Tuesday, 7 November 2017

As his love could dominate the pulse of time

The shock of death had made him aware of youth already passed.
During recent years he had seldom thought of her. But at first, after the divorce, the loss had almost destroyed him. Then, after the anodyne of time, he had loved again, and then again. Jeannine, she was now. Certainly his love for his ex-wife was long since past. So why the unhinged body, the shaken mind? He knew only that his clouded heart was oddly dissonant with the sunny, candid autumn day. Ferris wheeled suddenly and, walking with long strides, almost running, hurried back to the hotel.
Why had he come? He suffered. His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years. He felt he could not bear much longer to stay in the family room.
The little boy stared at Ferris, amazed and unbelieving. And Ferris’ eyes, as he returned the gaze, were somehow unbelieving too. Was it indeed true that at one time he had called this stranger, Elizabeth, Little Butterduck during nights of love, that they had lived together, shared perhaps a thousand days and nights and­ –finally­– endured in the misery of sudden solitude the fiber by fiber (jealousy, alcohol and money quarrels) destruction of the fabric of married love.
‘L’improvisation de la vie humaine’, he said. ‘There’s nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.’
Suspended above the ocean the anxieties of transience and solitude no longer troubled him and he thought on his father’s death with equanimity. During the dinner hour the plane reached the shore of France.
New York at morning, this midnight Paris. Ferris glimpsed the disorder of his life: the succession of cities, of transitory loves; and time, the sinister glissando of the years, time always.
With inner desperation he pressed the child close – as though an emotion as protean as his love could dominate the pulse of time.
The Sojourner

Sunday, 4 December 2016

To travel is to be forced into being an incessant consumer.

The tradition of photographing exotic places reaches back almost to the invention of the medium. As the Grand Tour was extended to take into “the Orient” so, in the 1850s, photographers such as Francis Frith lugged their bulky equipment to the eastern Mediterranean and beyond. Once the resulting pictures of the pyramids and other wonders became widely available the desire to go to these places increased. Such was - such is - the allure and promise of photographs that people wanted to see the precise spots shown in the pictures. Part of the motive for travelling  was, as it were, to experience the photographs on site, for real. Of course there was a lot to see that hadn’t been photographed, but the places in the frame served as oases or taverns, nodes that visibly determined one’s itinerary. Adventurous travellers naturally wanted to get off this pre-beaten track. By so doing, the places they visited gradually became parte of the track. Just as Wordsworth complained about the growing numbers of visitors to the Lake District that his poetry has attracted so travellers to out-of-the-way places began to lament the tourist that came after them.

As travelling has become quicker, easier and cheaper so this problem - or syndrome - has grown more acute. Whereas it once required a considerable effort of will and some ingenuity to get to Egypt, Paul Fussell, in his book Abroad, thinks that the coming of efficient, uniform jet travel — which ‘began in earnest around 1957’ — ‘represents an interesting moment in the history of human passivity’. Maybe so but, as Garry Winogrand’s airport photographs from the 1960s and ‘70s attest, it also heralded a great democratic expansion of the opportunity horizon.

The pictures in Martin Parr’s Small World (...) show the places photographed by the likes of Frith (the pyramids) and they show how the excitement and promise of Winogrand’s pictures has become a source of cramped frustration. (...)

(...)With the inconvenience of air travel drastically increased in the wake of 9/11 the average traveller i.e. anyone not in Business or First  — dreads going to the airport. To add insult to injury — or, more exactly, guilt to discomfort — we are acutely conscious of the cost to the environment, of the way that air travel is contributing to global warming. In this context a stay-at-home like Fernando Pessoa seems almost visionary: ‘What is travel and what use is it? All sunsets are sunsets; there is not need to go and see one in Constantinople.’

It’s not just the sunsets. When people do travel to Constantinople — or anywhere else for that matter — they can increasingly expect to find many of the things and conveniences taken for granted at home. Back in the 1950S the Swiss tourist Robert Frank travelled through America photographing ‘the kind of civilization born here and spreading everywhere’. Frank was right: forty years down the line Parr finds bits and pieces of the America imperium everywhere. (He also records the contrary tendency whereby one no longer has to travel to Egypt — with the attendant threat of terror — to experience the Orient; it can be found in  Las Vegas, in the shape of the Luxor.) In order to escape the tentacles of this homogenising ‘civilisation’ it is necessary to travel further and further afield. And by so doing you drag those tentacles after you. We are all responsible for the ruination we lament. Wherever you travel some kind of industry develops to cater for you – even if it’s not the kind of catering you, personally, where hoping for. (...)

The effect of tourism are, of course, not uniform. Not all places have given themselves over entirely to tourism. But, as Mary McCarthy wrote almost half a century ago, ‘there is no use pretending that the tourist Venice is not the real Venice, which is possible with other cities — Rome or Florence or Naples. The tourist Venice is Venice. Venice is a folding picture-post-card of itself’.

Venice is an extreme case. Even in Rome and Florence, however, visitors feel reassured by the way there are so many others doing, seeing — and photographing — the same things. (...) At the risk of being racist, the Japanese — the ‘lens-faced Japanese’, in Martin Amis’ phrase — seem to take particular comfort in being photographed in places where everyone else is being photographed. People go to places not to see the places but to obtain evidence — photographs of themselves — of having been there. (...)

(...) he endorses the verdict of the narrator in Don DeLillo’s The Names: ‘Tourism is the march of stupidity. You’re expected to be stupid. The entire mechanism of the host country is geared to travellers acting stupidity. You walk around dazed, squinting into fold-out maps. You don’t know how to talk to people, how to get anywhere, what the money means, what time it is, what to eat or how to eat it. Being stupid is the pattern, the level and the norm’. (...)

(...) I suspects, also, that the people in the photographs would recognise themselves and their fellow-travellers. They would agree that, although they have chosen and paid to come to these places, sightseeing in particular and holidaying generally are often the opposite of fun — partly because of all the other tourist. (Like car drivers moaning about traffic, the discerning tourist often complains that a place is “too touristy”.) And the money, even in supposedly cheap places, slips through your fingers like water. (...)

There is no way round it: to travel, either as a backpacker or package tourist, is to be forced into being an incessant consumer. Factor in queues, hassle, jet-lag and tummy upsets and it’s a wonder, even now, when travel has become so easy, that people still want to do it. Phillip Larkin certainly didn’t want to, but he did consent, every year, to take his mother away for a dismal week somewhere in England (he didn’t believe  in ‘abroad’). The experience led him to develop ‘a theory [that] “holidays” evolved from the medieval pilgrimage, and are essentially a kind of penance for being so happy and comfortable in one’s daily life’. 


Monday, 1 August 2016

To endeavor to live the life which you have imagined

I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. 



Tuesday, 3 May 2016

To be a writer

And I was a writer. In Australia I'd written since my early twenties. I'd just begun to establish myself through my first published work when my marriage collapsed, I lost the custody of my daughter, and I lost my life in drugs, crime, imprisonment, and escape. But even as a fugitive, writing was still a daily custom and part of my instinctual routine. Even there, in Leopold's, my pockets were full of notes, scribbled onto napkins, receipts, and scraps of paper. I never stopped writing. It was what I did, no matter where I was or how my circumstances changed. One of the reasons I remember those early Bombay months so well is that, whenever I was alone, I wrote about those new friends and the conversations we shared.  And writing was one of the things that saved me: the discipline and abstraction of putting my life into words, every day, helped me to cope with shame and its first cousin, despair.

Saturday, 9 January 2016

Daddy, is it raining without water again?

(...) a thunderstorm will probably never be the same again for Ramsi Khalaf, who was two years old when I left Beirut in 1984. When shelling in his neighborhood used to get very heavy, Ramsi’s parents, Samir and Rosanne, used to calm his nerves by telling him that the flashes and booms rocking their apartment were only a thunderstorm. After a while, though, Ramsi began to realize that something was amiss. When the shelling became very intense one evening, he looked up at his father and asked, “Daddy, is it raining without water again?”
From Beirut to Jerusalem 
Thomas L. Friedman

Monday, 5 October 2015

Maybe he was born that way

No, but why is Croft that way?
Oh, there are answers. He is that way because of the corruption-of-the-society. He is that way because the devil has claimed him for one of his own. It is because he is a Texan; it is because he has renounced God.
He is that kind of man because the only woman he ever  loved cheated on him, or he was born that way, or he was having problems of adjustment.
The Naked and the Dead
Norman Mailer

Saturday, 29 August 2015

the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy

Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness”, “joy”, or “regret”. Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, “the happiness that attends disaster”. Or: “the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy”. I’d like to show how “imitations of mortality brought on by aging family members” connects with “the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age”. I’d like to have a word for “sadness inspired by failing restaurants” as well as for “the excitement of getting a room with a minibar”. I’ve never had the right words to describe my life, (…).
By Jeffrey Eugenides