ousted by his son</i>”…
and how well Hickin observes the old rooster before he gets the inevitable
chop. [Brilliant are those lines that I’ve underlined!] Following are acute
poems recalling Hickin’s late-teenager and early-twenties self as he charts the
hitchhiking he did, the people he met on the roads, and later the boozing in
the pubs and eccentric or colourful boozers. He also has the good taste to
salute the Jazz greats Charlie Mingus and Thelonious Monk. Memories can also be
for those who are lost. Hickin’s “A beach poem for my mother” does not
literally address his mother until the last stanza, which has a particularly
haunting effect. It reads “<i>The godwits have left for Alaska / Flax flowers
darken beyond the dunes / Boats on the estuary / are pitching in the tidal rip
/ It’s late – you hear your mother / calling you home.</i>” In a number of
poems Hickin addresses Spain, which he has visited, and make references to
Russian literature. The most engaging poem here is “After Pushkin” which
declares “<i>Happiness of course is / unattainable, but in the search / for
peace and freedom you might / just head for somewhere else / a long way from
gossip / debt, frivolity / track down / a heavenly shack where you<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>/ can breath and work and slurp / good mussel
soup.</i>” Wise words for the thoughtful hermit. And there are further salutes
to other literary or artistic people he has known.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And what of the
poems translated from the Spanish? I do not speak Spanish, so in writing of the
15 poems by 9 South American poets I have to consider them as Hickin’s <i>versions</i>
of the original poems and accept them that way. They certainly speak of other
countries’ preoccupations <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- A hungry pion
house. Jesus on the cross and pain. Cockroaches. The confusion of being in distant
country and not really understanding the accepted mores there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man ineptly trying to woo a woman in a bar. Occasionally
back-handed nods to religion. The translations are capped with a long poem by
Ernesto Cardenal “Nostalgia for Venice”, which is literally about that as he
recalls his visits to Venice as it was decades ago.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">This collection is
varied, interesting, very readable, and deftly moving among many different
moods.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</span></style><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> <br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio2xh4AriM4bVn-5mWhIKEM20sGPaB2rUsFsolq2YKI-BGJ8e3w5HBzbB09xbjD1IXyTg9WG1b_6TJsXyon-MwEuk09wGcun2si0EDdgcE9C87vvfRywk2EB_Y3MKRSl52u6PopSCfustj7puYtxn5-HD0AIhvwg4xfoJCMOBwJoUVqtBWCW_BBopbqaM8/s356/michael-morrissey-writer-a22c0446-7605-4274-9392-89c6b68741d-resize-750.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="356" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio2xh4AriM4bVn-5mWhIKEM20sGPaB2rUsFsolq2YKI-BGJ8e3w5HBzbB09xbjD1IXyTg9WG1b_6TJsXyon-MwEuk09wGcun2si0EDdgcE9C87vvfRywk2EB_Y3MKRSl52u6PopSCfustj7puYtxn5-HD0AIhvwg4xfoJCMOBwJoUVqtBWCW_BBopbqaM8/s320/michael-morrissey-writer-a22c0446-7605-4274-9392-89c6b68741d-resize-750.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I tiptoed
carefully into Michael Morrissey’s latest collection <i>Tigers of the Mind</i>.
Morrissey is now over 80 years old and is well-known to New Zealand readers of
poetry. His output is prolific and <i>Tigers of the Mind</i> is his 14<sup>th</sup>
collection. His poetry is often bizarre, making huge imaginative leaps.
Morrissey has told his public that he has periodically suffered from
psychiatric disorders. <i>Taming the Tiger,</i> published in 2011, was his very
candid autobiographic account of a severe bi-polar condition which led him to spend
time in a psychiatric ward. Yet the experience has fuelled some of his best later
work.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In <i>Tigers of
the Mind,</i> one of the stand-out poems is “Defiant View from the Fifth Level
of a Psychiatric Ward”, wherein he presents himself looking out the window at
an Auckland vista. The view is “defiant” because the viewer, aware of his
disordered condition, nevertheless sees the validity of the images his fevered
mind is conjuring up, giving strangely impressive, almost psychedelic, views of
<i>“Trees, acacia-like, stripped of lion blood, / incapable of movements as
toeless monkeys… Erudite moon, flawlessly memorious, / slings aside a sheeny
leopard with pitchy alphabets</i>….” Later, in the poem “Falling in Love, Quite
Easily” he remarks “<i>Like the romantics, I fell in love / with melancholia.
Depression was / at arm’s length, poetry permitted, / a different way of life,
feasible</i>.”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It is hard to
avoid such terms as Surrealist or even Dadaist in reading some of Morrissey’s
work, conjuring up images that might have been created by Salvador Dali. “Quintessence
of Green” gives an apocalyptic view of the Earth ruined while cockroaches
prevail. A sequence dedicated to the moon plays with all the power, mystery and
fear of the moon. [And was the poet consciously recalling that <i>luna</i> is
related to <i>lunatic</i>?]. And then there are poems dedicated to aliens and
strange beasts, with the impressive “Poem for a Large Rodent” becoming a
conversation between a biologist and a giant rat living in a volcano. But while
we sometimes reach into the depths of Dada, we are also sometimes given
admissions of cold reality. The poem “Rebirth of Wonder” is the prize of this
train of thought. Two guys think that dropping acid will make them enlightened
and say something momentous while their girlfriends scribble down their words.
Result? Nothing amazing. They haven’t said anything coherent.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Morrissey has his
moments of reportage, including his very sad memories of his upbringing in
straitened circumstances in Camp Bunn (a shelter for those without adequate housing
after the Second World War). He implies that his mother went mad and his father
took to drink. And in the gathering labelled “Drunken Impulse”, the whole idea
of the uncertainty of life is mooted. There is an oddly deadpan account of the
famous painting “Mona Lisa with a Moko”. With the moko added to da Vinci’s
work, it is in its own way another modification of the Mona Lisa like the ones
the Dadaists and surrealists had fun with. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">One wonderfully
lucid poem “Making Breakfast” reads in full thus “<i>Through the thin wall I
hear my wife chopping fruit / as rhythmically as the piston on the steam ferry.
/ Each sound has its own precision / delicate but unwavering / surgical as a
lobotomist’s knife. / Her kitchen blade slices apple / cuts through pineapple /
fillets watermelon / deals painless death to passionfruit. / A banana stands no
chance. / It may sound like fruit is being cut / but really it’s the sound of
love</i>.” He follows this with a brace of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>descriptive poems about Auckland weather, and
then deals with <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Coronavirus” and “That
Time Again”, both presented in melancholy form as a deserted playground represents
the empty streets when the pandemic was doing its worst.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">As you can see, it
is a very diverse collection of poems, and very engaging to read.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-44329370274699757382024-03-11T09:01:00.009+13:002024-03-11T09:01:00.143+13:00Something Old<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span>
</span>
</p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF NOEL HILLIARD –
PART THREE</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrZkQKIOQo5bMuVOvcxpQP0Bj8rzO5Quu1JsYCvA1nP5_uJul6xKN3_NGUbSu1ESotm03JenA76cAC8JOoM1b6yeIt9jdgoz2ZUkCONw-6Edi_-wdbTj1_qDuw_AeXrNg-6uBHC-pWsVcTutlksiyoyr48k6ET6V3pBn6seRhCOnzmd0EzR2O8LE8LcwF/s520/eb79083eeb76e975973616d7877426f41514141_v5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="360" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrZkQKIOQo5bMuVOvcxpQP0Bj8rzO5Quu1JsYCvA1nP5_uJul6xKN3_NGUbSu1ESotm03JenA76cAC8JOoM1b6yeIt9jdgoz2ZUkCONw-6Edi_-wdbTj1_qDuw_AeXrNg-6uBHC-pWsVcTutlksiyoyr48k6ET6V3pBn6seRhCOnzmd0EzR2O8LE8LcwF/w309-h445/eb79083eeb76e975973616d7877426f41514141_v5.jpg" width="309" /></a></span></b></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In my last two
postings, I dealt with Noel Hilliard’s tetralogy comprising <i>Maori Girl</i>, <i>Power
of Joy</i>, <i>Maori Woman</i> and <i>The Glory and the Dream</i>. My task now
is to write about the one other novel he wrote, his short stories, and one
remarkably naïve work of non-fiction – which might as well be regarded as
fiction.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A Night at Green
River</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> was published in 1969, between
the two halves of the tetralogy. It is in effect a very schematised parable.
Two farmers live side by side in the far north of Northland. One is Maori,
Tiwha Morris. The other is Pakeha, Clyde Hastings. Clyde Hastings wants to pay
a gang to bring in his hay before the rain sets in. Tiwha Morris agrees to help
him out by rounding up such a gang. But when Clyde leaves, Tiwha gets to
thinking how much he hates the Pakeha cash nexus which reduces everything to
money. So instead of helping Clyde out, he stays at home with his mates and
they party and share warm fellowship. Meanwhile the rains do set in, Clyde’s hay
is ruined and Clyde fumes and rages about how those lazy Maori have let him
down… but then both Tiwha and Clyde have a good think. Tiwha thinks about the
limitations of Pakeha culture. Clyde thinks about his frigid wife Edith <b>[Warning
! Referring to women as “frigid” is now regarded as a male invention… but it is
here in this novel.]</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clyde also
thinks of a sordid sex episode in which some of his drinking companions gang-raped
the wife of an invalid. Up to this point, the novel’s values are very much
weighted against Pakeha. But a new element is introduced in the person of
Tiwha’s friend Tu Nelson, who openly mistreats his very pregnant wife Martha.
In the rain, Martha runs away from Tu and takes shelter with Clyde and his
wife. The Hastings are beginning to look after Martha when a very drunk Tu
bursts in with a rifle to reclaim her. Tu and Clyde fight violently and Tu is
finally knocked-out. Clyde somehow feels revivified by this… at which point
Martha’s baby begins to come… So Clyde and his wife Edith take Martha down to
Tiwha’s house where, in the novel’s climax, the baby is delivered by Tiwha. The
umbilical cord is cut by Tiwha in the traditional Maori way, with a pipi shell.
And in the accepting atmosphere of life and family, Edith and Clyde begin to
reshape their lives and values in terms of neighbourliness and acceptance. And
Tu accepts his responsibility as a father. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Even more than the
tetralogy (which this novel interrupted) this is very much a parable for
Pakeha. Though Tiwha Morris is forced to realise that he has unjustly
underrated the neighbouring Pakeha farmer and his willingness to help, the
novel is weighted towards telling us that Pakeha are indeed cash-obsessed,
class-conscious, sexually repressed (Clyde has never seen his wife naked) and
patronising, and therefore much more in need of being taught a lesson than
Maori are. At the same time, with the exception of belligerent Tu, the way the warm,
familial life of Maori as presented here borders on caricature. In fact, given
its first publication date, there’s something oddly retro in its depiction of
the rural scene. Television is mentioned, so the story is obviously set in the
1960s, but Tu’s, Clyde’s and Tiwha’s most vivid memories are of serving in the
Second World War (which ultimately makes a bond among them). There seems some
self-conscious attempt at “balance” in the depiction of the races – we have
Tu’s domestic violence balanced with Clyde’s memory of a sordid sexual episode.
BUT Hilliard would have us to believe that a man who gets drunk, slaps his
pregnant wife about and eventually chases after her with a rifle is going to blossom
into a loving father once the child is born. Indeed Hilliard even has Clyde
reflect that Tu’s violence towards his wife is a sign of <u>how much he cares
for her</u>. Sheesh! The birth of a child, heralding the birth of a new
understanding between Maori and Pakeha, is the kind of heavy symbolism in which
Hilliard so often indulges. (And the names? Given that Tu is the god of war and
Nelson was a warrior on the sea, the name Tu Nelson at once means somebody who
fights.) The first half of the novel is more a static situation than a story,
again heavily weighted with interior monologue and with Hilliard rarely failing
to point a moral.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
traumatic event and two cultures are suddenly bound in fellowship. Well, it
would be nice to think that could happen.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 90pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 90pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZYCIdn2xSDXr5TFLHXRZLwsfjvhvmxHw4wrMR_-f1r9jkRGtqUm1qYKyL6AtwD784rCF6nybNBkZb7MTIQlBEhDIRFFGzN-yS4sXCJJZIHWfNvV51e-e63QA_o6rBvrPwKWU9C5kLc9M5SMdRlszZcUq_wR6DxgmQWAtBLEDgw0Zt49RUqqQDegksUxv/s500/129347856._SX600_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZYCIdn2xSDXr5TFLHXRZLwsfjvhvmxHw4wrMR_-f1r9jkRGtqUm1qYKyL6AtwD784rCF6nybNBkZb7MTIQlBEhDIRFFGzN-yS4sXCJJZIHWfNvV51e-e63QA_o6rBvrPwKWU9C5kLc9M5SMdRlszZcUq_wR6DxgmQWAtBLEDgw0Zt49RUqqQDegksUxv/w360-h480/129347856._SX600_.jpg" width="360" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hilliard’s
first collection of short-stories <b>A Piece of Land – Stories and Sketches</b>
was published in 1963. It is trite to say the obvious – that any collection of
short stories will be a mixed bag, possibly ranging from the very good to the
indifferent. Thus for<b> </b><i>A Piece of Land – Stories and Sketches</i>.
Many of its tales were previously published in magazines and journals, and the
intended audience was apparently broad. Hilliard acknowledges that some stories
were written for the old School Journal, which was read in the junior school
classes. These are the last ten stories in <i>A Piece of Land – Stories and
Sketches.</i> They are headed “Bubby and Paikia” and concern two Maori kids
living in a rural area and the various scrapes they get into or (more
frequently) what they are taught by their elders or when they are taken on
outings to places that they enjoy [and that Hillard presents somewhat idyllically].
They would surely make good reading for youngsters.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
14 stories that precede these, however, are more hard-headed and more clearly adult.
</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Of course to the
fore are stories about tensions between Maori and Pakeha. The title story “A
Piece of Land” has Maori landowners cheated out of owning some acres by complex
Pakeha laws. “Young Gent, Quiet, Refined” has a young man turned away when he
wants to rent a flat in the city, because he’s Maori. “Man on a Road”, which
seems to be autobiographical, has the Pakeha narrator and his Maori wife Kiriwai
meeting an old Maori man near the sea who gives a monologue about being
dispossessed of his land by Pakeha farmers and holiday-makers building baches. “Erua”
concerns a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maori kid at primary school
who admires a Pakeha teacher, but who becomes disillusioned when the teacher
turns out to have many flaws. “Doing Pretty Well” is about a branch of the
Samuel family (the family that the <i>Maori Girl</i> comes from) in which Kepa
Samuel has done well in the Pakeha world as a farmer with a Pakeha wife, so he
is embarrassed when his working-class brother Mutu visits him. Is Halliard
suggesting that there is a loss of solidarity when Maori adopt Pakeha ways?
Perhaps emphasising the ignorance of many Pakeha when it comes to country ways,
Hilliard includes two stories about two Pakeha nitwits called Frank and Barry, “Looking
the Part” and “Every Man to his Trade”, in which the boys get badly out of
their depth. They read something like the “Me and Gus” stories from way-back-when.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Hilliard includes
in this collection a number of light anecdotes about family habits when he was
a child, or sketches of an old soldier or mean tricks played on a
none-too-bright layabout. But the two stories that are most allied with his
socialist views both have to do with the 1951 lockdown, that was still a raw memory
when these stories were published. One was “New Unionist” about one of the “scabs”
[non-unionised workers] who took over work on the wharves when the union workers
were locked out. As Hilliard tells it, the soldiers who protect these “new
unionists” really despised them. The story is, to say the least, didactic. [This
was the story that Dennis McEldowney damned in <i>Landfall</i> as so bad it was
“embarrassing”]. The other story, “Friday Nights are Best” has a unionist who
has been thrown out of work in the lockdown and has to take up work is a rural
area. At first he likes it as a break, but he soon can’t help wanting to go
back to the city. It is interesting that Hilliard doesn’t address party-political
factions in these two lockdown stories. Perhaps by this stage, while still being
left-wing, he had become disenchanted with union politics and he had long since
left behind him his two years as a member of the Communist Party.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OzlQGR5Pz-_q-leCrhJgDmqdTfZkswR3V4p1kj-dOnkhqst6AVq1Mzlv2kRB65W4XUWnSZF3Hy-K1RDDUjhyMJYlX7FzQmwZxwAlBEIRvfzPS81sQNUfyYPngtor4_7b6pWjuun3AHigxACQYf4NtqeMbwYMHXe-XiHDoKYaxTRKj8UDpcJ7otPuG3HP/s299/md161722942.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="200" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OzlQGR5Pz-_q-leCrhJgDmqdTfZkswR3V4p1kj-dOnkhqst6AVq1Mzlv2kRB65W4XUWnSZF3Hy-K1RDDUjhyMJYlX7FzQmwZxwAlBEIRvfzPS81sQNUfyYPngtor4_7b6pWjuun3AHigxACQYf4NtqeMbwYMHXe-XiHDoKYaxTRKj8UDpcJ7otPuG3HP/w318-h475/md161722942.jpg" width="318" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Published
in 1976, Hilliard’s second short-story collection <b>Send Somebody Nice –
Stories and Sketches</b> has some of the same preoccupations as <i>A Piece of
Land – Stories and Sketches </i>but there are some major differences. In the 25
stories, concern with Maori matters and racial prejudice is still there, but
there is a much franker approach to the matter of sex. Perhaps what could be
printed had moved on since 1963.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
the interest in Maori situations, the story “Absconder” is a first-person monologue
by a teenage Maori girl in which she makes it clear that she has been mistreated
in Welfare custody. “The Girl from Kaeo” shows the gulf of misunderstanding
between the official version of a Maori teenager’s delinquency and her own view
of the same matters. “The Tree” demonstrates how a small Maori village removes
a tree in the proper, traditional and ceremonial way to make way for some necessary
Ministry of Works project. [Thinks – is this a reply to Roderick Finlayson’s
better-known story “The Totara Tree”, wherein Maori block “progress”?] “Nothing
But the Facts” has a Maori boy in a boarding school having to defend himself
from potential blackmail. “Matilda” has a Maori girl falling foul of Pakeha
ideas of ownership. “Puti Wants Beer” has Maori women sitting in a kitchen
talking about their useless menfolk and contraception, but when the men return
they realise how much they need them. “Wendy” has a Pakeha woman telling a
teacher that she does not like her daughter playing with a Maori kid… not
realising that the teacher is the Maori kid’s mother.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
are all very familiar tropes from Hilliard’s earlier stories in <i>A Piece of
Land – Stories and Sketches</i>, but what about the frank sex now found in <i>Send
Somebody Nice – Stories and Sketches</i>? “Corrective Training” has two girls
in borstal who, it is implied, have a lesbian attraction. [Hilliard’s point<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>isn’t clear here. He seems to suggest that
incarceration is the cause of homosexuality.] The brief sketch “Anita’s Eyes”
is a description of a prostitute’s eyes. The title story “Send Somebody Nice” concerns
a young prostitute who doesn’t know how <b>not </b>to be too affectionate with her
clients… and in the end she escapes to Australia with one of her customers. “The
Telegram” has a homosexual businessman sending a telegram to a soldier he has
exploited and thinks of blackmailing him. “Girl in a Corner” shows a girl having
an affair with a sailor and hovering on the edge of becoming a prostitute. In “At
Angelo’s”, after a prostitute approaches a group of men in a late night diner,
the men talk about how tacky whores are but also come to understand that
prostitutes are exploited; and male customers are as much exploitative as the
prostitutes’ pimps are. Far and away the most awkward and badly organised story
in the collection is “Initiation” wherein a boy feels “unclean” when he goes
through a rough boarding-school ritual after he has been with a prostitute.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
are two stories that directly address ideology. “Street Meeting” concerns two
Communist speakers on a Wellington street who are being heckled by various
people including a drunk; and they are being watched by two policemen who, however,
do not intervene. There is something very dispiriting about this story, as if
the Communist orators are themselves beginning to lose heart in their cause,
aware that most people are indifferent to their words as they go about their
ordinary business. [Be it noted that by 1978, when the story was published, the
New Zealand CP had diminished to a tiny membership, and had suffered a schism
with some allying with Russia and some allying with China – which is referenced
in the story.] The other story is the almost unbearably sentimental tale called
“The Paper Sellers” – on one side of a Wellington street, a Communist is
selling “The People’s Voice”. On the other side of a street a Catholic activist
is selling “The Catholic Worker”… but despite their clashing beliefs, the
Communist hawker comes to like the Catholic hawker, especially when he gets
sick and dies. The Communist admits to himself that the other guy was just another
decent human being and ideology isn’t everything. Okay – it’s a humane story
and, as so often, Hilliard is on the side of the angels. But it’s as unlikely
as the last-minute reformation of Tu at the end of <i>A Night at Green River.</i></span></p>
<p><i style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.
*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></i></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And so to Hilliard’s
“<i>remarkably naïve work of non-fiction</i>” which I mentioned at the
beginning of this posting. This is <b>Mahitahi – Work Together: Some Peoples of
the Soviet Union</b>, published in 1989 by Progress Publishers, Moscow.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Noel Hilliard and
his wife Kiriwai went on a six-week tour through regions such as Uzbekistan,
Moldavia and Byelorussia and other outlying parts of the U.S.S.R. Their aim was
to see how well-treated the minority ethnicities in the Soviet state were. And
- lo and behold – they discovered that everything was absolutely wonderful in
the U.S.S.R. My goodness! How well it compared with all the anti-Maori
prejudice there was in New Zealand!! …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Except that everything they were told was told by official guides who of
course said that everything was wonderful. The Hilliards swallowed it. True,
there are one or two negative things that Hilliard mentions. A Siberian
physicist mentions the 1986 Chernobyl disaster and how Siberia got some of the
fallout. And students are amazed that New Zealanders eat more meat that Russians
can afford.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">For naivete,
consider this when Halliard speaks in a Russian newspaper editorial room. He
tells the Russian journalists that in New Zealand “<i>our newspaper are privately
owned and have no obligations to the public, only to their shareholders</i>.”
Writing of the Russian journalists’ response he says they asked “<i>How can
such things be? they wanted to know. What kind of a newspaper is it that
opposes your government and also the wishes of the people? Is it not their task
to reflect the way your people think?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No, I said, their task is to return profits to the shareholder.</i>” [To
which they replied] “<i>And who are these people who set themselves up in
opposition to the majority of the people?</i>” Yes folks, a one-party state
with much gagging of independent thought will always tell the truth more that
those filthy capitalist newspapers. And I believe the moon is made of green
cheese.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Later, in
Uzbekistan, Hilliard reports “<i>I mentioned the Human Rights Commission in New
Zealand and its Race Relations Office which looks into complaints about
discrimination in housing and jobs and has power to prosecute offenders. ‘Do
you have such a thing here?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘No, we
don’t have national chauvinism,’ said the professor. ‘We have national boasting
and other such harmless forms. But we have no need of an institution such as
you describe</i>.” Actually this answer confirms what I thought of the U.S.S.R.
It had no concept of Human Rights. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It is interesting
that nowhere in this book is the name of Stalin mentioned as at this time his
memory was out of favour. If Stalin had been mentioned, then one would have to
admit that under his regime, hundreds of thousand [in fact probably millions]
of non-Russian ethnicity were forcibly uprooted from their homelands and sent
to distant – and usually impoverished – areas. Many such ethnicities whom
Hilliard (briefly) visited were only where they were because Stalin had
banished them there. You can verify this if you read Robert Conquest’s <b>Stalin
Breaker of Nations</b> or any other reliable history book on the subject.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I could say more
on this matter but I am beginning to rant. Suffice it to say that, ironically,
the U.S.S.R. was on the brink of collapsing when Hilliard visited it. And once
it collapsed there were wars in which various ethnicities broke away from
Russian rule. So much for such happy folk under the Soviet regime whom Hilliard
reported. Interesting to note that Hilliard was news chief of the Wellington <i>Evening
Post</i> when he wrote this book. How he must have suffered under those
shareholding private owners.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
this time you are probably thinking that I have just systematically trashed the
work of Noel Hilliard. Not so. In his days and time he was a compassionate man
who took seriously the matter of Pakeha discrimination against Maori and who
wrote about it. He may have – like many of his vintage – for a while embraced the
delusion that Communism was the cure, but [even if he wrote one silly book
about Russia late in his life] he broke with that delusion even while remaining
a committed socialist. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
main problem now is that he has become a back-number. His frames of reference
belong to another era. Maori are no longer a rural people rarely seen in
cities. Maori no longer leave other people – non-Maori – to write about their
experience. There are now many skilled Maori writers who can speak for
themselves; and what they write is very different from what Hilliard used to write
about them. Hilliard’s work is often seen now as patronising or perpetuating old
stereotypes. When I wrote about <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2022/11/roderickfinlaysonamanfromanotherworld.html">Roderick Finlayson</a></b>, I quoted the old
quip “<i>No good deed goes unpunished</i>”, remembering how Finlayson, as
sympathetic of Maori as Hilliard was, was criticised by the Maori author Patricia Grace for not depicting Maori life accurately. Hillard has fallen into
the same category, not helped by his frequent tendency to write sentimentally
about Nature, his often awkward prose, and his eagerness to point out morals.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
is of another age. He belongs to history.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-67988376279196795642024-03-11T09:00:00.009+13:002024-03-11T09:00:00.129+13:00Something Thoughtful<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span></span>
</p><p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SOMETHING
THOUGHTFUL</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THE
COURTESY OF TRUCKIES<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Only occasionally
on this blog have I made comments about how New Zealanders drive their cars. [See
the posting <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2022/04/something-thoughtful_01208916887.html"><b>Suburban Dodgems</b></a>.] But recently I’ve become
more and more annoyed – even angered – by the way some irresponsible people
drive. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">On very many
journeys, I have driven around most of the North Island and a good deal of the
South Island. On the open highways, most drivers drive fairly well. There is
the odd road hog who wants to overtake as many cars as possible, regardless of
how dangerous some overtaking at speed can be. There is also the odd very slow
driver who inconveniences the traffic behind him by refusing to move over to
the many passing lanes that are provided. Yes, statistics show that there have
been many fatal crashes on the open roads, but personally I have witnessed only
one or two in my years of driving.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">For me, the
problem comes when we are dealing with the multi-lane motorways. Most motorways
give the speed-limit as 100kph (though some, like the Hamilton Freeway, give it
as 110kph). Some people take this to mean that they<i> have</i> <i>to </i>drive
at 100kph, as if it is an obligatory speed. But the fact is that the very
existence of multi-lanes means one can move over and drive in the outer lanes…
which is what I tend to do, happily cruising at about 80kph unless it is
absolutely necessary to speed up a little more. And as I drive I see cars
zipping along past me – mostly safely. But I also see frequently certifiable
fools weaving their way at top speed through traffic, dodging in and out between
other cars that are already going at top speed. What is the purpose of this? It’s
possible that a few (a very few) have a legitimate reason for speeding. Maybe
they have an urgent appointment to meet. Maybe they have some domestic crisis
to deal with. But the odds are that the dangerous dodgers and weavers are just
speeding for the fun of it, showing off how they can overtake others. The most
dangerous drivers – the ones most likely to crash – are young men between
teenager-age and mid-twenties. Again, this is shown in statistics. And young
men are prone to showing off in their cars. Apart from fining more severely
those who exceed the speed limit, I can see no solution to this problem. The
last government we had suggested that all speed-limits should be lowered, but
the incoming government has scrapped the very idea of this. So dangerous
driving and many crashes will persist.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Which brings me to
truckies. In my experience, truck-drivers are more courteous on the roads than
most drivers are. I have never seen a truck-driver NOT using the passing lane
when his truck is trundling up a hill. Truck-drivers are not road hogs. They
are aware that they are carrying cargo that has to be protected and brought
safely to its destination. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truckies manoeuvre
carefully, wave cars on when they have to move over, and do not speed any more
than they really have to. In spite of all the stereotypes of truckies, they are
better and more skilled than menaces who want to speed just for the hell of it.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-71290321592644125082024-02-26T09:02:00.024+13:002024-02-26T09:02:00.151+13:00Something New<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> <br /></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“MY BRILLIANT SISTER”</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> by Amy Brown (Scribner, $NZ 37.99); <b>“LAWRENCE OF
ARABIA”</b> by Ranulph Fiennes (Michael Joseph, $NZ42 ); <b>“THE VANISHING
POINT”</b> by Andrea Hotere (Ultimo Press $NZ38)</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikC1-RzQ-BXyE3ame5QZlyBV6b0samy4AmhaOniOEd4-HvQMjAcUBG6EXqV927EzRZ67usMKYlorRnvSUtVohS7Ma1-SwNEF4RWebHL0mKjWL7llUwjLt-FEFwx_1DVn5golr6-D7kX0JzbVNkurJCT1scMttlWFl1YE6MERTh2ETzmkWDZtPumgHCSOP/s400/my-brilliant-sister-9781761424359_lg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="261" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikC1-RzQ-BXyE3ame5QZlyBV6b0samy4AmhaOniOEd4-HvQMjAcUBG6EXqV927EzRZ67usMKYlorRnvSUtVohS7Ma1-SwNEF4RWebHL0mKjWL7llUwjLt-FEFwx_1DVn5golr6-D7kX0JzbVNkurJCT1scMttlWFl1YE6MERTh2ETzmkWDZtPumgHCSOP/w312-h478/my-brilliant-sister-9781761424359_lg.jpg" width="312" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Amy
Brown, New Zealander now resident in Melbourne, has published poetry and
stories for children over the last decade or so. <i>My Brilliant Sister</i> is
her first novel for adults and it is a formidable, complex piece of work. The
novel comprises three separate stories about three separate women, but linked
with the same themes: how difficult, if not impossible, is it for women to
sustain a career, or be creative, if they have to do all the domestic work and
raise children? Or conversely, how easily can women sustain friendships (or
love) when they are focussed on a career?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is clearly a feminist novel, often referring to the fact that women
usually have to do all the heavy-lifting of cleaning and raising children while
their male spouses or partners can simply stand back and pursue their interests.
Each of the three women tells her story in the first person.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ida
(the first third of the novel) is a New Zealander living in Melbourne. She is
not married formally, though we are told that she and her man had a jokey “celebration”
in Wellington when they decided to live together. They have a four-year-old
daughter called Aster. Ida feels thwarted. Her partner is an academic
university lecturer who hides himself in his study and absorbs himself in his
writing, getting ahead with his career. Ida believes she too could have had an
academic career as she did well at university; but she wasn’t awarded scholarships
and instead teaches at high-school. Ida has to look after Aster, take her to
and from care places, make breakfast, lunch and dinner, do the cleaning… and
teach high-school. Like her partner she wants to write, but where is the time?
In the background of this story is the Covid pandemic. At high-school Ida gets
17-year-old girls to read the classic Australian novel <i>My Brilliant Career</i>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>published in 1901, written by Stella Miles
Franklin [<b>full name Stella Maria Sarah Miles Franklin, but published under
the name Miles Franklin, as in 1901 it was still believed by some publishers
that books would sell better if they appeared under masculine-sounding names</b>].
Stella Miles Franklin was a free-wheeling, unconventional woman who turned down
a proposal of marriage, never married, and got on with her writing… under many
different pseudonyms. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Struck down with
pneumonia, Ida, bed-ridden, reads all she can about Stella Miles Franklin, and
learns that Stella had a younger sister, Linda, who married when Stella did
not, had a baby and died when she was only 25. Linda lived a conventional life,
did all the household chores, but also sometimes showed a desire to produce
works of her own. She frequently wrote to Stella. This leads Ada to consider
what it would be like for women who have literary or other artistic aspirations
but are never able to achieve them… which could be her own fate.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The second section
of the novel is therefore told by Linda Franklin, in rural Australia in the
1890s and very early 1900s, round about the time when Australian women won the
franchise. In the first person, Linda writes letters to her older sister or
addresses Stella directly in a free-flowing monologue. Linda remembers Stella’s
boisterous adolescence, her tendency to dominate Linda, and the way she brushed
aside both an offer of marriage and the stories Linda tried to tell when Stella
was concocting her own plots. Linda marries, is domesticated and has a child,
but there is a tension in her thoughts. She likes her husband, she loves her
child (who dies young), but she still feels she has not been given the chance
to fully express herself in writing, about which she dreams. Stella Miles
Franklin becomes famous when she is only 21 and her <i>My Brilliant Career</i>
is first published. For Linda, Stella becomes “my brilliant sister”. She envies
her sister and she dislikes the way Stella often belittles as trivia things
that are important to Linda. And, of course, Linda dies too young to show what
she could have achieved.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">While this second
section reinforces the theme Amy Brown began with, the third section of <i>My
Brilliant Sister</i> is more ambiguous. The time is the [almost] present. Another
Stella is a very successful rock star in New Zealand, a singer-songwriter and guitarist
who attracts large audiences to her gigs. Her stage name is Stella Miles
Franklin. Stella sees no point in marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Stella has fallen in lesbian love with another musician, but apparently
her love is not returned. She often leans on her mother for conversation but,
at the age of 36, she’s beginning to wonder if her musical days are fading away.
Has she reached her peak? She talks with Linda, a friend since schooldays, who
is married and has three children; but much as she likes her friend, she knows
that is not the life she wants. As a celebrity, she is invited to speak at her
old high school but, as she narrates it, what she says is barely coherent. She
ends up fantasising about having the double or sister she never had – somebody
she could relate closely with. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">There are many
ideas crammed into this section of the novel, but surely one of them is that
having a “brilliant career” does not necessarily mean either happiness or
fulfilment. There is always competition. There is always the possibility that
focusing on achieving something can make it difficult to foster intimate
relationships with others. The achiever can morph into a loner and loneliness
will reign. Read as I have read it, this third part of the novel is more dour
and depressing even than the experiences of Ada and Linda Franklin… or perhaps
Amy Brown is signalling that being truly creative is always a hard road.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Taken as a whole, <i>My
Brilliant Sister</i> is a complex and thoughtful account of the relationship of
the sexes, as well as the difficulty of finding room for creativity. For this
reader at any rate, the most persuasive of the novel’s three sections is the
opening one, the one that sounds most authentic. Brown charts carefully, moment
by moment, the small things that stack up, forcing Ida to see herself as almost
trapped and unable to fulfil herself. I can’t help wondering if it is at least
in part based on the author’s own experience. [The very unfashionable
three-letter name Ida might chime with the author’s three-letter name Amy.] The
second section, set in the New South Wales of the 1890s, is almost as
persuasive. Brown has certainly done her research. The social classes of the
time, the poverty that the Franklin family fall into when they lose their farm,
the sharp difference between Linda’s home experience and Stella’s
boarding-school experience, the snobbery of some of the horsey-riding clan – it
is all readable and all real. I would only fault (me being a nit-picking
person) a few moments when narrating Linda, recalling what she said as a
ten-year-old, seems to use a vocabulary far beyond her age.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">This is an
important novel, though I would understand if some readers saw it as very
depressing.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpAVXv1EB4uyE3ORn2bB9W432plVSunzSpS9Ep978PQuXgtxEyO7slcCROFAGHglnxTE1RSI7Ykr-IM8CqXVkn5mvMQZhPqzhb5MJj1LI72Z3E4MbLu8kLghsxtGnuULeRA3yydpFNKy8KaeU6Y2E6R9ghyphenhyphenlx6ccoNsX389F3jmtA5HbA0v1_SSmeIIEQn/s400/9781405954891.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpAVXv1EB4uyE3ORn2bB9W432plVSunzSpS9Ep978PQuXgtxEyO7slcCROFAGHglnxTE1RSI7Ykr-IM8CqXVkn5mvMQZhPqzhb5MJj1LI72Z3E4MbLu8kLghsxtGnuULeRA3yydpFNKy8KaeU6Y2E6R9ghyphenhyphenlx6ccoNsX389F3jmtA5HbA0v1_SSmeIIEQn/w394-h394/9781405954891.jpg" width="394" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><p></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It’s
been calculated that about 300 books concerning Thomas Edward Lawrence “of
Arabia” have been published, and they keep coming. Readers of this blog may be
aware that some time back I wrote a detailed critique of Lawrence’s
autobiography of his years in Arabia, <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2022/03/sevenpillarsofwisdomtelawrence.html">Seven Pillars of Wisdom</a></b> ,highly praised in its day but now subject of much criticism. And I found
much in it to criticise. I also reviewed Richard Aldington’s <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2022/04/richardaldintonlawrenceofarabiaabiographicalenquiry.html">Lawrence ofArabia – A Biographical Enquiry</a></b>, published in the 1950s
and the first detailed attempt to debunk the Lawrence legend. Aldington was
shouted down at the time, but later research has proven that much of what he
wrote has turned out to be accurate. The problem was that Aldington tended to
be dogmatic and refused to see <i>any</i> good in Lawrence. I could see that,
even if Lawrence did not achieve as much as he claimed to have done, there was
something extraordinary in a short-sized English officer being able to gain the
trust of Arabs and become one of their leaders – especially as Lawrence was
only in his twenties at the time. So you can see I’m undecided about Lawrence.
He was partly charismatic leader of the Arab tribes and partly
self-aggrandising charlatan.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ranulph
Fiennes’ <i>Lawrence of Arabia</i> is the latest attempt to crack the Lawrence
enigma. Fiennes has written many non-fictions, usually polishing up the tales
of British heroes like Captain Scott and Shackleton. Fiennes has also done much
travelling. The blurb tells me that, according to the <i>Guinness Book of
Records</i>, Fiennes is “<i>the world’s greatest living explorer</i>”. Most
pertinent, however, is the fact the Fiennes has been a soldier and commander of
men in situations of hit-and-run guerrilla warfare. In the 1960s he fought for
the Sultan of Omar in putting down the Dhofar Rebellion. This was in a desert
country and Fiennes sees himself as having acted very much as Lawrence did in a
similar environment.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
his introduction, Fiennes describes Lawrence’s work in Arabia as “<i>one of the
most awe-inspiring stories of all time… a young British officer set the desert
on fire and emblazoned his name in the pages of history</i>.” Against this
hyperbole, all I can say is “Strewth!” Fiennes identifies himself with
Lawrence. Every so often, Fiennes breaks off his narrative of <i>Lawrence of
Arabia</i> to interpolate tales of his days in Oman. When he tells the
well-known story of Lawrence shooting an Arab to prevent a blood feud, he tells
us that he himself knew how unpleasant he felt when he had to shoot a man. When
we are told of some successful strategy Lawrence used,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fiennes tells us of something similar he did.
I can see easily how this might annoy some readers.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
read other texts about Lawrence, I question at least some of the statements
Fiennes makes. He presents the taking of port of Wejh as one of Lawrence’s
great triumphs when others have reported that Wejh was taken mainly by the
Royal Navy, with Lawrence turning up after most of the action was over. More
questionably, Fiennes says that Lawrence knew nothing about the Sykes-Picot
agreement – the plan to divide up Arabia between the English and the French -
until the very last moment and only then did he become disillusioned with his
hope to free the Arabs. The hard fact is that Lawrence was fully aware of this
secret pact almost as soon as it was hatched.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
fairness, though, I have to admit that, despite the interpolations about
himself, Fiennes tells a good story and makes the campaigns of Lawrence
understandable. As Lawrence told of them in <i>Seven Pillars of Wisdom</i>,
they were often confusing and complex. Fiennes turns them into a good yarn.
Also, note that he takes on board some of the things that Aldington was abused
for noting in the 1950s – among other things that Lawrence was essentially
homosexual with a tendency for sadomasochism. Fiennes admits that Lawrence had
his flaws, and that his supposed aim to create a unified Arab country never
came to fruition. Indeed what Lawrence left behind him was a mess of rival Arab
tribes vying for dominance. In the end his achievement was very little. In
spite of which, as told by Fiennes, <i>Lawrence of Arabia</i> bounces along
with its skirmish scenes, de-railing of trains and other matters of derring-do
which will give great pleasure to those who like the genre of outdoor muscular
adventure – truthful or otherwise.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhjwfoxf1PnI1PVxeqcKN_1NEaTPes_wd4ugSk-UTJMv5YHhceXPaDo3iCvx-CSPvtnYpSNIgUm2d85_XM5IGL9sOZP4lyx64AVrM93-YgqBfVO_uXqT38pRVXAz01hcvf4utPVAqhEIXSsG5lYpddr2gmMJyxsF5Hv_JWkjg0obIYZNMeEmOT-lB_YQA9/s500/9781761152757.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhjwfoxf1PnI1PVxeqcKN_1NEaTPes_wd4ugSk-UTJMv5YHhceXPaDo3iCvx-CSPvtnYpSNIgUm2d85_XM5IGL9sOZP4lyx64AVrM93-YgqBfVO_uXqT38pRVXAz01hcvf4utPVAqhEIXSsG5lYpddr2gmMJyxsF5Hv_JWkjg0obIYZNMeEmOT-lB_YQA9/w332-h508/9781761152757.jpg" width="332" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I have to admit
that I took some time getting around to reading Andrea Hotere’s <i>The
Vanishing Point</i>, which was published last year. My holidays drew me off to
other interests.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>The Vanishing Point</i> is centred on a
very famous work of art. Diego Velasquez’s <i>Las Meninas</i> (<i>The
Ladies-in-Waiting</i>), painted in Madrid in 1656, has been examined, quarrelled
over by experts, admired by art critics, inspired other painters (Picasso et al)
and widely loved by the general public more than nearly any other painting except
perhaps the <i>Mona Lisa</i>. I admit to standing gazing at it for a long time
while visiting the Prado a few years back. It does cast a certain spell. What
gets you is the way Velasquez, painting a group of the royal Spanish court, presents
them in unexpected places, including himself staring at us from his easel as if
he is painting us, the viewers, and not the royal gathering. There is also the
unexpected cluster around the little princess, the Infanta Margarita Teresa,
with not only two ladies-in-waiting about her, but the two dwarves and the
mastiff and more dimly-depicted people behind them. And why are the king
(Philip IV) and the queen shown only in a small painting on the far wall… or is
it a mirror showing part of what Velasquez is painting? And, at the painting’s vanishing
point, who is that man going out the far door?</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It is, I believe,
the complexity of this work of art and Velasquez’s daring in breaking with
tradition that make <i>Las Meninas</i> the masterpiece it is. He defied the
standard convention of presenting royalty in stiff, lined-up poses. We admire <i>Las
Meninas</i> and ponder over it for purely aesthetic reasons. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Andrea Hotere is not really focused on aesthetics. She is focused on a
conspiracy. Basic plot: in the late 20<sup>th</sup> century two young woman,
interested in art, try to unravel the “secret” behind <i>Las Meninas</i> and
what is hidden in it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a “curse”
hanging over King Philip IV and his offspring, and apparently a scandal
involving the king himself … and it transpires that there’s a sinister group,
something like the Spanish version of the fabled <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Illuminati”, that tries fanatically to cover
things up. Hotere’s narrative moves between 17<sup>th</sup> century Spain and late
20<sup>th</sup> century London and Spain. And apparently in the 20<sup>th</sup>
century there are still people trying to eliminate those who get too near to
unravelling the hidden codes of Velasquez’s masterwork.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let’s
make some fair points: Andrea Hotere has done a great deal a research, knows
much of the reality of 17<sup>th</sup> century Spain, and conveys it to us,
usually in the form of conversations between characters to enlighten us... which
can sometimes sound artificial. She is also aware that the “curse” that fell
upon the whole Hapsburg dynasty was not some supernatural spell or demonic damnation.
It was simply genetic. The Hapsburgs were very in-bred, leading among other
things to the notorious and unsightly “Hapsburg Jaw”; and the king who followed
Philip IV was the pitiful King Carlos who was virtually a drivelling idiot.
[Years ago I read on this subject a book called <i>Carlos the Bewitched</i>,
which is what the poor fellow was nicknamed at the time.] Yet it is not really
this “curse” that is Andrea Hotere’s main interest. She is more concerned with
that man going out the door of the “vanishing point” and all he might have done
with regard to the scandal involving the king. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>The
Vanishing Point</i> is an easy read, though for all the author’s genuine erudition
it does seem to be following the likes of <i>The Girl with a Pearl Earing</i>. However, given that Hotere is genuinely very well informed about 17th century Spain, she is miles ahead of the type of unhistorical drivel Dan Brown produced with his <i>The</i> <i>Da Vinci Code</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><i>The
Vanishing Point</i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> is a great read if you like conspiracy theories. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkNLvubr2ICvSwCNu0UmPONjx0Nkhxy6wuI3tBCVl7-Ito-vzR2KAAjHSIXA5EBRAcL6WjQ7HMaaIIm5X_G3Z1JzMip5ut0FHCyva0XgoIKSx_iarJaf2F8LBkfQCvYo-XTsULwd1qhOm1sAknAohyphenhyphenyrGf2CxtaMouKIotSFymmxRp2MtcLXaAjB6t0Vsv/s2060/Las-Meninas--009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2060" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkNLvubr2ICvSwCNu0UmPONjx0Nkhxy6wuI3tBCVl7-Ito-vzR2KAAjHSIXA5EBRAcL6WjQ7HMaaIIm5X_G3Z1JzMip5ut0FHCyva0XgoIKSx_iarJaf2F8LBkfQCvYo-XTsULwd1qhOm1sAknAohyphenhyphenyrGf2CxtaMouKIotSFymmxRp2MtcLXaAjB6t0Vsv/w579-h347/Las-Meninas--009.jpg" width="579" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /> </span><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-78653131764198086242024-02-26T09:01:00.046+13:002024-02-26T09:01:00.127+13:00Something Old<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE NOVELS AND
STORIES OF NOEL HILLIARD – PART TWO</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofBhup8CeUNgs2UJaRGFiGzmyfC9L7HWAMTIIt7MW8aAcZpKjpBIQuCDDDFFOthwI2eQ9o3fePFdlQRQ6Yoh0XBgtq-lYJ9HZgE44XffLc4zieuCP5ZhAfSSczg2fP48D8fBIfyHsTwFnrcxOwRJQtVrcGMdyh80OmHat1C4o9xcoZLzhCmTbn6AELlUc/s179/th.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="179" data-original-width="115" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofBhup8CeUNgs2UJaRGFiGzmyfC9L7HWAMTIIt7MW8aAcZpKjpBIQuCDDDFFOthwI2eQ9o3fePFdlQRQ6Yoh0XBgtq-lYJ9HZgE44XffLc4zieuCP5ZhAfSSczg2fP48D8fBIfyHsTwFnrcxOwRJQtVrcGMdyh80OmHat1C4o9xcoZLzhCmTbn6AELlUc/w231-h360/th.jpg" width="231" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">[Last posting I
dealt with the first two novels of Noel Hilliard’s tetralogy, <i>Maori Girl</i>
and <i>Power of Joy</i>. This posting I deal with the concluding two novels of
the tetralogy. ]</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Maori Woman</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> (first published in 1974) brings Netta Samuel
together with Paul Bennett. Once again, Hilliard presents his novel in four
parts. And once again he begins each part with a Biblical quotation.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part One</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> : Netta Samuel now works as a machinist in a
Wellington clothing factory. She was devastated when she had to give up her
baby Victoria (“Vicki”) for adoption to a Pakeha couple. She is now living with
Jason Pine, a Maori labourer who has spent time in jail for his violent
criminal activities including rape. Jason has had a life of dodging or coping
with Pakeha prejudices. He also has a strong sexual appetite and (unknown by
Netta) he is cheating on Netta with a Pakeha girl. Paul Bennett, as he
determined at the end of <i>Power of Joy</i>, has approached Netta and had tea
with her after first accosting her at the railway station. He has asked her to
phone him - but she will not give him her name. At the clothing factory, Netta’s
boss is the Pakeha Henry Rushbury. He has decided views on the disruptive
powers of attractive young Maori. They are a distraction for the male workers.
He also seems to be bored with his own marriage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part One ends with Paul Bennett lifted out of
his gloom when Neta does phone him.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part Two</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: Netta’s Pakeha boss Henry Rushbury takes more than a
passing interest in Netta… indeed he daydreams about her while at a symphony
concert [Hilliard presents classical music as something for snobs who only
attend to boost their own prestige.] Netta meanwhile accepts at the factory the
friendship of a rather neurotic English girl called Sharon Burt, who claims she’s
going to marry a Maori called Richard. Only later do we learn that Sharon is in
fact the Pakeha girl with whom Jason Pine is cheating. The friendship of Paul
and Netta develops. They meet a number of times and exchange stories of their
childhood, but she does not as yet trust him with her address or the details of
her life. Finally, balancing up Jason and Paul in her mind, she decides to
commit herself to Paul. At about the same time, Jason is gathering together all
the rage and resentment he feels about Pakeha society. This culminates when he
sexually humiliates Sharon at a Pakeha party they attend. He knows trouble will
soon find him and he decides to leave town. This is the same night that Netta
and Paul decide to live together.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part Three</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> : Travelling back to the country, Paul meets Jason,
fresh out of prison, who berates him for his Pakeha ignorance of Maori ways. Aggressively
he attacks Paul’s patronising attitude. Netta returns to her family, wrenched
by the fact that she is not able to tell them about the mokopuna she has given
up for adoption. Her father (without speaking out loud) laments the poor living
he is able to scratch out of his farm than the Pakeha have taken away the best
land. And yet in prayer and celebration, Netta’s is a warm homecoming to a real
family. In contrast, Paul’s is a solitary homecoming. Isolated, he wanders
among the trees, alienated, looking at the way industry has wrecked the
countryside. Visiting the overgrown, run-down marae he wonders how this could
be the centre of a social life. As for Jason’s homecoming, he is completely
alienated from the old ways… and later he defaces a sign that prohibits the
taking of shellfish. He despises his family for clinging to tradition and
determines to go back to the city. And back in the Wellington factory, the boss
Henry Rushbury is having lustful thoughts about Netta, especially as his wife
keeps nagging him about how he should be more assertive with his employees.
Netta tells her family that she is going to marry the Pakeha Paul. There is
some consternation about this, but her family generally accepts her decision.
In contrast, when Paul tells his parents that he's going to marry a Maori
woman, there is barely-suppressed racism. Paul’s mother is tight-lipped and his
father gives a full-on racist lecture. Paul consults an Anglican vicar about
his family’s attitude. The vicar is understanding and says it is Paul’s family
that must change; but Paul comes away feeling that he should not have attempted
to rely on a church he no longer believes in. He tries, without great success,
to make peace with his mother. Netta visits the neighbours of the Matiti area
and once again sees how run-down and backward the area is. In a way, she has
become more acclimatised to the city than she realises… yet, even though she now
finds be inadequate and limited the house she grew up, she is bullied by her
father to agree she will stay there. Part Three closes with Paul reading a
letter sent by the vicar saying Paul shouldn’t have any fear in marrying with
the church’s support.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part Four</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> : When Netta returns to her factory job, Henry
Rushbury plans to seduce her. He has erotic fantasies in which he controls
Netta. Meanwhile the unhappy English girl Sharon Burt tells Netta how she has
been slapped around by her boyfriend Richard and how she is now pregnant – and Netta
knows that she is really talking about Jason Pine. Meanwhile, as Paul sleeps with
Netta, he becomes curious and jealous about the man she still lives with; and
she explains how this unnamed man is in trouble and needs her. Not too much
later however, Netta tells Jason that she is leaving him for a Pakeha man. In
return, Jason lectures her on how she will lose all her Maoriness. Finally Paul
comes to Netta’s place while Jason is there – and he recognises the man with
whom he had an argument in the country some weeks earlier. In a rage, Jason
stabs Netta… and the novel ends with Henry Rushbury reading a newspaper report
of Netta’s critical condition. He says “Thank God!”, which is presumably his sense
of relief that he just missed getting involved with her. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">At which point you
are very annoyed with me because all I have given you of <i>Maori Woman</i> is
an over-long synopsis. So let me give a little critique. This third novel in
the tetralogy – the one in which Netta and Paul are brought together – is the
most schematic and didactic of the series. Like <i>Power of Joy</i>, it is
weighted down with interior monologue – though this time from many different
characters – which tends to explain themes rather than dramatizing them. There
is often the sense, too, that the thoughts of all the main characters (Netta,
Paul, Jason and Henry) are too self-aware and too articulate. For the same
reason, much of the dialogue has a stilted theatrical feel. Hilliard is clearly
exploring racial attitudes, condemning Pakeha prejudice and (in the character
of Jason Pine) showing how resentment at such prejudice can lead some Maori
to criminality. Hilliard overtly criticises Pakeha stereotyped ideas of Maori
life; but sometimes Hilliard comes close to repeating such stereotypes – Maori with
a strong sense of community, spirituality and family in spite of poverty.
Meanwhile Pakeha are individualistic, alienated, materialistic and sexually repressed.
This is most obvious in the contrast between Netta’s homecoming and Paul’s
homecoming when they tell their respective families that they are going to
marry. The novel’s admonitory, fable-like quality surfaces again when Jason’s frustration
and anger with Netta results in criminal violence… whereas Henry Rushbury’s
perverse thoughts die in respectable silence. What other agenda is there here?
Hilliard has of course written a socially-aware novel, and in the factory
scenes he introduces comments about materials, about piece-work and bonuses and
capitalist exploitation. He also arraigns European “high culture” in Henry
Rushbury’s thoughts while listening to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, with
Hilliard suggesting that it is not really relevant to New Zealand… a bit like Paul
having to cast aside his Wordsworthian-ism in <i>Power of Joy</i>. The church,
however, in the figure of the vicar, is presented more-or-less positively.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfngK6Vii2CcRbh2YCj_99NE_N7Gg0knkZQqm8F6vkOQlNKu8Oggs5zJMo9CiZykbtBp3rCGP1oYUXryUXo29vpkLylMoXG66abEpkN3vuX9eXfX5pGKqsps4-ZLdzlAu12bSgNPhE2oaHY-fnhXkTFKFad3KVFxUKXWBRDQmee0_SQJxG5-ysjq7J97N5/s300/whois_noel_hilliard_profile_3601768.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfngK6Vii2CcRbh2YCj_99NE_N7Gg0knkZQqm8F6vkOQlNKu8Oggs5zJMo9CiZykbtBp3rCGP1oYUXryUXo29vpkLylMoXG66abEpkN3vuX9eXfX5pGKqsps4-ZLdzlAu12bSgNPhE2oaHY-fnhXkTFKFad3KVFxUKXWBRDQmee0_SQJxG5-ysjq7J97N5/w377-h377/whois_noel_hilliard_profile_3601768.webp" width="377" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The last book of the tetralogy <b>The Glory
and the Dream</b> was first published in 1978. Like all books of the tetralogy, <i>The
Glory and the Dream</i> is divided into four parts.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part One</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> opens when Netta and Paul have been married for about
a year and they have moved out of the city and into the country. They have a
baby daughter called Huia and Paul is working at a paper mill. This first part
is framed by a picnic they go on, where Paul thinks back to how his parents
ignored them after their registry office wedding, but how Netta’s family welcomed
them even though her father still harped on the unfairness of Pakeha taking
Maori land. Paul also remembers going on a fishing expedition with Netta’s
brother Mutu. Heavy symbolism appears everywhere. In the opening pages Paul and
Netta, in their vegetable garden, are <u>deliberately nurturing new plant life</u>…
and travelling on a boat to the picnic with Netta and baby Huia, there’s the
symbolism of a <u>fragile craft adrift in new waters</u>… like the marriage of
Maori and Pakeha. Paul remembers Christmas celebrations and the meal with Netta’s
family the previous year, and how he, unused to such food, threw up at the
rotten corn. He remembers the New Year’s hangi and the rain… And how Netta showed
him her former home and its ways and how he is not fully centred there. Part
One ends with him, after the picnic, having sunburn so easily because he has a
different sort of skin from his wife… more symbolism and certainly much inner
monologue.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In <u>Part Two</u>
small matters of adjustment in their marriage are outlined. They collectively
become a great matter. She doesn’t see the value of reading books. He does. She
has a different attitude to money from his. She goes to church. He doesn’t. She is
horrified that he still won’t introduce her to his family, as she believes a
marriage should be two families coming together. He criticises her standard of
tidiness in housekeeping. There is a grisly incident when he introduces her to
a snobbish Pakeha couple who pick apart her name as a problem in linguistics.
They go to the funeral of somebody in the same firm as Paul, and she is appalled
at how empty of feeling a Pakeha funeral is. They talk about her feelings
considering God, and in a long-night conversation she talks about the Maori
heritage their children will have. Often he proposes to her the idea that they
are a couple above race; but she says such an idea is a delusion. Paul feels
how different he is from her relatives when they come to call and he feeds
himself while they continue to drink beer until they get some fish and chips.
They discuss a pornographic comic Paul brings home from his work, and at her
insistence he burns it. They argue about his patronising Pakeha friends trying
to change her Maori ways, and about how she doesn’t value money or savings.
They have another major disagreement over how Huia is to be brought up – Maori values
or Pakeha ones – and she tries to define her morality and concepts of moral
good. She tells him about her sense of God – and about something she is missing.
She has not told him of the child she adopted out – she claims that her first
child died. She is indifferent to politics. He doesn’t believe in in omens. She
does. <br /></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part Three</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: The weather changes. Paul feels sick and irritable
being on the night shift at the paper mill. There is a long description here of
conditions at the paper mill and the discontent of the workers with the owners.
Paul and Netta have long conversations about the merits of classical music and
about the pressures placed on him at work. He wonders why she has no ambition
and never suggests he should go further than his boring job. He begins to
imagine that she is cheating on him because he does the night-shift when
anybody could be entering their home… and to escape these negative thoughts, he
reverts to adolescence and tries to immerse himself in nature once again. But
when he returns home his suspicions are renewed. When Netta is out one morning,
he rifles through her belongings looking for evidence of her infidelity. He
finds a letter from her adopted-out daughter but does not understand its
significance and imagines it’s only from a niece in her extended family.
However he finds a paperback that used to belong to a ship’s library. His mind
goes back to his days in Wellington and he wonders in raging jealousy if Netta
was once a “ship girl”. He suffers what almost amounts to a nervous breakdown,
with thoughts of revenge on Netta and her supposed lover… and finally Netta
reveals the existence of her adopted-out daughter Vicki… and Paul at last
realises what her behaviour has meant over all these years and he is filled
with shame. He has simply not understood what a burden she has carried in having to keep some of her past secret.<br /></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Part Four</span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">. This part opens with two-and-a-half pages of
Nature-coming-to-life imagery. Paul has adjusted to his life with Netta – he is
resigned to it. Netta gives him as a present <i>The Meditations of Marcus
Aurelius</i>, with its advice of not becoming obsessed with the foolish and the
ignorant… and on the next page Paul’s parents at last visit them. There is
mutual awkwardness, but Paul’s father now offers Paul his farm and says it’s
what he went to war for… after all, any farmer wants to pass on his farm to his son. After his parents have gone, Paul begins to accept his
father’s offer… and the novel ends with life burgeoning as Netta says she is
pregnant again.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Okay. Okay. I’m
not responsible for the fairy-tale ending and I have delivered you another
over-long synopsis. But bear with me in a sort of critique. Hilliard’s fatal
weaknesses are at their worst in <i>The Glory and the Dream</i>. Hilliard
constantly <b>tells us</b> without <b>showing us.</b> On page after page he
rushes in to point a moral rather than dramatising events. Once again, a good deal of the
text is taken up with interior monologue and rumination, nearly always Paul’s
and very rarely Netta’s. We are, even more than in the preceding three novels,
getting the Pakeha male’s view of cultural clash and race relations. This would
be unexceptional except that there are long sections where Paul’s conversations
with Netta seem to be little more than his asking questions about her values
and beliefs – a stark and really undramatised contrast of Maori and Pakeha
values. Worse, the symbolic imagery (or pathetic fallacy) gets out of hand, with Nature ready to tell us about life regenerating etc. etc.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Is there a trace
in this novel of the Marxism that at one stage Hilliard embraced? In the choice
of subject and social attitudes, there may be some moments of socialist inspiration,
especially when we have Paul in the paper mill considering the alienation of
the workers. Also (in a timber-milling town) there is some imagery about the
rape of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But little of this is
really seen in a socialist perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Attitudes to work and ideas of alienation are more the sins of Western
civilisation than specifically the fault of capitalism. In one sense, then,
this novel takes race to be a more determinant factor than class.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">To go back to what
I said in introducing Hilliard’s work, I believe he wrote with “the best of
intentions”. He really did seek a more equitable New Zealand and he certainly
wanted greater respect for the Maori people. He did have not only a Maori wife,
but also many admiring Maori friends. These are things to be applauded. But,
good intentions apart, what he offered sometimes were themselves stereotypes
and much of what he wrote now seems oddly patronising. Certainly (and this is
not his fault) his depiction of Maori is not as raw and knowing as the work of
the many Maori writers who have appeared in the last 40 or 50 years.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And then there are
all the problems with his prose style. I was able to access some of the
original reviews in “Landfall” of Hilliard’s work, and the reviews were often
negative. In “Landfall 57 – March 1961” Paul Day blasted <i>Maori Girl</i> as “<i>not
a satisfactory novel because of the thinness of its characters’ emotional life…
Mr. Hilliard… has fallen between two stools of reporting and imaginative creation…</i>”
In “Landfall 129 March 1979”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patricia
Glensor ripped <i>The Glory and the Dream</i> apart, attacking the whole of
Hilliard’s tetralogy as a cliché-ridden unrealistic novel written too often in
sub-Wordsworthian prose and perpetuating the very racist concepts Hilliard set
out to demolish. She says he creates the “<i>happy-go-lucky Hori and the
neurotic, nit-picking Pakeha</i>”. And between these reviews, Dennis McEldowney
in 1963 damned one of Hilliard’s short stories as so bad it was “embarrassing”;
and R.A. Copland, in 1969, biffed at Hilliard’s <i>A Night at Green River</i> [the
novel that interrupted the tetralogy] as sheer didacticism. In “Landfall 113
March 1975”, H.Winston Rhodes praised Hilliard’s social realism in <i>Maori
Woman</i> but had to admit the “inadequacy” of Hilliard’s narrative technique.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Not that critics
are always right, of course (not even the one you are now reading). But it does
seem that Noel Hilliard had a hard ride even in his heyday, and his stock has fallen even further now</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>[Two novels by Hilliard, his short stories
and one odd book will conclude my examination of Hilliard’s work in my next
posting]</b></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-80833693267867883332024-02-26T09:00:00.001+13:002024-02-26T09:00:00.133+13:00Something Thoughtful<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> <b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></b></span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> PRESENT MIRTH HATH PRESENT LAUGHTER </span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It was almost a
ritual in the late 1950s and early 1960s when I was a little kiddie slightly on
my way to teenager-dom. Dad would turn on the radio in our living room at the
appropriate time and we’d listen to <i>My Word</i>. What a witty BBC programme
it was. Two women (most often Nancy Spain and Anne Scott-James) would answer
questions about the meaning of obscure words. Then they were asked to say where
certain chosen literary quotations came from. After this, the witty
script-writers Frank Muir and Denis Norden would take over. (Muir and Norden
had become well-known for scripting the 1950s comedy show <i>Take It From Here </i>with
“The Glums” and other broad jokery). They would be asked to concoct outlandish
stories about how these quotations came about. What they came up with were
long, funny anecdotes, always ending with outrageous puns. Muir’s and Norden’s anecdotes
were the highlight of the show and the thing most quoted and laughed about when
each episode was remembered.</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4BB6Jw5_g2w4hfef4PEepAGiW7NRnVgHdVSkq7-sYVGwtKUFCae1cvaOGVHJGkQuiDst9NYROmz9EuQywIDaGcBSpGFAZHSqqbIRoNJZXw1JVwr_aGtinZIpDGH53E0gTXE5Ur4XnLqHD3nfnRiIiOIJYhzBwkyui_vU8GxpbVCLR0yjygySZaGSJu4nU/s735/69e9888476dc8835283fcd43894dd89a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="735" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4BB6Jw5_g2w4hfef4PEepAGiW7NRnVgHdVSkq7-sYVGwtKUFCae1cvaOGVHJGkQuiDst9NYROmz9EuQywIDaGcBSpGFAZHSqqbIRoNJZXw1JVwr_aGtinZIpDGH53E0gTXE5Ur4XnLqHD3nfnRiIiOIJYhzBwkyui_vU8GxpbVCLR0yjygySZaGSJu4nU/w397-h298/69e9888476dc8835283fcd43894dd89a.jpg" width="397" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> <b> Muir and Norden in their prime</b><br /> </span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I remember my
father puffing on his pipe and congratulating himself on the number of literary
quotations he was able to identify before the panel on the radio had identified
them. This seemed to little me the epitome of sophisticated wit. <i>My Word</i>
[I have this from Wikipedia] was broadcast from 1956 to 1967, and was then
continued in a modified form from 1967 to 1988, but by that time television had
invaded New Zealand and we no longer listened regularly to the show or to much spoken
radio in general. I treasured my vague memories of <i>My Word</i> (which was
followed by the rather more tepid <i>My Music</i>) and continued to think it
was sophisticated highbrow entertainment. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Then, beginning
last year, disaster struck. The BBC allowed recordings of <i>My Word</i> to be
played on line. I sat down at my computer, found the right programme, and
waited for a deluge of witticism. Alas, it didn’t happen. I discovered that, as
often as not, the show’s moderator Jack Longland had to help out the panel when
it came to defining recherche words or identifying literary quotations. They
were not so erudite after all. Worse, I found Muir’s and Norden’s anecdotes to
be over-long and ending with such contorted puns that they barely made sense,
or barely fitted the quotation they were guying [There’s a word you don’t hear
often now!]. There was the occasional funny quip, the occasional pun that hit
the spot, but it now seemed awfully twee, dated and a little too cosy –
middle-class English people patting themselves on the back. I regret to say I
had also heard rumours [true or untrue I know not] that in fact Muir’s and
Norden’s punning anecdotes were scripted and rehearsed well before the
live-show went on air. Perhaps they were not spontaneous. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I feel caddish
about writing all this, but it was another proof that certain types of humour
don’t fully weather the test of time. I think back to other BBC radio comedies we
enjoyed when I was a kid. There was <i>Beyond Our Ken</i> (broadcast from 1958 to
1964) and its successor <i>Round the Horne</i> (1965 to 1968) wherein the
unflappable, strait, avuncular and congenial Kenneth Horne dealt with the likes
of loud-voiced Betty Marsden and the multi-voiced Kenneth Williams and Hugh
Paddick, who could mimic many characters but who were best known for their camp
performance as Julian and Sandy. When I got to university, I often heard
fellow-students saying they despised the Julian and Sandy characters, because
they were a cruel stereotype of homosexual men at a time when gay guys were
often discriminated against. But the reality was that, in real life, both
Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick were homosexual, they enjoyed playing their
camp roles, and they are now often cited as pioneers in putting gayness to the
fore on the media and making the wider public aware of the cant Polare
language. <i>Beyond Our Ken</i> and <i>Round the Horne</i> were good fun at the
time but, when now heard [also available on line], they are repetitive and very
dated.</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpMkRHdHKk7Avv2Sl_noFVh4jHFqhVOet8fQUiIiMJLTYok-aPDuGRo0Ny5h7_60slBpUZmlMf1Fu7nJFXyhkIRhZun5Hoz7dYGIl0cVzcAfDpCxJwptjkczM3b6wgwIZuEVRHew_qaCz0khMoNGl4CT1SQP4Jp8JysYUYdfrDmoJeWP8q3coG_QmQ5rh/s396/The_cast_of_Round_the_Horne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="396" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpMkRHdHKk7Avv2Sl_noFVh4jHFqhVOet8fQUiIiMJLTYok-aPDuGRo0Ny5h7_60slBpUZmlMf1Fu7nJFXyhkIRhZun5Hoz7dYGIl0cVzcAfDpCxJwptjkczM3b6wgwIZuEVRHew_qaCz0khMoNGl4CT1SQP4Jp8JysYUYdfrDmoJeWP8q3coG_QmQ5rh/w494-h276/The_cast_of_Round_the_Horne.jpg" width="494" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Hugh Paddick and Kenneth Williams laugh uproariously, encouraging Kenneth Horne and Betty Marsden in <i>Round the Horne</i>.<br /> </b></span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And the same is
true of another 1960s BBC radio comedy <i>I’m Sorry, I’ll Read That Again,</i>
which was slightly more aligned to a younger audience. Its cast mainly came
from Cambridge university, including Tim Brooke-Taylor, John Cleese, Graeme
Garden, David Hatch, Jo Kendall (the only woman in the show and much
under-used) and Bill Oddie. Funny that at the time it seemed a sparkling new
sort of comedy with all its university wit – my brother and I listened to it
devotedly – and yet now it seems just another collection of funny voices,
old-fashioned puns, predictable stereotypes and jokes that came from Joe
Miller.</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6G95RCJS8C0zBLvvgyAvQy1KVBAjqzolaT4fBif9mZXC-fEygnnHVEKUOa_oyVLplmWPz8Hmd1pEw97ESc3wXEgL5eCuya1Idej0tzjDx65_2Yxf9paWla2_3UBXfav_c8MuFVN6qTp6SPo8QnnJmtreUWZhzd4D_Xp9vLy0qU_pkDN1lcFZfgOijambC/s600/im-sorry-ill-read-that-again-1-600x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6G95RCJS8C0zBLvvgyAvQy1KVBAjqzolaT4fBif9mZXC-fEygnnHVEKUOa_oyVLplmWPz8Hmd1pEw97ESc3wXEgL5eCuya1Idej0tzjDx65_2Yxf9paWla2_3UBXfav_c8MuFVN6qTp6SPo8QnnJmtreUWZhzd4D_Xp9vLy0qU_pkDN1lcFZfgOijambC/w376-h250/im-sorry-ill-read-that-again-1-600x400.jpg" width="376" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><b>The clever kids from Cambridge, Tim Brooke-Taylor, David Hatch, Jo Kendall, Bill Oddie and the towering John Cleese.</b><br /> </span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Oh dear! What a
sour puss I am. But the hard reality is that comedy does date and can date
badly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some time ago on this blog, I
made a similar case in a piece called <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2021/06/something-thoughtful.html">The Flies Crawled Up the Window</a></b>. There is much comedy that has survived through long ages. There is
some patter that is still funny [check the best of the Marx Brothers – though they
too had their duds]. Sometimes I’m inclined to think the most enduring comedy
is pure slapstick as practised by silent comics such as Max Linder, Keaton [the
very best of them], Chaplin and Lloyd. But the thing is that, on the whole,
their comedy wasn’t topical and therefore could remain jocular.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">But where old BBC
radio comedy shows are involved truly, as Bill Shakespeare said in <i>Twelfth
Night </i><b>present mirth hath present laughter</b>… but only in the present.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-78967668427347003792024-02-12T09:02:00.020+13:002024-02-12T09:02:00.138+13:00Something New<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<b>SELECTED POEMS – GEOFF COCHRANE”</b>
Selected by Fergus Barrowman (Te Herenga Waka University Press, $NZ40,
hardback); <b>“THE GLASS GUITAR” </b>poems by Peter Olds<b> </b>(Cold Hub
Press, NZ$26) ; </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“NIGHT SHIFTS”</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> by
Pat White (Cold Hub Press, $NZ28);</span></span>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><b>“REMEMBER ME – Poems to Learn by Heart from Aotearoa New
Zealand”</b> edited by Anne Kennedy (Auckland University Press, $NZ45); <b>“RAPTURE
– An Anthology of Performance Poetry from Aotearoa New Zealand”</b> Edited by
Carrie Rudzinski and Grace Iwashita-Taylor (Auckland University Press, $NZ49.99)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtnTRff3ADYb6Uqp1iIygS-BdWSWF2Y6Z-ZCUiB_Q_ebpq0ReJN4o8KWJ8x6GzunxMyQY6y_NB2FWi6JBVJ5RbFPudenSv3W-MbD2Jk2cn6Q5vWaR0kVVWDW_96c_e0BwjlnzpoM2x6dhhZWZ8Tshz0GmJf0hIlYBILAWs-EwD-8lKqHKOfFJ2JMVaA9N/s1200/GEOFF_COCHRANE_S_Poems_cover_copy__50085.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="541" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtnTRff3ADYb6Uqp1iIygS-BdWSWF2Y6Z-ZCUiB_Q_ebpq0ReJN4o8KWJ8x6GzunxMyQY6y_NB2FWi6JBVJ5RbFPudenSv3W-MbD2Jk2cn6Q5vWaR0kVVWDW_96c_e0BwjlnzpoM2x6dhhZWZ8Tshz0GmJf0hIlYBILAWs-EwD-8lKqHKOfFJ2JMVaA9N/w360-h541/GEOFF_COCHRANE_S_Poems_cover_copy__50085.jpg" width="360" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The poet Geoff
Cochrane was born in 1951 and died in 2022, so in a way this selection is his
memorial. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">After a brief and
serviceable foreword by Fergus Barrowman, who selected these poems from the
sixteen collections Cochrane produced between 1979 and 2020, there is a 40-page-long
interview, first published in <i>Sport</i> twenty years ago in 2003. Damien
Wilkins interviews Cochrane. He discusses Cochrane’s long years of alcoholism
and the strangeness and disorientation Cochrane felt after giving up the drink,
but also how both states – drunkenness and sobriety - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fuelled him with types of poetry. He discusses
frankly how little he likes New Zealand and sometimes wishes he was in England
or some such environment. Nevertheless he is a Wellingtonian. He makes it clear
in one way or another that he prefers shorter and comprehensible poems, and he hints
at a disdain for poems that are academic and designed for insiders only. He discusses
his Catholic upbringing and how he rebelled from it once he left home, but that
he nevertheless has been formed by it. In what I can only regard as his saddest
trait, there are his periods of being obsessed with sex. Yet now [at the time
of the 2003 interview] he lives singly, unpartnered and alone. After reading
this long interview, my first reaction was to think “<i>Poor bastard!” </i>and I
already had the image (reinforced by reading this selection of his poems) that
his life was spent smoking, taking cheap meals, meeting old mates (some still
on the booze), living in a very cramped little flat and writing poetry whenever
he could. Cochran had published two novels, which I have not read, and
apparently wrote some more which were never published. There was also a
collection of short stories called <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/3690077250072100801/3528644688422394628"><b>Astonished Dice</b></a> [reviewed on this
blog] published in 2014, which reads more like vignettes and prose poems rather
than short stories as such.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">So there is the
portrait of a bohemian poet, living by choice a fringe life and dealing with an
addiction or the aftermath thereof. As I read my way through <i>Selected Poems</i>,
I was aware that frequently his earlier poems are series of unconnected images
– fragments that do not cohere, like a child’s collage. They are images that may
be vivid in themselves, but are isolated. Reading them is like walking on a
beach one sunny day, and seeing random flashes of sunlight reflected in random
grains of sand. In these earlier poems we get some self-loathing as in “Report
on Sobriety” which includes the lines “<i>I am the people I loathe, my past /
appals me, me</i>”. At this stage he is appalled by the quantity of alcohol he
used to consume. He is still at the stage of being sex-obsessed like a randy
teenager, as in “Tinakori Nights” where “<i>Near these hills took place / some
wonderful parties, a suicide or two, / a few ardent fuckings. / She was skinny
and brown, / a pallid T connecting hips and twat… She liked it sudden; / she
liked it from behind. / And to touch herself, impaled, / and get her fingers
wet – / to watch it being done and done to her</i>…” etc. etc. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, “Rads” is a sequence in which a
woman is half-sex attraction half-goddess. He says goodbye to religion in
“Astronomy” or in “Eucharists” where, remembering school, he recalls that “<i>To
breakfast / on Christ’s body / was to eat redemption</i>.” Down to physical
fact comes “Pile Diary”, literally about the pain of his piles. And is he
dismissive of his parents or is he still in thrall to them? Take the two-line
poem “My Elderly Father Watches Television” which reads thus “<i>How can he sit
there enjoying the cricket / when there’s death to think about?</i>” Is this a
callous statement or a provocation?</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">These examples are
all from his earlier years as a poet – very brief statements, sometimes gnomic,
sometimes cryptic. Later many of his poems become more coherent and longer,
although very so often there are<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Worksheets” which seem to be ideas not yet turned into poems, or which
sprout aphorisms such as “<i>Anything can happen, including nothing</i>”. He
ventures into writing detailed sequences. The twelve-part sequence “Whispers”
is a moving reflection on the death of his father as experienced in his last
days and there are further, more terse, poems on the same theme. However he
often expresses a nostalgic ache for the alcohol he has given up. “Zigzags” at
first seems to glory in bohemian nonchalance, taking in sights and sounds and
revelling in it ; but it deliberately collapses into sorrows caused by the use
of illicit drugs. In complete form “Under the Volcano” goes thus: “<i>Not a
drop of alcohol / in eleven years. / but still I dream / the same old shame, /
the same old prideful shame: / I’m living in a single, basic room / with just a
one-bar heater, / a mantel radio, a knitted tie of peach, / a stolen copy of
Robert Lowell’s <u>Imitations</u> / and a flagon of lunatic soup…/ and <u>one
day I’ll be taken out and shot</u></i>”. Along with the Malcom Lowry reference
in title, there is the self-pity of the last line, like a teenager’s death wish,
and the bravado of referring to his “prideful” shame.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Cochran allies
himself with eccentrics, his best example being “Erik”, a curious sequence about
the French musician Erik Satie and his odd life and method of composing. Given
that it’s about a man who was frugal and lived on the edge of society, it might
almost be an apologia for Geoff Cochrane’s own way of life. At least, Cochran
appears to be identifying with Satie. Then there is “Little Bits of Harry”, a
kind of epic shaped in 33 “chapters”, being the tale of schoolboy alienated
from family, hating school, a loner, and finally becoming a junkie, as if this
were nirvana or an achievement. Again, this seems to be a version of the poet
himself. A character called Basho stands in for him in some poems – yet another
alter ego.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Much of Cochran’s
work is drenched in guilt and self-chastisement. “The Poet” has an extended
image of being outside an embassy, wherein “<i>His life’s a convalescence - / a
slow, elated, awed <u>recovery / from humiliation</u></i>.” “Loop” says in part
“<i>For many years, / I steeped myself in booze. / I steeped myself in booze /
till even my marrow drank, / but it’s all behind me now, / <u>sad fuck that I
am</u>.”</i> “Negative Buoyancy”, and especially the section headed “Taking
Stock”, again deals with the long after-effects of alcohol even when he had
been “<i>abstinent for more than fifteen years</i>”. “Daydream” also [presented
as a dream] aches and yearns for alcohol. And the late poem “The Rooming-House”
presents his boozing years when he was a student. “Mixed Feelings” says: “<i>Sixty
today. I’m sixty today. / And though I’ve been sober for more than twenty
years, / I still have nightmares about / failing to make provision, / failing
to provide myself with booze</i>.” Whether Cochrane disliked his poetry being
called “confessional” [in the interview with Damien Wilkins he says he rejects
the term], “confessional” is what much of his work is, not only about alcohol
but also in poems about his family, father ( “Dreads”) and sister
(“Impersonating Bono”). Memories of the past carry him away, and there are
echoes of his Catholic upbringing in late poems like “Consecrated Vessels” and
“God and Other Worries” </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It is in his final
poems that we get more of Wellington culture and cafes, and of course thoughts
of old age and death. But there is a sense of defeat as he grows older. “Fear
of Flying” could be read as another teen death-wish, or just the weariness
caused by earlier years of alcoholic abuse. In full it reads “<i>And it dawns
on me that I’m fond / of putting things behind me. / <u>This</u> looms, and <u>That</u>
is coming up… / and I wish these events were over. / There’s even a sense in
which / I’m in a hurry to be through with living – a sense in which <u>I’d like
my very life / to be over and done with.</u> Sorted</i>.” “Late in the Day”
tells us “<i>my writing life has been / a series of defeat</i>.” Cochrane is
exhausted.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Have I belittled
Cochrane in this review? I hope not. Cochrane chose a way of life which is
largely alien to me. Some of his attempted aphorisms are trite, such as “<i>Sufficient
unto the day / are the two-minute noodles thereof</i>,” which some people seem
to think is witty. He can ramble and he does repeat himself. Booze.
After-effects after giving up the booze etc. Yet the world he creates is a
credible one and the precarious life he chronicles is a real one. Of course he
was not the first poet to stick with the lower depths (blimey – there have been
prominent boozy and druggie poets at least since the 19<sup>th</sup> century –
right Charlie Baudelaire? right Ernie Dowson?). By fits and starts, the
approach can still work.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>* <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEEJ3DsPuqXdUVLgyFzP6Voc4B778ElBimD5Q6wbPK9LEkmheXyFm9Lrpk6yRO-tO0dlrXXiYI4C3wgFybN2qrpjaF2BLph7WCAS5KoO8zWbaammpcCSSvDWiUdNjg4wDWaj0YkUN13ctGf0uro-_he7NiNmfIxzPQ05jsuyujxdOtcIXR91FDx6oOMo1F/s464/9780473691370.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="362" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEEJ3DsPuqXdUVLgyFzP6Voc4B778ElBimD5Q6wbPK9LEkmheXyFm9Lrpk6yRO-tO0dlrXXiYI4C3wgFybN2qrpjaF2BLph7WCAS5KoO8zWbaammpcCSSvDWiUdNjg4wDWaj0YkUN13ctGf0uro-_he7NiNmfIxzPQ05jsuyujxdOtcIXR91FDx6oOMo1F/w381-h488/9780473691370.jpg" width="381" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
some ways, Peter Olds was like Geoff Cochrane. Olds was born in 1944 and died in
2023 aged 79. Like the selection of Cochran’s verse, Olds’ <i>The Glass Guitar</i>
is a kind of memorial for a recently-dead poet. But it is not a selection of
Olds’ best poems. It is a collection of some of his hitherto unpublished poems,
selected by Roger Hickin. While Cochrane was a Wellingtonian, Olds was more of
a Dunedin-ite. Olds and Cochrane lived quite frugal lives and both ended up
inhabiting limited quarters. But Olds was never a slave to booze in the way
that Cochrane had been. John Gibb contributes a detailed Introduction, noting
that while James K. Baxter was at first Olds’ mentor, the relationship was not
always smooth. He also quotes David Eggleton’s comment that Olds was “<i>the
laureate of the marginalised</i>”. Olds did often write about poverty and
social inequality. It’s worth noting, too, that most of these poems were written
in the last couple of years of Olds’ life. In other words, with a few
exceptions, the poems in <i>The Glass Guitar</i> are the poems of an ageing
man.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reading
these selected hitherto-unpublished is to find many and varied moods. Inevitably
there are some poems that reflect Olds’ changing attitudes towards James K.
Baxter. “Jerusalem Revisited” is a longish dead-pan chronicle account of going
to Baxter’s grave years after the man’s death, with undertones suggesting that Jerusalem
has become sanitised and cleaned-up – almost like a tourist stop. And “Airmail
to Mr. Baxter” might be ironical but only half so, with angry lines such as “<i>I
should never have listened to you / you good for nothing prick.”</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Olds loves recalling his adolescence
in the 1950s. The sixteen-part sequence “A bucket of fish heads” is a
collection of memories of the 1950s as he experienced them – aware of the rugby
matches at Carisbrook; programmes listened to on the “wireless”; being a newsboy
selling newspapers outside a pub; movies that were then available at the
flicks; daydreams – altogether an adolescent fantasia. In the same category of
reminiscence, if rather more unnerving, are “Wind murder: Beresford Street,
1956” concerning what terrible things a kid <i>thinks</i> are going on and
showing the fearsome side of imagination; and two “Dream” poems earning honestly
the designation <b>surreal</b> ; with a similar tone in “Shipwrecked at Tautuku
Beach.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Devised
in couplets, “Grandmother” is a wry confession that when we grow we find
ourselves getting to be more like our forebears. Also devised in couplets is “Jack
Kerouac at Shag Point” – a lively account of treading up a cliff far above a
swirling sea and being pestered by a goat. One can almost hear the wind and the
bleating of the goat. More impressive are his poems about specific places. “Leaving
Auckland” is a panoramic view of travelling by train from Auckland to the ferries
in Wellington that will take his back to his southern home. But on the whole his
attitude to Auckland is very negative, reminding me of Baxter’s poem beginning “<i>Auckland
you great arsehole</i>”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Olds’ “Fuck
That” appears to be a dyspeptic Jeremiad focused on the sordid side of Auckland;
and “Shorty” also gives the sordid tale of Auckland.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The arty side of
Dunedin is acknowledged in “Outside Olveston House”, but as old age piles in,
the tone becomes more melancholy, with some chastising of himself. There is the
sad “Fixing old poems” in which the ageing poet looks back on what could be
salvaged or improved of old unfinished poems “<i>waiting for a time when / my
eye would be clearer / and less fogged by thoughts / of fame and failure…. The
reviews didn’t come. / I don’t blame myself / or the buying public. / The magic
stanza was a fizzer</i>.” The sheer loneliness of old runs through “Blue Zopiclone”,
where his main friend is a medication for insomnia; and in same poem he pines for
the past when “<i>Let’s face it: the Welfare State in our time / was good to
us: free milk, apples, health <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>/ camps,
music lessons, free scripts. All sorts / of goodies over the counter… The whole
/ fucking trip, man!</i>”. The implication, redolent of his concern about
poverty, is a condemnation of the neo-liberalism that has overtaken us. Very negative
moods of old age are highlighted in the poem “Depression”.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The work of an old
man, then, and one with a huge merit – namely Olds’ forthrightness. His poems
are never clogged by recherche words. He is nor writing for academics. He
expresses himself clearly and his verse is very accessible for a wide audience.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8UvfbK9yzZp7wq4YihfPlAmyApPi8WVUWeIj3JyM6i8dJVnO0aRhvyFdQ70CHpzOjaMBCZUfCgN1JG34tNufeEEk6Yu0SE-kWz6hA0ySwR8SmBSd0lX1LojIry_oBG-3v-6a4kacBbyEmai57sMcCTS9nzuex5wu2FtLxVVStRXpBrLsJmnVJrni11sx/s928/9780473685935-2@2x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="724" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8UvfbK9yzZp7wq4YihfPlAmyApPi8WVUWeIj3JyM6i8dJVnO0aRhvyFdQ70CHpzOjaMBCZUfCgN1JG34tNufeEEk6Yu0SE-kWz6hA0ySwR8SmBSd0lX1LojIry_oBG-3v-6a4kacBbyEmai57sMcCTS9nzuex5wu2FtLxVVStRXpBrLsJmnVJrni11sx/w310-h397/9780473685935-2@2x.jpg" width="310" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;">
</p><p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Far more serene in
tone, and not clogged with alcohol or the sordid side of life, is Pat White.
Now hitting eighty, he too is an old man ruminating, but without malice or much
anger. He knows who he is. He knows who and what he loves. He is a poet who has
a beautiful grasp of many New Zealand landscapes and dimensions. His new
collection <i>Night Shifts</i> is sub-titled “<i>word from the heartland</i>”,
and “heart” is much of his poetry even while considering the brevity of life. “After
visiting the IC ward” opens the collection with the state of an ageing body as
experienced in a hospital bed and being compared with the fading light of day. “When
the poem finds you” again dramatizes nature as a means of expressing how
fragile a poetic concept is.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Of course, at the
poet’s time of life, there are poems of old age. “Toast for absent friends” concerns
reunions after many years of absence – and the inevitable reality that people
have aged. This is mildly despairing; but there is also “Taking time” about the
cheerful capacity old people have for casual chat. If death is to be
considered, White’s best is his elegy for the artist Anna Caselberg,
remembering her in the home where she lived and painted when she was “<i>Following
</i>[her] <i>commitment to the cause / of turning hills into brush strokes
/<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>harbour ripples to pure light / and
any other sleight of hand and eye / the briefly beating heart plucks / from
morning light / as it slants across the kitchen table</i>.” And inevitably, old
age conjures up much nostalgia as in “Lines to a song” and “Heartland, rock and
roll”, both recalling the music White enjoyed in the 1950s when he was a
teenager. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">White often looks
directly at nature. “Darkness” is his poem that comes nearest to being
documentary or description of place with no theories attached and presenting us
with the cold, wet perilous West Coast Grey River mouth and the fishing boats
that dare it. In contrast “Desire of water” apparently gives a straightforward
view of a river flowing quickly, but with the message “<i>The movement and
sound of the creek / takes us one step closer to wisdom / floodwater takes
everything / in its way</i>.” Only occasionally does White wrap nature in
ancient lore, as when his “Crossing the Alps” weds the South Island’s West
Coast with Classical mythology. There are also times when the viewing of nature
is not awesome or <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>idyllic. “Highway One”
gives us the horrible heat of summer and roads melting under an uncomfortable poorly-ventilated
car.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">An almost mystic
yearning is evident in some of White’s most complex verse. “Pacific gift and
sandals to wear” is almost the epitome of Pat White’s technique and charm with
its sense of intense longing – the idea that people are always seeking what
will always be beyond their grasp “<i>if you stand on any island beach / West
Coast sunsets will suggest tomorrow / always at the edge of things one more
mind / lives preparing to fly closer to the sun / intent on finding what lies
out there / beyond breakers on the reef / of stories already told.</i>”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">White is not the
sort of poet to write cryptically, but there are three poems that don’t clearly
reveal themselves beyond being vaguely related to old, defunct revolutions. White
sits more happily in the observation of animals, of nature and of natural processes.
Charmingly fanciful is “A small story” wherein he imagines the lark in Otago
rising high in the sky with his song but “<i>I’d like to think that up there /
at day’s end when our tiny brown bird / is grounded by the dark / traces of
song still trill / where she ascended to sing</i>.” “What if-“ and “Wednesday
April the tenth” share annoyance with starlings but use them as a metaphor for
more foolish human behaviour. White’s envoi “Sometimes” is a beautiful signing
off as old cattle and two geldings stand in a paddock as images of serene age,
nearing sunset. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Pat White has no
malice, much wisdom and much clarity of line. His work is refreshing to read.</span></p>
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<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOiA5HHNepCSqXGshtt406vgCHEOy7h7ljUa2GtrevLStUtaV27zA1ZPiooytDvSdBdcZ-A9Gr78tcO02oAuKVDrkt7ay1Dv5haqLjPfoCq0H_s_oY8nU8494atrYpnFclcQFknhRppACnLmf-n_Zl1U7Jn4FkbEefFED0tY93xTHAxHLG01vkJ11WFAZ/s877/4L04934_remember_me_jpeg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="576" height="561" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOiA5HHNepCSqXGshtt406vgCHEOy7h7ljUa2GtrevLStUtaV27zA1ZPiooytDvSdBdcZ-A9Gr78tcO02oAuKVDrkt7ay1Dv5haqLjPfoCq0H_s_oY8nU8494atrYpnFclcQFknhRppACnLmf-n_Zl1U7Jn4FkbEefFED0tY93xTHAxHLG01vkJ11WFAZ/w368-h561/4L04934_remember_me_jpeg.jpg" width="368" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have always believed in learning poems by heart. I still remember all the
nursery rhymes I learnt when I was a tot. I made sure we read the same rhymes
to our own children. I had the advantage of a mother who frequently read to us,
and I still remember and can recite at least the first ten lines of Robert
Browning’s long poem “The Pied Piper of Hamlin” (our mother read the whole
thing to us often and we regarded it as a treat). Later, at school, memorising
poems was one of the disciplines. I can still recite Bill Shakespeare’s Sonnet
60 (beginning “Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore…”). I’m pretty
sure our teacher chose that one – great sonnet that it is – because it was so
innocent and didn’t have the sort of sexual undertones found in others of
Bill’s sonnets. I went through a later phase of learning by heart sonnets by different
poets, from Philip Sidney to Baudelaire (in his own language) to Christina
Rossetti to Allen Curnow. And if I’m charged up enough, I can recite
dramatically W. H. Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening” and other poems.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I like memorising poems and saying them out-loud, got it? (Even if I’ve now
forgotten some of the poems I memorised.) But there’s a very important point
here. Poems are easier to memorise if they have a steady rhythm and some rhyme.
Blank verse is harder to memorise (though the predictable beat of the iambic
pentameter helps) and free verse is very hard to memorise. [NB I am NOT
suggesting that free verse is not poetry. I’m just saying that it’s hard to
memorise.] Which brings me to <i>Remember Me – Poems to Learn by Heart</i><b> </b><i>from
Aotearoa New Zealand</i>.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
her introduction to <i>Remember Me – Poems to Learn by Heart</i><b> </b><i>from
Aotearoa New Zealand</i>, the editor Anne Kennedy (helped by Robert Sullivan) makes
clear her criteria for including [New Zealand] poems in this anthology. The
poems have to be capable of being read out loud, and they have to be capable of
being memorised. It is good to be able to keep poems in your head. The
anthology closes with essays on the use of voice and how to learn and perform
poetry. Most (but not all) of the 251 poems selected are relatively short and -
a great blessing -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kennedy has thrown
her net widely so that this anthology welcomes poetry as old as Eileen Duggan
and Allan Curnow and Ursula Bethell, and as new as Tusiata Avia and Airini
Beautrais and Lailani Tamu. The seven sections of the anthology are organised
alphabetically according to each poet’s surname, which will make it easier for
teachers and browsers to find the poems they are looking for. I am assuming, of
course, that this anthology is aimed as much at schools as it is aimed at the general
reader.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
here’s the rub. So many of the (mainly short) poems selected are written in
free (or fairly random) verse. And while I agree fully that memorising poetry
is well worth doing, I also believe that it is very hard to memorise poems that
are loose, unrhymed, and lacking a steady rhythm. As I read my way (with great
enjoyment) through this anthology, I found myself looking out for the ones that
I think really could be memorised, by adult or schoolgirl or -boy. So what
follows is basically my list of what I believe really are the poems that can be
learnt by heart - that is, memorised. And I reiterate that this is in no way a
negative criticism of all the many poems I don’t mention.</span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">First Section “Wisdom”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Presented bilingually, Te Kumeroa Ngoingoi Pewhairangi’s
“Do not Turn Away” is an exhortation calling young people to respect their
culture and it could very well become a poem recited by a group</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Tayi Tibble’s “A Karakia 4 a Humble Skux” has
each line presented twice, meaning it could become an out-loud<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>holler-and-reply (or psalm and response)
statement for a large group.</span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Second Section “Odes”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Ursula Bethell’s “At the Lighting of the
Lamps” is very readable – and memorable – for its bold rhymes</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Keri Hulme’s “The Bond of Bees” and “Winesong
27” have a definite rhythms which keeps them moving</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Bill Manhire’s “Huia”, a rhymed poem
lamenting the extinction of the bird, which will certainly go down well with
older school-children</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Hone Tuwhare’s “Rain” runs at a steady and
memorable pace,</span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Third Section “Earth, Sea, Sky”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Alistair Campbell’s “The Return” which still
shakes one’s bones, and could be read at a slow, stately pace, solemn, almost
like a dirge.</span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Fourth Section “Love Songs”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Nick Ascroft’s “Corpse Seeks Similar”, which
makes itself memorable by its in-built shock</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Glenn Colquhoun’s “A spell refusing to
consider the mending of a broken heart”, which is perfect for memorising. So
too is Ruth Dallas’s “A Girl’s Song”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Joanna Margaret Paul’s “the dilettante” makes
itself memorable by counting out the days of the week</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Robert Sullivan’s “Arohanui” because it is
structured as one statement repeated but steadily expanded</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Paraire Henare Tomoana’s “The Waters of
Waiapu” with its repeated chorus</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Sue Wooton’s “Magnetic South” for its very
brevity</span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Fifth Section “Whanau”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Tusiata Avia’s “Helicopter” with its list of
family members to help us along</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">James K. Baxter’s almost tongue-in-cheek
“Charm for Hilary” with its old time rhyming couplets</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Cilla McQueen’s ten sleek lines of “Joanna”</span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Sixth Section “Histories, Stories”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Despite its length, Ben Brown’s “The Brother
come home”. Its repeated refrain will carry it through.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Allen Curnow’s sonnet (i.e. 14 lines)
scrupulously rhymed “The Skelton of the Great Moa in the Canterbury Museum,
Christchurch”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Fiona Farrell’s “Charlotte O’Neil’s Song”
with its delayed rhymes. </span></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Seventh Section “Politics”</span></b></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">David Eggleton’s “Prime Time” which is ironic
and satirical and has rhyming couplets</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Anne Kennedy’s “I was a feminist in the
eighties” which is built on accumulated statements repeated and added-to…
through it may be a little too long for memorising.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
the risk of being tedious, I repeat that in choosing these poems I am simply
suggesting what could plausibly be memorised. I am not belittling all the other
fine poems I haven’t mentioned. I should also note that <b>reading poetry aloud</b>
[while following a text] is also an art. I believe Baxter’s “Lament for Barney
Flanagan” is a great poem and memorable, but is probably too long to be
memorised by most readers. So too with Jenny Bornholdt’s exquisite “Wedding
Song.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
admit to being bemused by the inclusion of Robbie Burns’ “To Mary in Heaven”
just because Reweti Kohere wrote a Maori translation of it. As for the ancient
bush ballad “Shearing’s Coming” by David M’Kee Wright, I wonder how many people
would now respond to it. Anyway, nit-picking as usual, I’ve said my lot about
an interesting anthology.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 69pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDd-kAGCEYBSzFnP7DpFZ0RDu4J4a7wCTq2zjZknd1yTxygxyf-GKKCWYJP-KjleWGBsTSiZUZB9MHEjpddHuDQDbBKI9GAqD-2cd59Hh6HruYr1JKY7Hrsf7seV95pK5MMT9IUbAlfY7LXhitSVOMCarhcZ_Ri3rvR9U0ms-7o0SG8FozL_ywPHHlOlq/s646/Rudzinski_Iwashita-Taylor_Rapture__64057.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="500" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDd-kAGCEYBSzFnP7DpFZ0RDu4J4a7wCTq2zjZknd1yTxygxyf-GKKCWYJP-KjleWGBsTSiZUZB9MHEjpddHuDQDbBKI9GAqD-2cd59Hh6HruYr1JKY7Hrsf7seV95pK5MMT9IUbAlfY7LXhitSVOMCarhcZ_Ri3rvR9U0ms-7o0SG8FozL_ywPHHlOlq/w344-h444/Rudzinski_Iwashita-Taylor_Rapture__64057.jpg" width="344" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Time
was, I used to go regularly to public poetry evenings in such places as The
Thirsty Dog on Auckland’s Karangahape Road and other such dens. Usually they
were enlivening, sometimes provocative and sometimes sadly dull. That’s the
fate of poetry performances – some people are good at it, some not so much. Often
the poets’ performances sounded good to the ear. But if a poem made its way
into print, what excited in live performance could often read as trite on the
page. Listeners were beguiled by a poem – or declaration – which, when
analysed, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>didn’t mean very much.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
<i>Rapture <b>– </b>An Anthology of Performance Poetry from Aotearoa New
Zealand</i>, Carrie Rudzinski and Grace Iwashita-Taylor have had the temerity
to put on the page much of what, in some cases, might better have been received
in live performance. After all, their <i>Introduction</i> and Chris Tse’s <i>Foreword</i>
both emphasise that poetry grew out of the spoken or declaimed word, not out of
printed texts. But here they are – fully 94 poems of them – canonised in print.
At the same time, it’s fair to note that at least some of the chosen poems were
written by established poets and originally appeared in print. The spoken word
could also first have been written. Worth noting too, many poems are presented
on the page according to the author’s typographical organisation – meaning that
these poems have impact as much by being seen as by being heard.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
will not home in on particular poems. I will just make some generalisations.
The text is presented in three parts. The first, called “Burn It Down”, is the
most provocative section, with men and women protesting about colonialism, disrespect
for their bodies, disrespect for their sexuality, disrespect for their
ethnicity (there are many selections here from Maori and Pasifika writers). The
second section seems to have acquired the name “Float” because it is a more
general selection which deals with many and various things. And the third
section “Re-earth your roots” tends to be more in the categories of ideas,
nostalgia, family the past. And I emphasise that these are big generalisations.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">One Media Release
says that <i>Rapture</i> is a “<i>snapshot</i>” of performance poetry <b>now</b>
in New Zealand . Dare I say that this means much is very topical, often focused
on what is now important but which might, in not too many years, be outmoded.
In large-page format, with photographic illustrations and a soft cover, <i>Rapture</i>
is a handsome piece of work. I hope the price ($50) does not deter too many
from buying it.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-50997508103653831442024-02-12T09:01:00.029+13:002024-02-12T09:01:00.133+13:00Something Old<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span>
</span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE NOVELS AND
STORIES OF NOEL HILLIARD – PART ONE</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnO_wgL2vujuuUBvHoL6OBISpwd5MlSHM9eX4R_4LrVfNzGjMCr_xNWyzhjN1iwNNqtEQk20URuD4Ma0or34yLVZpzZTZV9zOCIxGT6BaWh53QgL1f83lnvz1dzn5AEMCndpmWftrqbnmLaTB1zqODU6srWbnMnHguJM5PEJdVpQyt6SCg9SU_hIcWHEP/s172/medium.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="172" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnO_wgL2vujuuUBvHoL6OBISpwd5MlSHM9eX4R_4LrVfNzGjMCr_xNWyzhjN1iwNNqtEQk20URuD4Ma0or34yLVZpzZTZV9zOCIxGT6BaWh53QgL1f83lnvz1dzn5AEMCndpmWftrqbnmLaTB1zqODU6srWbnMnHguJM5PEJdVpQyt6SCg9SU_hIcWHEP/w307-h307/medium.webp" width="307" /></a></span></b></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes I feel
like the curator of forgotten books. In the “Something Old” sections of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this blog you will find accounts of books that
are genuine classics; books that once captured a highbrow audience but are now
scorned; and books that were bestsellers in their day but are now forgotten.
But sometimes it is interesting to look at such forgotten books for what they
tell us about society as it once was and what readers then admired. In other
words, forgotten books can be of great historical interest.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Which brings me to
the books of Noel Hilliard (born 1929 – died 1996). Over my summer break just
past, I took it on myself to read all of Hilliard’s novels and short stories.
Hilliard’s heyday as an author was in the 1960s and 1970s. Born of a
working-class family (his dad worked on the railways), Hilliard was very
left-wing in his politics and was for a short time attracted to the Communist
Party. But he was finally disillusioned with the CP and was officially a member
for only two years. Still he had a vision of a more equitable New Zealand and he
remained a convinced socialist. Hilliard’s greatest interest was in race
relations in New Zealand. He was appalled by the way Pakeha New Zealanders
flattered themselves in having “the best race relations in the world” when in
fact there was much racial discrimination and a tendency of Pakeha to see Maori
as their inferiors. In the era in which Hilliard wrote, there was a great
migration of Maori from rural areas to cities, and many urban Pakeha were for
the first time getting used to seeing Maori at close quarters. Hilliard
himself, in book after book and in many of his short stories, focused on this
situation. He himself had strong Maori connections. Brought up mainly in rural
areas, he mingled easily with Maori. Two of the schools he went to as a child
were Maori schools and his wife Kiriwai Mete was Maori. They married in 1954
and their marriage was a strong one, lasting until Kiriwai’s death in 1990.
They had two sons and two daughters. Despite themselves being left-wing,
Hilliard’s parents were often very condescending towards their son’s Maori
in-laws, and Hilliard often had to deal (in life and in fiction) with the fact
that a Maori way of life and mores often clashed with the general Pakeha way of
life. [If you can look it up online, you will find a very good interview
Hilliard gave about his family and circumstances, with Peter Beatson asking the
questions.]</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">When it came to
respect for the Maori people and strong advocacy for better race relations, Hilliard
wrote with the best of intentions. But here’s the rub. As the years have gone
by, Hilliard’s work has been seen as too simplistic and – like the work of <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2022/11/roderickfinlaysonamanfromanotherworld.html"><b>Roderick
Finlayson</b></a> – his depiction of Maori life has been criticised by Maori as
well as Pakeha. He is now a back-number.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Along with a career as
a school-teacher and a journalist, Hilliard set about writing novels. Into which
we now plunge. </span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfsJmw5PLsC6KdNRSwbQZZ5PsWiDytTK3Dy1eNZR00qFltJn6Lg7Df5tm6fz3baTTCA2bqWVbOfbNf7otuUInnsd-eaoo4R9Ikv2giphgv4sW-EhMdMTjIFWPjt4NgASOYhJICT8FKT64tFoLpg-DCsL2fnMaKGYtfSn2Zl2T6gEqdylFyDCL39qgauK6/s700/41952-enz.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="471" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfsJmw5PLsC6KdNRSwbQZZ5PsWiDytTK3Dy1eNZR00qFltJn6Lg7Df5tm6fz3baTTCA2bqWVbOfbNf7otuUInnsd-eaoo4R9Ikv2giphgv4sW-EhMdMTjIFWPjt4NgASOYhJICT8FKT64tFoLpg-DCsL2fnMaKGYtfSn2Zl2T6gEqdylFyDCL39qgauK6/w325-h484/41952-enz.jpg" width="325" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hilliard’s
first novel, <b>Maori Girl</b> (first published in 1960) is probably still his
most-often read work. It is now regarded as the first part of a tetralogy, but
that was not the way it was first presented to the reading public. <i>Maori
Girl</i> appeared to be a stand-alone novel about the trials of a young Maori
woman when she leaves her family’s rural home and goes to Wellington.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Netta
Samuel is the youngest of a large Maori family in Taranaki. Her father is a
not-very-successful dairy farmer, knowing that he has to work inferior land as,
in the previous century, the more fruitful land was taken by Pakeha settlers. He
takes some solace in alcohol and some solace is religion. Netta is born during
the Great Depression of the 1930s and she has grown up in relative poverty. But,
as Noel Hilliard makes clear, there are great cultural strengths holding the
family together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Netta goes to school
she is strapped for using the Maori language. Netta’s grandmother represents
tribal traditions which, in the 1930s and 1940s, seem to be overtaken by the
radio, the movies and European-style farming.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
the immediate post-war years, Netta is becoming profoundly bored with
small-town life and its deprivations. She decides to go to the big city once
she has lost her virginity.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
late-1940s Wellington, Netta at first finds shelter in a seedy boarding house.
Clearly because of racial prejudice, she is turned down on her first job
application. She moves into, and works at, a private hotel where she
experiences exploitation by some of the residents and takes part in boozy
drinking parties. Then she becomes involved in casual sex. A Pakeha called Eric
Knight comes into her life. They cohabit. He uses her to sell lottery tickets
for him and treats her as a sex-object. But he, as a Pakeha, is ashamed to be
seen with her in public and he becomes jealous when she socializes with other
Maori. Eventually he deserts her. When Netta tries to move into a better job
and lodging, she again faces prejudice.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Six months later [this novel has many
leaps in time] Netta is working as a waitress and makes connection with more
sympathetic working-class characters, Maori and Pakeha. She makes her lodging a
very run-down and decrepit boarding-house, with the Pakeha wharfie Arthur
Cochran. One of the Maori girls who works with Netta loses her job when it’s
found that she is a “boat girl” – a prostitute who works incoming ships. Netta
discovers she is pregnant. Arthur Cochran decently proposes marriage to her,
but she rejects this, saying that they are already married enough. Then double
tragedy strikes. Her landlord (who is also her boss) evicts them and she loses
her job when Arthur Cochran and others get the health inspector to examine
their substandard boarding-house…. And Arthur walks out on her when he checks
the dates and decides that the child Netta is carrying cannot possibly be his.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another
six months later, and Arthur is nursing his sorrow and sense of loss. He sees
Netta with another man on the other side of a bar and can only speculate that
she has adopted out her baby. He feels morally adrift. Later, he hears of a
Maori woman who is imprisoned on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. Quixotically,
he attempts to bail the woman out, but without success. The very last words of
the novel say “<i>He walked out into the rain</i>”. By ending the novel thus,
we are given a Pakeha perspective and a sense of hopelessness. If read alone,
this novel would suggest that Netta Samuel, the Maori Girl, is in the process
of being destroyed by the pitiless big city, and she being far from her family.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Noel
Hilliard dedicated this novel to his wife Kiriwai Mete, but this does not mean
that she had the same experiences as Netta Samuel. Each of the novel’s four
parts begins with a Biblical quotation even if, in the novel, Netta loses her
religious faith. Hilliard was himself agnostic, but [as he says in his
interview with Peter Beatson] he respected religious ceremony and he saw merit
in some Biblical teachings. In one sense, <i>Maori Girl</i> is a
closely-observed realist novel which condemns racial discrimination and the
callousness of many Pakeha in their relationship with Maori. Yet the novel is
very ambiguous about Netta’s cultural background, which is sometimes depicted
as backward and retrogressive. Netta is deracinated and the ending of the novel
suggests she is lost. However, by ending with a Pakeha character desperate and
guilt-ridden over her plight, Hilliard appears to be most concerned to point a
moral for a Pakeha readership. In many ways, in this novel Netta never ceases
to be a “case”. We observe her from outside and that is all we know of her.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*. *.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7F2Ffn36G6lR88VV0I9KsT5MuCnXynpzFmNJH3zueKABy0RcosQYeZbCCgtcheeSNu_oQB6X8TH9g9rdh_gqWkHDGyvrfS7HEvj7NnXv1LC19unjwenuAehIsQmssxh5p7L5uQkAlBOSpPqFfymCaLVOKjU_2qpgaigrjHGqXssJD0YAJebnsiv7WRxa/s438/md533859955.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="300" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7F2Ffn36G6lR88VV0I9KsT5MuCnXynpzFmNJH3zueKABy0RcosQYeZbCCgtcheeSNu_oQB6X8TH9g9rdh_gqWkHDGyvrfS7HEvj7NnXv1LC19unjwenuAehIsQmssxh5p7L5uQkAlBOSpPqFfymCaLVOKjU_2qpgaigrjHGqXssJD0YAJebnsiv7WRxa/w304-h445/md533859955.jpg" width="304" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
Noel Hilliard’s second novel <b>Power of Joy</b> was published in 1965, readers
were presented with a very different cast of characters and saw it as having no
connection with <i>Maori Girl</i>. The main character here is a young Pakeha
called Paul Bennett and the novel traces his growth from childhood to young manhood.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Part
One</u> (all of Hilliard’s major novels are divided into four parts) is called “Semper
Fidelis”. Paul Bennett is a child in early 1930s New Zealand. He is a withdrawn
only-child of labouring parents in the Great Depression. He is dreamy, puzzling
over words, sometimes humiliated in the classroom when he goes to school. His
father Stan is beaten down by the Depression, rails frequently against [the
former Prime Minister] Gordon Coates and hopes for the election of the Labour
Party. Sometimes Dan takes to drink and turns violently on his wife and little
son. But, narrated in the “limited third-person” style, the emphasis is on the
small boy’s growing consciousness and the deprivations he becomes aware of. There
is a sad little episode in which children like Paul Bennett are given the tackiest Christmas presents because, in those hard times, their impoverished parents can afford nothing better.<br /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Part
Two</u> “A Sleep and a Forgetting”, opens with the election victory of Michael
Joseph Savage (in 1935) and suddenly the family has at least a little wealth. Father
is employed at a public works camp. But Paul’s parents grow apart. Mother
becomes fretful. Father drinks too much with his mates. Meanwhile Paul finds
himself a loner at school. The one responsibility he is given (cleaning the
school toilets) is a failure. Paul enjoys pretending he is Huckleberry Finn or
some other adventurous boy, daydreaming while his parents quarrel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hides in a treehouse to escape the
monotony of home. But once, while watching the sun rising, he has an intense vision
of the <b><u>oneness</u></b> of life of which he is a part. All of nature is
one great thing. And capping such a revelation, Part Two ends with young Paul
appreciating a sense of beauty and wholeness as he watches a Maori girl bathe
naked… at which point, one has to note that Hilliard puts very complex and
sophisticated thoughts into the mind of a boy who is barely an adolescent.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><u>Part
Three</u>. “These Things Shall Be”. Paul goes to Stonehurst boarding school,
which appears to be an Anglican establishment. He now experiences even more
strongly the divorce between his own developing sensitivity and the human society
in which he lives. The school takes both Maori and Pakeha boys, but there are
clear class distinctions between those from wealthy famiies, and those like
Paul’s father who has been on the dole. On the one hand there is organized
bullying – in one incident a boy is ritually beaten by senior boys after being
made to “sing”, but Paul escapes this punishment because he sings a song in
Maori and the Maori boys protect him. On the other hand, and despite the brutality
of boys’ behaviour, he does have the freedom to wander and think. Though the
teachers think he is withdrawn, strange and potentially insolent, he is
generally left to himself. There is one sequence in which the headmaster
interviews him about his eccentricities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once again, he finds a favourite tree where he can hide and brood, and
he becomes obsessed with the problem of how one can capture a moment of joy in
words. Of course he has sexual stirrings at the school dance (puberty has
struck). But his sketchbook is ripped up and scattered by bullies and he is physically
degraded and humiliated by them.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u>Part
Four</u>. “By the Wind Grieved”. School days are over. Now a young man, Paul
works in the city. He sees a beautiful young Maori woman on the other side of a
barroom. She becomes his ideal. He tries – without success – to revive his joy
in nature by means of memory of his childhood. He has a casual affair with a
Pakeha girl – and gets a sexually-transmitted disease which takes some time to
heal. He feels soiled and sullied. Again he catches sight of the Maori woman,
who is now carrying a baby. He reflects on the development of his whole life –
how he has hidden in trees and rocked with nature while not being engaged with
the world of people. He revisits his old school. The tree in which he hid has
been chopped down. It was rotten to the core. He no longer needs it. He no
longer wants to be self-absorbed. He resolves to go back to the city and find
the Maori woman and her baby. At which point the novel ends.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Taking
<i>Power of Joy</i> as a whole, you can’t help being aware of the heavy freight
of internal monologue that drags the novel along. If Netta Samuel was a “case”
in <i>Maori Girl</i>, Paul Bennett in <i>Power of Joy</i> is more a symbol than
a real character: the thoughtful, idealistic boy who does not fit in. And the
people he meets are even vaguer symbols – the quarrelling parents, the bullying
schoolboys, the diseased Pakeha girl, the idealised Maori woman etc. Of course
the rotten tree is a symbol – a worship of nature that stands in the way confronting
the world as it is. Of all Hilliard’s novels, <i>Power of Joy</i> is the most
nebulous, with only the barest of plot. I am not the first reader to note that
Hilliard’s idealised adolescent view of nature is very Wordsworthian <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- nature as an uplifting force for good. Hilliard
even dares to include poetic lyricism in the poems teenaged Paul Bennett
devises – but perhaps the author included these in an ironical mood.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
will note that<i> Power of Joy</i> is essentially a Pakeha novel, with only a
few moments of interaction with Maori. But you will also notice that Paul is in
search of the Maori woman he has seen in the city. And alert readers will realise that this
will lead us back to Netta Samuel.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[The last two
novels of Noel Hilliard’s tetralogy will be tackled in my next posting]</span></b></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-19804983943775037962024-02-12T09:00:00.002+13:002024-02-12T09:00:00.131+13:00Something Thoughtful<p>
</p><p><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> <b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THE
CHARISMA OF A ROCK</span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGJXOWxZ3QvscWbFtr5KhoWPw51vqsikRICJMa-VMUQoZXfmCXMKQWtcVdLgkRe1WlBnA_52KOyffta9795nFva0Zhp7XxwvfeMtYbiYiHD_XzGp5dNqdW1bbySyS2pDu7mjI6Q4XyYpkV4Q41ixaF0IkI0wevXMHl8kdvl_uwy8P3nCbtMrZSKDdper_/s4032/IMG_0955.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGJXOWxZ3QvscWbFtr5KhoWPw51vqsikRICJMa-VMUQoZXfmCXMKQWtcVdLgkRe1WlBnA_52KOyffta9795nFva0Zhp7XxwvfeMtYbiYiHD_XzGp5dNqdW1bbySyS2pDu7mjI6Q4XyYpkV4Q41ixaF0IkI0wevXMHl8kdvl_uwy8P3nCbtMrZSKDdper_/w292-h389/IMG_0955.jpeg" width="292" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s
rare to stand in the presence of something that conjures up a deep sense of
awe. Recently we found ourselves in the presence of one such thing. We had been
holidaying in Northland, weathering the westerly blasts of wind that pushed us along
Ripiro [Baylys] Beach, hiking around one of the northerly lakes, and enjoying a
serene Kauri Park reserve.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As
we began our journey back to Auckland we decided to go off the main road
and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>follow sat-nav’s instructions in
getting to the Maungaraho Rock Scenic Reserve. Winding, twisting roads they
were, mainly unsealed and with two or three one-way bridges over streams.
Around us were well-managed farms, though houses were few. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5u5IBKCZtRTs3FrzbEUei14KOXf7AuBzzW0xdVAnZXrAxEr3Gv9HPeAl8Sq7MmcoYIE13_2xbAuOGpQJft7NXaiu_6_NYVSSD7qDH8lrqsdfjokzhZ8rod_dHjlN5a5AJSyUT5HpdioYxDlfNC3QugjUhjg0f8Qnim2xYiKsdFjpbypf4ayIBDHGawLAQ/s4032/IMG_0944.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5u5IBKCZtRTs3FrzbEUei14KOXf7AuBzzW0xdVAnZXrAxEr3Gv9HPeAl8Sq7MmcoYIE13_2xbAuOGpQJft7NXaiu_6_NYVSSD7qDH8lrqsdfjokzhZ8rod_dHjlN5a5AJSyUT5HpdioYxDlfNC3QugjUhjg0f8Qnim2xYiKsdFjpbypf4ayIBDHGawLAQ/w390-h520/IMG_0944.jpeg" width="390" /></a></div> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Maungaraho
Rock, a dark mass, loomed larger and larger. We stopped at its foot, got out of
the car and gazed. It stood above us, huge, majestic, daunting and at once telling
us that we were insignificant ants. Although it was a Saturday morning, there
was nobody else around. The information board said the obvious. The great rock
mountain, born out of volcanic activity thousands of years ago, was the
hardened magma left when softer rock had been slowly ground away by the winds
over the millennia. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We
walked the neatly-mown grass fringe that runs a short way up the near side of
the great rock, after which the only way to go further is to take some
rickety-looking steps. Apparently one can walk to the very top, but we are not
mountain climbers, the path looked unreliable, so we retreated back to ground
level and resumed gazing at the leviathan. How incongruous it was in this landscape.
Around us were the Northland farms, neat, orderly and green, stretching away to
the horizon. Maungaraho Rock was a rebuke to such a harmless pastoral setting –
a reminder that the earth was formed by fire and catastrophe – and it stood as
a great darkness in the light.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguhS-wkGSJtt3SW4PWBHd0bJhyphenhyphendnGTMmNE2F9gBik2RfXb10vsprMBz2lVuLmS0GNqWkIScsz1jE3trn864EnNusIZjVSDgS43g2YdWKvhMYJTWDQ0kYqLyKvxq2WSo_CYf9Zp4AH3AGyE8MDWOq5oTLODtPNDyfYrgrBBDjIAaqoL9Q7qmAY2wMardU6E/s4032/IMG_0946.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguhS-wkGSJtt3SW4PWBHd0bJhyphenhyphendnGTMmNE2F9gBik2RfXb10vsprMBz2lVuLmS0GNqWkIScsz1jE3trn864EnNusIZjVSDgS43g2YdWKvhMYJTWDQ0kYqLyKvxq2WSo_CYf9Zp4AH3AGyE8MDWOq5oTLODtPNDyfYrgrBBDjIAaqoL9Q7qmAY2wMardU6E/w477-h358/IMG_0946.jpeg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It
was consoling to watch the cows grazing in the farm next to the great rock.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We
drove away through the unsealed roads and back to the main highway.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Have
I exaggerated the power of this rock? I know there are dozens – in fact hundreds
– of much higher and bigger mountains in New Zealand, more formidable for
climbers, that would make Maungaraho seem a pigmy. But the rock dominated low
lands and made a mute statement about its singularity. It ruled the region,
telling anyone who saw it that it was the chief, the prophet, the ruler. Did anyone
ever make it a place for worship? I don’t know – but I’d be surprised if nobody
ever did.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vdenlbYZh8F4-p96kmM8rR31QQAHuE6RO-tBmoPlLSisVmWPf2WMnRrnUhhx14OUNNB1ITaB7nPCNqWxP8FgpnovMZgymz6UQaeMu0pfV79PGy2SbJaYBQKiQ7L3dk0skcQaS4AOt3h6T7-IWHRFHdtLi5cHVQCybWteH72Xx7v9L9S7fQCcw6By86ll/s4032/IMG_0949.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vdenlbYZh8F4-p96kmM8rR31QQAHuE6RO-tBmoPlLSisVmWPf2WMnRrnUhhx14OUNNB1ITaB7nPCNqWxP8FgpnovMZgymz6UQaeMu0pfV79PGy2SbJaYBQKiQ7L3dk0skcQaS4AOt3h6T7-IWHRFHdtLi5cHVQCybWteH72Xx7v9L9S7fQCcw6By86ll/w354-h472/IMG_0949.jpeg" width="354" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span lang="EN-AU">As we drove away I thought
about Monument Valley in Arizona U.S.A., the valley that the director John Ford
liked to use so often as a backdrop for his best westerns. It’s a desert place
with a number of flat-topped megaliths made by </span>eons of rivers biting into sandstone and other soft minerals. That’s not
the way Maungaraho was formed, but Maungaraho shares the honour of ruling a
territory and reminding us that we are small animals in the face of something genuinely
awesome. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: Times; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-72581243398383097532023-11-27T07:02:00.018+13:002024-02-11T09:29:10.441+13:00Something New<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span>
</p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<b>ROOT LEAF FLOWER FRUIT – a verse novel</b>”
by Bill Nelson ( Te Herenga Waka University Press, $NZ30);<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<b>HOOF</b>” by Kerrin P. Sharpe (Te Herenga
Waka University Press, $NZ25); “<b>GREEN RAIN</b>” by Alastair Clarke (Ugly
Hill Press, $NZ30); "<b>A LONG ROAD TRIP HOME</b>" by John Allison (Cold Hub Press, $NZ26)<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVySxS0rWiMSdmpfzJYNh8SQbk6wuvTvpMVNjrFAJ-CQ4GcOEL8TiZtD5tniOGnitwGEfRJoltk_sDtjB5V62yuEyp5SCOwE_y-hQ3oDv_RD_spK0EREkTOr7QbcMcDQ9O1Jopl61XJaUROqapO-Vg0Ik93neKtjKFyxt0-grObA8AsjM6mk9qXEEOO1Yf/s761/Root-Leaf-Flower-Fruit-CVR-final__55644.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="500" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVySxS0rWiMSdmpfzJYNh8SQbk6wuvTvpMVNjrFAJ-CQ4GcOEL8TiZtD5tniOGnitwGEfRJoltk_sDtjB5V62yuEyp5SCOwE_y-hQ3oDv_RD_spK0EREkTOr7QbcMcDQ9O1Jopl61XJaUROqapO-Vg0Ik93neKtjKFyxt0-grObA8AsjM6mk9qXEEOO1Yf/w278-h424/Root-Leaf-Flower-Fruit-CVR-final__55644.jpg" width="278" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Many New Zealand
poets have written about life in farming country, sometimes lyrically,
sometimes critically, and occasionally brilliantly, as in Janet Newman’s <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2021/09/something-new.html">UnseasonedCampaigner</a></b> (reviewed on this blog). But few have tried to
depict the rural life as seen by a townie when circumstances send him outside
his urban comfort zone. Bill Nelson’s <i>Root Leaf Flower Fruit</i> has the
audacity to do this – to intertwine the rural and the urban psyches. Divided
into four sections, <i>Root Leaf Flower Fruit</i> is the length of a short
novel and is a combination of verse and prose. Indeed in the last of its four
sections, “Fruit”, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>prose almost
completely takes over.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The narrator, who
speaks in verse, has been damaged in a cycle accident. His grandmother, who has
suffered a series of strokes, has had to leave the rural home she used to
occupy somewhere south of Auckland. In a nursing home, she is angry, aggressive
in some ways, and occasionally shouting very scatological things. She needs a
lot of care. Despite his abiding twinges from his accident, the narrator takes
it upon himself to tidy up and look after his grandmother’s house and fields in
preparation for their being sold by auction. He is leaving wife, children and
home as he heads for the farm. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The first section,
ROOT, sets up the situation. The narrator has been psychologically damaged by
his accident. He has a sort of brain-fog as when he says “<i>The world is
different but I can’t say / in what way, like someone moved all the furniture /
and now I’m tiptoeing around, expecting / to crack my shins on a coffee table.</i>”
(p.12) As he cogitates on the damage that he has suffered, his wandering memories
take him back to how his childhood was in a rural area which was becoming a
suburb where “…<i>like background noise, the grumbling of the families / who
had been here for years, in every house, / at every chance meeting on the
corner / or down by the dairy, walking the dog on the beach, / rage,
assumption, the assumption of rage, everyone / becoming a foreigner, an
intruder, before their eyes</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(p.18)
He has memories of doing scientific research in Australia as he attempted to complete
a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>doctorate. He has memories of his wheelchair-ridden
and verbally abusive grandmother. He has things thrown at him by local yahoos
when he’s trying to exercise… but he becomes attracted to watching nature and
seeing plants grow as a source of mental therapy: <i>“Oh, the bounty! With just
a little effort for me in spring / and a water every few days, food would grow
before my eyes. / Seeds into seedlings, seedlings into plants, plants into
shrubs, / flowers, fruit, beans, nuts, tubers. Within a few months / I could
watch the wonder of nature take over, leave me / to cheer it on from the
sidelines</i>.” (p.32) ROOT of course means the beginning of things, the
essence of things, and this is the beginning of the narrator’s mental
transformation. But at first it reveals a certain naivete as he has an
idealised view of what rural work involves. Toil lies ahead. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The LEAF section
is the beginning of something fruitful. The narrator has misgivings about leaving
his wife Lakita and children as he begins to look after the rural property. But
in the rural house he discovers his grandmother’s diary – prose written, years
earlier, in the third person even if it is personal and confessional. And this
is where extensive prose sections begin to take over. Reading her words, the
narrator becomes more aware of the very different life and era in which his
grandmother once lived. He can remember visiting her when he was a child but “<i>mostly
I remember her from photos, / lean arms, collared sleeveless blouses, / looking
straight into the camera</i>” (p.49) He makes good resolves to clean up the
house and property to make them saleable…. But after his first efforts he
admits: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>I’ve barely dented the list,
the farm / is nowhere near tidy, and next week an agent, a valuation, / but
it’ll have to do. I’ll do what little I can / between now and then and it’ll
have to do. / I pull out a large pigweed, careful to grab it low / and pinch
out the roots, but the stem snaps near the surface / and I throw it on the
pile. I turn round and see the hedge / choked in pink flowers and heart-shaped
leaves…. Morning glory… almost impossible to be rid of</i>…” (p.54) Curating a
farm is hard work after all. At first he can’t even get the tractor going,
although he manages to do so after much effort. But there is his grandmother’s
diary to read… of a farm-hand trying to violate her; of her husband being
absent; of her hardship and marital stress; of her later retreat to Birkenhead
on Auckland’s North Shore and her isolation there. She remembers when exporting
avocado was all the rage until the bottom of the market fell out… and her attempts
to be fully vegetarian, hoping to have her farm certified as totally organic.
The narrator also finds her collection of hats and some of her clothes. He
begins to play with them, even wearing them for a lark as if he’s really taking
her place. But still he works hard at farming, admiring some of his field work
but aware that the weather will have its say: “<i>I shut off the Kubota engine,
slide the earmuffs / up to my temples and take another look behind me. / In a
few days the agents and potential buyers / will arrive to inspect the farm. /
and on display, the soil, turned, broken, / still rich and dark red, although
at this time of year / a little pale and dry. But it’s done, and the rain is
coming. / I’ve seen it on the news, over the Tasman. / The timing couldn’t be
better. I wish / the sky would open up right now, right here / like in the
movies, without warning, my hair and dress / stuck flat to my body, and me
squinting into the heavens. / Bit it’s never like that. In real life the cloud
has been / thickening all day, slowly, predictably. / The rain is supposed to
continue for days, the kind / that only a farmer can love, or an unfunded
physicist / wanting to do some reading and plug a few leaks / before he has to go
home</i>.” (pp.60-61)… but the rains wash away much of his effort to tidy the
farm, what with mud pools and fence posts toppled.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">FLOWER leads to
some sort of achievement. The narrator remembers his lung collapsing and the medical
help he required. Hardship had to be overcome. Grandmother’s diary also
chronicles hardship when crop dusting [aerial top-dressing] planes threaten to ruin
her effort to get her farm certified as totally organic. The narrator takes on the
idea of being like his grandmother. He has a vision of his grandmother playing
the small house’s parlour organ. On top if this, he says: <i>“My thoughts
disappear as I plough the top field. / I try to conjure up my grandmother /
performing the same task, nearly unfurling / the rows, efficient, precise. And
I realise / I only knew her as an adult, an elderly adult even. / Those earlier
years, like crooked lines, a meandering / creek bed. When I’m finished, the
field is a mess, / not a straight line anywhere. The earth ripped open / in
large chunks, the field crisscrossed by tread lines</i>.” (p.73) Now various
potential buyers turn up to face an auction. Oddly, though, it is at this point
that the narrator, now more attuned to rural life, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>feels annoyed to think that the farm might be
developed as just another suburb, or a series of retirement villages.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">FRUIT And what is
the outcome of all this - the fruit? Could it simply be experience? Most of
this last section is [though written in the third person] a long monologue, its
only punctuation being commas and semi-colons every so often. It can’t help
making me think of Molly Bloom, although the circumstances are very different. It
is the thoughts of the old lady, the grandmother, on her own initiative leaving
her nursing home, taking a long walk around parts of Auckland’s North Shore
(Glenfield, Birkenhead, Onewa Road) and then collapsing on the roadside. Is this
the moment of her death… or does her fall connect her definitively with Mother
Earth? I believe this can be read either way. And the old woman’s self-willed
final walk is in some ways heroic. A very ambiguous ending has the narrator
heading back to his family.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Putting this whole
saga together I see a deliberate linking of the urban with the rural; an
awareness of a changing environment as towns expand and eat up the fruitful
soil; but also the endurance of land and a respect for those who work it. Different
generations (grandmother, narrator) are very alien to each other in some ways
but very similar in others. But there is a sense of eternity in the turns of
the seasons – root, leaf, flower, fruit. Some remarks in the closing
“Acknowledgements” suggest that some of this verse-prose tale is based on the
poet’s own experience, including the results of a major fall. <i>Root Leaf Flower Fruit</i> is a formidable piece of work and, in tone, very different from
the satirical and sometimes comical poems found seven years ago in Bill
Nelson’s earlier collection <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2016/06/something-new_20.html"><b>Memorandum of Understanding</b></a> (reviewed on
this blog).</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxzIb8RxHV7l4AIaHdP_kaLS1oUGyjz0VqyLZR5rd5DT_yaUPClCf7qsgbDsTim54iMwhRY2S8oWg94dMZ2cy33MFxQwR4q5qSULX2z4X5-CCi485lhpXYDNNy5evcSxazmCDR04a819gnupvUSrlGV6cTG-8XRLYTldJrTIwgcHtl4yxHLJD9A6Y7RO-/s750/Hoof_front_cover__17452.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="521" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxzIb8RxHV7l4AIaHdP_kaLS1oUGyjz0VqyLZR5rd5DT_yaUPClCf7qsgbDsTim54iMwhRY2S8oWg94dMZ2cy33MFxQwR4q5qSULX2z4X5-CCi485lhpXYDNNy5evcSxazmCDR04a819gnupvUSrlGV6cTG-8XRLYTldJrTIwgcHtl4yxHLJD9A6Y7RO-/w347-h521/Hoof_front_cover__17452.jpg" width="347" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
contrast with Bill Nelson’s persuasive and detailed narrative, Kerrin P. Sharpe,
in her fifth collection, writes poetry that is mainly pithy and brief – an
assortment of various positions and landscapes rather than a saga. Kerrin P.
Sharpe’s<i> Hoof</i> divides its 47 poems into three sections. Each section begins
with the image of a train, a real train – though of course a train can also be
connected with <i>trains</i> of thought. And in our trains of thought, do our
thoughts not wander hither and thither? They certainly do in this collection. Sharpe
addresses many different situations, many different ideas. Yet, in each of the
three sections there does emerge a dominant theme.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The “train”
metaphor is ignited by the delightful opening [and title] poem “Hoof” where “<i>The
train with the chest / of a horse and the traction / of old intelligence /
turns from the power stations / and cooling towers / and heads for the trees. /
Through his mane of rain / and nostril smoke / float poems of blocked arteries,
/ quadruple bypasses.</i>” [I really wish I could quote in full this enticing
opening poem, which manages at once to depict a real train and the manoeuvres
of the human brain.] Once we are all aboard, we are taken through a blackbird
becoming literary; a reference to Ted Hughes; the poem “more horse than castle”
where her view of horses overtakes her visit to Dunedin’s Lanarch Castle; and
the poem “ the weight of moonlight” which continues the horse imagery. Let’s
say that the dominant idea in this first section is horses. But <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sharpe has other interests, including
nightmares. A poem concerns a retired air pilot having a dream of falling into
the sea. I do so hope that somebody anthologises one of her best poems “the
trumpet player”, which is both an elegy and a tribute for a [real] trumpet
player and his father. It is beautifully crafted as is the following poem “on a
night angry enough” with its vivid take on the wild sea near Hokitika and
summoning up images of those who once toiled there. Some of Sharpe’s poems
suggest an Irish Catholic background with its rituals and memories [the poems “sister”,
“who” “instead angels” etc.]</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The second section,
while dealing with many and various things, is dominated by the sea. But it
begins in a different key. The opening poem “sometimes she walks” is a delicate
descriptive poem with a specifically Chinese depiction; but it is hard to
decode how much of it is related to a personal situation. It is more-or-less
confessional without quite being so. Two poems note events in her husband’s
childhood in South Africa. There are various fantasies and a poem in which
William Blake arises and seems to master the sea. Of the poems connected with
the sea, I like best the pithiest ones, such as the witty poem “sculpture”,
which is a dream of a statue taking on life. I quote it in full: “<i>Two whale
flukes / lit at night / escape their stone world, / pretend they live /
somewhere else. / Leap like islands, / sing deep slow songs – where are / their
babies? / Early morning they’re / back on the plinth, / breathless salty-dry, /
so warm they wake / all of us.</i>” There follows other sea-affiliated poems
such as “the sea takes a wife”, not to mention verse concerning weddings and
funerals, which are sometimes .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">It is the third section,
however, which sticks most steadfastly to a particular theme. She begins in the
Arctic Circle, moves through many poems to Antarctica, and then deals with the
shadow of climate change. First comes “sinew & snow” which places us in
deepest snowbound Russia. Still in the Arctic, with suggestions of catastrophic
climate change and the melting of ice, there follow “never”, “instead of
travelling north”, “a road falling away”, “blue” and “from letters to Johanna”
in the same very northern climes. Then she flips the globe and presents a
series of poems set in Antarctica. The poem “map ice show” begins “<i>Antarctica
– a bold footprint / on a picture atlas, / so magnetic nothing moves. / The
huts like nests. / The scientific research / is close-lipped. / Deep marine
life fears no ill, / ice is trapped in sculptures, / never to rise or drown</i>”…
but the poem goes on to suggest that chemicals and human interventions are
degrading submarine life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there is “the
sorrows of ice” a sequence of five poems related to Ernest Shackleton and early
exploration of the Antarctic. Her whole collection finishes with a real
flourish – her longest poem in this collection “te hau o te atua / the breath
of heaven” – her most detailed descriptive poem about Otamahua, also known as
Quail Island, a small island in Lyttelton Harbour, which was used by both
Shackleton and Scott as a place to train huskies. The wind blows over the
island, those glory days of exploration are long gone, there is a sense of
chilly desolation, even if the dead can be honoured. Things pass, things
change… and not always for the better.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In praise of
Sharpe’s work, I have to say that she ranges through many ideas of interest,
she expresses herself in a pithy but understandable way, she is astute at
conjuring up fantastic images [fantastic in the original sense of the word] and
even while she is dealing with serious matters, she knows how to be funny. A
great gift.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_ESVqGoGrFXSa4T0l30cI-tmVSmQXjfLMj8HsWhooPRVPwlRFdOpMhBZyoHkZduy1QzSkgTt4pHMvrfOB3lp2GoaocIwoRel4LM0vyFT6kpSALTVCTnGrGyMYtYIBJOnRADWfLSqc9nzfSmLlXNuhSwNsOJqARffjny0YSW1vyP_6wRbLZLtKYv5quqD/s1156/Green-Rain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_ESVqGoGrFXSa4T0l30cI-tmVSmQXjfLMj8HsWhooPRVPwlRFdOpMhBZyoHkZduy1QzSkgTt4pHMvrfOB3lp2GoaocIwoRel4LM0vyFT6kpSALTVCTnGrGyMYtYIBJOnRADWfLSqc9nzfSmLlXNuhSwNsOJqARffjny0YSW1vyP_6wRbLZLtKYv5quqD/w294-h426/Green-Rain.jpg" width="294" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
blurb the publishers of <i>Green Rain</i> sent me tells me that Alastair Clarke
returned to New Zealand after living for many years in Britain; and he settled
in Wairarapa. He is advanced in years. It is clear in much of his poetry that
he revels in returning to the New Zealand environment as the greater part of
his poetry collection is concerned with New Zealand landscapes, seascapes,
places and settlements, as if he is re-embracing – and seeing with a fresh eye –
the country he originally came from. As is now the custom with most poetry
collections, he divides his many [short] poems in separate sections.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The first section
is called “Dance” and the poem “A Different Dark” gives the reader the poet’s
sense of alienness in settling once again in New Zealand, thus :“<i>Driving
through is reading a geology primer. / It is here our forebears came hoping,
ship-worn, walking-wondering / through bush, to cross ranges under a different
dark, / an unfamiliar sun</i>.” He equates his return with the country’s first
[Pakeha] settlers. There is much reference to coming into Wairarapa by train,
as if piercing a new land. But some of Clarke’s allusions are clearly inspired
by older literature, as in the poem “From Cold” where “…<i>our vision
disorders, like / the awkward completions in myth. / We reach out to touch
meaning. / Like man on a wire we want balance. / I think of Mulgan’s outsider,
/ his single obsession breaching / community; of how we shun / wild to come in
from the cold…</i>” Looking at the hills and mountains that separate Wairarapa
from the rest of the North Island, he recalls visiting Tararuas.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“Churning”, the
second section, moves away from <i>terra firma</i> and into vignettes of the
sea, the sea shore, creeks – a different landscape [or seascape] from the
mountain barrier leading into Wairarapa. The poem “Churning” charts “<i>how
waves fall / from sea’s body / there is no clear / agreement in the spilling /
we see or drawing back / in this division in things / in this grabbing together
/ of particles / each wave thumping / negating swamping reason / in perpetual
undertow…</i>”. Again harking back of older literature, there are references
elsewhere to Curnow’s verse. Some poems, like “Scripting”,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>refer
back to his sojourn in Australia. The poem “Viewing” embraces the Romantic idea
that the beauty of nature uplifts us, as does the poem “Evening, Waikanae”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Having dealt with
land and sea, oddly enough the third part, called “Seeing”, deals with clouds,
with philosophical thoughts squeezed out of the seen environment, and with the
mountains of the North Island’s Central plateau where great mountains loom, as
in “High Country” with <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>: “<i>These
volcanic extrusions / scarring the high plateau, these / (it is mid-winter)
under snow. / Passing through is passing through / a geology primer - / the
road descending now to Taupo’s / solipsism – its lonely vacancy. / Here we
answer to mountains - / <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ngauruhoe,
Ruapehu, / Tongariro – to powers ungraspable</i>.” The mountains belong to the
clouds, confirmed in a poem about driving the Desert Road.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">We are presented
with animals and human activity in the fourth section called “Hedging”, such as
brown rabbits lurking on the roadside and the poem “To the Animals”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And related to this are the actions of human
beings. The poem “From the Rural” deals with different ways of raising crops
and making gardens – the natural way or slathering the earth with chemicals;
while the poem “Hedging” is literally about “<i>This ordinary / suburban
ritual: that growth must / be tamed</i>.”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">As for the fifth
and final section, “Crossing”, it’s a bit of a potpourri, for having dealt with
Wairarapa, the sea, clouds and mountains and animals and human activities, we
are presented with a variety of interests. Some are primarily about people
arriving in New Zealand in earlier times, such as “Scots” in the nineteenth century,
travelling in steerage class and trying to escape poverty. There are also poems
about art work and an awareness of how the country has changed in the poet’s
lifetime, as in his view of the Auckland suburb “Ponsonby” where “<i>Ponsonby
once was workmen. Then / grunge. Glitter’s now Go. Now Audis / and Porsches
casual the strip</i>.” He describes a visit to Rotorua and speculates on Covid
19 and foreign affairs, with satirical poems about Putin and Trump, ending with
a “Letter from America”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">As you may be
aware, I have quoted here only a small number of Clarke’s poems, but having
read them all I think I can take the measure of the man’s achievement. Clarke
is very capable in presenting a scene, but sometimes he attaches philosophical
concepts to scenes. They come across as a little strained. Indeed his approach
often feels somewhat old-fashioned – not, of course, that there’s anything
wrong with being old-fashioned, but seeing nature as a force that uplifts us really
does come from an earlier era. Despite these misgivings, I enjoyed reading <i>Green
Rain</i> and think it could speak to a mature audience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * </span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMWqQORL0hOOHi-acH-Z0WMXmCpqKtxXxR1AI0qOLrpur8JKfpTJe5UnwBDW579UwM87ny4PfF1wmRl2xS_er-RAuP_uqPy9NVIUiNxH0S1gWTrEad-70OAyT6s6kEQaO6y0LKmz0QTMmL8AT9ds5ph2gdYUQ1c3naLdoV28GG3a27-E1H4OeG_ZCi1Owu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="724" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMWqQORL0hOOHi-acH-Z0WMXmCpqKtxXxR1AI0qOLrpur8JKfpTJe5UnwBDW579UwM87ny4PfF1wmRl2xS_er-RAuP_uqPy9NVIUiNxH0S1gWTrEad-70OAyT6s6kEQaO6y0LKmz0QTMmL8AT9ds5ph2gdYUQ1c3naLdoV28GG3a27-E1H4OeG_ZCi1Owu=w308-h396" width="308" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">John Allison is also a mature man who is aware that life is irreparably connected with death. </span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">After all, his opening poem "How to Go On" is a laconic, almost stoic, account of a brush with cancer.</span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Some of his poems in <i>A Long Road Trip Home</i> are elegiac in tone as in his poem "Southland Elegy" with its presentation of bleakness; or again with the implied elegy connected
to children's bedtime stories in the poem "Lupus in fabula". "The send-off"
is literally about a funeral and the distorted ways the deceased is
remembered. And "What is lost" is certainly about ageing. But Allison cannot be pigeon-holed as a man of withering regrets. He can also gear himself to childlike joy, as in </span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"Singing the Blues" and "How to Sing Sunlight". The fact is, this poet is more aligned to presenting philosophical ideas and social contact than with lamenting loss.<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Consider his take on a degraded environment in his "Letter to Tony Beyer" where on the shore-scape he is "<i>stepping in amongst the wrack / of last night's storm - a dead shag / tangled in a shredded web of fishing net / a knoutted condom / and a blue bottle-top / so much brighter than it needs to be</i>." Consider "Father's axe, grandfather's machete", a complex reflection on the beauty of what can be destructive or lethal - an awareness that there are more ways than one of masculine thinking. Though it is on a completely different topic, "A faux-naturalist considers a ginko" has a similar idea - in this case the poet sees something that is externally very beautiful but that is capable of being very destructive. Sometimes things can at once delight and appal us. Phenomena are ambiguous.<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Allison is at his best when he is writing discursive poems, divided into sequences. "Cedars of Lebanon" is a five-part sequence not only evoking Biblical times but once again wedding it with memories of father's skill with wood. The best word I can conjure up to suggest its impact is "stately". "Karst mountain journey" in five parts is partly a delicate sequence about a trip to Chinese countryside, but bearing an idea of the suppression of ancient antiquities and poetry. </span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Most impressive, though, is "Another Direction" - really in seven parts but not numbered that way: The title refers to one of this country's best-known poems, Allen Curnow's <i>Landfall in Unknown Seas</i> which begins "<i>Simply by sailing in a new direction / you could enlarge the world</i>". Allison refutes this at once beginning his own sequence with "<i>Landfall brought its tribulations, ask those already here. / With the centrttifugal force of colonial ambition / flung out across limiitess possibilities of time and space.</i>" The idea that colonisation and "discovery" were destructive for Maori is acknowledged, but most of the sequence deals with the mundanity, boredom and perhaps philistine-ism of the unhappy Pakeha farmer. This is not the promised land and yet the farmer is intrigued by it even if he is not <b>of </b>it.... nevertheless, now speaking in his own voice, the poet says "<i>When I turn away from the city lights</i></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i> / something warm and wild comes up behind me / taps me on the shoulder, and without a fuss / slips under my skin into those ridges</i>..." The land is still alluring. We Pakeha may not be indigenous, but we are still intrigued with it.<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">There is in this collection one "rogue" poem which I can't easily categorise: "It can be lost just when you notice it" is a neat presentation of how human awareness often prevents us from being able to simply sink into un-self-consciousness. We cannot mould into an environment and lust live in the moment, as other animals can. Consciousness often deprives us of joy. (dare I say, in its idea, it's almost akin to Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale"). It is a poem worthy of reading again and again.<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><br /><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-90788195169363969502023-11-27T07:01:00.005+13:002023-11-27T08:03:38.199+13:00Something Old<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">
</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">DEFINITIVE JUDGEMENT ON GEORGE ORWELL
(no<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>contradictions accepted) </span></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjux5csks0WdZ7unhZHrfMbrR1UkpuvR4CvB-FytjZYuasynvA3rMFMIWEAF2kLnzP6tL6V-MLsoa0aF1DbgyZw8zKq_-ukoJAnLKICdWPtuNQ0cJeXVRQpjqdinIPxil6GJnGZwJInTiWAo9h1asNeElt_bD6DokAJOldJCFno3LrrnEeTewAuGb45XIIC/s1920/p0139bff1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjux5csks0WdZ7unhZHrfMbrR1UkpuvR4CvB-FytjZYuasynvA3rMFMIWEAF2kLnzP6tL6V-MLsoa0aF1DbgyZw8zKq_-ukoJAnLKICdWPtuNQ0cJeXVRQpjqdinIPxil6GJnGZwJInTiWAo9h1asNeElt_bD6DokAJOldJCFno3LrrnEeTewAuGb45XIIC/w567-h319/p0139bff1.jpg" width="567" /></a></span></b></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /> </span></b></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In the last six “Something Old” postings in this blog, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have covered all of George Orwell’s
book-length works of fiction and non-fiction, namely the novels <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/09/burmesedaysgeorgeorwell.html"><b>Burmese Days</b>,</a>
<a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/09/something-old.html"><b>A Clergyman’s Daughter</b>,</a> <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2013/10/something-old.html">Keep the Aspidistra Flying</a></b> [which I
reviewed years before the others] and <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/comingupforairgeorgeorwell.html"><b>Coming Up for Air</b></a>,
giving a reason why I made only passing comments on his most famous fictions <i>Animal
Farm</i> and <i>1984</i>; and I covered his non-fiction <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/geargeorwelldownandoutinparisandlondon.html">Down and Out inParis and London</a>,</b> <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/georseorwelltheroadtowiganpier.html">The Road to Wigan Pier</a></b> and <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/11/homagetocataloniageorge%20orwell.html">Homage to Catalonia</a></b>.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I had read most of these works years ago, including many of
his essays. But I read them all again for a particular reason. I had just
reviewed on this blog Anna Funder’s book<b> <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/08/something-new.html">Wifedom</a></b> which set out to tell
us that Orwell was a dreadful man in his private life, a sex fiend, misogynistic
and exploitative of his first wife Eileen O’Shaughnessy. Anna Funder had done
much detailed research and she made it clear that she admired most of Orwell’s
writing, but her book still seemed to me to be mainly an attempt at taking
Orwell down. In the end, I thought that, while she said many truthful things,
her arguments were flawed for two reasons: (a.) because we should not judge
books by the biography of the author; rather, we should judge a book by the
words on the page; and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(b.) my
deeply-held belief that most genuinely creative people tend to be egotistical
or self-obsessed anyway. Novelists mostly want quiet and no interruptions and
[at least the males among them] often expect their wives or partners to do all
the dull housework, cooking, child care etc. while they get on with their
writing. Even if this was the attitude Orwell adopted, and even if it would now
be abhorred, Orwell was acting as male writers of his era tended to do as a
matter of course. He lived in his own times. I’m also wary of Funder’s idea
that it took Eileen O’Shaughnessy to ignite Orwell’s writing – remember, Orwell
was already an established, professional novelist who had had much published
before Eileen came into his life. Orwell was hard-working and diligent in his
output in the 1930s (four novels and three works of non-fiction). But later
sickness – his worsening tuberculosis - and other commitments such as
organising talks on the BBC meant that only two books - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>one novella, one full-length novel - were
produced in the 1940s, although it was in the 1940s that he produced many of
his best influential pamphlets and essays.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In one sense, Orwell has been victimised by some of his greatest
fans. Orwell called out totalitarianism and especially Communism in <i>Animal
Farm</i> and <i>1984</i>. These became his most-read works. In the Cold War
they were used as ideological weapons against the Soviet Union, with American
interests (including the CIA) putting money into making film versions of the
two books (one live-action starring Edmond O’Brien as Winston Smith, and one a
feature-length cartoon – both made in England). Just as terms such as
“Kafkaesque” or “Shavian” were often used to characterise an author’s whole
output, so people began to use the term <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Orwellian” to suggest nightmare-ish oppressive
regimes, typified by Communism, as if this was the only key Orwell ever played.
All this ignored Orwell’s other interests and, of course, many of his admirers,
especially in America, ignored the fact that Orwell remained a Socialist to the
end of his days. It was Communism he was attacking, not Socialism.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I read it, there are many contradictions in Orwell and
his work. His experience in Burma did make him fervently anti-colonialist,
seeing the building of empires as an exploitative racket promoted by people who
worked to impoverish indigenous peoples by taking valuable minerals, oil,
rubber, wood - indeed anything monetarily valuable – and all this under the
hypocritical pretence of bringing “civilisation”. Yet many of his attitudes
were, inevitably, very English. He always writes as if other countries will
flourish if only they adopt English mores, and spends much time lauding English
yeomen, English traditions, a good cup of tea or pint of beer and a good smoke.
Very blokey. When he came to write two influential pamphlets during the Second
World War - <i>The Lion and the Unicorn</i> and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>The English People</i> – he promoted a
welfare state and a levelling of the classes as much as possible. Very
commendable, but still taking the English way as the template for the world.
Yet before I get too snooty about this, it is interesting that Britain’s former
colonies (India and Pakistan and many African states, not to mention Pacific
nations), once given independence still embraced the British parliamentary
system as their own.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Apart from his inevitably English outlook, it has to be
noted that Orwell cradled many prejudices. Despite his respect for the
Spaniards and Catalans he met in the Spanish Civil War, he was always ready to
belittle or ridicule Americans, Catholics and more-or-less the French. You
might remember, too, his rant in <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i> where he damns “<i>every
fruit-juice drinker, nudist, sandal-wearer, sex-manic, Quaker, ‘Nature cure’
quack, pacifist and feminist in England</i>” as if all these categories could
be equated. And he often sneered at “<i>pansy poets</i>”, meaning homosexuals.
In this he was targeting the likes of W. H. Auden whom he once described as “<i>a
sort of gutless Kipling</i>”. It is good to know, however, that he later got on
well with Auden.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It has often been noted that Orwell, in his works, was
always very alert to, and disgusted by, dirt, slovenliness, slime and general
filth. When he mixed with the working classes he was often appalled by the low
standards of hygiene they had to live with. This was in the context of his
calling for better housing. There is the notorious passage (<i>The Road to
Wigan Pier</i> again) in which he is disgusted to have touched something slimy
(actually a wad of tobacco spat out by a miner) in the darkness of a coal mine.
This has been ridiculed by those who say it really shows how bourgeois,
fastidious and unused to proletarian ways Orwell was. I reply, of course, that
you too would probably have flinched if your hand touched something slimy in
the dark – including you, comrade. Nevertheless, one often gets the impression
that while Orwell sincerely wanted to ally himself with the working-class, and
often admired working-class strength and domestic behaviour, his middle-class
feelings were still built on such concepts as decency, cleanliness, duty, order
and hygiene. In effect, while he damned the wealthy, the plutocrats, the cranks
and the conservatives, there was <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>kind of
dichotomy in his sympathies – an internal struggle in which his middle-class
habits were in tension with his working-class sympathies.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Much more could be said of Orwell’s flawed attitudes, but
what of the literary qualities of his work? Orwell was very aware of how
language can easily be misused. His essay <i>Politics and the English Language</i>
is a classic on the subject of language, noting (a.) how gobbledegook can be
used to mislead people for propaganda purposes; and (b.) how simplicity in
language is a virtue, but over-simplifying can lead to diminished quality in language.
Such over-simplification leads to the abomination of “Newspeak” in <i>1984</i>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Likewise another essay <i>The Prevention
of Literature</i> criticised not only outright censorship, but also the way
influential groups can close down writers who are not favoured or who express
unpopular ideas. (A distant foreshadowing of “woke” and “cancel culture”
perhaps?) </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All of Orwell’s novels are in some ways polemical (and his
non-fiction is certainly polemical.). <i>Burmese Days</i> condemns colonialism.
<i>A Clergyman’s Daughter</i> has a go at many things - a fading Anglican
church, the nastiness of cheap private schools, exploitation of workers in the
hop fields and poverty in London. <i>Keep the Aspidistra Flying</i> targets
both pretentious literary people and the advertising industry. <i>Coming Up For
Air</i> laments both the decay of English countryside and the growing
militarism that is preceding a coming war. And of course you already know how
polemic <i>Animal Farm</i> and <i>1984</i> are. Orwell always has a “message”
clearly spelt out. I also find it interesting that every one of his novels ends
with defeat for the main character. John Florey commits suicide in <i>Burmese
Days</i>. Dorothy Hare, after all her wild journeys, goes back to doing good
works in her father’s parish in <i>A Clergyman’s Daughter</i>. Gordon Comstock
gives up the arty-literary life he took to, and returns to the advertising
agency he had escaped in <i>Keep the Aspidistra Flying</i>. George Bowling is
completely disillusioned by his journey to his childhood town and returns to
his nagging wife in <i>Coming Up For Air. </i>And you all know that the animals
in <i>Animal Farm</i> are stuck with their horrible regime, while at the end of
<i>1984</i>, Winston Smith truly loves Big Brother.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am bemused by the way Orwell leaves his protagonists in
defeat. Does this mean that he was basically a pessimist? Or was he simply
always facing the reality that most people have to get on with their
lives, happy endings are rare, and there is not one great revolution coming
along fix things? I have noticed that, while Hollywood cranks out happy endings
in frivolous movies, it is especially in totalitarian countries that earnest
films have happy endings, usually concluding with the state and its ideology
neatly fixing things. (Over the years, I have been able to see some Stalinist
Russian films that were made to this formula.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Orwell wanted to improve the world, he
was not a Utopian and was fully aware that making things better was going
to be a long, hard struggle. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A difficulty in all Orwell’s novels is that, from <i>Burmese
Days</i> to <i>1984</i>, his narrative always hinges on just one main person.
His novels are never told in the first-person but they might as well be. In
this respect, Orwell’s novels are very like most of the novels of <b>H. G. Wells </b>[look him up in the index at right ].
It is well-known that Orwell liked books written in the Edwardian era (it is an
Edwardian society George Bowling is futilely seeking in<i> Coming Up For Air</i>
) and he admired much of Wells’ earlier work. What it means, though, is we are
getting one [usually male] character’s perspective. There is a real single-mindedness
in Orwell’s work with an inability to step inside the minds of characters other
than the protagonist. Hence a degree of flatness. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is easier to categorise <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Orwell’s non-fiction. In descriptions of
places and people he is often a master, but two of his non-fictions are very
poorly organised. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Down and Out in
Paris and London</i> and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>The Road to
Wigan Pier </i>are both made of two incompatible halves. <i>Down and Out in
Paris and London</i> appears to have been patched together to pad out a book
that was regarded by his publisher as too short. <i>The Road to Wigan Pier </i>yields
some of the best reportage Orwell ever wrote, but the second half is a
rambling, often vague essay about socialism and types of people. It’s a mess
and his publisher hated it. Only <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> stands up well as a
unified and perfectly purposeful narrative. I regret that Orwell did not have
the opportunity to write more in the same vein.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">How do I sum up Orwell? He is certainly very readable, but his
work does not amount to a great classic. It is very, very interesting to read
about the times and places he depicts. He enlightens us on the era in which he
lived. I do not believe he was a prophet as some of his most fervent admirers
suggest; but he was absolutely right to call out a totalitarian idea which gullible
people in the democracies had embraced. In the end, his work is most interesting not as
literature but as history. Which, for all his flat characters, means he is
still important.</span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrFz81hf-n2g2Wt2zcPx8Qqn9CuCmJoIWLi3abu7lJPOtTuYrbUCzk-dwxSr08LNKctvrhnxpbh0kfSdSMHNh1fI0IUUfEkoiv86LshUfbpWqlSBGRPqX7p5pvE1TIjfQ1O3dwchmGSKTpYRaCFyF1YePAdGQg_eWdE4HfC4rUrxcNRsNT-AVAlwsWKQY/s180/th.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="123" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmrFz81hf-n2g2Wt2zcPx8Qqn9CuCmJoIWLi3abu7lJPOtTuYrbUCzk-dwxSr08LNKctvrhnxpbh0kfSdSMHNh1fI0IUUfEkoiv86LshUfbpWqlSBGRPqX7p5pvE1TIjfQ1O3dwchmGSKTpYRaCFyF1YePAdGQg_eWdE4HfC4rUrxcNRsNT-AVAlwsWKQY/w243-h356/th.jpg" width="243" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Here’s an odd little appendage related to Orwell which I’d
like to bring to your attention. Sitting on my shelves, near books by or about
Orwell, is a short little novel by David Caute called <b><i>Dr. Orwell &
Mr. Blair</i></b>. It was first published in 1994. Born in 1936 and now an old
man, David Caute, as well as being an academic, is a prolific novelist and
writer of non-fiction. His political beliefs tend to lean to the Left (for two
years he was literary editor for the <i>New Statesman</i>) but I was once told angrily
by an ideologue that Caute was a traitor to the Left. I take this to mean that
Caute does not belong to the Extreme Left. Some years back I read Caute’s
non-fiction book <i>The Fellow Travellers</i>, which dealt with the many people
in the West who never formally became Communists but who acted as promoters of
Communism in various subtle and unsubtle ways. A very good book which I might
enlighten you about sometime.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But to get back to Orwell. <i>Dr Orwell & Mr. Blair</i>
is a kind of fantasia related to Orwell, and the author closes the book with
the disclaimer that “<i>The events described in <u>Dr Orwell & Mr. Blair </u>are
entirely fictitious. None of it ever happened</i>.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Here’s how the plot runs. Things are going badly for Manor
Farm. It increasingly looks derelict. Speculators are closing in, hoping to
make a bargain by buying and then sprucing up the farm. Mr. Jones the farmer
has had a blazing row with his wife after she’s suspected of him canoodling
with a Land Girl (it’s wartime). Farmer and wife leave the farm and go their
different ways. But left behind is their bewildered young son Alex Jones, who tries,
in a primitive way, to keep the farm going.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Enters a guy called Eric but who sometimes calls himself
George. Eric (or George), obviously a sick man with all his coughing, befriends
young Alex and tells him a lot of stories, as well as making some suggestions
about how a farm could be run. Eric (or George) is very much an admirer of the
English farmer or yeoman, but Eric (or George) can also tell quite brutal
stories about the life he has lived. He also admires some of the livestock on
the farm such as the horse Boxer and the pigs Napoleon and Squealer and one
which he eventually calls Snowball and…</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Okay, okay. I’ll stop being cute and say the obvious. This is
a fictitious account of how George Orwell was inspired to write <i>Animal Farm</i>.
It has a subplot of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fred” (the
publisher Frederic Warburg) trying, but failing, to catch up with Orwell and get
him to sign a commission to produce a new book. Of course this short novel is
crammed with quotations from Orwell’s published works and maybe there will be a
sort of snobbery among some readers about identifying which quotation comes
from which book by Orwell. Young Alex grows up to be a mature teenager (going
first through a bratty delinquent stage) and after years have gone by he is
able to visit the novelist when he is dying. Orwell bequeaths Alex a sort of sequel
to <i>Animal Farm</i> which leaves the animals in a very different position
from the one they were left in, in the original <i>Animal Farm</i>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’m not quite sure what David Caute was trying to say in
this short novel (not short enough to be a novella) and in the end I can only
see it as a piece of whimsy. As for the title<i> Dr Orwell & Mr. Blair</i> ,
I wildly suggest the Eric and George represent two different sides of Orwell –
the patient man who mentors the farm boy and the combative polemicist who was
often involved in quarrels. That’s the best I can do. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmEKSdE8AReDgEXmkejjIRkGyTLUKYZwoaN3vgYnNlJRawE-l0ugFakIWlOmsDWGrb6S2ntkkp7zMerHQ9De02l0TfMtJF6x2GbZCsNQNVEui6rHnA3LjDEGPSim0rk41WW_lfxtWuDqENC34Z6mvIzdopOxbTPn4tuqOqLGgSVqyJ5Zf2W0uSEbs30r0/s500/9780297814382-us.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="316" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmEKSdE8AReDgEXmkejjIRkGyTLUKYZwoaN3vgYnNlJRawE-l0ugFakIWlOmsDWGrb6S2ntkkp7zMerHQ9De02l0TfMtJF6x2GbZCsNQNVEui6rHnA3LjDEGPSim0rk41WW_lfxtWuDqENC34Z6mvIzdopOxbTPn4tuqOqLGgSVqyJ5Zf2W0uSEbs30r0/w245-h388/9780297814382-us.jpg" width="245" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /> </span><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-6612501289548585232023-11-27T07:00:00.008+13:002023-11-27T07:00:00.138+13:00Something Thoughtful<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> </span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> WORST OF THE DYING YEAR.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Last posting I gave you a cheery farewell to 2023 called <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/11/something-thoughtful.html"><b>Best
of the Dying Year</b></a>, wherein I listed the things I most enjoyed in the past
twelve months. But given that I’m an incorrigible misanthrope and sad sack, you
didn’t really expect me to end on a positive note did you? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here
are some of the things that made the year irritating, annoying, and sometimes
tragic.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Irritating:</b> Watching on Netflix the story of an
unhappy, comely but none-too-bright young woman who had a hard time with her
husband because he had clearly been bonking another woman when he should have
occupied the unhappy young woman’s bed. Anyway, the marriage broke up and she
sought solace with another man and it seemed to go smoothly until she died in a
car crash and a lot of people got upset and thought she was some sort of saint
and… oh hang on a minute. I wondered why her husband was so weird. He suffered
from an awful disease, namely being part of a Firm that called itself The Royal
Family and he was the Prince of Wales, not that the Welsh had asked for one.
Anyway he later became King when his mum died and that meant he was now the
Governor of the Church of England so his extracurricular activities could be
discreetly forgotten, but Netflix didn’t get up to that. As always, what a bin
of tosh. <i>The Crown</i>, like every other attempt to dramatize real events,
had to make up the dialogue, especially when it came to private conversations
which nobody had recorded. In other words, the dialogue had to be the invention
of the scriptwriters. Fair enough. That’s what all “<i>based-on-a-true-story</i>”
plays or films always do. But having Dead Di addressing, in ghostly form, the
people who had wronged or misunderstood her, the show went O.T.T. and disbelief
was not suspended. Will <i>The Crown</i> get up to the later events in the lives
of the notorious Windsor Gang? It would be interesting to see how they could
deal with Andy and his 20-million-pound pay-off, but somehow I don’t think
we’ll ever see that. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Annoying:</b> [Sorry, but only New Zealanders will get
this one] Will the stapled-together coalition of three separate political
parties make for a stable government? It’d be a miracle if it did. There’s at
least one party’s leader who has a track record of upsetting things and
alienating erstwhile allies. [“NO. NO. THAT’S NOT TRUE. NO. I NEVER SAID THAT.
YOU’RE MISQUOTING ME. LOOK SON, GO BACK TO JOURNALIST SCHOOL. I WAS DEALING
WITH THESE MATTERS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN. DON’T MAKE THINGS UP. ANY MORE
QUESTIONS?’] Quite apart from that, it’s clear that on many issues the three
parties are pulling in three different directions…. Yet dare I say (being a
heretic) how annoying it has also been to experience the sobbing and wailing of
some people when Jacinda Ardern decided to step down from being prime minister?
She’d said she was exhausted and her “tank was empty”. Oh the grief! Oh the
tears! But for God’s sake she was making a reasonable decision. Beside which,
she was after all just a politician. They do come and go and they never perform
miracles.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b>Tragic:</b> And how trivial all the above are when
compared with the things that really upset the world. The never-ending war in
Ukraine… and the disgust of seeing Ukraine’s allies delicately creeping away
because they expected a war to be over with quickly, the way they are in the
movies. The war (for war it is) between Israel and Palestine. Who is in the
right and who is in the wrong? Both? Neither? Hamas fired first in a terrorist
raid and Israel has (at time of my writing this) retaliated at least four-times
over, basically smashing Gaza City to smithereens. Woe to the innocent
non-combatants who are being punished. There is as yet no sight of a permanent
cease-fire, only some temporary truces. I know that Jews and Arabs are both
Semitic peoples but the term “anti-Semitic” has come to mean “Anti-Jewish”. I
do not believe that it is “anti-Semitic” to criticise the actions of the state
of Israel, but it is clear (in huge pro-Palestinian protests in both England
and the U. S. A.) that for many the war is an excuse for stepping up the
anti-Semitism. This is a fearful sight to see and hear. Will the tension
between Israel and Palestine ever be solved? Hard to see any end to it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Happy New Year. If you can face it.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-16462676700163409332023-11-13T09:02:00.020+13:002023-11-13T09:02:00.134+13:00Something New<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span>
</p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<b>CONTINUOUS
FERMENT – A History of Beer and Brewing in New Zealand</b>” by Greg Ryan
(Auckland University Press, $NZ65<b>); “BLOODALCOHOL – Ten Tales</b>” by
Michael Botur (Next Chapter Press, $NZ40:75 paperback; also available in
hardback)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueRUj1urEULckJTZW7fHG_lztAsKzmwu21sII-gCvqMcNn79yW_7Asvh39l8a-GoV8quhtFROr7wSI4cWZ88qaxMiWstxR-o_RCWIc5QsaKBeuIYXrqg9W465Ld7qmdxZI8GQEzc6QLgBGOzb6ZwmCJupexsrYZzO3g0LY2xUigZkzG_bLKH2hFwO0JmK/s1200/Ryan_Continuous_Ferment__52077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="849" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueRUj1urEULckJTZW7fHG_lztAsKzmwu21sII-gCvqMcNn79yW_7Asvh39l8a-GoV8quhtFROr7wSI4cWZ88qaxMiWstxR-o_RCWIc5QsaKBeuIYXrqg9W465Ld7qmdxZI8GQEzc6QLgBGOzb6ZwmCJupexsrYZzO3g0LY2xUigZkzG_bLKH2hFwO0JmK/w349-h494/Ryan_Continuous_Ferment__52077.jpg" width="349" /></a></div></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><p></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s the strong
possibility that New Zealand has been formed by beer as much as by wars,
natural disasters, politics and racial differences. For well over two hundred
years, beer has been one of the mainstays of New Zealand. In his
lavishly-illustrated and scrupulously researched book <i>Continuous Ferment</i>,
Greg Ryan makes this case convincingly. The title is a punning joke. In the
1950s, New Zealand was introduced to a new method of brewing beer known as
“continuous fermentation”. But quite clearly <i>Continuous Ferment</i> refers
to the way that the sale and consumption of beer has often courted controversy,
and not just in the era when a large proportion of New Zealanders were calling
for the prohibition of all alcoholic beverages. Greg Ryan has a prologue is
which he reminds us of the essential ingredients for producing beer – clean
water, grain [barley or other cereals], hops and yeast. He notes in his
introduction that too often historians of beer in New Zealand have
over-emphasised the era of prohibitionists and have overlooked the nature of
brewing, style of production, tastes, and different types of beer produced in
different parts of New Zealand. So his book proceeds to look at all these
things, and not only the controversial ones.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In his opening
chapters Ryan reminds us that beer has been with the human race for many
thousands of years. For centuries in Europe, beer was considered an essential
food, healthy and a necessity for any family. The first beer brewed in New
Zealand was produced in Dusky Sound, in 1773, by members of Captain Cook’s
crew, and was much appreciated by the captain. In England there was already a
plethora of laws related to the licencing of public houses and when the first
pakeha began to settle in New Zealand, most beer was imported here from Sydney.
From the 1820s to the 1840s, Kororareka (Russell) was understood as the
brawling, drinking centre of the consumption of alcohol by whalers and
soldiers. But Ryan judiciously notes: “<i>Accounts of alcoholic excess were
numerous, although one always has to remember that most of them were written by
those, such as missionaries, with a vested interest in emphasising depravity in
the hope that it would prompt more British intervention in New Zealand</i>.”
(p. 11) Also, episodes of drunken brawling were mainly related to spirits
(whisky, gin, brandy), not to honest beer. Ryan notes that some missionaries
brewed their own home beer. The first official legislation related to alcohol
came in 1841, with the Prohibition of Distillation Ordinance, intended to shut
down the local stills that had been set up. In future, spirits could only be
imported, not locally concocted. Beer was not the culprit, spirits were. In
1847 there was a Sale of Spirits to Natives Ordinance, banning the sale of
spirits to Maori. Later, harsher laws closed down all distilleries. And the
first Temperance Society targeted only spirits, not beer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Meanwhile, by the
mid-1840s, licences began to be given to publicans, though only a very few
women became publicans. By 1850, most beer was still imported, but there were
eleven breweries in the North Island and four in the South Island. With the
Otago goldrush in the 1860s, the statistics changed and there were more
breweries in the South than in the North. By 1860 there were 47 breweries in
New Zealand. But as Greg Ryan says: “<i>Most breweries were small operations
managed by the brewer and perhaps one or two employees</i>.” (p.29) Even so, a
few breweries were the origins of some labels that are still with us, such as
Speights. In the 1850s, Thomas Hancock and John Scholes set up their Captain
Cook Brewery, which remained a landmark in Auckland for well over a hundred
years. Yet by 1871, when there were 69 breweries in New Zealand, over 90% of beer
consumed was still imported from Australia and Britain, showing how small and
local most breweries then were. And while Otago’s goldrush had attracted many
brewers, most of them closed shop once the gold fields were worked out. It was
at this time that Louis Ehrenfield and (later) the Davis family became
prominent by establishing permanent industrial-style breweries. It was only in
the mid-19<sup>th</sup> century that scientists determined that yeast was a
living organism and its role in brewing was more precisely handled. Breweries
and publicans faced many problems, not only from difficulties in licencing and
supply, but in the frequency with which [wooden] pubs were burnt down and in
the difficulty of getting non-contaminated pure water. There were controversies
about the adulteration of beer, the difficulty in obtaining hops and the use of
sugar in the brewing. Nevertheless, the 1870s was when brewers enhanced their
status by inaugurating competitions. Says Greg Ryan: “<i>By the end of the 1870s
every brewery of significance, and some others besides, was adorning its
advertisements with references to prizes of one sort of another , and hotels
were similarly keen to stress to patrons that they had prize-winning beer on
tap</i>.” (p.76)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Successive
governments attempted to tax beer and finally imposed duty. It was in the 1880s
that prohibitionist sentiments began to grow in New Zealand, and by the 1890s
eminent parliamentarians were either promoting prohibition (such as Robert
Stout) or loudly opposing it (such as “King Dick” Richard Seddon). It was
Seddon who managed to make a law that said three-fifths of any electorate had
to vote for prohibition before an area could go “dry” (that is, ban the sale of
liquor). Prohibitionists were required to win 60% of the vote in a national
referendum before alcoholic drinks could be outlawed.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">By the 1890s,
there was a rapid decline in the number of breweries to New Zealand. There were
102 in 1891; 85 in 1896; and only 56 in 1911. More breweries were becoming centralised
and industrialised, putting an end to the many (almost) “cottage industry”
small breweries – although Greg Ryan does note that in some rural areas there
was great local loyalty to the smaller local brewers. Increasingly hotels and
pubs became “tied” to one of the brands of the bigger breweries <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- that is, giving customer only beer of one
brand. In this era too, there was the growth of trade unions becoming part of
the story of beer. In Wellington there was formed a Brewers, Bottlers, Bottle
Washers and Aerated Water Employees Union. It joined the “Red Fed” Federation
of Labour. In 1909, the president of the union was Michael Joseph Savage, a man
who worked in a brewery and who much later became prime minister.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">If there was a
sort of revolution in the way breweries were run, there was another revolution
in the making. Throughout the nineteenth century there had, in New Zealand,
been only three types of beer available – ale, porter and stout. But in the
early 1900s, lager was introduced. Says Ryan: “<i>Perhaps the most significant
embrace of European brewing science and expertise, if not apparent until
sometime later, was the development of New Zealand’s first lager brewery under
the guidance of a German, F. Metzler, and a Swiss, Conrad Breutsch, which opened
in 1900</i>.” (p.116) Ale still dominated, but over the years lager (made to German
and Swiss formulas) became the most consumed variety of beer in New Zealand. At
the same time, most hops ceased to be imported, but were now largely grown in
Nelson.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As Greg Ryan says at the
beginning of Chapter 6, “<i>In many respects, the first two decades of the
twentieth century were the most critical in the history of beer and brewing in
New Zealand. The industry was fighting for survival as support for prohibition
swelled. The anti-liquor vote peaked at 55.8 per cent in 1911, nearing the 60
per cent threshold needed for success. Prohibition nearly won in December 1919,
when only a simple majority was required to turn New Zealand dry. While the
conventional portrayal of this period is of a tide of prohibition that nearly
succeeded, it is equally valid to ask why some people voted against it. The
brewers in particular deployed a range of strategies to boost their own
standing with the public and put obstacles in the way of the prohibition
campaign…</i> [yet] <i>during the dramatic upheaval of the Great War,</i> [the
liquor industry ] <i>was forced to make concessions in the licencing laws.</i>”
(p.122) Appealing to “efficiency” in time of war, law was passed making it
illegal for a pub to stay open after 6 p.m. (Though in many rural areas this
was ignored until the 1940s.) Six o’clock closing persisted until 1967. There
was an increase in the number of “dry” districts and 141 hotels were shut down,
even though prohibitionists still had to win three-fifths of the vote in a
local area. This shows that there was obviously a majority of New Zealanders
who favoured either temperance or prohibition. A degree of sectarianism came
into this. On the whole, Anglicans and Catholics opposed prohibition, while
Presbyterians, Methodists and Baptists promoted it. [This is of course a
generalisation – there were a few Anglicans and Catholics who supported
prohibition, such as the Catholic Bishop of Auckland Henry William Cleary.] </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At this time, too, there
were what would now be seen as extremely paternalistic – to wit, laws
restricting the sale of liquor to Maori. And after the First World War was
over, pubs were closed down for many months because of the so-called “Spanish
‘flu” pandemic. When, in 1919, there was a general referendum on alcohol, the
Prohibitionists lost. It has often been suggested that this was because
soldiers returning from the war tipped the balance against Prohibition. Ryan
argues otherwise, saying that it had more to do with different approaches now
being taken by anti-prohibitionists. Although there was still a large
proportion of New Zealanders who favoured Prohibition, their numbers began to
dwindle in the 1920s, partly because the American experiment in Prohibition was
working out so badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even so, for
decades general elections always included on ballots an option to vote for
Continuance [leaving things as they were], Public Ownership [nationalising the
whole booze industry] or Prohibition. As fewer and fewer people voted for
Prohibition, this option became a farce until it was abolished in 1988, much to
the chagrin of the “Alliance” which still promoted the lost cause.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The 1920s to the 1940s were
the time of mergers of breweries, competition between breweries, and the world
depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1923, ten breweries
combined in Wellington as New Zealand Breweries (NZB – much later becoming Lion
Breweries), which meant that rather than having “tied” hotels, many different
brands under NZB could be consumed in the same pub. On the West Coast of the
South Island, brewers combined as Westland Breweries Ltd. In Auckland, Dominion
Breweries (DB) was set up in 1931 by William Coutts and Henry Kelliher, and by
the mid-1940s, DB produced 40% of Auckland’s beer. It was in the 1940s that
some journalists and pundits (such as John A. Lee) said that the ruling Labour
Party was corrupt because it did secret deals with brewers to stay in power.
(In his enjoyable, but often inaccurate, book <i>Grog’s Own Country</i>, Conrad
Bollinger made the same accusation.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">During the Second World
War, there were no additional severe laws about opening hours, and canteens
selling beer were provided to the armed forces. <b>However</b>, beer was made
weaker, having less alcoholic kick to it. Greg Ryan says that the notorious
“six o’clock swill”, where men drank themselves silly in the one hour they had
to drink after leaving work, did not begin when six o’clock closing began.
Rather, it began in the Second World War when men had to drink more and more of
the new weak beer before they reached an alcoholic kick. ‘Twas weakened beer
that made men stagger out of pubs and vomit on the pavements. Thankfully, after
the war was over, beer was restored to its more potent strength… but men had
acquired the habit of drinking too much anyway and the “six o’clock swill”
continued. In 1949, there was a referendum about closing hours, but most New
Zealanders still voted for six o’clock closing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In the 1950s there were
many closures or take-overs of breweries, and New Zealand was gradually facing
a duopoly of DB and NZB (Red Lion). In that same decade, Morton Coutts
pioneered the use of continuous fermentation, which meant that more beer could
be produced more quickly. By 1960, 85% of New Zealand beer was the product of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>continuous fermentation. Not that this
necessarily enhanced the nature of the product. Overseas visitors were very
critical of barn-like pubs and the men standing up at the bar rather than being
seated in a civilised way when they gulped down their swill. They also
criticised the ridiculous opening hours and the feeble quality of most New
Zealand beer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Only in the early 1960s did
things improve. Prime minister Walter Nash’s 1958 so-called “Black Budget”,
which increased the price of beer and cigarettes, had created a backlash,
leading eventually to 10 o’clock closing being brought in the 1967. Barmaids,
who had been banished from pubs decades earlier, were once again allowed to
serve in pubs [See on this blog Susan Upton’s engrossing <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2013/10/something-new.html"><b>Wanted: A Beautiful
Barmaid</b></a> for the history of bermaids in<br />New Zealand.] In 1961, after much
lobbying, restaurants were at last allowed to serve liquor with meals. Brewers
and publicans tried to smarten up their image. DB attempted to market a new
brand of lager called Lucky Lager, but it did not catch on and the label was
soon dropped. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lager was marketed as
Steineker, but the name had to be withdrawn when the long-established Dutch
brewery Heineken objected that it sounded too much like their name; and the New
Zealand beer had to be marketed as Steinlager. Pubs added entertainment,
usually in the form of music which became the norm but which was not
appreciated by all drinkers. The 1960s was when beer was first sold in cans was
well as in bottles. With the dominance of DB and Lion, there were still
complaints about the lack of beer diversity. The fact was, however, that the
proportion of New Zealand beer-drinkers was falling. New Zealand had long been
the 5<sup>th</sup> largest beer-drinking country per capita in the world . By
the 1990s it was only the 10<sup>th</sup> largest beer-drinking country per
capita in the world. The fact was that other types of alcoholic beverages were
on the rise, wine in particular. Vineyards were being established in Blenheim,
Hawkes Bay, Nelson and other sites. Soon wine became, and stayed, the liquor of
choice for dinner parties, family celebrations, wedding receptions and other
occasions. Generations were becoming aware of the grades, types and vintages of
wine. Beer was, however, still the most commonly consumed drink.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Time moved on. By the 1980s,
licenced restaurants were allowed to stay open late into the night. By 1990,
beer cans could be sold in supermarkets and the drinking age was lowered to 18.
There was the growing popularity of “craft beers”, brewed by very small
breweries and inspired by European and British niche beers. Even so, among
beer-drinkers those who drink craft beers are very much the minority. Greg Ryan
comments: “<i>New Zealand followed the global trend to small breweries from the
1980s and had nearly 60 by the turn of the century. In very broad terms these
developments can be seen as part of the global ‘artisan’ movement reacting
against corporate capitalism generally and neo-liberal upheaval in particular.
Everything from the slow food movement to farmers’ markets to promoting local
produce and traditions in bread, cheese, chocolate and olive oil, among many
others, emphasised ‘authentic’ alternatives to the homogeneity of industrial
mass production</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(p.288)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By this stage, there are
many objections to the way mainstream beer (DB and Lion) is marketed. Beer
advertisements are still very macho and often regarded as sexist with their
depictions of a men’s-only world and all those images of Rugby players and All
Black stars. There are also, in the 1990s and early 2000s, many worries about
teenagers getting drunk in public spaces and causing general rowdyism. Ryan
closes discussing new rates of taxation levied out of beer and in his epilogue
he suggests, depressingly, that the world-wide degeneration of the quality of
fresh water may create a huge challenge for brewers. Yet he is sure some form
of beer with endure.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It would be unfair not to
applaud, along with Ryan’s polished text, the many illustrations, sometimes
straight portraiture, sometimes showing the workings of breweries, sometimes
satirical, sometimes partisan in their wowser-versus-boozer phase, sometimes
even idyllic. They bring to life older eras.</span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> *.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tpDapmBMYIOQsG254r8M3inJnPAgV9Eue5n1m_9ah2bvmCp3tip2wE8rFD3aBWS4tiMhprk9LT2LnHJUi_GAMBnfOKk_ulYuwl7kXVACKz6kTrG-gEbbe-XLpQ-bAkTd5_ZwkXRC3qu5nZhqbVhWifhQyPYDicizEH0FlIIOzmsKsIWsQzuu6lCev71U/s500/9798223372387-475x500-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="353" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tpDapmBMYIOQsG254r8M3inJnPAgV9Eue5n1m_9ah2bvmCp3tip2wE8rFD3aBWS4tiMhprk9LT2LnHJUi_GAMBnfOKk_ulYuwl7kXVACKz6kTrG-gEbbe-XLpQ-bAkTd5_ZwkXRC3qu5nZhqbVhWifhQyPYDicizEH0FlIIOzmsKsIWsQzuu6lCev71U/w346-h490/9798223372387-475x500-1.jpg" width="346" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Growing
ultimately out of gothic novels and <i>grand guignol</i>, horror stories are
very much an acquired taste, but they do have a large audience. Michael Botur
should know. He has so far written seven collections of short stories, mostly
dealing with the bizarre and the horrific, as well as two novels. His latest
production is <i>Bloodalcohol – Ten Tales</i>. You are fairly warned what you
are in for by the front-cover image, a young woman happily splattered in blood.
All ten stories of <i>Bloodalcohol </i>are set in quite specific New Zealand locations,
ranging from Christchurch, through Auckland and up to the far North. Characters
who are drawn into horror are New Zealand types – delinquent school children,
ambitious wealthy back-to-nature-ists, people who take too many drugs, holidaying
rovers etc. But nearly all face the unexpected and are eventually horrified,
destroyed or [in one story at least] capable of dealing with eerie menace. Some
of Botur’s tales take some time to come to the boil while we wait for the
Hammer Horror denouement. But there’s no shame in this. After all, it was Bram
Stoker who, in his novel <i>Dracula</i>, took an age to introduce his dark
anti-hero, knowing full well that long anticipation leads to anxious reader
tension. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Botur knows this too.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> So
what of the specific stories? It’s never my task to give away unexpected
endings, which would spoil each story. But here is roughly what <i>Bloodalcohol</i>
contains. The title story “Bloodalcohol” has a South Island journey as told by
a sort of pimp (a very hip young woman) for an elder man who is hungry for
blood. A vampire forsooth. Three stories – “Butterfly Tongue”, “Lossboys” and
“Influencer” – have people plagued by malign ghosts, in all cases the ghosts
being destructive teenagers. In “The Beast Released” a man and a young boy go
into the deep New Zealand bush to see where a plane crashed, and something
happens more horrific that we expect. In “Luke’s Lesson” a boy goes crazy and
runs berserk after imbibing the most fundamentalist version of Christianity. Some
stories do not involve the occult or supernatural. As I read them “Weeks in the
Woolshed” simply shows us how nasty human beings can be to one another; “Racing
Hearts” is a matter of horror created by over-indulgence in illicit drugs; and,
although it certainly has its creepy moments, “Starving” is the least like a
horror story in its tale of an over-ambitious performer on the Auckland scene
who makes his mark in very questionable ways. In Botur’s most polished story,
“We Created a Country”, wherein wealthy fools try to make their version of a
desirable place in rural Northland, the main characters are not destroyed by
fantastic creatures but by nature itself – and a very real animal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> What
particularly interests me in Botur’s prose is his use of ambiguity. In some
stories we are not sure if the horror tale deals with “real” events, or is a
delusion created in the narrator’s head. This is particularly true of
“Butterfly Tongue” which is told by an angst-filled, angry teenaged girl. Is
this unreliable narration or does she meet a real final monstrosity? In
“Lossboys”, the destructive adolescent ghosts might just as well be delusions
conjured up by a mother after her young son dies. But it is still unnerving.
It’s a little like Henry James’ <i>The Turn of the Screw</i> where we can
either believe that two children are demonically possessed OR that the whole
tale reflects the neuroses of the nanny who is supposedly shielding them as
well as telling the tale.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> I
like Botur’s style and enjoyed most of his stories, especially the nuanced
ones. But be aware, as I said at the beginning of this brief review, horror
stories are an acquired taste. Like blood.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" class="placeholder" height="20" id="1ecfc39b54834" src="https://www.blogger.com/img/transparent.gif" style="background-color: #d8d8d8; background-image: url('https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/i/materialiconsextended/insert_photo/v6/grey600-24dp/1x/baseline_insert_photo_grey600_24dp.png'); background-position: center center; background-repeat: no-repeat; opacity: 0.6;" width="27" /></div><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-34974262075682837072023-11-13T09:01:00.063+13:002023-11-17T04:57:09.560+13:00Something Old<br /><p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> <br /></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“<b>HOMAGE TO
CATALONIA</b>” by George Orwell (first published 1938)</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3LfKy05hDQc8wd8lP8XPeggIH1RLQwK1DbTv1vBFs1UQftZFSGu4rW5FBGnR66n2YynLA5JY-GhjUnBfi3uEfxlCRkZcbfSWDO5b92jxupPAh1qL0vAAXUrwoLbjqBkmJn1hYMnvI5oVOg5etPZA8MDDxs3mxaZgIH2NT94MzWVFUAA6tvOcF65FfCqeb" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1376" data-original-width="1000" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3LfKy05hDQc8wd8lP8XPeggIH1RLQwK1DbTv1vBFs1UQftZFSGu4rW5FBGnR66n2YynLA5JY-GhjUnBfi3uEfxlCRkZcbfSWDO5b92jxupPAh1qL0vAAXUrwoLbjqBkmJn1hYMnvI5oVOg5etPZA8MDDxs3mxaZgIH2NT94MzWVFUAA6tvOcF65FfCqeb=w314-h434" width="314" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Concluding
my survey of George Orwell’s non-fiction books, after <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/geargeorwelldownandoutinparisandlondon.html"><b>Down and Out in Paris
and London</b> </a>and <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/georseorwelltheroadtowiganpier.html"><b>The Road to Wigan Pier</b></a>, I come to <i>Homage to
Catalonia</i>. In literary terms, <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> is the best of
Orwell’s non-fiction. Unlike the two earlier books, it is a coherent narrative.
It does not fall into two, largely incompatible, parts as <i>Down and Out in
Paris and London</i> and <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i> both do. It is focused
on specific and unified events; and when Orwell turns to theorising, he is
still focused on things related to specific events.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
rights and wrongs of the Spanish Civil War are still much contested. (See on
this blog critiques of Hugh Thomas’s <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2021/08/hughthomasthespanishcivilwar.html"><b>The Spanish Civil War</b></a> and Paul
Preston’s <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2012/04/something-new_09.html">The Spanish Holocaust</a></b>). At least some people still argue about
it, seeing it either as a defence of democracy (the “Loyalist” or Republican
side) or as a crusade against Communism, anarchy and disorder (the “Rebel” or
Nationalist side). Throughout <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> Orwell refers to the
latter as “Fascists” and for the sake of consistency I will stick with the term
in this review even if, as Orwell himself admits in some places, “Fascist” was
not entirely appropriate for all those who approved of Franco’s uprising. Many
on the Left loathe <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> because of what it says about the
factions that warred with one another on the Republican side. 17 years ago (in
2006), I was part of a seminar held in Wellington on the 70<sup>th</sup>
anniversary of the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. The papers we wrote and
delivered were put together, edited by Mark Derby, and published by Canterbury
University Press as <i>Kiwi Companeros – New Zealand and the Spanish Civil War</i>.
I remember one participant of the seminar sidling up to me and telling me that <i>Homage
to Catalonia</i> was “<i>vastly overrated</i>”. It was clear he was annoyed
that Orwell had revealed the disunity on the Republican side when he wanted to
cling to the idea of one unified people fighting heroically against Fascism.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
much for my personal experience. Let’s give some context to Orwell’s book. The
Spanish Civil War began in mid 1936. In December 1936, Orwell decided to go to
Spain and fight for the Republic. [His wife Eileen O’Shaughnessy followed him
and stayed in Barcelona.] A Socialist, but already wary of Communists, Orwell
joined the militia of the P.O.U.M. (Partido Obrero de Unificacion Marxista –
the United Marxist Workers Party), a very small party which was Marxist but partly
aligned to the Syndicalist and Anarchist movement in Spain. It was hated by the
[Stalinist] Communist Party. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>P.O.U.M.
members denounced Stalin’s “show trials” and the murder by Stalin of “Old
Bolsheviks”. Orwell spent six months in Spain, most of it at the front. When he
returned to England he wrote <i>Homage to Catalonia</i>. He offered the book to
Victor Gollancz. The Communist John Strachey, who was on Gollancz’s editorial
team, and Harry Pollitt, the head of the British Communist Party, condemned the
book without reading it. Gollancz turned it down. Instead Frederic Warburg
picked it up, and <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> was published by Secker and
Warburg in 1938. Remember the book was published when the Spanish war was still
in progress, even if it was clear that Franco was by then winning and the
Republic was in retreat. Predictably the left-wing magazines and newspapers
condemned the book and it did not sell, partly because there had already been
so many books published about the Spanish war. It took some years to gain
traction and is now regarded as a classic – certainly one of the most-read of
Orwell’s books, along with <i>Animal Farm</i> and <i>1984</i>. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The biographer
Bernard Crick says that <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> was “<i>closer to a literal
record than anything</i> [Orwell] <i>wrote</i>” and adds “<i>The names he gave
of his comrades in the line and back in Barcelona are real names, and survivors
have confirmed all the main incidents he describes, whether of trench warfare
or street-fighting</i>.”<br /> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjemVvCddTDhuBauQQCfAMVviDtRGzFW_KRoDK4at54JA6BWTEHPvFl8UWvRTWPrJ0lHUT51BWNwUYfWO7mjKBkboMJYKALfj8Kmx2yuSyOibfe6KK0X1cNnxG9AmYTSkkpOfmsXoDU3Vm8oQKoLiu_901gF14KevRrnCdo7GpGGVcF7XcSfoziV8KkQchA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="640" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjemVvCddTDhuBauQQCfAMVviDtRGzFW_KRoDK4at54JA6BWTEHPvFl8UWvRTWPrJ0lHUT51BWNwUYfWO7mjKBkboMJYKALfj8Kmx2yuSyOibfe6KK0X1cNnxG9AmYTSkkpOfmsXoDU3Vm8oQKoLiu_901gF14KevRrnCdo7GpGGVcF7XcSfoziV8KkQchA=w268-h414" width="268" /></a></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The book begins (Chapter
1) with Orwell experiencing Barcelona as still in a state of revolution, with
working-class people now in control and Anarchist trade-unions very much
organising things. This he approves and believes is a great step forward with
social classes now being abolished and equality reigning. At the Lenin Barracks
he signs on to the P.O.U. M. militia but he (remember he was once a policeman
in Burma and knew how to handle weapons) finds the militia have few firearms
and most of the recruits are untrained in warfare. Nevertheless, off they are
sent to the front in Aragon. There (Chapter 2) he finds little discipline in
the militia, many recruits underaged boys, almost unusable and antiquated
rifles from which shots are not capable of reaching the enemy lines, and of
course filthy and unsanitary trenches. He admits that the sector his militia occupies
is a very quiet sector. He notes (Chapter 3) “<i>I ought to say in passing that
all the time I was in Spain I saw very little fighting. I was on the Aragon
front from January to May, and between January and late March little or nothing
happened… In March there was heavy fighting round Huesca, but I personally
played only a small part in it. Later in June, there was the disastrous attack
on Huesca in which several thousand men were killed in a single day, but I had
been wounded and disabled before that happened</i>.” He was made the equivalent
of a corporal (like the Anarchists, the P.O.U.M. did not like their militia to
be divided into official ranks). He was put in charge of twelve men – “<i>an
untrained mob composed mostly of boys in their teens</i>.” However, the
militias, though poorly equipped, were absolutely necessary at a time when the
“Popular Army” (the Republican army) was not yet fully organised. Orwell was
sent for a while (Chapter 4) to another sector, where he was put in charge of
some English recruits. Again, this was a quiet sector. What he was most aware
of was the way the militias and the Fascists shouted propaganda at each other
through loud-speakers. At first he and his comrades refused to believe that
Malaga had fallen to the Fascists, but later it was confirmed even by the
left-wing press. Says Orwell: “<i>Every man in the militia believed that the
loss of Malaga was due to treachery. It was the first I had heard of treachery
or divided aims. It set up in my mind the first vague doubts about this war in
which, hitherto, the rights and wrongs had seemed so beautifully simple</i>.”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Chapter 5 is the
first chapter that really angered left-wing critics. In this chapter Orwell
says that only once he was in Spain did he realise there was not a united
“popular front” against Franco, but there were many factions and parties
jostling for power in Republican Spain. He also questions whether Franco could
really be classed as a Fascist. He writes: “<i>Franco was not strictly
comparable with Hitler or Mussolini. His rising was a military mutiny backed up
by the aristocracy and the church, and in the main, especially at the
beginning, it was an attempt not so much to impose Fascism as to restore
feudalism</i>.” He goes on to explain that in the early stages of the war,
there was a genuine revolution which the urban masses wanted rather than a
liberal democracy. Outside Spain, the war was presented as “Fascism versus Democracy”
when in fact there was an Anarcho-Syndicalist revolution in Catalonia. But, he
says, the Communists did not want a revolution. They wanted the world to
believe that they were promoting liberal democracy. The Communists, originally
a minor group, became more powerful because the Republic was being given
weaponry by the Soviet Union. Gradually the revolutionary unionists were
squeezed out of Catalan government, which now consisted of “<i>right-wing
socialists, liberals and Communists</i>.” Orwell says that the Communists were
in effect saying “<i>prevent revolution or you get no weapons</i>” and they
were able to build up the Communist-controlled International Brigades. Reading
the Spanish and English newspapers he read at the time, Orwell concludes “<i>one
of the dreariest effects of this war has been to teach me that the Left-wing
press is every bit as spurious and dishonest as that of the Right</i>.”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Chapters 5, 7 and
8 have Orwell going back to the front in Aragon. Again the war there is static.
There are some sallies into Fascist territory and some counter-sallies. Some
minor artillery arrives and there are small duels between the two sides. At
this time, Orwell befriends the peasant farmers in the region and notes that,
with the former estate-owners gone, then have parcelled up the land amongst
themselves – that is, they have established their own small farms; they have <b><i>not
</i></b>collectivised in the Soviet manner. He gives a lively account of a
night attack, in which he took part, against a Fascist stronghold, experiencing
fear of the darkness and the enemy’s machine-guns. But the stronghold was not
taken. He notices that the Republic’s newspapers are repeatedly claiming that
Huesca will be taken from the Fascists… but it never is. Orwell rhapsodises
about the sense of comradeship, equality and classlessness he felt when among
the P.O.U.M. and Anarchist militias. He writes (Chapter 8) that he: “<i>breathed
the air of equality. I am well aware that it is now the fashion to deny that
Socialism has anything to do with equality. In every country in the world a
huge tribe of party-hacks and sleek little professors are busy ‘proving’ that
Socialism means no more than a planned state-capitalism with the grab motive
left intact. </i>”</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">But on leave to
Barcelona, Orwell discovers (Chapter 9) that the revolution there no longer
exists. The upper- and middle-classes have taken over again with the new
authority of “<i>right-wing socialists, liberals and Communists</i>.” Prices
for food have risen, making it more difficult for the working-classes to be
fed. There are fancy shops and restaurants that only the wealthy can afford to
patronise. Much of the populace isn’t concerned with the war against Franco,
because the front is so far away. And the “Popular Army”, armed in part by the
Soviet Union, is not giving arms to the Anarchist and P.O.U.M.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>militias. There is growing tension between
Anarchists and Communists. </span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0PRBbIclOVLecgOIHoYpfnEuQrgjWrqOmNbzHYL2rqXMPYBz4dJ_SltGMWouuk6UTsOxkM9mM3wci4vY-VG0L4exlGZiuMcE5xxovQytTLf8wGX78Zd1FTYjsuJ82f3qspzHlXhdSLSa7mWeCIZok9NWjFvOxUGMbnRbfQ4r77ymssgYGNHZXanCCex8k" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="736" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0PRBbIclOVLecgOIHoYpfnEuQrgjWrqOmNbzHYL2rqXMPYBz4dJ_SltGMWouuk6UTsOxkM9mM3wci4vY-VG0L4exlGZiuMcE5xxovQytTLf8wGX78Zd1FTYjsuJ82f3qspzHlXhdSLSa7mWeCIZok9NWjFvOxUGMbnRbfQ4r77ymssgYGNHZXanCCex8k=w275-h425" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /> </span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And so (Chapter
10) we come to what Hugh Thomas called “<i>the civil war within the civil war</i>”.
The Anarchists take over the central telephone exchange. The Popular Army (partly
controlled by the Communists) takes up strategic sites around the city. At
first the shooting is desultory. Armed with a rifle, Orwell watches over the
P.O.U.M. headquarters from a rooftop. He is one hoping to keep in check the
Civil Guards, who are enemies of the Anarchists. But then Assault Troops are
brought into Barcelona from Valencia (at the time the capital of Republican
Spain) and, in May 1937,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the real
shooting begins. The P.O.U.M. is denounced by the Communists as a “Trotskyite”
5<sup>th</sup> column working for the Fascists. Communist newspapers in England
and France claim that a Fascist uprising is being quelled. At which point
(Chapter 11) Orwell analyses the separate factions that were involved and the
course of events. The Anarchists took over the central telephone exchange to
assert workers’ rights and to prevent the centralisation of important
utilities. They were not starting a coup and they were definitely not Fascists.
The Assault Guards were brought in to assert a centralised government – in
Valencia – and to minimise what had been Catalan autonomy. The Catalan flags were
all pulled down and the red-gold-purple flags of the centralised Republic took
their place. Orwell (probably underestimating) says that about 400 Anarchists
and P.O.U.M. people were killed in the government’s crushing of the
non-existent coup. Orwell then turns to how this was [mis-]reported in the
press around the world. Orwell focuses on the <i>Daily Worker</i> in England,
which carried completely fabricated and fictional stories about what had
happened in Barcelona, many of them created by “Frank Pitcairn”. It was
“Pitcairn” invented the story that the P.O.U.M. leader Andres Nin had fled the
country. In fact Nin had been tortured and then killed in a Communist cell. (Perhaps
when he wrote <i>Homage to Catalonia</i>, Orwell was not aware that “Frank
Pitcairn” was really the then-Communist provocateur Claud Cockburn who edited
the propaganda sheet <i>The Week </i>). From personal observation of what had
happened in Barcelona, Orwell was able to show how many forgeries and
contradictions there were in the Communist version of events. He suggests
(Chapter 12) that, should the Republicans win the war against Franco, they would
probably set up some form of dictatorship, even if it was not as severe as what
Franco offered….</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">… And then he went
back to the front near Huesca. And one day when he was, in all his height,
standing up in a trench, he was shot in the neck by a Fascist sniper. He gives
an account in agonising slow-motion of what happened. There followed the bumpy
ride as he was carried for miles in a stretcher, then a painful journey in a
truck over rough roads, then a long train journey in crammed carriages, and
finally to a hospital where his throat slowly healed. He notes that the nurses were
eager to help, but were very poorly trained, perhaps because before the civil
war began, most Spanish nurses were nuns.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
killed many P.O.U.M. members, the government was now pushed by the Communists
into completely outlawing the P.O.U.M, which meant that there were now
round-ups and many people thrown into jails without charge or trial. This
included foreigners who had joined P.O.U.M. militias, which meant that Orwell
and his wife were now marked people when he returned to Barcelona (Chapter 13).
George and Eileen spent some days in hiding and some days in working out ways
to leave the country. In this time Orwell also, without success, tried to get an
important P.O.U.M. military man out of jail. Finally, the Orwells were<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>able to escape to France, where George – a
compulsive smoker like most men of his era – was delighted to find that
cigarettes were very available when they had been very scarce in Spain. One thing
that really outraged him was that the P.O.U.M. militia men, still at the front,
were not allowed to get news about the suppression going on in Barcelona (all
newspapers were censored). Thus, when they got back home on leave, they
suddenly discovered that they were outlaws and joined others in jail. And here <i>Homage
to Catalonia</i> ends.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Critics
of Orwell have pointed out that Orwell was witness to only some parts of
Republican Spain and that he hardly saw any real action in war – but then
Orwell himself admitted these facts in his book and he was quite modest about
his front-line service (which was more front-line service than most of his
critics had experienced). Besides, <i>Homage to Catalonia</i> was not and could
not be a whole history of the Spanish Civil War. It was a truthful personal
account of what he had witnessed. More than anything, Orwell’s critics were
annoyed that Orwell had shown there was really no united movement for a
“defence of democracy” in the Republican cause, but rather many factions and parties
that were often un-co-ordinated and had very different aims. Liberal democracy
or right-wing Socialism or Anarchism or Syndicalism or Communism or
anti-Stalinist Marxism? Those opposed to Fascism didn’t play as a team.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Four
years after he wrote<i> Homage to Catalonia</i>, and when the Spanish Civil War
was over, Orwell wrote an essay called <i>Looking Back on the Spanish War</i>.
It is now appended to most editions of <i>Homage to Catalonia</i>. In it,
Orwell says it was in Spain that he learnt that much reportage is absolute
lies. He saw this as the end of respect for objective truth. He was right, of
course.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Footnote:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> In Anna Funder’s take-down of Orwell called <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/08/something-new.html"><b>Wifedom</b></a>,
she criticises Orwell for more-or-less cutting his wife Eileen O’Shaughnessy
out of his narrative of Spain. She might have a point. In <i>Homage to
Catalonia</i>, Orwell refers to Eileen as “my wife”, only once or twice giving
her name and not reporting the detailed and important work she did for him in
Barcelona. Not that this compromises what he said about factions and
suppression.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSUvxAMbwJCAdXVjsxZ65lPmC4fY5Ua83LJrt2MmbVaiKXROY1QfTYGYSuyH4SK6Hh2sMnCCvYFPKv5u3NcGb8hsUrJQPs01708YNGErie3WY5ts06oCIhKm3dnNdtPgHqcPa4no74f65Rh7QCyvO-kfweTMhlpzOko9tlE-8ag-H3axjVvOgSQctYMLVm" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="1180" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSUvxAMbwJCAdXVjsxZ65lPmC4fY5Ua83LJrt2MmbVaiKXROY1QfTYGYSuyH4SK6Hh2sMnCCvYFPKv5u3NcGb8hsUrJQPs01708YNGErie3WY5ts06oCIhKm3dnNdtPgHqcPa4no74f65Rh7QCyvO-kfweTMhlpzOko9tlE-8ag-H3axjVvOgSQctYMLVm=w517-h291" width="517" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>Photo of (circled) tall George Orwell with P.O.U.M. comrades at the front, posing with weapon. And crouching at Orwell's side is (circled) his wife Eileen O'Shaughnessy.</b> <br /></span></span><p></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-82600455977088669882023-11-13T09:00:00.001+13:002023-11-13T09:00:00.131+13:00Something Thoughtful<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> </span>
</p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> BEST OF THE DYING YEAR.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">We are now in
November and the year is dying rapidly, so I thought in this posting I would
list some of the things I most enjoyed this year. I do not rank them in any
particular order. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was
stimulating to see some films that were actually intended for grown-ups.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Not too long ago, Martin Scorsese said, correctly,
that the movie theatres were now deluged with what he called “theme-park”
movies – in other words, those super-hero movies that appeal mainly to
feeble-minded 15-year-olds. Extravagant special effects, big explosions,
titanic fights involving alien beasts or heroes with magical powers etc. etc.
etc. just like the thrills of theme-park rides or computer games. Pure kids’
stuff. So what a pleasure to see Christopher Nolan’s <i>Oppenheimer</i> which,
even if it stretches history a bit, at least gives a coherent account of one of
the physicists who designed the atom bomb and who lived to understand the
ethical problems with it. And also a pleasure to see Martin Scorsese’s own film
<i>Killers of the Flower Moon</i>. More than one reviewer has complained that
the film (all three hours and twenty-six minutes) is overlong, but I think the
length is justified and Scorsese does honour to the native Americans whom it
depicts. A further delight with films this year came when our son paid a subscription
for us to watch films on the MUBI platform, which allowed us to appreciate many
off-beat films, including such classics as Francois Truffaut’s “The 400 Blows”,
Agnes Varda’s “Vagabonde”, the Iranian film “The Wind Will Carry Us”, the
Armenian film “The Cut” (about the 1916 genocide of Armenians) and other films
worth treasuring. There are still films for grown-ups if you look for them.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Pleasurable
road trips in New Zealand</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. This year,
we visited Hamilton again, enjoyed the Hamilton Gardens again, but particularly
enjoyed driving a bit out from the city to appreciate the Sculpture Park – an
assembly of representative and non-representative sculptures, some serious,
some satirical, some almost monumental, set in the bush adjoining a farm. A
pleasant trip to Whangarei allowed us to enjoy summer weather, a walk along a
long, long beach and to appreciate properly and at leisure the art of
Hundertwasser. We visited Rotoroa Island on a hot day trip and had reason to
spend some time in Taihape. All good fun. But one day, on an impulse, my wife
and I decided to go on a crazy day-trip to somewhere neither of us had ever
visited before, by which I mean Dargaville. Please don’t scold me. I’ve been an
Aucklander all my life, save for three years working elsewhere in New Zealand
or journeying overseas for a few years, and I have travelled much in NZ; but it
just so happens that neither of us had ever visited Dargaville. So off we went
one morning, taking the almost-two-hour drive from Auckland to the Far North.
Okay, we’d heard negative comments about the place, coming mainly from Auckland
sophisticates who assume they are superior to anybody from the smaller towns.
Yes, the drive was long. Yes, reaching Dargaville one has to cross the flood
plain that is Ruawai. Yes, as we crossed the long bridge we noted how muddy the
Dargaville River is. But we found the place delightful. Without being too
patronising, it seemed like a town from an earlier age – maybe the 1950s or
1960s. Nice memorial park to walk in, and a memorial statue of a Croatian
pioneer at the bottom of the main street. Nice café to have lunch in. Excellent
Kauri Museum, with great exhibits of Maori, Pakeha (a lot about Croatians) and
other settlers as well as some emphasis on sailing ships and riverboats, once
the lifeline for the town. The museum is on a high hill on the other side of
the river from most of the town. Looking down from that height, the sight of
the curve of the river is majestic. So in the five or six hours we spent in
Dargaville, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The only snag was a sudden, fierce
rainstorm that battered us on the two-hour drive back to Auckland, forcing us
to pull over to the side of the road until visibility was restored. Wonderful
day anyway. And weren’t we mad to do it in one day?</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The pleasure of
a stage-play</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. My sister had bought
two tickets for the theatre but her friend was indisposed and could not come –
so she generously suggested I come with her instead. The play was <i>Switzerland</i>,
about the last days of the chain-smoking, foul-mouthed, bitchy novelist
Patricia Highsmith. It was a two-hander. There’s Patricia Highsmith, writer of
hard-boiled and somewhat unsettling crime stories (that whole Ripley series where
the smooth, manipulative con-man gets away with it) and there’s a mysterious
man who, unwelcomely,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>comes to visit her
claiming he wants to make a publisher’s contract for her next book. But that’s
only the beginning of their ferocious battle of wits and verbal sparring, and
of course it all goes in a direction we do not expect. So what was so great
about it? Basically, it was the spot-on acting of Sarah Peirse, catching the
sharp wit, the narcissism and the sheer nastiness of the author. Whenever I
think of Sarah Peirse, I think of her role in the film <i>Heavenly Creatures</i>,
where she played, convincingly, a very sympathetic and bewildered mother who
simply could not understand what was wrong with her daughter. In <i>Switzerland</i>
she played a completely different sort of woman, and very persuasively. This
was virtuoso acting. Brilliant. And as the mysterious male visitor, Jarred
Blakiston was very good too.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Excellent exhibitions</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. Early in 2023, I had the great pleasure of visiting
the Auckland museum a number of times and took in exhibitions, having signed on
as a member of the museum. It was a great pleasure to walk thoughtfully around
the gallery of images taken by the late New Zealand photographer Robin
Morrison. He had a fine knack for presenting a town or a landscape in the most
unexpected way, and in the process revealing the nature and habits of people.
Quite stunning was the exhibition titled “Egypt in the Time of the Pharaohs”,
involving many real artifacts and also, in very appropriate terms, debunking
some common misconceptions about ancient Egypt. (The previous year, the museum
had an exhibition on Stonehenge, which also defused much common nonsense.) For me
at any rate, the best of “Egypt in the Time of the Pharaohs” were the careful
explanations given to the status of various gods and their functions. And I
admired the plucky way that the placards explained why they deliberately
excluded Tutankhamun and Cleopatra from the exhibition. And away from the
museum, in the Auckland Art Gallery, there was a formidable and very engaging “First
Peoples Art of Australia” exhibition, being works by Aborigines. Varied as all
art exhibitions are, but much that was stunning, whether in traditional styles
or in European-influenced styles. My attraction was caught most by a very large,
colourful canvas which, in a non-representative way, told the traditional
Aboriginal story of the seven sisters in the night sky. It is interesting that
so many separate cultures have conceived a similar story – the Greek Pleaides,
the Maori Matariki etc. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Of course, being
in a good mood at the moment, I could tell you many other positive things I enjoyed
this year, but they would be related mainly to family and friends and my
regular visits, as a guide, to the open bird-sanctuary island Tiritiri Matangi.
But somehow I think these things would be of little interest to you. So here I
end.</span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-4291269256024644762023-10-30T09:02:00.014+13:002023-10-30T09:02:00.134+13:00Something New<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span>
</p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“MEET YOU AT THE
MAIN DIVIDE” by Justine Ross [with Geoff Ross] (Harper-Collins, hardback $NZ40)</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioLCIuFcxUdlBkp8ugkvW9x0D8JOI4IaryRPMH69WJjXgW15Fo1OTbbTntiryDS3FnMDbxTfBaM5ImJwvMnle_yOzMk7r4xikebg0eEXo-yskoE00i0F4f0gvp45hvXmSFtz9lV9NS-OzGdvG2mmOgqOC_H5sK9hZQ1gae2RaSVpszfiOXEC6uEEx6fMaq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="847" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioLCIuFcxUdlBkp8ugkvW9x0D8JOI4IaryRPMH69WJjXgW15Fo1OTbbTntiryDS3FnMDbxTfBaM5ImJwvMnle_yOzMk7r4xikebg0eEXo-yskoE00i0F4f0gvp45hvXmSFtz9lV9NS-OzGdvG2mmOgqOC_H5sK9hZQ1gae2RaSVpszfiOXEC6uEEx6fMaq=w277-h418" width="277" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Subtitled “A
Family’s Story of Life on Lake Hawea Station”, <i>Meet You at the Main Divide</i>
is in many ways an admirable book. Its author (or authors) is/are deeply
concerned with climate change, carbon emissions, ways to mitigate these
problems, and finding methods of conserving land and restoring the environment
while at the same time balancing this with the reality of working in a
competitive market. Nowhere does Justine Ross advocate veganism or
vegetarianism, given that she and her husband Geoff stock merino sheep and
agree to have a lessee who raises cattle on their land. At the same time, Justine
Ross’s enthusiastic prose does sometimes stumble into self-praise – but not
enough to mar the detailed narrative.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">As she tells us in
her opening chapters, Justine was raised south of Auckland with a father who built
up his own garden by filching indigenous plants from the bush. He was halfway
towards being a man of the land. Geoff Ross came from a farming family, and his
parents raised deer. Justine and Geoff met in high-school. She admired farming
boys, the couple soon bonded and have stayed that way ever since. Geoff’s
family expected him to take up farming, but he defied their expectations and
went into business. Both Justine and Geoff spent a number of years working in
advertising agencies in central Auckland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They made a big splash (and big bickies) by inventing the vodka they
called “45 Below”. They were able to market it internationally, ultimately sold
it to a European company, and were able to buy properties, including the
mansion called Wairangi. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And then their
thoughts turned to conservation. They searched the South Island and decided
that the Lake Hawea Station, all 6500 hectares of it, in the Main Divide near
the great mountains, was what they wanted. Here they could practise what they
preached about conservation and regenerating the flora. After much bargaining,
and having to pay great sums (partly raised by selling their mansion Wairangi)
they acquired the Lake Hawea Station in 2017, and settled there with their two
growing sons Finn and Gabe (Gabriel). They did not give up all their Auckland
investments – they still had interest on some Auckland restaurants. They
researched the history of the station and the work of previous farmers there.
They understood that merino sheep had long been important there. They began
their plan to reafforest the station by planting kowhai – hoping eventually to
plant 10,000 of them. They put fences between the lake and the cattle that were
run by the lessee, knowing that bovine excrement was a problem polluting New
Zealand’s waterways and lakes. At first they had major problems with the old,
decaying house that was in place, but they were able to smarten it up before
their new house was built on site. There were also problems with pipes that had
to be fixed (for water as well as for sewage). And as in many rural areas,
there was the matter of how much they could allow access to their property.
With an eye to welcoming tourists, Justine Ross remarks: “<i>Access is a word
with enormous currency in tourism, entertainment, hospitality and recreation
across the planet. Backcountry access is now as sought after as backstage
access. This is heartening – people no longer wish to be insulated from remote
experiences… From the comfort of a four-wheel-drive or ATV, you can behold
terrain usually the exclusive domain of choppers, trampers or hunters</i>.”
p.48 (Chapter 5) There were some problems with poachers working illegally on
the property.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">To begin with, in
settling in, the Ross family got great help from the Department of
Conservation. But Justine Ross writes: “<i>As a hiking and hunting family, we
all respect DOC and its mandate enormously. The tracks, wardens and huts matter
to us. Geoff has even worked on some tracks. As DOC are our neighbour on three
sides, we set about meeting the local team and accessing their wealth of knowledge.
We wanted to hear about their regional objectives and see what we could
collaborate on. They were superb, and the first two years were wonderfully
collaborative, constructive and mutually beneficial. Then, like a river run
dry, the willingness to collaborate on anything ended and our hearts broke a
little for our patch on the Main Divide</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>pp.81-82 (Chapter 8)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">One struggle came
when the Rosses had to work out who had water rights to the streams around Lake
Hawea. There was a problem when the lessee’s Hereford cattle came down with
tuberculosis and the lessee had to “<i>extinguish his herd</i>”. Often there
were problems with farmers who had different views on how farms should be run,
and saw the Rosses as interlopers. The Rosses were opposed to the dropping of
“1080” on their station, the poison designed to wipe out pests like rabbits. With
their concerns about carbon emissions and biodiversity, they engaged a mentor
to give them advice, Professor David Norton.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Merino sheep,
however, became their greatest care. Relatively early in <i>Meet You at the
Main Divide</i>, Justine Ross describes vividly the nature of the woolshed they
had: “<i>It’s the smell that people comment on first when they enter our
woolshed. Ancient floorboards, lanolin, ammonia, shit and decay. It is a whiff
of nostalgia. Over a hundred years old, the shed is the subject of artist
impressions and paintings, its exterior steps leading up to big doors on one
side with a wobbly chain as a barrier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here trucks dock and 200-kilogram bales are loaded from the shed to
begin their journey from us, the source, out into the world</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>p. 62 (Chapter 6). Later
though, in Chapters 11 and 12, the two most informative chapters in the book,
she gives a full account of how they handled the merinos. They cleaned, updated
and partly rebuilt the old decaying woolshed. They learned to understand how
valuers worked when they assessed the worth of fleece. Valuers were sometimes
tricky in their negotiations. They discovered that their flock was infested
with lice and some were tormented by foot-rot. It took them three years to
reduce foot-rot to only 10% of the flock. After many interviews, they hired a
shepherd and a farm manager. Drawing on her understanding of advertising,
Justine Ross insisted that their flock be marketed under its own special logo,
which is L</span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 14pt;">H</span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">S, often accompanied with a statement such as “Merino”. Later (Chapter
18) she speaks of taking a more humane way of handling sheep – such as
rewarding shearers not for their speed in shearing a flock, but for their care
in not cutting or otherwise injuring sheep. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Elsewhere (Chapter
13) there is an odd passage in which <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she
says she doesn’t like the inhumane ways of dealing with cattle when they are
about to be slaughtered. Indeed she visits a slaughter-house and is appalled by
what she sees. But then she adds “<i>Once, Geoff asked me what, if anything, I
liked about farming. ‘I don’t like farming,’ I said. ‘I like eating’. Farmers
are farming food – meat and crops. I believe all farming families should follow
their stock to the slaughter. It’s not an easy thing to do, but it’s honest. In
taking responsibility for food and fibre production beyond the gate, a farmer
is respecting his or her own work.</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>p.170 (Chapter 13)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Justine and Geoff
go to England and Europe, marketing their brand of wool with great success.
They also embrace tourism, welcoming guests to the station. By 2023, Conde Nast
lists the Lake Hawea Station as the <i>only</i> great retreat in New Zealand.
Even more important to them, though, is to be registered as “carbon positive” –
that is, to produce as little carbon output as possible and to nurture as many
carbon-suppressing plants and trees as possible. They adopt the “regen”
(regenerative) system to revive pastures by the use of a diversity of seeds.
They regenerate forests by planting 21,000 indigenous trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In due course, Lake Hawea Station becomes the
first certified “carbon positive” farm in either Australia or New Zealand.
Justine is so wedded to this status, that she gets annoyed when her husband is
about to do some chemical spraying (of glyphosate) on one of their fields. She
acquiesces only when she is assured that the spray is a watered-down version.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In telling their
story this way, I have not mentioned the many detailed anecdotes about her
family that Justine Ross relates, especially those concerning her two sons Finn
and Gabe. Both have followed their parents’ example and become conservationists
and ecologically-aware activists in the matter of climate change. Nor have I
logged the illustrious people who have visited, or been met by, Justine and
Geoff. I do note that the Rosses are wealthy (in New Zealand terms), but I do
not see this as a negative. Justine herself does suggest that some nearby
farmers were envious and regarded the Rosses as rich and easy-living townies.
As Justine tells it, their five-or-six years has been a struggle, but also a
triumph. And this, I dare to say, is where some of the self-praise creeps in.
As told by her, she and her husband were always on the right side of any
dispute.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Then there is the
matter of (as she writes it) unpleasant neighbours. She speaks disparagingly
about what she calls “heritage” farmers who still try to farm in old-fashioned
ways. There is hostility and suspicion from the locals when the Rosses try to
engage with them in the local hall “<i>The four of us arrived and immediately
felt like the defendants in a landbank robbery. The curious, the well-wishers
and the protagonists shuffled about, but not many people fronted up, so we
spoke briefly about our family and our hopes for the property… It was a funny
vibe and possibly a waste of time. ‘The gathering wasn’t very useful, but we
tried,’ Geoff says. ‘Not many people turned up’…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were also the people who wanted to keep
shooting rabbits on</i> [their newly acquired property]. <i>And there was no
representation from any of the community groups (many of whom are
self-appointed) that have subsequently asked us for money every year, without
once paying us a visit or offering support. Gossips will gossip and no matter how
many trees we plant or what improvement we make, no matter how much access we
provide or how many charities we support, it will never ever be enough for some
who are just anti-change, bad-mannered or both</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>pp. 89-90 (Chapter 8)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Sweepingly she
states :“<i>There were proper tribes here once – Waitaha, Kati Mamoe, Ngai Tahu
– and they fought, of course. These days there are other local ‘tribes’, too,
and it took us a while to figure them all out. There were the retirees who were
very good at joining committees, blocking progress and minding other people’s
business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were the hippy commune
dwellers sifting on he outskirts who seemed super chill… unless they were
trolling on Facebook. The hippies, like the landowners, seemed to have
intergenerational connections, I suspect, because the area is just too cool to
ever leave. Actual do-gooders were around too, and we were in awe of their
dedication to bettering the region… By the time we were five years deep, it was
clear civil discourse, petty disputes and even spiteful quarrelling were and
always had been prevalent – more so than we had ever encountered in the city</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>p.103 (Chapter 9)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Most outrageous in
when television’s “Country Calendar” does a favourable account of the Rosses’
enterprise… and on Facebook there comes a tidal-wave of abuse from [largely
anonymous] locals insulting them. “Country Calendar” is deeply apologetic for
this.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Meet You at the
Main Divide</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> is interesting in many
levels, but it is not without contention. <br /></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Pedantic
Footnote</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">: Here I am annoying
everybody with my pedantry, but I am calling out the misuse of one of
Shakespeare’s most misquoted and most misunderstood phrases. On p.91 (Chapter
8) of <i>Meet You at the Main Divide</i>, Justine Ross writes “<u>In <i>Troilus
and Cressida</i>, Shakespeare wrote, ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world
kin’, but that certainly wasn’t the case for us</u>.” She clearly thinks that
this phrase means we all gather together harmoniously if only we follow nature.
We’ll all be buddies and friends. This is not at all what the phrase means. In <i>Troilus
and Cressida</i>, in Act Three, Ulysses says</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">One touch of nature makes the whole world
kin:<br />
That all with one consent praise new-born gauds<br />
Though they are made and moulded of things past,<br />
And give to dust that is a little gilt<br />
More laud than gilt o’er-dusted.</span></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“Nature” here means “flawed human nature” So the meaning of
“one touch of nature makes the whole world kin” is that one small
characteristic is common to everyone in the world: they like flashy novelties
and disdain worthy antiquities, although the former are often merely reworkings
of the latter. Ulysses means that we are not bonded in fellowly love. Quite the
contrary.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-34841397213715310712023-10-30T09:01:00.056+13:002023-10-30T09:01:00.134+13:00Something Old<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span>
</p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“THE ROAD TO WIGAN
PIER” by George Orwell (first published 1937)</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQWPLRs8AE5vLaQ4tdjTyHCzyCpgAEcCWedBR25Qs92FoDDNbOngo27erSQ5IU-GUaIQ159q7SVZnOp_J99R_b54EhTm9wQgzXcacvzlxfrg0u2gAqrPPBGeupRTZbqg1WQD1ZJ5X59g7tN2-wgdk2wEHtUwnd-BFdNDUui7OFoSLPCYBJ4TNCGfGY-Lax" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1000" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQWPLRs8AE5vLaQ4tdjTyHCzyCpgAEcCWedBR25Qs92FoDDNbOngo27erSQ5IU-GUaIQ159q7SVZnOp_J99R_b54EhTm9wQgzXcacvzlxfrg0u2gAqrPPBGeupRTZbqg1WQD1ZJ5X59g7tN2-wgdk2wEHtUwnd-BFdNDUui7OFoSLPCYBJ4TNCGfGY-Lax=w287-h442" width="287" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Continuing with my
examination of George Orwell’s non-fiction books (see the posting for <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/comingupforairgeorgeorwell.html">Downand Out in Paris and London</a></b>) I now turn to <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i>,
researched and written in 1936 and first published in 1937. Like <i>Down and
Out in Paris and London</i>, <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i> falls awkwardly into
two separate parts which do not quite fit each other, and not for the first (or
last) time Orwell ran into trouble with his publisher Victor Gollancz. The copy
of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i> I have on my shelf was printed in the 1960s
and is prefaced by a very long, and somewhat pompous, introduction by the (now
deceased) sociologist and literary critic Richard Hoggart. Hoggart notes,
truthfully, that nearly all commentators have regarded <i>The Road to Wigan
Pier</i> as Orwell’s “<i>most disappointing performance</i>”. Much of the
criticism of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier </i>is based on political views. As
Hoggart says, Orwell was essentially concerned with social class and was
trying, as an “upper-lower-middle-class” man, to understand the working class
from his own class perspective, which led to an internal struggle. In many ways
he admired working-class people more than he admired upper-class people, but he
still clung to sturdy middle-class values such as duty and decency.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The background to
the genesis of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier </i>(and here I am once again leaning
on the biographies of Orwell written by Bernard Crick and D. J. Taylor) goes
like this: in January 1936, Victor Gollancz commissioned Orwell to write a book
about the condition of the unemployed in the North of England, mainly Yorkshire
and Lancashire. Orwell went north and spent two months observing and researching.
But when he presented Gollancz with his finished manuscript, Gollancz was
appalled. The first half he liked, which gave a very vivid account of
conditions in the North. But the second half he found intolerable, as in the very
polemical second half Orwell gave his mixed opinions on Socialism (he always
spelt Socialism with a capital letter) and also included some autobiography.
Not only was this not what Gollancz had commissioned, but it annoyed the
(mainly Communist) people who chose which books should be published by
Gollancz’s Left Book Club. So Gollancz decided to publish the full text of
Orwell’s book only in a very limited edition; but for the Left Book Club he
would publish only the first half of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier </i>in a much
greater print-run and at a lower price. Thus it was first presented to the
world.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Considering the
full text, and not Gollancz’s abridged version,<i> The Road to Wigan</i> begins
with Orwell waking up to the sound of girls’ clogs as they walk to work. He is
in a filthy cheap lodging house run by a couple called the Brookers. His
description of the place is very like his descriptions of disgusting lodgings
in<i> Down and Out in Paris and London</i> - unsanitary food, bed-sheets hardly
ever cleaned, sick people coughing and stingy hosts. He remarks: “<i>I have
noticed that people who let lodgings nearly always hate their lodgers. They
want their money but they look on them as intruders and have a curiously
watchful, jealous attitude which at bottom is a determination not to let the
lodger make himself too much at home. It is an inevitable result of the bad
system by which the lodger has to live in somebody else’s house without being
one of the family</i>.” (Chapter 1) Orwell bolts and finds somewhere else to
live.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">He then sets out
to see how proletarian men work in the North, and (in Chapters 2 and 3) he
examines coal-mining. These two chapters are frankly the high point of the book
– a brilliant and vivid piece of reportage, among the best things Orwell ever
wrote. Very helpful miners guide him through a coal-mine far beneath the
surface. There are the “fillers” who have to kneel to shovel coal over their
shoulders onto the conveyor belt. Miners have to walk miles underground before
they reach the coalface. The ceiling is so low that they have to crouch much of
the way (a great problem and pain for Orwell as he was very tall). Orwell notes
the incredible hardiness of the miners and their physical strength as they do their
daily work amid stifling coal dust. He is upset to find that coal-miners are
paid only for the hours that they are literally<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>extracting coal. They are not paid for the time (sometimes hours) that
they have to crouch-walk underground to and from the coalface. Orwell speaks of
the blue scars so many miners have on their necks and arms, the result of coal
dust invading wounds and scars. He notes that very few collieries have pit-head
baths for miners, meaning miners have to go home, covered in filth, where they
attempt to wash. Wages are often stingy, and miners are often “laid off”, with
no wages in spring and summer when less coal is required. Every year one
coal-miner out of nine-hundred dies in a mining accident, but every one-in-nine
will be injured, some permanently lame. There are often cave-ins and gas
explosions. Many miners end up with nystagmus, going blind by working in the
dark and having coal-dust constantly invading their eyeballs. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">All of this is
conveyed more viscerally, more immediately, than I have reported it here. And
all the time, Orwell chastises his more complacent readers (mainly middle-class
readers) by insisting, as was true in the 1930s, that the whole civilization
they enjoy is run on coal – coal fuels factories, railways, steamships, power
stations giving electricity<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>etc. and all
the comforts thoughtless people take for granted.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Having said all
this – and note he is not yet talking about the unemployed – Orwell turns to
the slum nature of housing in the economically depressed areas of the North,
often referencing not only Wigan, but Leeds, Sheffield, Barnsley and
Manchester. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">He says that, with
very few exceptions, he was greeted courteously by working-class people when he
asked to enter and examine their homes. He describes the unliveable
one-up-one-down cramped houses which are meant to accommodate whole families;
the communal lavatories which are often inaccessible; and houses that should
have been demolished and replaced years earlier. He notes: “<i>In a town like
Wigan… there are over two thousand houses standing that have been condemned for
years, and whole sections of the town would be condemned <u>en bloc </u>if
there was any hope of other houses being built to replace them</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter 4) And because of subsidence of land
due to mining “<i>In Wigan you pass whole rows of houses which have slid to
startling angles, their windows being ten or twenty degrees out of the
horizontal</i>.” (Chapter 4) Yet what is often called “slum clearance” creates
its own problems. “Slum clearance” tends to be advocated by people of higher
class who live far from the slums, and working-class people who are moved into
better Corporation houses often find that they have to pay higher rent and
rates. Often, too, working-class people who are relocated into better housing
find they are no longer part of the community they are used to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">We then come
(Chapter 5) to the question of unemployment in the North, and the manoeuvres of
the P. A. C. (Public Assistance Committee) and the Means Test that confront the
unemployed before that can claim the dole. Orwell says there are far more
people unemployed in England than the government’s official number given as two
million. He notes that many workers who are “laid off” for months (without wages)
are not regarded as unemployed. Yet he says he sees fewer beggars and totally
destitute people in the North than he has seen in London. On the domestic front
he notes that unemployed men stay at home and leave all the housework to their
wives, on the assumption that doing “women’s work” will lessen their manliness
and social status. On the whole, he says, communities have not disintegrated
and despite poverty, people have got used to their condition. No revolution is
brewing. Prophetically, as it turned out, Orwell remarks: “<i>We may as well
face the fact that several million men in England will – <u>unless another war
breaks out</u> – never have a real job this side of the grave</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter 5)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Chapters 6 and 7
deal with the matter of food and with how Southerners regard Northerners and
vice versa. Families, employed or unemployed, rely on very limited budgets and
as a result they have to eat cheap and generally unhealthy food. In the North
fuel (meaning coal) is abundant and cheaper than it is in other parts of
England, so most families are warm. Even so, many of the unemployed have to
pick the scrapings of coal out of slag heaps to get fuel. The debate between
Northern and Southern attitudes towards each other is the most redundant
chapter in the whole first half of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i>. And Orwell
has often been criticised for idealising the working-class household in this
paragraph: “ <i>In a working-class home – I am not thinking at the moment of
the unemployed, but of comparatively prosperous homes – you breathe a warm,
decent, deeply human atmosphere which it is not easy to find elsewhere. I
should say that a manual worker, if he is in steady works and drawing wages –
an ‘if’ which gets bigger and bigger – has a better chance of being happy than
a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘educated’ man. His home life seems to
fall naturally into a sane and comely shape. I have often been struck by the
peculiar easy completeness, the perfect symmetry as it were, of a working-class
interior at its best. Especially on winter evenings after tea, when the fire
glows in the open range and dances mirrored in the steel fender, when Father,
in shirt-sleeves, sits in the rocking chair at one side of the fire reading the
racing finals, and Mother sits on the other with her sewing, and the children
are happy with a pennorth of mint humbugs, and the dog lolls roasting himself on
the rag mat – it is a good place to be in, provided that you can not only be in
it but sufficiently <b><u>of</u></b> it to be taken for granted</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter 7) [Not only is it idealised, but
90 years since it was written, Orwell is now condemned for applauding the “patriarchal”
concept of a happy family.]</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHlGnpakcv6VTTZvrYVscEz8xlCurN-Wzsw5VpeYoK2hKMOl-OWkk3dhjJScYNLKztxmIHc4QMEJbihSJ3X7YfMC6fugAj7UgsBdLwav71BzvOK1f82HYCslCJuYGULzKETLZQomZmB9M-XpM2q2AvcmbExL_BN2GzAuSOBhXvDUzgH6mlqwywefHn9EvA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1393" data-original-width="867" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhHlGnpakcv6VTTZvrYVscEz8xlCurN-Wzsw5VpeYoK2hKMOl-OWkk3dhjJScYNLKztxmIHc4QMEJbihSJ3X7YfMC6fugAj7UgsBdLwav71BzvOK1f82HYCslCJuYGULzKETLZQomZmB9M-XpM2q2AvcmbExL_BN2GzAuSOBhXvDUzgH6mlqwywefHn9EvA=w277-h446" width="277" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And so we come to
the quite separate second part of the book. Orwell begins (Chapter 8) with
autobiography about his being of the “lower-upper-middle-class”. He gives a
very muddled and ambiguous account of the nature of different social classes in
England and the enduring gulf between the middle-class and the working-class.
He makes the statement that it is <b><i>smell</i></b> that mainly separates the
working-class from the middle-class. He speaks of his own childhood when he was
was trained to think in this way. But he also notes that in Britain the
Socialists and Communists are mainly middle-class and have middle-class habits.
He (in Chapter 9) says that after the war [now known as the First World War],
there was the sense that prosperity would reign, and for a very short time this
was so. But even by the early 1920s, unemployment began to rise. As a schoolboy
at Eton, says Orwell, he hated those of the upper classes who looked down on him,
but he himself shared all the bourgeois prejudices and habits. His experience
as a policeman in Burma gradually taught him the evils of colonialism, and he
returned to England hating the British Empire. He tried to understand the
condition of the working-class of which he was not a part by exploring the
world of the impoverished by going tramping and taking up menial work (as in <i>Down
and Out in Paris and London</i>). He says (Chapter 10) on class attitudes, that
middle-class people tend to believe they are not snobs and do not look down
upon the working-class, but they give themselves away by the way they speak
(i.e. their accents and vocabulary) and by their habits and assumptions. And
among the proletariat, many act as if those of the middle-class are their superiors.
Of his exploration on the North, he says he got on with the working-class
people he met, but: “<i>Even with miners who called themselves Communists I
found that it took tactful manoeuvrings to prevent them from calling me ‘sir’;
and all of them, except in moments of great animation, soften their northern
accents for my benefit. I like them and hope they liked me; but I went among
them as a foreigner, and both of us were aware of it. Whichever way you turn,
this curse of class-difference confronts you like a wall of stone.</i>” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter 10)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">He then turns
(Chapters 11, 12 and 13) to the matter of Socialism. On the whole he favours
Socialism, but he takes the peculiar path of explaining in detail why so many
in England are repelled by it. Thus (Chapter 11) he notes that Socialism is
attracting fewer people because most Socialists tend themselves to be
middle-class and often have “cranky” ideas that alienate the working-class.
Most members of the left-wing I. L. P. (the – now long gone - Independent Labour
Party) and the Communists have unreal agendas and “<i>the underlying motive of
many Socialists… is simply a hypertrophied sense of order</i>.” In detail he explains
(Chapter 12) that Socialism is tied to the age of the machine; and the machine
is made to ease toil and therefore make toil less onerous. But this merely
assumes that this is an improvement of human life when it actually makes for
human weakness. The socialist, as he now is, is generally in favour of “progress”,
which actually means mechanisation, rationalisation and modernisation. As
Orwell sees it, Socialism is necessary in the sense of raising welfare, making
good housing for all, ensuring work, taking essential industries out of the
private sector, and yet still allowing for freedom of thought and expression. But,
he says, the Socialists have not made their case clearly, have been sidelined
by contentious polemics, and are in danger of being overwhelmed by Fascism
which, repellent though it is, has some valid points to make and is growing in
England [remember this was written in 1936]. Finally (Chapter 13) he argues
that socialists too often damn the bourgeoisie while ignoring the fact that a
large part of the middle-classes are as impoverished as the working-class. And of
course, as a writer who was deeply concerned about the nature of language
itself and its misuse, he takes pot-shots at the much of the alienating jargon
the socialists use, including “proletariat”, “bourgeoisie”, “deviationist” etc.
etc. etc.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">From my own
summary here, I hope you can see what a muddle and hotch-potch the second half
of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i> is. Victor Gollancz was boorish in the way he
published Orwell’s work, but even so, the second half of the book does not match
the vivid reporting of the first half. From Chapter 9 onwards, Orwell’s prose
become nebulous, lacking the precise language he mainly used from Chapter 1 to
Chapter 8. His points of reference are vague, he generalises and asserts things without any documenting,
and resembles somebody trying to put across theories without organising
them. To put it crudely, he often descents into rant. And of course, despite
his beliefs, he never does make a persuasive argument for Socialism.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">There is also the
problem of Orwell’s ingrained prejudices, which are found in both parts of <i>The
Road to Wigan Pier</i>. Take it for granted that he hated Catholics, a common
English prejudice. But note whom he damns when he is talking of the importance
of coal: “<i>In order that Hitler may goosestep, that the pope may denounce
Bolshevism, that the cricket crowds may assemble at Lord’s, that the Nancy
poets may scratch one another’s backs, coal has got to be forthcoming</i>.” And
on the following page he ridicules “<i>You and I and the editor of the Times
Lit. Supp., and the Nancy poets and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Comrade X,
author of <u>Marxism for Infants</u>…</i>”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Chapter 2) “Nancy poets?” Gosh. Then much later there’s this rant: “<i>One
sometimes gets the impression that the mere words ‘Socialism’ and ‘Communism’
draw towards them with magnetic force every fruit-juice drinker, nudist,
sandal-wearer, sex-manic, Quaker, ‘Nature cure’ quack, pacifist and feminist in
England</i>.” (Chapter 11) So pacifists can be equated with sex-maniacs? And
what’s so perverse about drinking fruit-juice? And what worries him about feminists?
Once again… Gosh.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">When I consider the
better half of <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i>, I get the strong sense that I am
visiting the dead past. Orwell says the world and all industry runs on coal and
in effect determines our whole civilization… but that was then, not now. Orwell’s
reportage is robust, forthright and compassionate, but it is very topical in
the sense of addressing the era he was living in. We are now more concerned
with coal only in the sense that burning coal sends carbon into the
stratosphere and hastens climate collapse. We favour “clean” means of producing
energy. In effect, I read <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i> as if it were an old black-and-white
newsreel-with-commentary as made in the 1930s by some British pioneer of
documentary film such as John Grierson… and then I wake up and remember the Pike
River disaster and understand that in many parts of the world, men are still
dying in the extraction of coal. At least some of Orwell’s reportage is relevant
to today.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Footnotes:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The most iconic and most often quoted paragraph in
the book comes very early in <i>The Road to Wigan Pier</i>. It is near the end
of Chapter 1, where Orwell, passing in a train, sees a working-class woman
desperately trying to un-block a blocked drain on an awful winter morning. The
passage is too long for me to quote in full, but Orwell draws the moral that
the woman’s suffering would be as intense and conscious as it would be for any
member of any class. He refutes the smug idea that many middle- or upper-class
people hold, that the working class are used to such things and don’t suffer by
such unpleasantness. </span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Also, severe critics have ridiculed Orwell for flinching when, crawling through a coal mine, his hand falls on something greasy and disgusting. It turns out to be a gob of chewed tobacco which a miner had spat out. So, say Orwell's fastidious critics, this shows what a timid and fussy bourgeois man Orwell must have been, unused to proletarian ways. But, dear reader, are you so sure that you wouldn't flinch if, in the dark, your hand fell on something that felt disgusting? And after all, if you are reading this at all, you're probably bourgeois yourself comrade.<br /></span></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-1637550195274703562023-10-30T09:00:00.008+13:002023-11-01T19:33:06.076+13:00Something Thoughtful<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> </span>
</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: helvetica;">IDLE INFANTILE DOODLING</b></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I
know you have become used to my making mature and thoughtful commentary in the
“Something Thoughtful” section of each posting, with incisive remarks about
politics, culture and other weighty matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the hard fact is that I am not always in the mood to be serious.
Sometimes I simply want to cut myself loose from seriousness and descend into
inconsequential trivialities. So here I go with some things that are true but
that are of no importance whatsoever.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Item One:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> When I was a teenager, aged 14, I read
Erich Maria Remarque’s famous war novel <i>All Quiet on the Western Front</i>.
I still have the paperback edition that I read then, and when I take it off my
shelf I can find, in my immature handwriting, the comments I wrote on certain
pages pointing out the most impressive bits. But after I’d first read it,
somebody told me that the author’s name was really Kramer, not Remarque – and
after all, you could almost see Remarque was the reverse spelling of Kramer.
“Very interesting”, I thought. But only years later did I discover that the
author really was called Remarque. The <i>canard</i> that he was named Kramer
was invented by Josef Goebbels’ propaganda machine in the early 1930s when the
Nazis – not yet in power – were protesting and rioting about the release in
Germany of the American film version of <i>All Quiet on the Western Front</i>.
“Kramer” was, in Germany, often a Jewish name and Goebbels invented the false
name of the author to suggest that he was not only a “Bolshevik pacifist”, but
also a Jew. The race enemy. To the best of my knowledge, the person who
misinformed me was not a Nazi or racist, but had said what he said in good
faith. Which goes to show how easily false information can be taken as fact
even by well-meaning people. Disinformation is not new.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Item Two:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> A very similar story. You probably have
never heard of Yma Sumac, who was a phenomenon in the 1950s. She was a Peruvian
singer who was famed for singing in five octaves and so could sing from deep
down to way up high. She mainly sang (or dolefully chanted) hymn-like
indigenous songs to show off her versatility. Even when I was a tot, I could
hear her on the radio and – years after it was first released – I saw at the
local flea-house a (boring and slow-moving) adventure film, starring Charlton
Heston, called <i>The Secret of the Inca</i> in which Yma Sumac, dressed in
traditional Peruvian costume, chanted and moaned at length. And once again
somebody informed me that actually Yma Sumac was really a made-up name, and
that her real name was Amy Camus who had simply reversed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her names to seem exotic; and that she wasn’t
Peruvian at all but came from a New York suburb. Again I thought “Very
interesting”. Except that a few years later I discovered that the story was in
fact a joke made up by an American comedian and never meant to be taken
seriously. “Yma Sumac” was the Peruvian’s stage name [apparently it means
something like “how beautiful”]. Her full name [I’ve looked this up, folks] was
Zoila Emperatriz Chavarri Casrillo. She was Peruvian, born and raised in Peru.
But once again, the false story was believed by many people. The power of
disinformation.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Item Three:</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> If you like, this is the <i>piece de
resistance</i>, though maybe you might want to resist it as it’s mainly about
schoolboy smut. Not too many years ago, one of my sons told me that the
[technically rather primitive] English children’s cartoon series <i>Captain
Pugwash</i>, about a rollicking pirate, was in fact filled with characters with
disgusting names. Among Captain Pugwash’s pirate crew there was reportedly Master
Bates (geddit? geddit?),<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seaman Staines
(geddit? geddit? geddit?) and the cabin boy Roger who always introduced himself
as “Roger, me, the cabin boy” (“Roger me”, geddit? geddit? geddit? geddit?...
though maybe Americans won’t). Also, it was claimed that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“pugwash” was a form of intense gay sexual intercourse.
For a while, all of this was widely believed to be true. In fact the English
newspaper <i>The Guardian </i>printed a column on the filthy names hiding in a
children’s show. Except that one week later <i>The Guardian</i> retracted their
statement and apologised because the makers of <i>Captain Pugwash</i> had
threatened to sue. None of the quoted names had ever appeared in <i>Captain
Pugwash</i> and for the record the cabin boy was called Tom. So where had the
false rumours about the names come from? Maybe it began as schoolboy smut, but
it first appeared in print in a students’ satirical magazine, intended to be
funny if you enjoy that variety of humour. Again, many people were eager to
believe fiction. Incidentally, earlier there had been a kerfuffle about another
children’s TV programme. This was <i>The Magic Roundabout</i>. It was a
harmless French children’s programme which had been dubbed into English, but
the dialogue in the English version bore no relation to the dialogue in the
original French version. One of the main (animal) characters was, in the dubbed
English version, a kind of laid-back hippie type of character, and in no time
the series became a “cult” hit, because some English viewers believed it was
filled with druggie argot. So, apparently, <i>The Magic Roundabout</i> was all
about drugs. Nobody has definitively debunked this rumour, but it appears to be
specious. As it happens, the man who voiced the characters in the English
language version was the father of the actress </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Emma Thompson. For what it’s worth, she refutes the idea that her father
was a druggie or mouthing druggie sentiments in a kiddies’ show. It all seems
to have been wishful thinking on the part of the druggies who watched.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">There now. I have
fed you three or four cases of misinformation which were not exactly earth-shattering
or important but were</span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">
inconsequential trivialities. Misinformation still wows some people. For
slightly more weighty examples, look up the column I called <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2018/08/something-thoughtful_20.html">Faggots, Fakeryand Up Yours </a></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-3654192587423293842023-10-16T09:02:00.003+13:002023-10-16T09:02:00.138+13:00Something New<p> </p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span>
</p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“LIGHT KEEPING” by Adrienne Jansen (Quentin-Wilson
Publishing $NZ37.50); <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“GANGSTER’S
PARADISE” by Jared Savage (Harper-Collins, $NZ38)</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Z7pLcSfoofQl1CwVf317sF-Ruggj-K6AbupNU2LO6CUTWfzVLfndu46rf4nl9y363oKh5udCuuAOutiO9TPCPlDsLS_Fi4HAeh1r9rNDQd3wa7FPQuxyp4b1uxhCIcNDtHZy36cMfcfeXDFRtEn8SUm5JgV-DR3yPStMKTF_wNJ9Rq-ML93VYj9yu5YP/s919/Light-Keeping-full-final-cover-25.8-610x919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="919" data-original-width="610" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Z7pLcSfoofQl1CwVf317sF-Ruggj-K6AbupNU2LO6CUTWfzVLfndu46rf4nl9y363oKh5udCuuAOutiO9TPCPlDsLS_Fi4HAeh1r9rNDQd3wa7FPQuxyp4b1uxhCIcNDtHZy36cMfcfeXDFRtEn8SUm5JgV-DR3yPStMKTF_wNJ9Rq-ML93VYj9yu5YP/w326-h492/Light-Keeping-full-final-cover-25.8-610x919.jpg" width="326" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A married couple die in a car crash, leaving behind
two children, Robert (aged 10) and Jess or Jessie (aged 8). Their paternal
grandparents, Bill and Annie, adopt them and take them into their home, which
is next to the lighthouse of which old Bill is the keeper. So Robert and Jessie
grow up in an unusual place on the coast of New Zealand. They do not do their
learning through correspondence school. They are able to go to the local
school, although it is clear that grandfather Bill and grandmother Annie teach
them much more about life than school can.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of course things are not always happy. Robert and
Jessie are traumatised by the sudden death of their parents. Even the best
grandparents are no substitute for mum and dad. At first Jessie cries at night
and Robert becomes positively surly, pushing away even the most charitable and
loving things his grandparents offer him. In fact Robert’s surly-ness spills
over into his behaviour at school. When a pleasant Scottish boy, Jamie, a new
arrival at school, is invited to Robert’s birthday, Robert is sneering and
hostile towards him. It takes a long, long time for Robert to settle down and
begin to appreciate the majesty of the lighthouse, old Bill’s skill as a keeper
and the tales Bill tells of shipwrecks and rescues of people near to drowning.
The coast is a wild place with its battering winds, hidden reefs and
treacherous rocky cliffs. But as Jessie matures, warms to Annie and thirsts for
learning, Robert himself becomes creative making models of houses, lighthouses
and other things. Could this be his salvation?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But there is a problem hanging over this lighthouse
and its nearby domicile. The time is the late 1970s, and the government is
considering “de-manning” lighthouses and ”electrifying” or automating them.
This means Bill will be out of work and he and Annie will be evicted from the
home they rent. Bill has earnest conversations with other lighthouse keepers
about the menace hanging over them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All this is only the premise of <i>Light Keeping</i>.
Adrienne Jansen – in her 6<sup>th</sup> novel – applies three techniques that
are now much-used in shaping a novel. First, she writes throughout in the
present tense. Second, she makes every chapter brief. And third, she splits her
narrative into separate time periods. Jessie’s and Robert’s childhood takes
place mostly in 1977 with some skipping forward to the 1980s. But other
chapters are set in 2019, when Jessie and Robert are in their forties, she
running a clock-repair shop after her marriage has broken up; and he having had
some run-ins with the law as a petty-criminal. He’s now a bit of a layabout
with his sister having to help him out when he gets in trouble. What was it
that made things go so wrong for them? And how can they mend things and live
more fruitful lives?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Adrienne Jansen has clearly undertaken much research
to make the lighthouse keeper’s life credible and interesting. She has a very
vivid sense of place and as a narrator she is at her very best when [in Chapter
17] she has young Robert help old Bill rescue two men in peril in a small boat,
during a storm. Naturally this connects with the idea that some things could
only be done by old-time lighthouse keepers, and not by automated lighthouses.
On the debit side, there are some moments when the novel goes a little
didactic, especially when [in Chapter 21] old Bill lectures Jessie and Robert
about his own childhood and what the First World War was like.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I have often referred on this blog to my “don’t be a
swine” code. Don’t give away the outcome of a new novel. But, having taken us
through traumatised childhood and one suicide, I think the novel’s outcome is a
little pat. That said, I enjoyed <i>Light Keeping</i> as a thoughtful novel
making best use of time and place and a strong sense of the dynamics of
families.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKx_CK_i2V255lbq4UJ9xHu6wP9JmNCRiveKIWwM1fKdrOham87WtoUSvhUiF0tVZ9HUvMY8esgsNqpxQGCxOGVpDpEDZx-Nl20K8i93uwixpTp9dxlLYizfmSeE7CUHFmWsKzYR8RpGtpF9PEsmB5OwsEqNAi0HFiFvjywxkC2d0Ss_6g9mNQujkR1gH/s535/9781775492405_168c6a29-dfe6-4933-b84e-bdb67f58043a.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="350" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKx_CK_i2V255lbq4UJ9xHu6wP9JmNCRiveKIWwM1fKdrOham87WtoUSvhUiF0tVZ9HUvMY8esgsNqpxQGCxOGVpDpEDZx-Nl20K8i93uwixpTp9dxlLYizfmSeE7CUHFmWsKzYR8RpGtpF9PEsmB5OwsEqNAi0HFiFvjywxkC2d0Ss_6g9mNQujkR1gH/w315-h482/9781775492405_168c6a29-dfe6-4933-b84e-bdb67f58043a.webp" width="315" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">In his introduction to <i>Gangster’s Paradise</i>,
<i>New Zealand Herald </i>journalist Jared Savage gives us a similar warning to
the one he gave in his earlier book <i>Gangland</i>. He writes: “ <i>In my
view, the escalation of organized crime in New Zealand – more drugs, more
shooting, more corruption – has been driven by the arrival of gangs as ‘501’
deportees from Australia. The likes of the Mongols and the Comancheros, in
particular, have brought a more professional edge to the gang scene. They have
better connections with international drug syndicates, better criminal
tradecraft and encrypted communications, and are more willing to use firearms
to enforce their will</i>.” (p.5) So crime, and often lethal crime, has
ballooned in the last decade. Prior to these imports from Australia, the most
dominant home-grown New Zealand gang was the Mongrel Mob, which has
approximately 2500 members nationwide, twice the size of its rival Black Power.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Once again, as he did in his <i>Gangland</i>,
Jared Savage illustrates these facts with stories he has covered in the last
three years, including the work of the National Organized Crime Group, which
had to be set up once the rate of serious crime grew.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">He begins with the Chinese ring who attempted
to import methamphetamine (“meth”) hidden in umbrella stands underneath gypsum.
They were arrested and sentence in New Zealand after a long investigation. But
as Savage notes, the problem here is that the real “kingpins” – those who give
the orders to their gangs and carriers – live outside New Zealand, mainly in
Asia, and can barely be touched. Besides, as Australian police soon discovered,
as soon as a billionaire drug baron is toppled by the law, another simply takes
his place. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Savage considers next the invasion of the
Comancheros, deported from Oz, who set up in New Zealand a big network
involving many Samoans and Fijians. They took over many properties with the
huge bankrolls they had from their drug-dealing, then proceeded to destroy the
Head Hunters gang and were able to dominate the crime scene in Auckland. The
police reined them in with their Operation Nova but managed to have only some
jailed. Later, the Comancheros attempted to get their meth sold through the local
Rebels gang in Christchurch, but they were thwarted by the careful surveillance
by the police. In Tauranga the Mongol Nation – another import from Oz – brought
in tons of meth and broke up the local gang the Greazy Dogs in a “war”
involving shootings and arson.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">One of Savage’s saddest stories is the plight
of Kawerau. Once it had been a prosperous timber town with full employment, but
hard times came, many people in the town were now unemployed, and the
meth-dealers moved in. Their technique was, of course, to first supply the drug
at a low price, then once the users were hooked to rack up the price and turn
their clients into couriers and distributers to pay off their debts. In effect,
they made drug-users their slaves. Eventually the mayor of Kawerau complained
that the police were only concerned with crimes in the big cities and not in
the smaller towns, and begged the National Organized Crime Group to deal with
the situation. The police did just that. They invaded the town in what they
called Operation Notus, explored every known peddler and user of meth and took
down the town’s boss of the local mob Frank Milosevic. They also set up
agencies to help people get over their addiction. For a while the town – in
which it had been “<i>easier to get meth than milk</i>” – order and peace
flourished….. BUT within a matter of months the drug-dealers were back again
and the trade went on in its grim way.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">The trade of crime was enhanced by corruption,
as in the story Savage tells of the corrupt employee on the wharf who allowed
the gates to be unlocked at night to allow parcels of Class A drugs to be
passed through. Later Savage deals with a clique of corrupt baggage-handlers at
Mangere Airport who also attempted to pass through Class A drugs, but in this
case they were all arrested by the police as soon as the drugs came in. Again
astute surveillance worked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Another major problem was and is the growing
importation of firearms. The general public became more aware of this with the
daylight murder of Constable Matthew Hunt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was great looseness and loopholes in New Zealand’s laws pertaining
to firearms. The first major attempt to limit the use of firearms came after
the Aramoana massacre and later the even worse Mosque massacres in
Christchurch. There was a major campaign to have firearms handed to the police,
with compensation for those who handed them in. But the obvious problem was
that, while honest people handed in many of their rifles and guns, the
criminals did not. Police were aware of “straw buyers” who handed in firearms
on behalf of unnamed persons – usually gangsters sacrificing a very small
portion of their arsenals to pretend they were following the law. There still
remain a huge number of firearms in criminal hands.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">As he noted in his earlier book, one major
Maori-dominated gang, the Mongrel Mob, has attempted to use PR to make itself
seem respectable. The gang’s national head invited people into his fort to hear
him say that the Mongrel Mob was actually involved in caring for people,
mending the poverty created by colonialism, teaching young people Maori
traditions and getting youngsters into work programs. How nice. Unfortunately
three major members of the Mongel Mob were still cooking and distributing meth,
were caught and prosecuted. When challenged about this, the Mob’s boss claimed
that he didn’t control individuals’ actions… even though one of the three
convicted was his deputy and right-hand man. The Mongrel Mob is still a
criminal organization. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Interestingly, Savage closes with the story of
a pakeha guy who went badly off the rails after having a privileged youth.
Henry Whitehead (who later adopted a number of pseudonyms) was educated at
Auckland Grammar School, a prestige school in an expensive suburb. Beginning as
a tagger and general nuisance, he moved into dealing small-time in drugs. From
this he graduated to importing meth and other drugs from Asia, Australia and
America. He built up his own distribution “empire” and often operated outside
New Zealand, mainly in Europe. It took the NZ police many years to have him
extradited, but finally they won the battle and Whitehead is still serving a
life sentence. In his epilogue, Savage tells us that there is an even bigger
drug-dealer operating from overseas and attempts to extradite will be even
trickier that extraditing Whitehead was.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Crime continues. It has not abated, for all the
diligent work of the police, and the gangs and dealers are still at work.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">There is no doubt that Jared Savage is a very
capable journalist, telling his stories clearly and in well-researched detail.
But there are some inevitable shortcomings. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">First shortcoming: Savage often enough tells us
that criminal gangs attract people living in poverty and/or coming from
dysfunctional families. But then these impoverished people most often prey on
other impoverished people – selling them Class A drugs, hooking them on such
drugs and then using them as their peddlers, couriers and in effect their<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>slaves. In New Zealand the most impoverished
tend to be Maori and Pasifika, and most of the crims mentioned in this book have
Maori or Pasifika names. But while he does accurately note all this, he only
rarely refers to the damage done by gangs (violence, threats and intimidation) to
innocent bystanders, people who were shot or maimed or had their houses invaded
by gangs. This requires as much attention as the acts of the gangsters. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Second shortcoming: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This inevitable shortcoming is no fault of
Savage. It is simply the fact that [nearly] all Savage’s stories end with the
police successfully routing gangsters or having them prosecuted and
incarcerated. Obviously Savage has to rely partly on news stories, but mainly
on police records and other information only <b><i>after</i></b> an
investigation is completed and the accused are in the dock. Investigations
still in progress are not made public by the police. Why should the police
broadcast to the nation’s gangsters about the surveillance systems they are
using, the informants they have interrogated, their knowledge of where illegal
shipments are being hidden etc. So we, as readers, know only what has already
happened. We do not know what major crimes are currently in the making. My
guess is that in two or three years Jared Savage will produce yet another book
telling us about crimes that are already in the making now.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 54.0pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just for the record I append below
in full my [necessarily brief] review of Jared Savage’s earlier chronicle of
crime <i>Gangland</i>, published late in 2020. The review appeared in the <i>NZ
Listener</i> 6 February 2021</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">“GANGLAND” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Is New Zealand really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gangland</i> - a country awash with violent crime? Perhaps it isn’t by
international standards. But as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Herald </i>journalist
Jared Savage tells it, organized crime has grown exponentially in the last
twenty years, fueled by the importation and manufacture of meth and other Class
A drugs, the resulting turf wars between gangs, sophisticated enterprises in
money-laundering, crims being more crafty in their counter-surveillance of
police and the greater use of firearms. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Added to this have been the return of violent
New Zealand-born gangster deportees from Australia, the involvement of large
Asian criminal syndicates, and the interest of some Mexican cartels in New
Zealand as a fresh market for cocaine. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Savage describes this book as “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a collection of twelve of the most
intriguing cases I’ve covered as a reporter</i>”. There’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breaking Bad</i>-scenario of the respectable
chemist who set up NZ’s first meth lab. The networking of powerful gangs is
documented, along with the savvy PR of some gang-leaders who have presented
themselves as benefactors to society. We get the big bust related to a
meth-laden inflatable that landed on 90 Mile Beach in 2016; and the even bigger
bust when a huge haul of cocaine was intercepted in Tauranga. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: helvetica;">Most, but not all, of Savage’s stories end with
the police cracking the case and courts imposing heavy sentences. Police are
prominent among Savage’s informants and their techniques take up almost as much
space as the stories of gangsters and their bosses.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Savage’s style is largely solid
factual reportage, only slightly sensationalised. The profusion of names can be
confusing, when partners of, associates of, bosses of and rivals of criminals
have to be mentioned in any given case. It’s informative, but in the end it’s
also a dismal and depressing work. Real crime is sordid stuff, not like the
version shown in the movies. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-36590109942239554332023-10-16T09:01:00.006+13:002023-10-16T09:01:00.134+13:00Something Old<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span>
</p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“DOWN AND OUT
IN PARIS AND LONDON”</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> by George Orwell
(first published 1933)</span></span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipCFrP1FolUptt3HsVPaxZegAukMwevXQj_rWwK3h-fOTY8v5uBRi8RT6SGUEG9zD0d3RhHP4yZtJx0ZbhdXP1Xi43XWhFOx9IsMzbWpfOX3uuyeDVzfvfCxTYwDiBJpgzRLENNs3Ye_ukBx5fBwSqpRvm2HznbIBLOEJ-aWIvIlM3lliMQpPOBtZDywm-/s669/7371ff06d23ea0b96d383e17336d107c.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="500" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipCFrP1FolUptt3HsVPaxZegAukMwevXQj_rWwK3h-fOTY8v5uBRi8RT6SGUEG9zD0d3RhHP4yZtJx0ZbhdXP1Xi43XWhFOx9IsMzbWpfOX3uuyeDVzfvfCxTYwDiBJpgzRLENNs3Ye_ukBx5fBwSqpRvm2HznbIBLOEJ-aWIvIlM3lliMQpPOBtZDywm-/w314-h420/7371ff06d23ea0b96d383e17336d107c.jpg" width="314" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">As I promised,
after having considered on this blog all the works of fiction George Orwell
wrote in the 1930s (<a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/09/burmesedaysgeorgeorwell.html"><b>Burmese Days</b></a>, <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/09/something-old.html"><b>A Clergyman’s Daughter</b></a>, <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2013/10/something-old.html"><b>Keep
the Aspidistra Flying</b></a>, <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/10/comingupforairgeorgeorwell.html"><b>Coming Up For Air</b></a>) and making
glancing comments on his two well-known later fictions (<i>Animal Farm</i> and <i>1984</i>),
I am now going to look carefully at Orwell’s three works of non-fiction, again
all written in the 1930s.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Down and Out in
Paris and London</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> was Orwell’s first
book to be published, in 1933, one year before his first novel <i>Burmese Days,</i>
on which he had been working. <i>Down and Out in Paris and London</i> is
Orwell’s account of the condition of poverty. A little more than half the book
is taken up with Orwell’s experience in Paris, first living in a sort of
penniless bohemianism, cadging food and cigarettes as best he could; then
toiling as a <i>plongeur</i> [scullion] for very low wages in a couple of
restaurants. He says: “<i>Poverty is what I am writing about, and I had my
first contact with poverty in this </i>[Parisian]<i> slum. The slum, with its
dirt and its queer lives, was first an object-lesson in poverty, and then the
background of my own experiences. It is for that reason that I try to give some
idea of what life was like there</i>.” (Chapter 1) Then, slightly shorter, the
second section of the book has him suddenly leaving Paris, going back to
England and adopting the life of a tramp, seeing how impoverished and
deracinated men existed there.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">But, even for the
reader who hasn’t done much background research, there are immediately some oddities
about this non-fiction. Why are we never told <b><i>how</i></b> Orwell came to
be in a situation of destitution? We can’t help wondering why an Eton-educated,
former imperial police officer should have no resources or contacts to draw
upon if he was hard up. And why does he suddenly skip back to England? The book
gives a rather feeble explanation for this sudden move (he says that out of the
blue he was offered a job looking after a mentally-challenged child). We also
can’t help noticing that the two halves of the book don’t quite fit together.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
it turns out, there are reasons for these anomalies [and in this I am drawing
on two biographies, Bernard Crick’s <i>George Orwell, A Life</i> and D. J.
Taylor’s <i>Orwell, the Life</i>]. Orwell in fact had examined and already
written articles about the life of British tramps <u>before</u> he went to
Paris. When he went to Paris, he stayed there for a year-and-a-half, spending
his time writing, trying to kick off a literary career and earning some money
from essays and commentaries that were published in magazines. He wrote two
novels which were never published and which he destroyed, and he began writing <i>Burmese
Days</i>. His whole examination and experience of Parisian poverty took up just
ten weeks of his year-and-a-half time in Paris – and it has been noted that in
those ten weeks, he did live in one of the poorer quarters of Paris, but it was
relatively respectable and far from the most impoverished. Not completely
penniless, he was sometimes sent money by his eccentric aunt Nellie Limouzin.
[In her attempted take-down of Orwell, <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/08/something-new.html"><b>Wifedom</b></a>, Anna Funder mentions
this as a new discovery, but it was already widely known]. However, there were
times when he genuinely was without money. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">When Orwell first
presented his non-fiction to publishers, they all said it was too short to be
published. It dealt only with his experience of poverty in Paris. Orwell was
going to call it <i>A Scullion’s Diary</i>. So he did some more weeks as a
tramp in England (supported by his parents) and expanded his book to include
the section on English vagrants. Again two publishers rejected it, and it was
finally picked up by Victor Gollancz. It was named <i>Down and</i> <i>Out in
Paris and London</i> by Gollancz as a compromise after Orwell had mooted a
number of possible titles. Eric Blair wanted to write under a pseudonym, and he
suggested four or five names to Gollancz. It was Gollancz who picked “George
Orwell” as the appropriate pseudonym and George Orwell he remained. <i>Down and</i>
<i>Out in Paris and London</i> reads as one sequential narrative, beginning in
Paris and ending among down-and-outers in London. In fact that was not the
order which Orwell experienced in reality. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And, in his
“documentary” book, there a moments that could be possibly be fiction or close
to fiction. In Chapter 3, for example, he tells us that he had his money stolen
by a fiendish Italian who knew how to pick locks, and this is what left him in
poverty. In fact, as he admitted later in private letters, he was really robbed
by a prostitute whom he had bedded. What more often concerns me is that Orwell frequently
inserts long tales purportedly told to him by people he met. Thus (Chapter 2)
the long tale told to him by a young man called Charlie who boasts about his
sexual conquests. Or (Chapter 4) the Russian called Boris, formerly a tsarist
army officer who tells his whole life story. Or (Chapter 15) the kitchen-hand
Valenti, who tells in detail a story about getting money when he was starving. My
problem here is that these tales are presented as if they are verbatim, in the
speakers’ very own words, when it’s highly unlikely that Orwell heard them or
preserved them that way… even assuming the tales were told at all. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Are
we then to see <i>Down and</i> <i>Out in Paris and London</i> as fiction or
fraud? Oddly enough, the answer is an emphatic “No!” There is in this book much
acute observation of reality in the best journalistic tradition. Let it be made
clear that nearly every writer of travel books, reportage or expose, no matter
how truthful, will rearrange the order of events to make a clearer narrative
and will embroider or rewrite conversations and speeches heard but not
preserved word for word. Orwell is simply following the same tradition. As for
the title <i>Down and</i> <i>Out in Paris and London</i>, we can charitably
suggest that it does not mean that Orwell himself was “down and out”, but that
he was reporting on social classes who were “down and out”. Orwell was
influenced by writers like Jack London with his <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2012/05/something-old_21.html"><b>The People of the Abyss</b></a>
[reviewed on this blog], published exactly 30 years before <i>Down
and</i> <i>Out in Paris and London</i> and reporting on the slums of London.
And in his passages about English tramps, he was fully aware of W. H. Davies’ <b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2020/10/whdaviesautobiographyofasupertramp.html">TheAutobiography of a Super Tramp</a></b> [reviewed on this blog]. In
effect, Orwell<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- except for a few weeks
– was an observer and examiner of poverty, but really part of poverty for only
a limited time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vmJRLu0xKHApR8RTUIXeHl5zsf6N_OKwkjvfxjEBwmUNbYlxNyHB0diRW3QXSv35waUWGmE6PXZMnRBUSLaZc35GK7PrhezDrk0nwlHMiMPRkYdcXTKYMs25E3CxYMPg9SCY0mBRUt4ibqKPAnyb1ggERGgXLVDoNCtqy8mpZhRkBWa79xUh1vqA7JDR/s650/9780141042701-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="433" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vmJRLu0xKHApR8RTUIXeHl5zsf6N_OKwkjvfxjEBwmUNbYlxNyHB0diRW3QXSv35waUWGmE6PXZMnRBUSLaZc35GK7PrhezDrk0nwlHMiMPRkYdcXTKYMs25E3CxYMPg9SCY0mBRUt4ibqKPAnyb1ggERGgXLVDoNCtqy8mpZhRkBWa79xUh1vqA7JDR/w265-h398/9780141042701-1.jpg" width="265" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first nine chapters are largely about a workless and therefore poor existence
in an unsanitary, dirty room in a cheap, bug-infested hotel. Orwell shares with
the Russian Boris various desperate means to raise a tiny amount of money, such
as selling or pawning clothes. Boris is typical of the many Russian refugees
from the Bolshevik Revolution who crowded into Paris in the 1920s. Orwell
occasionally finds coins on the pavements, but they’re always just a few
centimes. At one point he thinks he has secured a job writing for a Communist
newspaper, but it turns out to be a fraud. Orwell, perhaps for the first time in
his life,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>experiences the pain of
hunger: “<i>Hunger reduces one to an utterly spineless, brainless condition,
more like the after-effects of influenza than anything else. It is as though
one has been turned into a jellyfish, or as though all one’s blood has been
pumped out and lukewarm water substituted. Complete inertia is my chief memory
of hunger; that, and being obliged to spit very frequently… I do not know the
reason for this, but everyone who has gone hungry several days has notice it.</i>”
(Chapter 7)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
far, so relatively inconsequential. But the interest of <i>Down and</i> <i>Out
in Paris and London</i> steps up from Chapter 10 to Chapter 23. Orwell gets a
position as a <i>plongeur </i>in a large and fashionable hotel which is
designated as Hotel X [the real name of the hotel was suppressed by Orwell and
Gollancz for fear of facing a libel case]. Later he shifts to a smaller
restaurant called the Auberge de Jahan Cottard. A <i>plongeur</i> can
legitimately be called a scullion, but it means much more than one who does the
dishes and scours the pots. Orwell counts most of the things he and his fellow <i>plongeurs</i>
had to do: “ <i>I don’t remember all our duties, but they included making tea,
coffee and chocolate, fetching meals from the kitchen, wines from the cellar,
and fruit and so forth from the dining-room, slicing bread, making toast,
rolling pats of butter, measuring jam, opening milk-cans, counting lumps of
sugar, boiling eggs, cooking porridge, pounding ice, grinding coffee – all this
from a hundred to two hundred customers</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Chapter 11) <i>Plongeurs</i> are the lowest class in the hierarchy of
the hotel. The cooks and the waiters are the most highly paid and the most
prestigious people. Regarded by the community at large, “<i>a plongeur is one
of the slaves of the modern world… His work is servile and without art; he is
paid just enough to keep him alive</i>… [yet]. . . <i>He earns his bread in the
sweat of his brow, but it does not follow that he is doing anything useful; he
may be only supplying a luxury which, very often, is not a luxury</i>.” (Chapter
22)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shifts
run from early morning to late at night, <i>plongeurs</i> have to work in
poorly ventilated kitchens where food is cooked either in or over fires. The
heat is overwhelming, everybody sweats profusely and sweat falls into meals
about to be served. If food is dropped on the floor it is simply picked up and
shoved on a plate to be served. The kitchens are filthy with dirt and grime…
yet the customers believe they are getting clean and carefully prepared food,
thanks to the smooth way the well-dressed waiters present the food .The work is
exhausting. “<i>It was amusing to look around the filthy little scullery and
think that only a double door stood between us and the dining-room. There sat
the customers in all their splendour – spotless table-cloths, bowls of flowers,
mirrors and gilt cornices and painted cherubim; and here, just a few feet away,
we in our disgusting filth. For it really was disgusting filth. There was no
time to sweep the floor till evening, and we slithered about in a compound of
soapy water, lettuce leaves, torn papers and trampled food</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter 12)</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
<i>plongeurs</i> are not only underpaid but have very little time off… yet
curiously, there is a sort of camaraderie among the <i>plongeurs</i>, and on
Saturday they can always drink [too much] and sing in a shabby bistro. What
Orwell sees is exploitation and wages barely enough to sustain a decent life.
In spite of which some <i>plongeurs</i> are proud of their work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgw76OHHjdBVkAsPZLkc8J0qmEHvLpKQqJqvFAZ3EgphqP5nji8jG06IlwfusN6qQSYzrmAOVTg1jiomwvn-qam-6igDVSplawJ34nreZ-XISP5ttr8ECWszEWsCVoycubIY4QmRXByycBrx49V-HpHfajPosoYYQ5JFbsOBgHSIL79zMCqhubVIIq6-8/s850/down-and-out-in-paris-and-london.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="680" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgw76OHHjdBVkAsPZLkc8J0qmEHvLpKQqJqvFAZ3EgphqP5nji8jG06IlwfusN6qQSYzrmAOVTg1jiomwvn-qam-6igDVSplawJ34nreZ-XISP5ttr8ECWszEWsCVoycubIY4QmRXByycBrx49V-HpHfajPosoYYQ5JFbsOBgHSIL79zMCqhubVIIq6-8/w307-h384/down-and-out-in-paris-and-london.jpg" width="307" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
it comes to the English section of the book, Orwell is not so concerned with
lowly-paid toil as with outright vagrancy. He suggests that in England there must
be approximately ten-thousand tramps. He presents himself as a tramp in London,
selling his clothes for cheaper ones so that he can fit in more easily with
other tramps. On the whole he finds London streets cleaner and better policed
than in Paris. But there are strict laws that forbid vagrants to sleep in the
open at night [this is mentioned in Jack London’s <i>The People of the Abyss</i>
too]. So in London destitute men have to sleep in “spikes”, doss-houses,
lodging-houses and other rather primitive forms of shelter. The worse shelters
– meaning most of them – are small, cramped and unsanitary, with tramps
virtually sleeping on each other in a miasma of disgusting smells made by the
unwashed or never-washed.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
his travels with the tramps, Orwell finds that most of them are wary of both
charity and religion. In one shelter (Chapter 26), tramps are offered a free
bun and a very good cup of tea, but it is run by evangelicals so the tramps
have to listen to hymns and a sermon. The tramps – including Orwell – mock
this. He is sure that the charity “<i>was given in a good spirit, without any
intention of humiliating us; so in fairness we ought to have been grateful –
still, we weren’t.</i>” Later (Chapter 29) Orwell has complained about how
dirty so many shelters are, so he has to admit that Salvation Army shelters are
scrupulously clean. But he writes: “<i>To my eye these Salvation Army shelters,
though clean, are far drearier that the worst of the common lodging-houses.
There is such a hopelessness about some of the people there – decent,
broken-down types who have pawned their collars but are still trying for office
jobs. Coming to a Salvation Army shelter, where it is at least clean, is their
last clutch at respectability….”</i>(Chapter 29). Later (Chapter 33) tramps
react to a religious ceremony which they watch from a balcony as their price
for getting fed. Says Orwell: “<i>It was a queer, rather disgusting scene.
Below were the handful of simple, well-meaning people, trying hard to worship;
and above were the hundred men who they had fed, deliberately making worship
impossible… <u>A man receiving charity practically always hates his benefactor</u>
– it is a fixed characteristic of human nature; and when he has fifty or a
hundred others to back him, he will show it</i>.” (Chapter 33 )</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Orwell
stoutly refutes the idea that all tramps are thieves or layabouts, insisting
that they have been pushed into poverty by lack of work. He defends the beggary
many of them have to practice. He says: “<i>if one looks closely one sees that
there is no essential difference between a beggar’s livelihood and that of
numberless respectable people. Beggars do not work, it is said but then what is
work? A navvy works by swinging a pick. An accountant works by adding up
figures. A Beggar works by standing out of doors in all weathers and getting
varicose veins, chronic bronchitis etc. It is a trade like any other; quite
useless, of course – but then many respirable trades are quite useless.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter 31) [Come to think of it, it’s not
much of a defence.]</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
important “character” in this book is an old Irish tramp called (inevitably)
Paddy whom Orwell befriends. He walks the roads with Orwell and is always
filled with optimistic chatter, though Orwell is amazed that Paddy (who is
probably illiterate) knows so little about the state of the world. Even more
interesting is Paddy’s friend Bozo, a “screever” (pavement artist) who draws
his chalk images on the Embankment and other parts of London, except when the
rain is falling. He is clearly not an idle man, but a professional, even if his
work is a sort of begging. Bozo turns out to have his own philosophy, and
surprises Orwell by having a great knowledge of astronomy.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
are some chapters that appear gratuitous or “filler”, such as Chapter 32, where
Orwell proceeds to tell us the meanings of words used by tramps and cockneys.
He is also wary of talking about the homosocial (or homosexual) culture of
tramps. He refers in passing to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>nancy
boys</i>” and suggests older pederasts prey on them. (Chapter 29) But of course
it would be hard to elaborate about this in a book published in 1933.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Apart from its
disjointedness, <i>Down and</i> <i>Out in Paris and London</i> has some moments
which would now offend many readers. There are some places where antisemitism
is suggested. In Chapter 3, after an altercation with a Jewish buyer of
second-hand clothes, Orwell says “<i>It would have been a pleasure to flatten
the Jew’s nose…</i>” . Boris the Russian gives a full-blast anti-Jewish rant in
Chapter 6. How antisemitic was Orwell? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>D. J. Taylor devotes a chapter to this in his
biography of Orwell and comes to the conclusion that Orwell was not antisemitic
but sometimes spoke crudely as other Englishmen did when they were looking to
insult people… and after the Second World War broke out, Orwell never said
anything even mildly negative about Jews. Orwell did, however, have prejudices,
and was often ready to belittle American tourists. Speaking of American
tourists’ behaviour in French restaurants, he wrote: “<i>They would stuff
themselves with disgusting American ‘cereals’, and eat marmalade at tea, and
drink vermouth after dinner, and order a poulet a la reine at a hundred francs,
and then souse it in Worcester sauce</i>.” (Chapter 14) “Disgusting American
‘cereals’” ??? Presumably Orwell assumed that English porridge was the only
decent breakfast there was. Little did the poor chap know that just a few
decades after he was writing, cornflakes and other “disgusting” cereals would
become the mainstay of British breakfasts. As for the misuse of marmalade,
vermouth and <i>poulet a la reine … </i>Oh my! Bring me my smelling salts!</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In spite of all
this, <i>Down and</i> <i>Out in Paris and London</i> remains an interesting
survey of some levels of poverty over 90 years ago. It is still very readable
and much of it is still relevant to social conditions.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-63035368389858747232023-10-16T09:00:00.001+13:002023-10-16T09:00:00.143+13:00Something Thoughtful<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> </span>
</p><p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> IN PRAISE OF AN EXOTIC BIRD </span></b><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></b></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve begun talking
to the birds. This doesn’t mean that I’ve suddenly become Francis of Assisi. It
means that I’ve become acquainted with a bird who seems intelligent, resourceful
and relatable. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I regret to note
that this is not an indigenous bird, even though I am in favour of giving great
protection to our indigenous birds. The main tree in front of our suburban
house is often a roosting opportunity for tuis and magpies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For some days the tuis are in charge and then
for some days the magpies chase them away and take over. It’s like a ritual
changing-of-the-guard. Of course I favour the tuis because they are indigenous
and have delightful songs <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and because
the magpies are aggressive and capable of attacking people. But then, given my
experience as a tour-guide on Tiritiri Matangi, I’m aware that tuis are also
aggressive when they chase away, from nectar-bearing flowers, other and smaller
birds, such as the hihi (“stitch bird”) and the korimako (“bellbird”). And if
you’ve ever seen a group of tui drinking from a communal water-bowl, you will
see that they are quarrelsome and angry and capable of fighting within their
own cohort. As for the magpies, I once had an epiphany when I saw a magpie
interloping on Tiritiri Matangi and thought she had no right to be there. Then
I realised that I as a human being had no more right to be there than she had.
And I gazed and realised that, nuisance or not, a magpie is a very well-structured
and formidable bird. One of evolution’s most handsome creations.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And yet, alas, I
digress. For the non-indigenous, unassuming, affable bird I am talking about is
the humble, modest orange-beaked blackbird.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">My acquaintance with
this agreeable bird happened thus: My wife, a diligent gardener, had noticed
that as soon she had planted seeds to grow beans, capsicums, marigolds and
other flowers or edibles, a hitherto unknown blackbird would hop along, stab
its beak into the earth, and eat the seed. So much did this irate my wife that
she took to cultivating beans, marigolds and capsicums in our enclosed upstairs
conservatory. And yet, having watched the blackbird’s behaviour, I soon discovered
the admirable side of the chap. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The blackbird
would always hop (not fly) down from the highest bough to Mother Earth,
oblivious to whatever quarrelling tuis or magpies were around. The blackbird
would carefully survey the terrain, looking here, looking there, even [with one
eye pointing in my direction] looking at me as I looked at him from the nearest
window. The blackbird would then peck at the earth, stop, look around to make
sure was no enemy or threat there, resume pecking satisfied that the coast was
clear, then stop, look around to make sure was no enemy or threat there, resume
pecking satisfied that the coast was clear, then stop, look around to make sure
was no enemy or threat there, resume pecking satisfied that the coast was clear
etc. etc. etc. A wonderfully judicious creature.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">By this stage,
seeds having been withdrawn from the patch he haunted, he pecked often at roots,
occasionally at smaller leaves, although I never saw him hunt worms. Maybe this
was just happenstance. Maybe blackbirds are not carnivores. I do not know.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In my presence,
the blackbird was fearless. Yesterday I was mowing the front lawn, near and
around the roots of the tree the blackbird favoured. For all the racket the
motor-mower made, the blackbird did not retreat, but stood no less than three
feet from me and my machine, waiting until I was mowing elsewhere when he could
immediately delve into the earth my blades had been churning up.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">When he takes cover
at ground-level, he tends to shelter under the hibiscus shrub. The earth
underneath the shrub is always in a state of apparent chaos. This is the
blackbird’s doing as he rootles around in the mulch my wife has scattered
there. I sit on the – very modest and old – deck and watch him go about his
work. He looks up at me every so often without flinching. I am simply part of
his environment and – so long as I don’t charge at him or make a lot of noise –
he is quite happy with me.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I have begun
talking to him, knowing he won’t understand a word I am saying. But how else
can I celebrate the presence of such an industrious and discreet creature?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a privilege to be in the presence of
another relatable being in this universe, even if this presence is bemused by
the bipedal ape-creature watching him.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">“Good morning,
blackbird”, I say. But he is too busy to engage in such niceties. </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-62744388301764123872023-10-02T09:02:00.001+13:002023-10-02T09:02:00.141+13:00Something New<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">THE
FORGOTTEN FOREST</b>” by Robert Vennell (Harper-Collins, $NZ40); “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">THE TRACKERS</b>” by Charles Frazier<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Harper-Collins, $NZ35); “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DOWN SOUTH</b>” by<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bruce Ansley (Harper-Collins, $NZ35)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmL5e0cFJ-ZWz5WqXHrx-YOjJX3D-ECeUp-M05DB8guoPfxQ6SLv7JOxQrD3ShNgS8wwS91RKKcNftNMZosWDfhdyxNoKOX5XLhenqMPDxCu0AqIrITZyF514rb_tccPetLhpWxVc-XXEKlQ5i6qXHXMC2SHdIucqaqWkyVbNb0v-wu6tQyxWhH2dVr9Gk/s300/9781775542193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="220" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmL5e0cFJ-ZWz5WqXHrx-YOjJX3D-ECeUp-M05DB8guoPfxQ6SLv7JOxQrD3ShNgS8wwS91RKKcNftNMZosWDfhdyxNoKOX5XLhenqMPDxCu0AqIrITZyF514rb_tccPetLhpWxVc-XXEKlQ5i6qXHXMC2SHdIucqaqWkyVbNb0v-wu6tQyxWhH2dVr9Gk/w296-h404/9781775542193.jpg" width="296" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Robert Vennell’s <i>The Forgotten Forest</i> –
subtitled “In Search of the Lost Plants and Fungi of Aotearoa” – is a truly
beautiful book, and I mean beautiful in its physical presentation as much as in
its contents. Vennell, a Natural Science curator at the Auckland War Memorial
Museum, has previously produced <i>The Meaning of Trees</i> [about indigenous
New Zealand trees] and <i>Secrets of the Sea</i> [about indigenous New Zealand
sea creatures]. Writing about New Zealand fungi, lichen, liverwort, mosses and
slime mould might seem less attractive than trees and sea creatures and more
likely to be regarded as a specialist interest. But as presented by Vennell it
becomes very interesting, even to a layman like me.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let’s consider the presentation
first. <i>The Forgotten Forest</i> opens with 32 plates of coloured drawings,
produced in the 18<sup>th</sup> and 19<sup>th</sup> centuries by European
botanists and explorers, depicting fungi, native or introduced, mushrooms,
parasites, poisonous mushrooms (like the introduced “death cap” mushroom),
puffballs and many other specimens. The book closes with another 32 pages of
yet more specimens. This artwork is somehow more precise and more explanatory
than photographs of the same specimens would be. They are also very elegant.
The text of <i>The Forgotten Forest</i> is presented in blocks of words leaving
very wide margins and with lines widely-spaced. This is very much in the style
in which books were once published, helped by the fact that this is a hardback
book. There are wonderfully precise end-notes, allowing readers to find more
details about specimens, and a very comprehensive bibliography. Before his
poetic prologue, Vennell warns that it is foolish to forage for mushrooms when
you do not know the correct identifications of specific types of mushrooms.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so to the text.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vennell imagines he (and we) are
walking through the New Zealand bush and forest, and he describes step-by-step
what we would see of the fungi and small plants. As often as is relevant he
makes reference to Maori lore and beliefs about many plants, citing legends and
using both Maori and Linnaean versions of a plant’s name… as well as the more
casual Pakeha names.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To give only one chapter in detail –
the opening chapter “The mystery of mushrooms”… We walk into the dark forest
where just a little sunlight makes it through the canopy of tall trees. We
encounter basket fungus, which is very smelly, and then the starfish fungus
known in Latin as <i>aseroe rubra</i> “disgusting red juice”. Yet both were
eaten by Maori, so long as they were harvested in the right season. They can be
“<i>poisonous without<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>proper preparation
and can cause its victims to stagger about uncontrollably</i>” (p.23). As we
walk deeper into the forest, where there is no gap in the canopy at all, we see
the luminescent <i>harore</i>, a fungus that feeds on decaying wood; and pouch
fungus which may (this is a theory) once have been eaten by<i> moa</i>. When
the <i>moa</i> defecated, says the theory, the seeds of the pouch fungus would
be excreted out. An interesting way of spreading the pouch fungus and producing
progeny. Nature is of course very cruel. In the forest, the parasite <i>awheo </i>is
able to destroy caterpillars either by drilling into them or laying microscopic
eggs which feed off the caterpillar until the caterpillar dies… and yet the
same <i>awheo</i> produced the black ink that was important for Maori
tattooing. Magic mushrooms were inadvertently brought to New Zealand by
European livestock, only later being hunted by people looking for a psychedelic
trip. They are now designated as Class A drugs. Having no negative effects, but
not really edible, are the beautiful blue mushrooms, known as <i>werewere
kokako</i> as Maori lore said that the <i>kokako</i> [bird] must have rubbed
itself with the blue mushroom to brighten its blue wattle…. And there are
puffballs which can be prepared as food and taste something like tofu… and
there is <i>hakeke</i>, or rubbery ear, a helpful parasite very edible to the
Chinese and therefore once an important export.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now all this is found in only the
first of the five chapters of <i>The Forgotten Forest</i> . I brusquely sum up
what follows. Chapter 2 moves us into mountain country, analysing lichen and
especially highlighting the “wool-dyers lichen” which literally became that.
Chapter 3 looks at mountain pools where liverworts proliferate, growing on land
but mating in water very much as their ancestors did millions of years ago.
Incidentally, the leafy liverwort <i>wairuakohu</i> pumps out cannabinoids with
very, very vaguely similar effects as the effects of cannabis – but they are so
mild that even dedicated potheads are not particularly interested in it.
Chapter 4 is in the wet rainforest and examines mosses, including the absorbent
<i>sphagnum</i> moss, the <i>kohukohu</i> which is soft and healing enough to
be used in bandages; and the dung moss which flourishes on excrement. And
finally in Chapter 5, encounters with delightful slime moulds, including the
“dog vomit” slime, slime always being amoeboid – meaning it is like a much
enlarged form of one of the simplest and lowly of living things.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What more can I say? Enlightening to
the non-specialist, written in an engaging way, filled with information and
anecdote and certainly vivid, <i>The Forgotten Forest</i> is a great education
for adults and other human beings.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 60pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 60pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPO3t7Syjt1xrPyABWjkmy5paKRJelngQp_ZeWYqAxfzUgRhZLyjf8v8vT9G8-euzzTVBwxVhA2Tr9h8IZKTIx5BhiTwGRV6zVZ2OBDL8en02foOq4WQ8Q7mqIwaDtDBRu9iaef06zrKQvMdNTIpXk_XK_PIl8X-fcnsvJ2J4QkKDmtaEjjHtwUdQ6O01Z/s500/s-l500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="465" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPO3t7Syjt1xrPyABWjkmy5paKRJelngQp_ZeWYqAxfzUgRhZLyjf8v8vT9G8-euzzTVBwxVhA2Tr9h8IZKTIx5BhiTwGRV6zVZ2OBDL8en02foOq4WQ8Q7mqIwaDtDBRu9iaef06zrKQvMdNTIpXk_XK_PIl8X-fcnsvJ2J4QkKDmtaEjjHtwUdQ6O01Z/w305-h465/s-l500.jpg" width="305" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">I rejoiced when American
author Charles Frazier’s best-known novel <i>Cold Mountain</i> was published in
1997. It struck me as having a unique and original perspective on the
Confederacy in the American Civil War. I wrote a very positive review of it for
an Auckland newspaper and I thought the movie that was made from it, a year or
two later, was pretty good. But the quality of an author’s output is not
necessarily consistent; and the next novel I read by Frazier <a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2011/10/something-new.html"><b>Nightwoods</b></a>,
in 2011, [reviewed in this blog] struck me as leaning too much
on melodrama, coincidence and formula, in spite of some of the descriptive sections
at which Frazier is very talented. Frazier’s latest novel (his fifth) <i>The
Trackers</i> has many of the merits but also some of the flaws of Frazier’s
work.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">The story is set
in the late 1930s (1937 to be precise). The Great Depression is still eating at
America, even though F.D.R.’s “New Deal” is in full swing. The government’s
W.P.A. [Works Progress Administration] busily makes work for some of the
unemployed. One W.P.A. programme funds artists who are willing to produce
“public” art. The main character and first-person narrator of <i>The Trackers</i>
is Val Welch, an artist recruited by the W.P.A. to paint a mural for a post
office in faraway Wyoming. Val has to travel from his native Virginia, half a
continent away. As he sets about his work he becomes involved with an ambitious
and wealthy rancher, John Long, who is a big wheel in Wyoming’s politics and
who hopes to become a U.S. senator. The opening sections of the novel are very
promising. Val Welch gives his dry and ironic views of the rancher, his cowboy
workers and the small town whose post office he is adorning. At the same time,
he has to learn that these rural folks are not idiots and they are often both
shrewder and better informed on some things than he is. Some of them can even
discuss art intelligently.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">So far, so interesting.
But then, about a quarter of the way through [please note I do not disclose and
spoil the outcomes of new novels], there comes the main thread of the plot.
Wealthy John Long’s much younger wife Eve runs away, we know not whither. Long
wants her back, and who does he commission to track her down and bring her
back? Why, the inexperienced, callow, non-he-man, non-detective, Val Welch of
course. At which point credibility crumbles a little. How come Long’s tough and
experienced trackers weren’t given the commission? A reason is given, but it’s
not a very credible one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his quest
for the missing wife, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Val has to go to a
backward county of Florida where he is confronted by a homicidal and slightly
moronic family who seem to have emerged from an Erskine Caldwell novel. He goes
to raw young Seattle where there are shady doings on every street. He hits the glamourous
and the tawdry streets of San Francisco … in short, he covers a huge part of
the map of the U.S.A. and drives down many a dusty rural or desert road.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Frazier lays on
heavily fragments of the Depression era. There are tales of “Hoovervilles”
(shanty-towns populated by impoverished unemployed men and some women), runaway
youngsters riding the rails looking for work, devious bankers and references to
iconic 1930s things – the newly-made Golden Gate Bridge; the crash-and-burn of
the “Hindenburg”; movies with Ginger Rogers in them etc. All very interesting, even
if it makes the novel a kind of cross between John Steinbeck and Dashiell
Hammett. But my beef is the improbable and, alas, the cliché premise. Wealthy man
getting somebody to find a runaway wife with some sex and violence wrapped in?
Hmmm… that one goes back as far as films noirs like <i>Out of the Past</i>
(Robert Mitchum tracks down Jane Greer) in the 1940s. And of course the missing
wife in this novel is a temptress. Why else would she be called Eve?</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">But don’t let
grumpy old me put you off this entertaining genre book. Maybe I’ve just seen
too many old films.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPU-CdNJQ0mdIA28K4O8ytYmghTVX5Qy0gTgnYtwHZw-0XnKXLOr_9ihUG1RVLSltiwWMGS3jTjm_doz_K4-e5QPFwU9uWkwag00dQPk5LETLKfkHCQOsUMb4Qchd65aQYJeA9PTeQHeEp0Trsju4zTTpGr2tEh4jQ42tO6NUZhor_ukUUyKx8t7x29Ai/s1449/x960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1449" data-original-width="960" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPU-CdNJQ0mdIA28K4O8ytYmghTVX5Qy0gTgnYtwHZw-0XnKXLOr_9ihUG1RVLSltiwWMGS3jTjm_doz_K4-e5QPFwU9uWkwag00dQPk5LETLKfkHCQOsUMb4Qchd65aQYJeA9PTeQHeEp0Trsju4zTTpGr2tEh4jQ42tO6NUZhor_ukUUyKx8t7x29Ai/w296-h447/x960.jpg" width="296" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Here's one of
those silly mistakes that turns out to be fruitful. On their list of new publications,
Harper-Collins included Bruce Ansley’s <i>Down South</i>, subtitled on the
cover as <i>In</i> <i>Search of the Great Southern Land</i>. I’d never heard of
this book and naturally assumed it was a new book. Only when the kindly people
at Harper-Collins sent it to me did I discover that it was a new “edition” of a
book first published in 2020 – and in this case I suspect “new edition” really
means “newly reprinted”.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">No matter. I sat
down and read it with great pleasure. Bruce Ansley is a seasoned journalist who
has made his mark in many newspapers and in the <i>NZ Listener</i>. Born and
raised in Christchurch, he now (post-Christchurch earthquakes) lives in
Auckland, on Waiheke Island, but he loves the South Island and <i>Down South</i>
essentially revels in the long island. Personally, I’ve always been an
Aucklander and I like it here, but I have stayed on the West Coast, have walked
as far up Fox Glacier as one can walk, have tramped the length of the Heaphy
Track, the Kepler Track and the Mount Richmond Crossing (where my then-teenaged
son and I got lost in a snowstorm) and in the Catlins. I have been hosted by
good friends in Nelson, have visited (yeeech!) Queenstown, enjoyed various
visits to (pre-Earthquake) Christchurch and thoroughly enjoyed a year in
Dunedin. This is all by way of saying that, contented Aucklander though I may
be, I know how enticing so much of the South Island is. So I understand Bruce
Ansley’s enthusiasm.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Ansley’s general
technique is to give an anecdotal history of South Island locations and then chronicle
his own engagement with these places. He begins by reminding us that in the
nineteenth century, the South Island had a much greater population than the
North Island – but the balance changed over the years and now the South Island
carries only a quarter of the nation’s population. Unco dour Presbyterian
Dunedin was for years New Zealand’s largest city, and it was radically changed
– to the consternation of the city fathers – when gold was discovered in
Central Otago, bringing in miners and gold-hunters with money on their minds.
Ansley tells quite a few tales of those goldrush days (maybe too many) then
gives his own impressions of the terrain as it now is. He crosses to the West
Coast and ponders on the old coal miners. West Coast industries are dying and
we now have a different attitude towards fossil fuels. This is followed by
tales of the sheep barons of the nineteenth century who made huge profits from
grazing their stock on vast estates that were bought for tuppence from Maori
who didn’t really endorse the deal… but New Zealand ultimately did not live off
the sheep’s back and dairy farming became the more dominant form of farming on
the Canterbury plains… which now means problems with effluents (cow poo)
fouling the waterways. Systems to limit pollution are now demanded. And after
sheep and cows, in the later 20<sup>th</sup> century more niche animals began
to be farmed. Apparently without great success, Ansley himself spent some years
farming deer, for the “velvet” as much as for the venison.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Ansley takes a
critical view of tourism, which is now one of New Zealand’s major industries.
His chapter on tourism is the longest in the book. As often as not, he shows
how much an invasion of tourists destroys environments and usually destroys the
charms of the locations that attracted tourists in the first place. In fact,
this is true of tourism in all parts of the world. He is scathing about Akaroa,
touted as a quant “French” town, but now tramped to pieces by cruise-ship
hordes. He admits that he himself has been a tourist (he visited White Island-Whakaari
a few years before it exploded) but he still charts in detail how older
communities have been destroyed by interlopers.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And then, using
his original home-town base Christchurch, he introduces the South Island’s
problems with earthquakes. The terror and destruction of Christchurch are
centre-front, together with the very mixed – and sometimes very questionable –
attempts to mend and re-build the city. There is the fact that, though the
North Island had the Napier earthquake in the 1930s, it is the South Island
that is most often struck in this way. Christchurch, Kaikoura, Murchison. The
South Island lives on the great Alpine Fault, waiting to move and destroy much
of the South Island, as seismologists know. It’s only a matter of time…The
book’s tone becomes less sombre when Ansley turns to Nelson, how it almost
became the country’s capital, how habitable and friendly it is. The bill of
health he gives for Nelson is so positive that he almost seems to be offering
the city a free advertisement. It’s more fun when he recalls his student days,
long ago, when he picked tobacco for what is now a defunct and despised
industry. Oh, and there are also now craft beers produced in the Waimea Valley.
He fades out with memories of living in a bach on Golden Bay.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Ansley style is
breezy, sometimes a little sarcastic (especially about pompous people from the
past) but still packed with information, with vivid vignettes of cities, towns
and deserted places, and with a real sense of the outdoors, the majesty of
nature and the contours of the land. A great pleasure to read.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-1056005112456796652023-10-02T09:01:00.003+13:002023-10-02T09:01:00.136+13:00Something Old<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-US"><span lang="EN-US"><b><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px; text-align: left;">Not
everything worth reading is hot off the press. In this section, we recommend "something old" that is still well worth
reading. "Something Old" can mean anything from a venerable and antique
classic to a good book first published four or more years ago.</b></b></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“COMING UP FOR AIR”</b> by George Orwell ( written 1938; first
published1939)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNOriQdlJJowaTngMUq03mpEbLOO7OEPBWNtBbmAVPRdI3DD0koRNWa_MKA2oj0D7wOqXIqvi03sbhoKVj7m0km6FLVZSYDFctw9Th_Sl2uz2fdqjea8kiHPf2H3j6G4Oy4y-S7lx-14OEQAplhfsCVYSBCWmzpTQ3w3Z79N9QMBax1UULnypHNRRX3Iv/s2000/00054467.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNOriQdlJJowaTngMUq03mpEbLOO7OEPBWNtBbmAVPRdI3DD0koRNWa_MKA2oj0D7wOqXIqvi03sbhoKVj7m0km6FLVZSYDFctw9Th_Sl2uz2fdqjea8kiHPf2H3j6G4Oy4y-S7lx-14OEQAplhfsCVYSBCWmzpTQ3w3Z79N9QMBax1UULnypHNRRX3Iv/w385-h385/00054467.jpg" width="385" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">After considering on this blog George Orwell’s first three novels, </span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/09/burmesedaysgeorgeorwell.html">Burmese Days</a></span></b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">, </span><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/09/something-old.html"><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A
Clergyman’s Daughter</span></b></a><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"> and </span><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2013/10/something-old.html"><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Keep the Aspidistra Flying</span></b></a><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">, I admit to a certain
degree of trepidation in attempting to examine his fourth novel <i>Coming Up
For Air</i>. It was written (as all his biographers confirm) when Orwell and
his wife Eileen O’Shaughnessy were staying in Morocco for some months as Orwell
was trying to recuperate from his worsening tuberculosis. Quite a number of
literary critics have lauded <i>Coming Up For Air</i> as Orwell’s best novel
and have suggested that it’s the only novel in which Orwell freed himself from
speaking and editorialising in his own voice. <i>Coming Up For Air</i> is the
only novel Orwell wrote in the first person, and it is narrated by a character
very different from Orwell in his interests, attitudes and social class.
Nevertheless, I see it very much as a tract for the specific time and place in
which it was written, and there are some awkward moments when the mask slips
and the narrating character does speak in Orwell’s voice.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">George Bowling is 45, fat (he often refers to himself as fat and some
people address him as “Tubby”) and bored, bored, bored with both his job and
his family. He lives in a new suburb of London, West Bletchley, and sells
insurance or checks on insurance claims, which means he has to spend much time
driving around different parts of the country. Of course he wears a bowler hat.
He earns about eight pounds per week which only just makes him part of a
“respectable” class – lower middle-class – but his house is small, mortgaged
and cramped, his wife Hilda nags him, and their two children (mentioned only in
passing) are a nuisance. He is of an age – his forties – in which a man for the
last time seriously considers running away from it all. Although he hasn’t told
his wife, he has won 17 pounds on the races – a big sum in 1938 – and he plans
to disappear with it for a while. He is disgusted by suburban conformity,
stating: “<i>You know how these streets fester all over the inner-outer
suburbs. Always the same. Long, long rows of little semi-detached houses – the
numbers in Ellesmere Road run to 212 and ours is 191 – as much alike as council
houses and generally uglier. The stucco front, the creosoted gate, the privet
hedge, the green front door. The Laurels, the Myrtles, the Hawthorns, Mon Abri,
Mon Repos, Belle Vue. And perhaps at one house in fifty some anti-social type
who’ll probably end up in the workhouse has painted his front door blue instead
of green</i>.” (Part 1, Chapter 2) Shoddy mass-produced food also disgusts him
and so does a scene in which he sees a pompous store-walker verbally abusing a
young woman clerk.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Yet there is another preoccupation. Seeing (R.A.F.) bombers flying
overheard he (like others) is aware that another major war is looming. Everyone
believes war will come in 1941 and George Bowling prophesises that: “<i>I can
hear the air-raid sirens blowing and the loud-speakers bellowing that our
glorious troops have taken a hundred thousand prisoners. I can see a
top-floor-back in Birmingham and a child of five howling and howling for a bit
of bread. And suddenly the mother can’t stand it any longer, and she yells at
it, ‘Shut your trap you little bastard”, and then she ups the child’s frock and
smacks its bottom hard, because there isn’t any bread and isn’t going to be any
bread. I see it all. I see the posters and the food-queues, and the castor oil
and the rubber truncheons and the machine-guns squirting out of bedroom
windows… I know in my bones there’s no escaping it</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Part 1, Chapter 4</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">) </span></b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">This vision of coming desolation can only
have been encouraged by Orwell’s experience in the Spanish Civil War. So even
if he is sick of conformity he knows that something worse may be coming.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">He begins to think how much better the country was before the [First]
World War especially in the Edwardian age, and the second part of the novel –
all ten chapters of it – has him reminiscing on his early life. </span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3a7jtwQTeDaTTRPW_QeglqGc_7NjHBftg4kyw4S3OVqKnX0Vn_RitjMBFEGiQP2ozYPd5M38imUhS8neLPTTvssbo4vBkjJBuU70GkHHm28rgisvT5B13WIgBilPsUs77zh9ec_PhqIgtXj81qKfs8uDf12Qd-HUSi-KC6dExdm_Ky7HhIqxPNHJQbh1/s346/51ukWQ5SinL._SY346_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="242" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO3a7jtwQTeDaTTRPW_QeglqGc_7NjHBftg4kyw4S3OVqKnX0Vn_RitjMBFEGiQP2ozYPd5M38imUhS8neLPTTvssbo4vBkjJBuU70GkHHm28rgisvT5B13WIgBilPsUs77zh9ec_PhqIgtXj81qKfs8uDf12Qd-HUSi-KC6dExdm_Ky7HhIqxPNHJQbh1/w353-h504/51ukWQ5SinL._SY346_.jpg" width="353" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Of course there was hardship back then, and people had to work very hard
for a wage - George Bowling doesn’t deny it – but in those former days there
was some sort of cohesion holding society together. He remembers what it was
like when he was a little boy, when there were open fields and much opportunity
to go rambling. His home town, Lower Binfield, was a farming town where his
father was a seed merchant. Newspapers were the only way of learning the news,
and there were sometimes heated discussions between Imperialists and Little
Englanders. Young George Bowling did well at junior school and then at grammar
school, but his older brother Joe was at best a slow learner and finally took
to criminality and disappeared from the country. George never goes to
university as he has to earn money to help his family. But his real passion is
fishing in local pools. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remembers: “<i>I’ve
still got, I’ve always had, that peculiar feeling for fishing. You’d think its
damned silly no doubt, but I’ve actually half a wish to go fishing even now,
when I’m fat and forty-five and got two kids and a house in the suburbs. Why?
Because in a manner of speaking I <u>am </u>sentimental about my childhood, but
the civilization which I grew up in and which is now, I suppose, just about its
last kick. And fishing is something typical of the civilization. As soon as you
think of fishing you think of things that don’t belong to the modern world. The
very idea of sitting all day under a willow tree beside a quiet pond – and
being able to find a quiet pool to sit beside – belongs to a time before the
war, before the radio, before aeroplanes, before Hitler…. Does anyone go
fishing nowadays, I wonder? Anywhere within a hundred miles of London there are
no fish to catch</i>… <i>Now all the ponds are drained, and when the streams
aren’t poisoned with chemicals from factories they’re full of rusty tins and
motor-bike tyres.</i>”(Part 2, Chapter 4) When he was an adolescent, he knew of
a hidden pond that was teeming with fish, but he never got a chance to fish in
it. In a way, the image of pond-fishing becomes a metaphor for how good the
earlier times were – or at least seemed to be. When he was a squaddie in France
in the First World War, he and a fellow soldier found a beautiful pool to fish,
but they were moved off to another front before they could catch anything. Both
George’s parents died during the war, and George spent a year-and-a-half having
to guard a depot of no importance – a triumph of misplaced bureaucracy.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Post-war, from 1918 on, things got worse. The golden memories of the
Edwardian age are gone. George Bowling has a pessimistic idea of society : “<i>If
the war didn’t happen to kill you it was bound to start you thinking. After
that unspeakable idiotic mess you couldn’t go on regarding society as something
eternal and unquestionable, like a pyramid. You knew it was just a balls-up</i>.”
(Part 2, Chapter 8)</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">There’s a slump. Respectable shopkeepers and farmers are now in a losing
conflict with competitive corporations. Former soldiers are begging on street
corners. Horses have largely disappeared and cars dominate streets. George’s
only pleasure is seducing and cohabiting with a buxom woman called Elsie. The
best job he can get is “on commission” as a travelling salesman. Only by chance
does he meet someone who gives him a real job in insurance with a guaranteed
salary of eight pounds a week…and 18 years later, passing through the even
bigger depression, he is still stuck with the same salary. In 1923 he marries
Hilda, who comes from what George thinks of as the
officer-clergy-colonial-official class – meaning a family with pretentions to
gentility but who are in fact very short of money. George remarks: “<i>Well,
Hilda and I were married, and right from the start it was a flop. Why did you
marry her? you say. But why did you marry yours? These things happen to us. I
wonder whether you’ll believe that during the first two or three years I had
serious thoughts of killing Hilda. Of course in practice one never does those
things, they’re only a kind of fantasy one enjoys thinking about. Besides,
Chaps who murder their wives always get copped</i>…” (Part 2, Chapter 10) And
the suburbs are now expanding and creeping nearer and nearer to rural areas.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Snapping back to the present (1938) era, in Part 3, George considers the
meanness of his wife, the fads she and her women friends fall for, and how they
will go to any event so long as entry is free. George and Hilda and Hilda’s
friends go one evening to a talk sponsored by the Left Book Club<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- the distribution arm of left-wing political
books published by Gollancz. The address is given by “<i>a well-known
anti-Fascist</i>”. The speaker lectures on preparedness for war, but George is
most aware of the savagery with which the lecturer speaks, and his apparent
lust for violence. George is disgusted. [</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Footnote</span></b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">: <i>Coming Up for Air</i>
was published by Victor Gollancz, who was angry that Orwell included this
passage which ridiculed his book club, but he let it be published anyway.] At
the end of the lecture, a small group of Stalinists and Trotskyites – all of
them middle-class of course – have a pointless squabble. George Bowling [and
Orwell] regards Hitler and Stalin as cut from the same cloth… but when he
attempts to be soothed by on old civilised chap called Porteous, all he hears
are fusty cliches about old England and its glory, which is obviously a lie of
another sort.</span></p><p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZv_kfL3DUsYTQXzoygd070kKDsAnVaMdnB7gBVSeDsdT-gMEOaLcMV4pIbXz0Kf0rdU0t5lIhr_MufrSVQIAfaeZ19ZrzWwvhhLg3YYJzb5_HU_N5P-Nw0xFS_J2fSLr6wM7CNeUoOpMzz_YBvy8f_8r8D1JQDNsF2knbRRNlel3YRLl9Trec4ykK9jW5/s1520/9780198804819.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1520" data-original-width="1000" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZv_kfL3DUsYTQXzoygd070kKDsAnVaMdnB7gBVSeDsdT-gMEOaLcMV4pIbXz0Kf0rdU0t5lIhr_MufrSVQIAfaeZ19ZrzWwvhhLg3YYJzb5_HU_N5P-Nw0xFS_J2fSLr6wM7CNeUoOpMzz_YBvy8f_8r8D1JQDNsF2knbRRNlel3YRLl9Trec4ykK9jW5/w285-h433/9780198804819.jpg" width="285" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">So, at last, after deceiving his wife that he has business to do in
Birmingham, he sets off (with the 17 pounds he won) to visit Lower Binfield,
the rural town which he hasn’t seen for decades. <i>En route</i> he has an
epiphany when he stops at a hedge row, admires the beauty of primroses and
feels a sense of peace in the bosom of Nature. He feels he is “<i>coming up for
air</i>”, escaping horrible crass suburban-ism. He dreams of catching fish in
the hidden pool he once knew. But (Part 4) everything becomes disillusion.
Lower Binfield has been swallowed up by suburbs. Nobody living there recognises
his family name. He goes to a Tea Shop and then to a restaurant and sees
nothing but newly painted decorations pretending to be Ye Olde. He goes to the
church and finds the same old vicar who was there thirty years earlier but who
does not know him. He sees a bullying Girl Scouts leader, marching with uniformed
children holding signs saying “England Must Be Prepared” [for war]. He sees the
tow-path from which he used to fish on his own with nary another person in
sight. Now it is crammed with visitors and tourists and punts and motorboats
and noise. He recognises a woman who is the Elsie with whom he once cohabited,
but she is now fat and blowsy, a drudge married to a man with a small
tobacconist shop. She does not recognise him. Finally he ventures to go to the
great hidden pool in which he hoped to fish, but inevitably it no longer
exists. It has been drained and is used as a rubbish dump. Where a mansion
used to stand, there is now a psychiatric hospital (George calls it a “loony
bin”) and clustered around it there is yet another suburb, only this is a
suburb for wealthier and more pretentious people, with so many Mock Tudor
houses and a plethora of vegetarians (one of George Orwell’s pet hates) all of
whom delude themselves that they are living with Nature. At which point an
R.A.F. bomber accidentally drops a bomb on the town and in the explosion,
destruction and some deaths we have a clear foretaste of the coming war.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">George Bowling scarpers back to his London suburban home where he has to
face the wrath of his wife, who has worked out that he never was doing business
in Birmingham and who suspects him of having a surreptitious affair with
another woman. The novel ends with George bracing himself for another domestic
barney… and life goes on.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">One obvious message of all this is that “<i>you can’t go home again</i>”.
Nostalgia can be a drug based on false memories. On the other hand, the past is
a reality and not to be denied or disregarded. [Remember in Orwell’s <i>1984</i>,
a totalitarian regime frequently attempts to wipe out historical facts of the
past when they no longer suit the regime’s current policies.] Besides, while George
Bowling’s memories are sometimes too rosy, he is aware of the flaws of the past
and is often critical of the past. He is not a naif. Putting together his
memories and his awareness of the present moment, we get a sort of popular
history of England from the 1900s to the 1930s, even if it is told from a
particular point of view – the perspective of a lower-middle-class employee
just managing to be acceptable to the middle classes. And of course he’s a bit
of a wit. <i>Coming Up for Air</i> is as much a work of comedy as it is a
social commentary.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Yet there are problems in the narration. There are still those moments
when Orwell’s own voice is the ventriloquist’s voice pretending to be George
Bowling’s voice. Take the moment when “George” describes the type of books he’s
enjoyed reading, showing what might be defined as upper-middle-brow reading: “<i>Don’t
run away with the idea that I suddenly discovered Marcel Proust or Henry James
or somebody. I wouldn’t have read them even if I had. These books I’m speaking
of weren’t in the least highbrow. But now and again it so happens that you
strike a book which is exactly at the mental level you’ve reached at the
moment, so much so that it seems to have been written especially for you. One
of them was H. G. Wells’s <u>The History of Mr Polly</u>, in a cheap edition
which was falling to pieces. I wonder if you can imagine the effect it had on
me, to be brought up as I’d been brought up, the son of a shopkeeper in a
country town and then to come across a book like that? Another was Compton
Mackenzie’s <u>Sinister Street</u>…. Conrad’s <u>Victory</u>… a short story of
D. H. Lawrence’s…”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Part 2, Chapter
8) “</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The mental level you’ve reached</span></i></b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">”??? Would Bowling have used such a phrase? Here
Orwell is obviously recalling his own reading agenda when he was a young man,
and the inclusion of Wells’s <i>The History of Mr Polly</i> is a sort of
give-away in that it tells the story of a middle-aged man, bored with this
humdrum life, choosing to run away and find something better, just like George
Bowling – although, dare I say it, Mr Polly’s story is a lot more anarchic than
poor George Bowling’s journey into disillusion. [ For the record, in my posting
<b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2021/09/hgwellscontemporarysocialnovels.html">H.G. Wells Contemporary Social Novel</a>s</b></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I nominated <i>The History of Mr Polly</i> as “<i>the
best and most entertaining novel</i> [Wells] <i>ever wrote, and certainly my
favourite</i>”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">.]</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">There are other
flaws in <i>Coming Up for Air</i>. It is amazing that, though mentioned, George
Bowling’s two children simply disappear from the story and are not really
characterised. A chastising critic like Anna Funder, in her take-down of Orwell
called<b><a href="https://reidsreader.blogspot.com/2023/08/something-new.html"> Wifedom,</a></b> might call out Bowling’s misogyny, in that he often makes
casual comments about how useless women are or how much he wants to seduce them
while he’s on his rambles – although Funder would strike out on that one given
that, in <i>Wifedom</i> itself, Funder notes that Orwell’s wife Eileen O’Shaughnessy
liked <i>Coming Up for Air</i>. Besides, the way George Bowling thinks and
speaks is really an accurate way men of his temperament did speak in the
English 1930s. Finally there is the fact that <i>Coming Up for Air</i> is
really specific commentary on an earlier age – an age now passed – and therefore
belongs to historical studies.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*. *.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
at this point, dear reader, I am going to right royally annoy you. After having
given detailed accounts of the four novels which Orwell wrote in the 1930s - <i>Burmese
Days</i>, <i>A Clergyman’s Daughter</i>, <i>Keep the Aspidistra Flying</i> and <i>Coming
Up for Air</i> – I am NOT going to write critiques of the two works of fiction
Orwell wrote in the 1940s, the novella <i>Animal Farm</i> and the novel <i>1984,
</i>which are surely Orwell’s best known works. “Why not?” you ask. Because
these works and their contents are so well known that you do not need me to puzzle
them out for you. Is there really anybody reading this blog who has not heard “<i>Four
legs good. Two legs bad</i>”, “<i>All Animals are Equal but Some Animals are
More Equal the Others</i>”? Or “<i>Thoughtcrime</i>”, “<i>Newspeak</i>”, “<i>Five
Minute Hate</i>”, “<i>Two Plus Two Makes Five</i>”, “<i>Room 101</i>”, “<i>Long
Live Big Brother</i>”? The fact is that these two works, and what they have to
say, are now part of mainstream culture and are very direct in their message. When
it was published in 1945, as the Second World War was ending, some critics
gamely pretended that the novella <i>Animal Farm</i> was a satire on Hitler and
all totalitarianism – but it was most clearly a satire on Communism and Stalin’s
Soviet Union. The novella’s clash of the dominant pigs Snowball and Napoleon was
clearly the clash of Trotsky and Stalin, and other events in the fable were directly
based on Soviet practices and historical events. Published in 1949, <i>1984</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> was also based on the Soviet Union and again
referenced Trotsky (called Goldstein in <i>1984</i>), the man the masses are
trained to hate by “Big Brother” (Stalin). <i>1984 </i>was published the year
before Orwell died, in 1950. Those who wished to carp about the man - especially
left-wingers annoyed that he had criticised the Soviet Union - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>said that Orwell was a very sick man when he
wrote <i>1984</i> and they very defensively claimed that he had a very diseased
view of things. But his savage satire and polemic have weathered the test of
time.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">One little glitch. During the Cold War, <i>Animal Farm</i> and <i>1984 </i>were
eagerly promoted by the U.S.A. and films were made of both of them in the 1950s
for purposes of propaganda. Perhaps Orwell would have been annoyed or bemused
by this. After all, his views continued to be more socialist than conservative.
But his fear and contempt for Communism was based on his experience in the
Spanish Civil War.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In an earlier stage of my life, when I taught high-school, I sometimes
gave <i>Animal Farm</i> to junior classes – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>then called Form 3 or 4. You may have noticed
that junior high-school classes are often fed shorter texts to read, which is
why so often they get shorties like John Steinbeck’s novelle <i>The Red Pony</i>,
or <i>The Pearl</i> or [for the brighter kids] <i>Of Mice and Men</i>. So <i>Animal
Farm</i> was taught in that context. When it came to senior classes (Forms 5, 6
and 7) I taught the likes of <i>Sons and Lovers</i> or <i>Portrait of the
Artist as a Young Man</i>, or <i>Wuthering Heights</i> or <i>The Mayor of
Casterbridge. </i>But I do remember a couple of times getting seniors to read
and compare both Orwell’s <i>1984</i> and Aldous Huxley’s <i>Brave New World</i>.
They soon got the picture that Orwell’s dystopia was built on coercion, torture
and brutality, while Huxley’s dystopia was built on drugging people with
hedonism. As one wit put it, Orwell feared a world in which books were
forbidden and people weren’t allowed to read; whereas Huxley feared a world in
which people couldn’t be bothered to read because they were constantly
distracted by trivia and drugs. Pretty much our world.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-55080746188890739832023-10-02T09:00:00.001+13:002023-10-02T09:00:00.152+13:00Something Thoughtful<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span><b><span><span><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif"><b><span><span><span><b><span><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><b><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span lang="EN-AU"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Nicholas
Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to
literature, history, popular culture and the arts, or just life in general. You are free to agree
or disagree with him.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></span></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></b></span></b></span></span> </span>
</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">NODDIES</span></b></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you yet met the noddies? Surely you have.
They crop up on television whenever a general election is looming. When TV news
stations report a partisan statement, the noddies stand behind the leader of a
political party and vigorously nod their heads in approval of whatever their
Great Leader is saying. Whether it is Chris Luxsoap or Chris Pipkins, there
stand the noddies, ready to endorse the Great Leader’s words of wisdom. The
Great Leader promises Utopia. The Noddies nod, looking like nothing so much as
those nodding dogs that used to feature on the dashboards of cars. The Great
Leader says that he can fix the economy. The noddies nod. The Great Leader says
he will be hard on crime. The noddies nod. The Great Leader says he will make
houses affordable. The noddies nod. The Great Leader has a sure-fire way of
fixing our shattered public health system. The noddies nod. They do not speak
or interject. They voicelessly nod.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt;">Whence
came this peculiarity? I suspect that PR experts advise aspiring political
leaders that having silent people in the background nodding in approval has a
psychological effect upon viewers. To have people standing and nodding behind
the speaker creates a sense of solidarity. It suggests that what the Great
Leader is saying is the consensus of the masses. The Great Leader must be
telling the truth because these mute noddies are endorsing him.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt;">I
have sometimes thought of applying to be a noddy. After all, you don’t have to
learn any lines and you just have to nod in the right places. It must be easy.
Unfortunately, the noddies always belong to the Great Leader’s political party.
They are usually from the front benches – ministers [or shadow ministers] of
the Great Leader. Having the Minister of Health or the Minister of Finance
standing behind the Great Leader and nodding approval creates the illusion that
the Great Leader’s party is one big happy and united team. Which is why one so
often sees Nicola Will-less standing behind or next to Luxsoap nodding furiously;
or Grant Robberson doing ditto behind or beside Pipkins.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt;">Of
course this is purely for show. We know that front bench ministers and
shadow-ministers are devious and ambitious creatures. They never stand whole-heartedly
behind their Great Leader. As soon as the Great Leader loses an election, the
nodding ministers will be looking for ways to replace the Great Leader, each
noddy putting himself or herself forward. A back-stabbing coup ensues and the
mute noddies suddenly become vocal antagonists. Mercifully, we peasants don’t
hear most of their mud-slinging and recriminations for losing an election, as
the fight takes place mainly behind closed doors. But there will always be some
who make the party’s dirty washing public, and then we hear prominent noddies
failing to be mute.</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></b></p>
<p><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></b></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3690077250072100801.post-54932126047855302682023-09-18T08:02:00.001+12:002023-09-18T08:02:00.141+12:00Something New<p> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span><span><span><span><span face=""><span><span><span><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><span lang=""><b><span lang=""><b><b style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">We feature each fortnight Nicholas Reid's reviews and comments on new and recent books.</b></b></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></b></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A CANOE
BEFORE THE WIND</b>” by Vitale Lafaele (Harper-Collins, $NZ39.99): “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SECRETS OF
THE LAND</b>”
by Kate Mahony<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Cloud Ink Press,
$NZ29:99); “<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">INDEPENDENCE SQUARE</b>” by Martin Cruz Smith (Simon & Schuster,
$NZ 38)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXrYeaee_kGVnH3O9e_DMZJM1dIFzjCIabVOHrltIkFnmLVVX8BJ9DPDNzfHNvRUZqkd3U1HMq0JUyDCoK_qMwiPwaaV859upSCxjtQspQSR2cDev5ni1oYpjdgagqv87Cidi4iXFbNHDU1z-hHXA5fljV2uN_hA78Sgv5CSQanzeqCCaJ85EsgroiIAD/s734/x480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="480" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXrYeaee_kGVnH3O9e_DMZJM1dIFzjCIabVOHrltIkFnmLVVX8BJ9DPDNzfHNvRUZqkd3U1HMq0JUyDCoK_qMwiPwaaV859upSCxjtQspQSR2cDev5ni1oYpjdgagqv87Cidi4iXFbNHDU1z-hHXA5fljV2uN_hA78Sgv5CSQanzeqCCaJ85EsgroiIAD/w273-h420/x480.jpg" width="273" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I’m going to admit freely that I am usually
not a fan of “inspirational” books, written to encourage people to keep on
striving to fulfil their hopes. Often such books are simplistic and become
preachy and condescending. But I’m going to make an exception for Soifua Vitale
Joseph Fatutoa Lafaele’s autobiography <i>Canoe Before the Wind</i>. Certainly
it’s inspirational but it is also a very interesting story in its own right and
charts a man’s whole life experience.</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Born in 1960, Vitale Lafaele came with his family from Samoa to New
Zealand when he was two. They settled in Grey Lynn. This was at a time when
Samoans were welcomed to work in New Zealand’s expanding industries. They were
a hard-working family, mother and father both employed in a number of jobs. Vitale
Lafaele, being the oldest child, had to do most of the home chores as well as
looking after the younger siblings when they came. He himself earned money for
the family by delivering newspapers and finding other work. The family spoke
Samoan at home, so young Lafaele took some time learning English and he was
occasionally teased or bullied about this at school. He played rugby union but
preferred rugby league, did a milk run and worked in a grocery, passing on his
earnings to his parents.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">This was an era of both economic instability and much racism. In 1975,
when Lafaele was just 15, there were the notorious Dawn Raids when Prime
Minister Robert Muldoon decided to clamp down on “overstayers”, meaning people
who had outlived their work-visas. Polynesians were targeted. Though Lafaele’s
family were legally in New Zealand, there was a communal fear as the Dawn Raids
happened. Says Lafaele <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>I was scared
of being sent back to Samoa because I had no memories of the place – my entire
life was here is Auckland. If our family had got sent back, I would have found
myself sitting in some plantation thinking, ‘What is this place?’… New
Zealanders were the ones who had overstayed in </i></span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">our</span></u></i></b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> country for almost 50
years, but even though we’d been invited here when our people were needed to
work in the factories, we were now the overstayers. It just didn’t make sense</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">.” (pp.34-35)</span></span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Lafaele became a prefect at his school, but he did not do well
academically. In fact he failed the old School Certificate examination twice.
He says truthfully “<i>I think many Polynesian youth, myself included, suffered
and continue to struggle to this day, due – in part – to the combination of
Samoan culture and the underlying effects of poverty. Chores and caring for the
younger siblings took priority over homework and after-school tuition. The
sense of academic failure and the burdens of home life often manifested in
rebellious attitudes towards schooling</i>.” (p.44) He left school without any qualifications.
He got a good job in a warehouse, but was sometimes intimidated there by
patched Maori guys [once or twice he has to mention that there were often
tensions between Maori and Pasifika people]. Nevertheless he becomes a
practiced storeman and is soon found to be good at looking after accounts. He
meets and cohabits with a nice Palagi woman, Annette, and after some years they
marry. His father dies when he is only 47. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Lafaele is alert to the environment about him. He notes: “<i>Around then</i>
[the 1980s], <i>Auckland was starting to go through a real transition period.
There were still Pacific families living in the inner city but the
gentrification had already started and they began to be pushed out of Ponsonby
and Grey Lynn towards South Auckland. I didn’t really notice it at the time
because I was so busy with my life. It wasn’t until some of the houses around
my parents’ place started to be sold to Palagi families that I saw the change
was happening</i>.” (pp.64-65)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">He knows he can do better than staying a storeman and wonders if he can
join the police – but, having no qualifications, he is rejected four times. So
he decides he’ll have a go at joining the S.A.S., the Special Air Service, New
Zealand’s elite army combat group. Again after some rejection, he is accepted
for training; but the training is very gruelling, testing the body and
requiring focus and endurance. He turns out to be a very capable soldier, is
inducted into the S.A.S. and gets on well with his military mates. But there is
a problem. The S.A.S. is supposed to engage in either combat or peace-keeping
missions. But in his whole time in the S.I.S., there is no war to fight, no
combat to engage in. Life on New Zealand military bases becomes very boring, he
finds he is drinking too much, and he decides to quit. After five years in the
S.A.S. he is accepted into police college and trains diligently. He does very
well, passes muster, and graduates as an officer.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">And it is in the police force that he makes his career, first working for
two years in the burglary squad in Auckland’s inner suburb Newmarket. He
applies to join the C.I.B. the Crime Investigation Branch, goes to Wellington
to train, and becomes a police sergeant. In his first years in this role, he
works in the “wild west” of Auckland, the Henderson area which was at that time
still largely rural [now it’s wall-to-wall suburb]. He notes: “<i>A lot of the
serious crime in the city happened in West Auckland and South Auckland. On the
North Shore, there wasn’t much and in Auckland City there was the
run-of-the-mill disorderly conduct and fights in bars. In West Auckland, on top
of the alcohol-fuelled violence and domestic assaults, we also had a lot of pot
and a lot of homebake, which was when people used codeine to produce morphine
when they couldn’t get heroin. The set-up was a lot like the clan labs for meth
now, where people were cooking up black-market pharmaceuticals at home</i>.”
(p.136) There are some confrontations with gangs and he admits (p.137) that,
pre-Taser and pepper spray, police had to learn how to fight gangs with batons
as weapons. As a police officer he has to deal with many different types of
crime, examining murder scenes and autopsies. He is part of the “Operation
Park”, finding and arresting New Zealand’s most notorious serial rapist.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Despite having never taken an academic course, he enrols for a Business
Study degree. The pressures of his professional work mean that it takes him
some years to complete the degree, but complete it he does. He becomes a senior
police sergeant and for a while is in charge of witness protection. He also
champions the “Closing the Gaps” programme aimed at raising Maori and Pasifika
educational level and also bringing more Pasifika and Maori into the police
force. Now a senior officer in charge of a large force, he is for a while
commander of the Auckland Armed Offenders Squad. At different times he is part
of three well-publicised operations. In one, he has to use explosives to break
open a barrier and rescue three hostages threatened by an armed criminal. He
was part of the force monitoring the notorious affair in Urewera where it was
assumed [wrongly] that there was a terrorist group about to unleash havoc. And
he was in charge of the group who rescued a little girl kidnapped by a criminal
who thought he could extort a big ransom out of a wealthy family. Now a senior
member of the police force, Lafaele is for some time the private secretary of
the Commissioner of Police. For a while he supervises Beach Haven, the most
crime-ridden area of Auckland’s North Shore, and then he is in charge of
Counties Manukau South where he promotes a more community-based form of
policing.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">In all this he does not forget his Samoan origins. He says: “<i>In 2002,
I went back to Samoa and had the chiefly Soifua title bestowed on me by my
mum’s village, Falealupo. Soifua is a tulafale, or orator title</i>.” (p.194)
He does have some criticisms of Samoa. There is some police corruption, such as
police asking people for a bribe rather than giving them a ticket for a driving
infringement. (p.195). He is also critical of the custom many Samoans follow of
sending money back from New Zealand to Samoa, which puts great stress on donors
who are often struggling to support their own families. (pp.195-196)</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">But at the age of 53, he has a series of strokes. Reluctantly, he has to
retire from the police force, implying that he was not adequately compensated.
Taking care of his health, and often making use of the gym, he keeps in trim as
much as he can. He becomes a member of the Institute of Directors, putting his
knowledge of Business Studies to good use. He now goes on the lecture circuit,
has done a TED talk, and is of course proud of his children and grandchildren.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Now what do we take away from this? First, there is the fact of a man who
flunked out of secondary school without any qualifications but who still had
the ambition and drive to become a respected senior member of an important
profession. From storeman to S.A.S. man to police officer to sergeant to senior
sergeant to police commander of areas, he worked his way up step by step by
sheer hard work. Second, that he came from a family with a strong work ethic
and a strong sense of the importance of education. There is no doubt that many
Samoans who settled in New Zealand were impoverished and faced barriers of
prejudice, but they knew the power of work. And there was also the fact that
the family looked after themselves – a strong sense of the family itself as
community. No I’m not presenting <i>Canoe Before the Wind</i> as a great work
of literature. It isn’t. But it does tell a good story – even an inspiring one.</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 54.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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</span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 54.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-csPlA0KA0L3BakKfmsStw_AqRoFX9STjKUx54pfyjs0hLGAqIti8VaytHz8M3TF_iqNIXu1yT69HnUUuNg-oMT0cF9m_o4aztejyvbpREH8XWqkofefosK_jmZ2eQze0mvElxvPI3UsCrK__O_ejvg4kt3QUkU6W7fc1ZXyUYa6RFfftk-bg3HkC7S0b/s400/25800-batemanbooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="260" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-csPlA0KA0L3BakKfmsStw_AqRoFX9STjKUx54pfyjs0hLGAqIti8VaytHz8M3TF_iqNIXu1yT69HnUUuNg-oMT0cF9m_o4aztejyvbpREH8XWqkofefosK_jmZ2eQze0mvElxvPI3UsCrK__O_ejvg4kt3QUkU6W7fc1ZXyUYa6RFfftk-bg3HkC7S0b/w300-h460/25800-batemanbooks.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Raised in Australia, the journalist Imogen Maguire has broken up with her
boyfriend and is getting tired of her bullying editor. So when a stranger
approaches her in the streets of Melbourne, and tells her she absolutely must
go to New Zealand to see her grandfather, she decides to do just that, even if
she thought her grandfather was long dead. Thus opens Kate Mahony’s <i>Secrets
of the Land</i>, and from the very beginning we are aware that something weird
is happening. The stranger who meets her seems to disappear before her eyes.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">So what does Imogen find in Taranaki where he grumpy grandfather Jack lives?
She finds Jack inhabits an awfully run-down little house surrounded by the
sedgy fields in which he raises his cattle and his prize bull. She finds that
the locals are basically decent people once you get to know them, especially
the local cop and an elderly Maori man, Tamati Rangihau. But she also finds
that some horrible unknown people seem to be trying to run old Jack off his
land by terrorising him. His hedges are set on fire. In the middle of the night
his cattle are let loose and sent running down the road. Could this be the work
of the awful Barker clan, the family who own huge rural holdings, dominate the
local council and boast about being of pioneer pedigree since their ancestors
“acquired” the land after the 1860s Taranaki war? There’s an important point to
note here. The intimidating Barkers are presumably of English descent. But
Imogen and her grandfather are of Irish descent… and, according to common lore,
many Irish are gifted with second sight. In other words, they read omens and
sometimes see - and even converse with – ghosts. Yes, this novel has ghosts and
apparitions taken seriously, especially as Maori and Irish characters seem to
take the other world seriously, and Maori make a nearby swamp absolutely tapu. Something
evil must have happened there. Sceptical at first, Imogen is gradually
persuaded to believe in the revenants and in the visions and dreams she
intermittently experiences.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Kate Mahony (of Irish descent, for sure) structures her novel in three
alternating time scales. In the (almost present) chapters, Imogen tells her
story in the first person. In the 1860s chapters, the Irish soldier Michael
also talks in the first person as he narrates what happened when he and his
mate Denis fought in the British forces against Taranaki iwi. The British
soldiers were involved in some atrocities – the type of thing ghosts never
forget. And in the 1950s and 1970s chapters, Imogen’s Irish mother Aoife
experiences how it was when racism was more rampant in New Zealand. Kate Mahony
has cleverly made her Imogen an Australian, allowing her to find out gradually basic
historical events (such as the destruction of Parihaka) which most New
Zealanders would not have to have explained to them. There are some references
to Irish soldiers in the 1860s wars having misgivings about what they were
doing – weren’t they helping the British to steal Maori land in the same way that
the English stole Irish land over the centuries? Voicing these misgivings are
based on historical fact.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">There are some moments when matter-of-fact Kiwi characters seems oddly
paired with ghostly apparitions etc. but<i> Secrets of the Land</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>holds together as a good yarn for a
readership with a romantic view of things.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">[</span><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Personal
note</span></b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">: My
wife is by descent 100% Irish – but I assure you she’s never seen a ghost and
isn’t troubled by oracular dreams.]</span></p>
<p style="margin-left: 90.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</span></p><p style="margin-left: 90.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmKQy49bNUNazU8AtVChnWellqWBp0P_YsKFf29HXDbIUSr2gcVQSqeEXzrX1qaAlqxIj2NFYnoXGVAGvOFnpTXfn5_E3DkW_Gbnw3vnOaohFW7oSN7Qzfw8Wt3qWlycuMyo8Qd7PRD9Pf_JG9wjncaPCWHUZMZE8TIRxeBMY9SThCbWr2WJWW56BdFke/s1524/9781398510456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1524" data-original-width="1000" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmKQy49bNUNazU8AtVChnWellqWBp0P_YsKFf29HXDbIUSr2gcVQSqeEXzrX1qaAlqxIj2NFYnoXGVAGvOFnpTXfn5_E3DkW_Gbnw3vnOaohFW7oSN7Qzfw8Wt3qWlycuMyo8Qd7PRD9Pf_JG9wjncaPCWHUZMZE8TIRxeBMY9SThCbWr2WJWW56BdFke/w309-h471/9781398510456.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A personal confession: Way back in
the early 1980s I read and greatly enjoyed the American author Martin Cruz Smith’s
<i>Gorky Park</i>. It had the novelty of being a detective story set in what
was then still the Soviet Union. The hero-detective was an police officer in Moscow
called Arkady Renko who investigated crimes honestly and diligently, despite
all the official corruption that surrounded him. By the way, Arkady Renko is a
Ukrainian name, but at that time Ukraine was still part of the Soviet Union. <i>Gorky
Park</i> was erudite, written with literary finesse, depicted much credible
detail of Russian life, and became a massive bestseller. It was made into quite
a good movie in 1983. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that, I thought, was that. What
I didn’t know – because I didn’t keep up with his output - was that Martin Cruz
Smith is a prolific writer. He churns them out. He has written 17 other
detective and thriller novels, some under pseudonyms, that do not concern Arkady
Renko… and he has now written fully ten novels that do star Arkady Renko. His
latest is <i>Independence Square</i>. </span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Set in what is now Putin’s Russia, but a year or so before Putin’s
invasion of Ukraine, <i>Independence Square</i> has Arkady Renko asked by a gangster-oligarch
to find his daughter Karina, who has mysteriously gone missing. Karina was a
member of Forum, a protest movement seeking real democracy. They are much harassed,
threatened and sometimes killed by “patriotic” bikie gangs and the Federal
Security Service – Putin’s equivalent of the KGB. So off goes Arkady in his
investigations which take him to Kyiv in Ukraine, now independent; and Sevastapol
in Crimea, snatched back into Russia by Putin. Along the way there is Arkady’s
worry about encroaching Parkinson’s Disease, which is slowing him up a little and
showing his age. There are also double-crosses by people who at first seem to
be friends; evidence of the Tatar people – the original occupants of Crimea –
being persecuted and driven out by Russian invaders; casual assassinations and
one really big assassination towards the end; and a great big heroic escape to
top it all off. Obviously I’m not spoiling things by giving you more details.
Surprise and revelation of friends-turning-out-to-be-enemies are the sauce of
thrillers like this and should not be disclosed by snotty reviewers.</span></p>
<p style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: 12pt;">Verdict? I don’t find here the literary finesse that I found all those
years ago in <i>Gorky Park</i>. Maybe Martin Cruz Smith’s writing coarsened as
his Arkady Renko became a formula over 40-plus years. I note that much of the
action is carried in conversations, which could almost be taken for a movie
script. That said though, it works well as your basic detective-thriller and it
should attract a large audience.</span></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Nicholas Reidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16181567367569419183noreply@blogger.com0