If anyone cared, which of course they do not, I could list the excuses that would justify my lack of written blog-stuff over the last weeks and months. That indolence is in the past (he says again) and today, today is the first of the Writing Days that will see me not only complete my daily thoughts, but also see me complete the work on two outstanding books. I have to admit that I prefer the adjective before the noun in that last part of the previous sentence because it gives me the personal boost that I need to put finger to key and actually get stuff done.
As is so often the case, my
return to writing is as a result of reading, and that reading is a result of my
hatred of airports.
I am one of the multitude of
people for whom travelling is a chore: I like arriving, not going through the
process of getting there. I am well
aware that great travel writers (and my late, lamented, and much missed Aunt
Betty) are able to make all aspects of their journeys seem fascinating. Aunt Betty never went on a boring holiday:
yes, there were disasters, including one memorable occasion when the family did
not have enough money left at the tail end of the holiday to be able to afford
a family meal and so my redoubtable Aunt made the executive decision and went
out for a meal for one – her! But for we
ordinary folk, the actually process of getting somewhere is almost always
tedious and (for all six-foot people) cramped.
The nadir of the travelling
experience is everything to do with aircraft.
At least it is if you are travelling low-cost and the person in front of
you thinks that the aircraft seats recline and refuses to give up the idea of travelling
prone!
It is not all irredeemably bad:
one piece of cabin luggage and pre-check-in at least take some of the horror
away and, I have discovered, if you are wearing a blue (one has still to be
fashion conscious) pressure stocking and are walking with the aid of a
Foldystick (god bless them!) and have thrombosis, embolisms and an over working
heart, the lady at the check in will look kindly upon you and give you early
boarding! On the return trip from
Edinburgh to Barcelona, for the first time in my life, I was the first person
on board the plane – having been escorted to the bottom of the steps (where is
an air-bridge when you want one?) by not one, but two (count them!) members of
staff. But, for that moment of isolated
triumph you have to endure the seemingly endless waiting.
Now, I am not good at
waiting. I would prefer to be
doing. My definition of doing is flexible
and doesn’t actually need to be too physically demanding. Doing, for me, may well be reading.
So, as our little travelling
party making the journey from Edinburgh to Barcelona was overwhelmingly
composed of people who believed slavish in the necessity for the full (and
more) two hours purgatory in the airport before the flight I had steeled myself
to an extended period of teeth gnashing frustration – but I had omitted to
realize that I would be waiting not in some foreign airport but in a British
one. A British airport where W H Smiths
was open for business and had the buy one and get the cheapest half price offer
on books.
Toni’s attitude towards my
purchasing yet more reading matter that will not fit into a house pleasingly
overloaded with books usually means that I limit my impulse buying in the
airport, but this time I was positively encouraged to spend because we were in
Scotland.
I can still remember my profound
disbelief when I first saw a Scottish bank note – soon followed by my plaintive
whine about why we in Cardiff did not have our own versions too. I was very young, still in the days of the
large white fivers, when my dad explained that Scotland had its own version of
the currency and it was also explained to me that this Scottish money was legal
tender in the rest of Britain. And that
was a fact.
In an early example of ‘facts’
not necessarily being generally accepted, I suggest you try and use a Scottish
banknote in Cardiff. On the, admittedly
few, occasions that I have been slipped a Scottish note in my change, I have
NEVER had the recipient (outside Scotland) accept the ‘foreign’ note with
anything other than healthy scepticism or downright rejection. I was able to play on this attitude to such
an extent that Toni was positively urging me to ‘get rid’ of the notes that I
still had in any way possible – including the purchase of books!
In what must be a first, Toni
actually accompanied me into W H Smiths (!) to aid and abet me in the purchase!
Nowadays, like my Dad, I find myself
drifting towards the non-fiction section of the bookshop to get my impulse
buys. I ended up with two books: the
first, “Humans” by Tom Philips which had a graphic of an inky left handprint
and a subtitle of “A Brief History of How We F*cked It All Up” and the second
was “Prisoners of Geography” by Tim Marshall with a graphic of half of the
world filled with words, and a subtitle of “The maps that tell you everything
you need to know about global politics”.
I have to admit that I bought “Humans”
on the strength of thinking I knew the writer, Tom Phillips. I thought that he was the writer who had
produced another Mapp and Lucia novel to add to the all-too-brief sequence
written by E F Benson. He wasn’t. And I really should have known that someone
who could publish a subtitle of such vulgarity could not possible have been
comfortable with the style of E F Benson!
I am, however, glad that I made the mistake as I thoroughly enjoyed the
book.
For years I looked forward to
owning a book with the wonderful title of “Great Planning Disasters” in which
the site of the British Library; B.A.R.T.; Concorde and of course The Sydney
Opera House were all discussed in loving detail. The fact that, for example, The British
Library and The Sydney Opera House are both excellent entities, the first being
an excitingly magical place in which to work and the second being an instantly
recognizable, iconic masterpiece do not detract from the absurdly farcical way
in which they were created. In the same
way, I look forward to the Olympics, not for the sporting excellence that
sometimes appears, but rather for the political, social and financial disasters
that so frequently follow the awarding of the questionable honour of staging
them and their reality. For me, the
games themselves are something of an anti-climax after the unreal shenanigans leading
up to the opening ceremony!
So, my mind set is predetermined
to wallow in human cupidity and ineptitude, and “Humans” provides dollops of
Man’s (and let’s face it, in the history of global incompetence, the use of the
masculine is terribly, and I mean that word literally, appropriate!
For those who might find the
language used in this book informal to the point of vulgarity, then I would suggest
that the sub-title would have given a fairly clear indication of the attitude
of the author and they have only themselves to blame.
I think the book reads like an
informed comic novel – the text bounces along and ranges freely through history
to find the most glaring examples of what can only be described as f*ukupedness! For me, the whole book was justified by giving
much more information about Thomas Midgley Jr. the “genius engineer, chemist
and inventor . . . whose discoveries helped shape the modern world to a
remarkable degree” – to find out just how catastrophic his “genius” was. As the author points out, “He’s in this book
because, incredibly, being killed in his bed by his own invention doesn’t even
make it into the top two biggest mistakes of his life.”! And if that little extract doesn’t make you
want to find out why and read more then you are a person so far removed from my
own way of thinking that I wonder why you are reading this blog in the first place. Read, and enjoy!
The second book “Prisoners of
Geography” (which now I come to think about it sounds like the title of a second
musical review at the end of the truly excellent film, “The Producers”) is a
more conventionally written book, though it is filled with the personal opinions
which, refreshingly, make it into the main historical, social and geographical descriptions
in the book. It is packed with
information which is compelling by its sheer obviousness – as soon as you have
been told about it!
Reading it reminded me of what
turned out to be the first mentioned book in the Bibliography under the General
references section: Jared Diamond’s “Guns, Germs and Steel” published in
2005. I read Diamond’s book in a state
of continual revelation and “Prisoners of Geography” has a real debt to it –
but that does not make “Prisoners of Geography” derivative, it ploughs its own
furrow and a compelling one it is too.
Well worth reading.
For those academics among you the
most pressing differences are: “Humans” has a brief, chatty section of further
reading at the end, while “Prisoners of Geography” has a sectioned bibliography
and a full index. But I must emphasise
that both books read themselves and I will be returning to them in the sure and
certain knowledge that I will be shocked anew!
My other purchases in Edinburgh
comprised some short stories by Ian Rankin (two quid reduced, I couldn’t resist,
and the book has been read and already given away as a ‘reader’ for English
with an Edinburgh background to Toni’s sister for her edification; catalogues
to the Nolde exhibition in the Museum of Modern Art, the Rembrandt exhibition
in the National Gallery, and the gallery guide to the National Portrait
Gallery. I also bought an old catalogue
of watercolours of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, because yes, and gallery guides
that I purchased second hand on Amazon together with a Masterpieces from the
National Galleries of Scotland volume which, as the contents went on tour in
the US of A must have depleted the galleries to an astonishing extent, but must
also have made a truly startling exhibition.
Books are heavy, and with only
one cabin case I had to be especially winsome and “walking wounded” during my early
boarding attempt, to deflect anyone from actually weighing my case. I had to manfully reject any offers of help
just in case they realised by the sheer gravitational pull that I might have
been just a smidgeon over the approved weight limit.
All the books are safely home and
make a truly satisfying ziggurat of colourful information on the coffee table
next to my armchair – and because so many of them are catalogues of paintings I
have actually “read” them all as well.
Though, I think that I would aver that actually “reading” a painting
takes up a great deal more time that a similar allowance made for text.
One painting stands out, for
reasons that I am still working on: Adam Elsheimer (1578-1610) The Stoning of
Saint Stephen. Not the beggared version
of the painting in Cologne, but rather the “magnificent Edinburgh version, far
richer in detail and more complicated in composition” and in particular the extraordinary
young man in tip toes in the right hand foreground whose upstretched arms are
about to bring a rock on the hapless Stephen’s head. I also find the dramatically up lit dark
haired angel (looking more like a disturbing figure from Degas or Sickett)
worthy of note. To say the least.
I am fascinated by the painting
and I am trying to find out more about painter and painting and I think I might
write a short monograph on the subject, Watson!
So, plenty to do, plenty to read –
as long as the enervating heat keeps off.
Which it doesn’t, so my monograph will be in the realms of fantasy until
the weather breaks and I return to my desk rather than the sun lounger!
