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Saturday, June 30, 2012

Reading more Poe

"I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why ; - from these paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least - in the circumstances then surrounding me - there arose out of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvass, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli."

From Edgar Allan Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher

Henry Fuseli, The Nightmare, 1791
Henry Fuseli, Thor Bettering the Mitgard Sepent 1790

Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Same Old Songs

In search of what it might still be
a man like me may yet believe
old songs fill the infinite spaces,
old men sing of inexhaustible fires
and unquenchable thirst; desires
they never understood or satisfied

and if we're lucky (maybe damned)
we sing along, not just because we know
the words to songs we started singing
forty years ago, when we still thought
we knew the purpose singing had
or what the songs were all about.

We sing because old music lives within.
We sing because old voices yearn to sing.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

The things you say on Facebook ...

My friend Mike Donnelly posted this photo to Facebook, adding these words:

This is the man who taught me everything I know about throwing a spear ... a useful skill for a Glaswegian. He also led our sunrise tour of Uluru which did NOT include climbing it - lovely man, Wongha and his partner, Happy.

I added this comment:

I first leaned about throwing a spear next to my grannie's house in Rockbank Street just off the Gallowgate. I was seven. There were two groups of what might be called alienated youth these days, advancing towards one another. Me and my wee brother had somehow managed to get between the opposing sides. They advanced towards each other. Sharp implements were drawn. At least one spear was thrown. We scampered up a close. We did not tell my grannie who would have skelpt ma ear for endangering my brother's life. I kid you not. Bridgeton in the sixties. Spears.
 
True story.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Classic Poe

I read another Poe short story this evening, The Black Cat; a grizzly tale of horror, fate and the demon consequences of drink.  Three short stories read in a week and the catastrophic follies of alcohol are explored in two of them.  I'm guessing Poe was a remorseful, guilt-ridden drunk.    Although there are a couple (at least) of implausible narrative leaps in the story it still has some power, particularly of imagery.  The narrator's brutal attack on poor, ageing Pluto with his eyeless socket.  The cat's image seared on the bedroom wall's plaster.  The ghoulish, blood-soaked image of the penultimate sentence.  Written by Poe 170 years ago but still clear, still disturbing.  And for all that there's clumsiness in places there's a brilliantly positioned point of revelation when we learn, more than half way through the story, about location.  It immediately enriches the story, propelling it towards the doom-laden conclusion.  Great stuff.  Classic Victorian horror.  He may have invented the genre all by himself.

Intermezzo

Intermezzo Italian Restaurant SydneySo, we were taken out to lunch by one of consultants.  it was a well-intentioned thank you to a customer.  Nice people shame about the meal.  It wasn't bad.  That much was true.  Average.  Ordinary.  Those are words that come to mind.  We were taken to Intermezzo in the old GPO in Martin Place.  My crispy skin snapper lay before me on a bed of black caviar lentils.  The fish seemed dry, devoid of any character, lacking in anything snapperish.  The lentils were greeny black and that's about as much as one could say about them.  The accompanying roasted potatoes bordered on the mushy beneath the skin.  If I'd wanted mash, I'd have asked for mash.  God, I'm sounding churlish and ungrateful.  What can I tell you?  Never going back.

Monday, June 25, 2012

(Still) reading Joyce

I plough on slowly, usually reading snippets of Ulysses on my HTC smart phone while I sit in my van in the car park of Sydney College of the Arts waiting for Spike to clear up in the glass studio and / or mold room.  (Tonight it was the mold room and plaster-coated representations of short, thick sticks, one of which is ant-infested apparently).  Anyway, I on the second-last episode, Ithaca.  Stephen has just sloped off into the last vestiges of night and Leopold Bloom has unbuttoned most of his garments before heading to bed.  It was at this point I learned / read that Leopold:

... compressed between 2 fingers the flesh circumjacent to a cicatrice in the left infracostal region below the diaphragm resulting from a sting inflicted 2 weeks and 3 days previously (23 May 1904) by a bee.

Kilmardinny Loch
I do wonder why I'm still reading after 700, maybe 800 pages.  I know it's great literature and I'm mostly enjoying it (there's a racism that's difficult to forgive, even allowing for the 'different era' line of argument).  But the remembrance of things past?  A bee sting?  Maybe that's what makes it a great modernist work of hyper-real  fiction.  We sometimes remember the bee stings in life ... for example, I recall that Roger Brown was stung 4 times by bees that got inside his clothes one summer's day at Kilmardinny Loch.  We were eleven or twelve years old.  We must have been bee-bothering that day, more than forty years ago.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Midnight's Children

Not having been to bed overnight, I'm very tired.  But I managed a couple of (short) chapters from Book 2 of Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children.  It truly is a masterpiece of 20th Century literature; written beautifully, in places lyrical but still demonstrably modern; hugely imaginative, bursting with references to the modern age (not simply post-colonial Indian history) and overflowing with ideas.  All that and it's funny too. Everyone should read it. 

In the early evening I read some of Poe's verse (and criticism thereof).  There was The Raven (of course) and a couple of his earlier works, To The River (1829) and The Sleeper (1830).  I can't quite decide if I think The Raven is a bold, great poetic work or really not very good at all.  Yeats inclined to the latter view I believe and he's a hard man to ignore.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Stumbling in the dark

It's 4:49 am.  I've not yet been to bed and I don't imagine I will until this evening.  Last night our computer problem reappeared and we lost sight of the E drive with all kinds of useful (some even necessary) data files.  I've been searching (almost) aimlessly for a solution all night; uninstalling a suspect AVG update, replacing AVG with an anti-virus programme called Kaspersky, running the new software, finally getting checkdisk to run on the E drive ... sitting here, in front of the screen, watching the programmes run.  I knew there were just over 118,000 files on the E drive.  Now I know there are 50,000,000 free clusters that get checked (I've no idea what a cluster might be ... 0 / 1 pairings?  Maybe).  And I know there are almost 1,000,000 files on the PC in three drives: C, E and F.

Twenty minutes ago I took the risk of re-starting the computer.  That's been problematic for days now.  It has seldom re-booted.  This morning though it worked first time and when I checked windows explorer all the drives could be seen.  If I fixed the problem I have no idea how I managed it.  Luck, ignorance and stubbornness.  At least it's working ... for now.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

The Balloon Hoax

Woodcut of The Victoria Steering Balloon
Poe's diagram of the model of the Victoria
What an odd little tale, printed in The New York Sun in 1844.  According to the Poe stories web site the short piece of speculative fiction appeared as if it was a news story rather than a tall tale.   I don't suppose that Poe or his readers could have known that the temperature at 25,000 feet is in the region of -50 degrees Celcius.  There's something of Jules Vernes in the gentleman characters but Around The World in Eighty Days wouldn't be published for almost 30 years (in 1873).  And the response of readers, turning up at the newspaper office brings to mind the reports of hysterical responses to Orson Welles's 1938 broadcast of The War of the Worlds.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Imagining America

One of my two units of study next semester is called Imagining America.  I'm looking forward to it for a variety of reasons, not least of which is the fact that Dr David Kelly will run the course.  I enjoyed his Literature and Cinema unit (although we could not agree on the merits of Hitchcock's Rope).

The reading list for Imagining America includes Poe, Whitman, Dickinson, Twain, Chopin, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Ginsberg, Dylan, Eastwood and Scorsese.  I confess to being less than wildly enthusiastic about Whitman but I'll try.  The rest I've read / seen and know to varying degrees.  I know Poe least well I think (maybe Mark Twain and Chopin) but I'm looking forward to reading as much as possible of all the writers (even WW).

I want to get ahead of the unit.  I can be lazy and often struggle to keep up with the schedule of reading, only because I tend to leave works to the last minute.  So I've spoken sternly to my inner self, telling me to read, read and re-read as much as I can.  (There's a bit of me wonders how well I might do as a student, how much I might improve my marks, you know, if I had a more adult approach to the reading lists.  I kid myself on that I like to fly by the seat of my pants; brain the size of a planet, winging it at the last minute ... isn't that proven with those ninety-something scores?  Well no Douglas and besides, you said you were returning to university to learn, to understand better ... maybe even to write better ... so scores alone signify nothing.  They certainly don't indicate learning, merely an ability to write a decent essay, which is far from the same thing).

My attempt to get ahead of the reading (and stay ahead) began today with Edgar Allan Poe's quirky short story from 1844, The Angel of the Odd.  Here's part of it:

 ... in an incredibly brief period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress from my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd, however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of this I was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me of the Angel of the Odd, -- when this hog, I say, which hitherto had been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of the ladder.

 Whimsical is a word that comes to mind.  But I did smile.

Monday, June 18, 2012

And today's number is ...

92 (minus two for being a day late).  Picked up my essay on Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.  Phew.  I couldn't hand it in on the due date because I had no idea what to write.  So I took another day and found something.  I don't quite recall how I stumbled on this but I did and my tutor liked it:

No words can prepare the self for oblivion; an observation Addie makes with reference to Anse by means of Faulkner’s almost poetic allusion to entropy within the Second Law of Thermodynamics: 
I would think about his name until after a while I could see the word as a shape, a vessel, and I would watch him liquify and flow into it like cold molasses flowing out of the darkness into the vessel, until the jar stood full and motionless: a significant shape profoundly without life like an empty door frame; and then I would find that I had forgotten the name of the jar. (p.99)  

 Sometimes you get lucky.