Americans once used ‘who’ as a pronoun to represent people, and the pronoun ‘that’ to represent things, like the rest of the English-speaking world. Not so much any more: ‘that’ is everywhere.
The 1942 Bette Davis movie The Man Who Came to Dinner would now be called The Man That Came to Dinner.
In the end it doesn’t matter much one way or the other, though it sounds oddly dehumanising to a person brought up in the old ways. That’s how the Nazi government made it acceptable for everyday Germans to persecute Jews: first dehumanise them, then it doesn’t matter what you do to them, because they aren’t really people any more, they’re just things.
In 1974 Graham Greene, Vladimir Nabokov, and Saul Bellow were considered for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but all three were rejected in favor of a joint award for Swedish authors Eyvind Johnson and Harry Martinson, both Nobel judges themselves, and unknown outside their home country.
Bellow would win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1976; neither Greene nor Nabokov — two of the most brilliant writers the English language has seen — ever won the prize.
But Icelandic novelist Halldór Laxness did! See 2012-01-19, above.
This is a basic introduction to some themes in John Ashbery’s poetry. I came across Ashbery’s writing in the 1960s. Here I reflect on the schizophrenia of fame. This piece was written ages ago, and now forms part of an Ashbery feature in Jacket 2, January 1998, alongside articles and two interviews and poems and so forth.
It’s free: take a look.
THERE ARE THREE John Ashberys. The first is the boy who grew into the man who became a scholar and artificer of words. I call him the Primary or Mundane Ashbery. After a youth spent on a fruit farm in upstate New York he attended college and then Harvard University. He gradually turned into another person, a poet; the poet who wrote all those poems, plugging on year after year, one sheet of paper after another rolling through the Royal, until some sixteen of his works stand there on the shelf to entrance and puzzle us.
Buñuel often said that films should be like cathedrals. The authors’ names should be removed from the credits, leaving just a few anonymous reels, pure, free of any trace of their creator. Then we would watch them the way we enter a cathedral, not knowing the names of those who built it, or even the master builder.
(Jean-Claude Carrière. «The Secret Language of Film». Trans. Jeremy Leggatt. London: Faber and Faber, 1995. Page 176)
He (Peter Ackroyd) went on to say that, to him, writing was a craft, like that of a medieval stonemason, ‘whose personal signature is not required on the wall of the cathedral’.
(Andrew Anthony, «The Guardian», The Observer, Sunday 4 September 2005)
In the late 1970s in my Introduction to «The New Australian Poetry» I quoted Ackroyd, in his earlier incarnation as a literary critic:
… Peter Ackroyd has argued that the beginnings of modernism can be seen in England in the late seventeenth century, when a new language, stripped of Renaissance conceits and opacity, was focused through the lens of Reason to transparently reveal a world of simple, plain and continuous relationships. “Language is only the instrument of science,” wrote Johnson in the preface to the «English Dictionary», in 1773, “and words are but the signs of ideas: I wish, however, that the instrument might be less apt to decay, and that signs might be permanent, like the things which they denote.” Ackroyd calls this the “classical” phase of modernism, and claims that the dramatic proclamation of the modern in Europe in the late nineteenth century was a transformation, or revolution, of a larger shift in thought that had been developing for two hundred years. See Peter Ackroyd, «Notes for a New Culture» [London: Vision Press, 1976].
A friend who had decided to take lots of drugs came for dinner one evening, a quarter of a century ago. She brought her current boyfriend. He had a ferrety manner, and reminded me of a weasel, for some reason, like the weasels and stoats in «The Wind in the Willows». At some point in the evening he went to the bathroom, upstairs. Soon after, they left. “Why leave so soon?” we asked, but they were gone.
Some days afterwards my wife Lyn noticed that her mother’s wedding ring was missing from our bedroom upstairs. It was just a wedding ring, like many others, but it was irreplaceable. The mother she loved had died of cancer the year before. Did the weasel take it? It was far too late to do anything about it by then, so we let it drop. Continue reading “Junkies in da House: Look out!”
We took our grandson to see «Happy Feet 2» today. As with any cartoon movie made for 3D it hurled the viewer into mile-deep abysses, gaping gulfs and dizzying dioramas, following animals that swooped and plunged through the sky at terrifying speed for tens of thousands of feet, hallucinatory and fearsome feats designed to make your stomach come out your nose.
The movies began titillating the audience just like that more than a century ago, with the first silent movie proper, «The Great Train Robbery», produced by Thomas Edison in 1903:
To the audience’s fear and then delight, there was a scene in which the leader of the outlaws looks directly at the audience and fires his pistol at them. (This scene appeared either at the beginning or at the end of the film, a decision left up to the operator.) [– From: 1903 – The First Silent Movie: «The Great Train Robbery», by Jennifer Rosenberg, at the About.com Guide at http://history1900s.about.com/od/1900s/qt/trainrobbery.htm]
Researchers are investigating a 500-year-old Chinese hangover cure in the hope they can put its properties into a pill to help alcoholics and stave off sore heads. The researchers say the ancient Chinese remedy contains a compound which can prevent alcohol from having its usual intoxicating effects on the brain. You might well ask, now why would anyone want to do that? Continue reading “Been cowering in the dark lately?”
For dinner a few weeks ago Lyn cooked a modified (less filling) version of cassoulet, a stew of sausages, pork, duck, and haricot beans. The dish comes from the South-west of France, they say, especially from Carcassonne, Toulouse or Castelnaudary (the soi-disant ‘Capital of Cassoulet’).
A friend asked me the other day when Garamond was invented, and I really didn’t know what to say. Garamond is a popular and widely used typeface, or font.
When I bought my first laser printer nearly twenty years ago, it came bundled with a version of Garamond (a kind of technological “gift-with-purchase”): Agfa Garamond, which came in four German-named varieties: Garamond Antiqua, Kursiv, Halbfett and Kursive Halbfett (standard roman, italic, bold and bold italic). It’s a clean and very usable interpretation of the font, though it is a little plain and stiff for my liking. But it’s not really Garamond. Continue reading “When was Garamond invented?”
For six months in late 2000 and early 2001 I worked at Cambridge University UK as a visiting scholar. I had a wonderful and productive time. As a thank-you gesture I compiled a special issue of «Jacket» magazine, number 20, December 2002, entirely devoted to things from Cambridge, some of them decades old. You can see it here: http://jacketmagazine.com/20/index.shtml
It contains a plethora of glittering literature, new and old, and is well worth a look:
Feature: Veronica Forrest-Thomson, 1947–1975
The Aspidistra Cult: Articles and Reviews
Hugh Sykes Davies — “a lioness in the sidecar”, including “George Watson — ‘Remembering Prufrock’ — Hugh Sykes Davies 1909–1984”
Five poets and an essay from link «Quid» magazine, Cambridge (Editor: Keston Sutherland)
Parataxis magazine feature: Contemporary Chinese poetry
Feature: «Perfect Bound» magazine, 1976 to 1979: over 20 pages of writing
Poems from / Bob Cobbing and Robert Sheppard: ‘Blatent blather/virulent whoops’ / Robert Hampson: ‘the beacon’, ‘no signal detected’, and ‘eroded marks’ / Lawrence Joseph, ‘Stop Me If I’ve Told You’ / David Kennedy, ‘Minster’, or ‘Liber Lathomorum’ / John Kinsella: Four (Cambridge) poems / Tony Lopez, ‘About Cambridge’ / David Marriott, ‘De L’autocritique’ / Drew Milne, from ‘Ill at these numbers’ / Peter Robinson, ‘Pressure Cooker Noise’ and ‘Living in the Workroom’
I can understand why the word “choke” is used for a car’s choke: it chokes off the air flow, making the air-fuel mixture richer (less air, therefore more fuel) which is needed when the engine is cold. Well, it’s not needed these days, but every vehicle had a choke (and a crank-handle) when I was a kid, back in the Middle Ages.
But why is a tractor’s throttle called a “throttle”? It does the opposite of throttle; instead of throttling back the flow of the air-fuel mixture to the engine, it is used to increase it.
Linotype: The Film is a feature-length documentary about the Linotype type casting machine. Called the ‘Eighth Wonder of the World’ by Thomas Edison, it revolutionized printing and society. The film tells the surprisingly emotional story of the people connected to the Linotype and how it changed the world.
The Linotype (pronounced “line-o-type”) completely transformed the communication of information similarly to how the internet is now changing communication again. Although these machines were revolutionary, technology began to supersede the Linotype and they were scrapped and melted-down by the thousands. Today, very few machines are still in existence. Continue reading “Linotype: The Movie”
I had a great time in July 2011 at the Poetry and the Contemporary conference held at the Victorian Trades Hall in Carlton, Melbourne, Australia. Deakin University in Melbourne was the sponsor, and a large crowd of young people attended, many of them both poets and academic scholars. There were many papers on dozens of topics including J.H. Prynne, Sapphic Mythologies, Troubador poetry, and the poetry of the late John Forbes, who seemed very present.
He described himself as flipping through Adorno as one flips through a copy of a movie-star gossip magazine: that cynical yet funny blend of trash and treasure seemed to fit well with the youthful energy filling the crumbling old Trades Hall, a mouldering Victorian-era monument built when trade unions mattered.
The Australian writer Caroline Baum is usually well worth reading for her insights. She is widely read, hard working and resourceful. However, in what I feel sure is a momentary stumble, she appears to give some unfortunate advice in the pages of the «Australian Author», December 2011. The monthly magazine is the official organ of the Australian Society of Authors and is sent out to members.
Planning to sell to a public library the correspondence she has gathered from writers, she offers this advice:
It is worth remembering here that once you receive a letter, no matter in what form, you own it in every sense, including copyright.*
Readers, please be warned: in fact the opposite is the case.
According to the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended, the person who writes a letter always owns copyright in the contents of the letter. Receiving a letter gives the recipient ownership of the material object, the paper and ink and envelope and the cancelled stamp, but not the copyright in the written words. Continue reading “Do you own the letters people send you?”