I can't be the only person who finds the task of being civil for more than a few minutes to be exhausting. Smiling, chatting, making eye contact, complimenting, not being confrontational or cynical. These are all difficult tasks, especially when attempted in unison.
I suppose most humans simply follow the path of least resistance in their lives, and a lot of people are lucky enough to find being pleasant and light-hearted to be the easiest - or at least most agreeable - way to approach social occasions. I struggle, because I'm naturally cynical and critical and my face looks grumpy in its natural position. I can muster genuine enthusiasm for close friends and relatives, because they interest me, but for everyone else - casual acquaintances, distant family members, co-workers, etc. - forced-pleasant social interaction is exhausting. I'm not adept at small talk.
Friday 24 December 2010
Friday 12 November 2010
Demo Lition and the student protest movement
I cannot help but think that Wednesday marked the start of something. Despite the hilariously poor organisation of Leeds University Union, who seemed to have seriously misjudged the length of the M1, we managed to arrive before the biggest demonstration in a decade had quite finished. Whilst we were initially disappointed to have missed marching down Whitehall with the rest, it was soon apparent that the main events were yet to transpire.
We arrived at Millbank to scenes reminiscent of something you might see at your average festival; thousands shouting and dancing in time to make-shift drums and hastily rigged speakers blaring out dub step, whilst the unmistakable aroma of pot drifted lazily through the air. Despite the media’s characterisation of those who took Millbank, these were not ‘hardened anarchists’, these were excitable and angry attendees of what was turning out to be a massive free rave, in the centre of the government quarter of London. Most hilariously of all, one side of the occupied square was taken up by a massive ‘goldfish bowl’ style Pizza Express, the diners inside doing their best to politely ignore the noise, flares, chanting and squads of riot police that were literally surrounding them on all three sides. If this had indeed been a ‘riot’ as the papers keep odiously describing it, those massive modern windows would have been smashed and the pizzas looted. However, the only aggression was directed specifically against the Tory HQ. Rioters are indiscriminate, out of control with violence. The violence on Wednesday was spontaneous, and perhaps intimidating to some, but it was targeted and it was undertaken only because many felt it was just. I agree with them.
It was an odd position to be in, on Millbank for those tumultuous hours. We were part of a crowd that was clearly much better educated and more thoughtful than the average mob, and it adopted clear delineations of what was acceptable; there was universal cheering when protestors first took the roof and unveiled ‘Cut Fees’ banners, but the mood quickly turned against them when a fire extinguisher was thrown off into the crowd below. Cue immediate boos and chants of ‘stop throwing shit’. People around me expressed genuine fear that a police officer might have gotten hurt; these same protestors had been chanting ‘fuck the police’ only moments before. I don’t think I’ve ever known a crowd which simultaneously understands the dichotomy of the police as symbols of the state monopoly on power (a legitimate target for protestors) and the police as individuals who are ultimately just trying to feed their families, and who are just as affected by Osborne’s spending cuts as anybody else. Remarkable scenes therefore, of students helping injured police officers whilst others continued to throw sticks at the ones still fighting. It struck me that in a way, all of us there were victims of the same process. The police had been let down; there were far too few of them and they had not been adequately prepared by their superiors, many looked genuinely scared. It was a stark contrast to the G20 protests of 2009, where the police had stepped over the line and an innocent man was killed. Now it looked as if the police might suffer fatalities. What the dickhead who threw the fire extinguisher thought that would achieve for the student movement I have no idea.
At the same time, the occupation of Millbank was genuinely thrilling – what did it mean if ordinary kids were able to so easily take over the headquarters of the ruling party of one of the world’s great powers? Imagine the repercussions if this had happened in Burma, or China, or Russia. Can we seriously doubt that the dozens of protestors who made it onto the roof would have found themselves quietly executed?
My personal take on the events is that whilst I’m probably not the type to fight my way past police lines and start vandalising Tory offices myself, I found myself not unsympathetic to those who did. This wasn’t just mindless violence, of the type you see on any given Friday or Saturday night, this was the righteous expression of rage by a demographic that feels utterly betrayed. Who could have imagined this time last year that 50,000 university students would be marching down Whitehall chanting ‘Fuck the Lib Dems’? I imagine the Labour party is beside itself with glee. The occupation of Millbank made the tuition fees issue international news, something which the original NUS plan of a peaceful march of 15,000 would never have achieved.
The demonstration deserves not our contempt, but joy at the apparent re-awakening of student politics. Apathy has reigned for far too long. The left turned in on itself during the Labour years, it seems that there is now a clear-cut enemy once again. Considering the damage the Tories are doing to the lives of millions and to the health of society in general, they can take a few broken windows. If it feels like the 80s again, it’s because it is like the 80s again. The Cameron government are using the deficit as cover to embark on a programme of cuts that Thatcher could only have dreamed of. Long may the cries of “they say cut back, we say fight back” continue.
We arrived at Millbank to scenes reminiscent of something you might see at your average festival; thousands shouting and dancing in time to make-shift drums and hastily rigged speakers blaring out dub step, whilst the unmistakable aroma of pot drifted lazily through the air. Despite the media’s characterisation of those who took Millbank, these were not ‘hardened anarchists’, these were excitable and angry attendees of what was turning out to be a massive free rave, in the centre of the government quarter of London. Most hilariously of all, one side of the occupied square was taken up by a massive ‘goldfish bowl’ style Pizza Express, the diners inside doing their best to politely ignore the noise, flares, chanting and squads of riot police that were literally surrounding them on all three sides. If this had indeed been a ‘riot’ as the papers keep odiously describing it, those massive modern windows would have been smashed and the pizzas looted. However, the only aggression was directed specifically against the Tory HQ. Rioters are indiscriminate, out of control with violence. The violence on Wednesday was spontaneous, and perhaps intimidating to some, but it was targeted and it was undertaken only because many felt it was just. I agree with them.
It was an odd position to be in, on Millbank for those tumultuous hours. We were part of a crowd that was clearly much better educated and more thoughtful than the average mob, and it adopted clear delineations of what was acceptable; there was universal cheering when protestors first took the roof and unveiled ‘Cut Fees’ banners, but the mood quickly turned against them when a fire extinguisher was thrown off into the crowd below. Cue immediate boos and chants of ‘stop throwing shit’. People around me expressed genuine fear that a police officer might have gotten hurt; these same protestors had been chanting ‘fuck the police’ only moments before. I don’t think I’ve ever known a crowd which simultaneously understands the dichotomy of the police as symbols of the state monopoly on power (a legitimate target for protestors) and the police as individuals who are ultimately just trying to feed their families, and who are just as affected by Osborne’s spending cuts as anybody else. Remarkable scenes therefore, of students helping injured police officers whilst others continued to throw sticks at the ones still fighting. It struck me that in a way, all of us there were victims of the same process. The police had been let down; there were far too few of them and they had not been adequately prepared by their superiors, many looked genuinely scared. It was a stark contrast to the G20 protests of 2009, where the police had stepped over the line and an innocent man was killed. Now it looked as if the police might suffer fatalities. What the dickhead who threw the fire extinguisher thought that would achieve for the student movement I have no idea.
At the same time, the occupation of Millbank was genuinely thrilling – what did it mean if ordinary kids were able to so easily take over the headquarters of the ruling party of one of the world’s great powers? Imagine the repercussions if this had happened in Burma, or China, or Russia. Can we seriously doubt that the dozens of protestors who made it onto the roof would have found themselves quietly executed?
My personal take on the events is that whilst I’m probably not the type to fight my way past police lines and start vandalising Tory offices myself, I found myself not unsympathetic to those who did. This wasn’t just mindless violence, of the type you see on any given Friday or Saturday night, this was the righteous expression of rage by a demographic that feels utterly betrayed. Who could have imagined this time last year that 50,000 university students would be marching down Whitehall chanting ‘Fuck the Lib Dems’? I imagine the Labour party is beside itself with glee. The occupation of Millbank made the tuition fees issue international news, something which the original NUS plan of a peaceful march of 15,000 would never have achieved.
The demonstration deserves not our contempt, but joy at the apparent re-awakening of student politics. Apathy has reigned for far too long. The left turned in on itself during the Labour years, it seems that there is now a clear-cut enemy once again. Considering the damage the Tories are doing to the lives of millions and to the health of society in general, they can take a few broken windows. If it feels like the 80s again, it’s because it is like the 80s again. The Cameron government are using the deficit as cover to embark on a programme of cuts that Thatcher could only have dreamed of. Long may the cries of “they say cut back, we say fight back” continue.
Wednesday 10 November 2010
Choosing Newspapers
I recently ended my turbulent love affair with The Economist after 4 or 5 years. It began with such bliss. A trip to scout out the University of Sussex, an exciting front cover with a picture of a bulldog on it. Its calm, collected, monolithic style which made you think that, if only people did everything as The Economist said it should be done, the world would be perfect.
Later on, I grew to love its quirks, like its obligatory use of the phrase "mildly Islamic" when referring to any accommodating leader in a Muslim-dominated country (notably Erdogan in Turkey), or the way it put a picture of a withered, old woman with a shawl above every article about the Roma or other travelling people.
However, The Economist has no moral dimension. For example, as someone who tends to lean to the left-wing, I find the way it absolves Murdoch's, Bush's, and Berlusconi's more heinous offences by use of such a passive and balanced voice to be deeply unsettling. As Stefan Stern in The Guardian wrote, "its writers rarely see a political or economic problem that cannot be solved by the trusted three-card trick of privatisation, deregulation and liberalisation." Beyond that, The Economist reveals itself to be limited and distant.
Of course, it might also be argued that my problem with The Economist simply stems from me not being able to cope with its views being more right-wing than mine, and there's probably something in that.
The trouble is that left-wing sources often make me feel uncomfortable for being too left. I have a healthy disregard for the Tories and the right-wing in general, and yet I feel uncomfortable with a column which assumes Tory guilt at every turn. I've been trialling The New Statesman as a replacement for The Economist but it feels to be an easy let-off for the left instead.
I guess the problem is my inherent contrarianism (a word? Probably not). What I really need is a newspaper which criticises everyone all the time, for everything. That would make me a lot happier. Of course, a more conventional solution might be to read lots of different news sources and build an aggregated view based on a careful and reasoned analysis of many different contributors' thoughts and opinions.
The former solution seems easier though...
Later on, I grew to love its quirks, like its obligatory use of the phrase "mildly Islamic" when referring to any accommodating leader in a Muslim-dominated country (notably Erdogan in Turkey), or the way it put a picture of a withered, old woman with a shawl above every article about the Roma or other travelling people.
However, The Economist has no moral dimension. For example, as someone who tends to lean to the left-wing, I find the way it absolves Murdoch's, Bush's, and Berlusconi's more heinous offences by use of such a passive and balanced voice to be deeply unsettling. As Stefan Stern in The Guardian wrote, "its writers rarely see a political or economic problem that cannot be solved by the trusted three-card trick of privatisation, deregulation and liberalisation." Beyond that, The Economist reveals itself to be limited and distant.
Of course, it might also be argued that my problem with The Economist simply stems from me not being able to cope with its views being more right-wing than mine, and there's probably something in that.
The trouble is that left-wing sources often make me feel uncomfortable for being too left. I have a healthy disregard for the Tories and the right-wing in general, and yet I feel uncomfortable with a column which assumes Tory guilt at every turn. I've been trialling The New Statesman as a replacement for The Economist but it feels to be an easy let-off for the left instead.
I guess the problem is my inherent contrarianism (a word? Probably not). What I really need is a newspaper which criticises everyone all the time, for everything. That would make me a lot happier. Of course, a more conventional solution might be to read lots of different news sources and build an aggregated view based on a careful and reasoned analysis of many different contributors' thoughts and opinions.
The former solution seems easier though...
Friday 24 September 2010
University: Not a Waste
Back home now.
I'm experiencing that general post-university malaise which occurs when you have to go from living with friends to living with parents because you don't fancy committing yourself to a graduate scheme with a corporate entity, wasting away and generally wishing for an early death.
I learn a disappointingly large number of life lessons from films, and if there's one thing I've learnt from films in this particular regard, it's that everyone's life is essentially dull and pointless, particularly if you work for a heartless business (and they wouldn't remain in business if they weren't largely heartless).
So right now, I'm working on a solution which allows me to keep my dignity and life-satisfaction intact whilst also providing me with enough money to live. It's going to be hugely successful. Ask me how I'm doing in 10 years (Y).
As I finish this post, I realise that I have no idea why I titled it "University: Not a Waste".
That'll be that ol' university-educated mind at work again.
I'm experiencing that general post-university malaise which occurs when you have to go from living with friends to living with parents because you don't fancy committing yourself to a graduate scheme with a corporate entity, wasting away and generally wishing for an early death.
I learn a disappointingly large number of life lessons from films, and if there's one thing I've learnt from films in this particular regard, it's that everyone's life is essentially dull and pointless, particularly if you work for a heartless business (and they wouldn't remain in business if they weren't largely heartless).
So right now, I'm working on a solution which allows me to keep my dignity and life-satisfaction intact whilst also providing me with enough money to live. It's going to be hugely successful. Ask me how I'm doing in 10 years (Y).
As I finish this post, I realise that I have no idea why I titled it "University: Not a Waste".
That'll be that ol' university-educated mind at work again.
Tuesday 20 July 2010
We Don't Hate Enough
Don't worry, this post is going to be very specific and focused, and not at all influence by vague teenage angst and a mild dissatisfaction with the way that the world functions. I'm not a teenager anyhow.
I was talking to a dear friend who asked why, when we routinely criticise "over-paid footballers", we leave over-paid film stars alone. The comparison is both legitimate and apt. Both earn a lot and can give terrible performances, both species contain their share of COMPLETE AND UTTER dickheads (in acting, Mel Gibson/Tom Cruise, mostly), both sometimes receive more than their employers can realistically and sustainably afford to pay them.
And so on, and so forth.
The point being that footballers aren't always "over-paid", because they earn what the market dictates (granted, they do sometimes receive far too much if a club is owned by an oil tycoon with obscene amounts of money and no business model). Similarly, actors aren't always over-paid, even at ($/£?)15m-odd a time, because films starring those big actors generally generate a lot more than they cost.
Now I'm a capitalist at heart, inasmuch as its completely atrocious, but its use of competition does aid us. However, rational arguments are for the weak, and instead of being a heartless old sod myself, I'm going to conclude this piece by criticising Mel Gibson.
He's misogynistic, anti-Semitic and unintelligently foul-mouthed. Also, he's aged badly. How amusing for a man who's traded so regularly off his looks.
Etc.
(Okay, so it lost some of its focus. Fuck off.)
I was talking to a dear friend who asked why, when we routinely criticise "over-paid footballers", we leave over-paid film stars alone. The comparison is both legitimate and apt. Both earn a lot and can give terrible performances, both species contain their share of COMPLETE AND UTTER dickheads (in acting, Mel Gibson/Tom Cruise, mostly), both sometimes receive more than their employers can realistically and sustainably afford to pay them.
And so on, and so forth.
The point being that footballers aren't always "over-paid", because they earn what the market dictates (granted, they do sometimes receive far too much if a club is owned by an oil tycoon with obscene amounts of money and no business model). Similarly, actors aren't always over-paid, even at ($/£?)15m-odd a time, because films starring those big actors generally generate a lot more than they cost.
Now I'm a capitalist at heart, inasmuch as its completely atrocious, but its use of competition does aid us. However, rational arguments are for the weak, and instead of being a heartless old sod myself, I'm going to conclude this piece by criticising Mel Gibson.
He's misogynistic, anti-Semitic and unintelligently foul-mouthed. Also, he's aged badly. How amusing for a man who's traded so regularly off his looks.
Etc.
(Okay, so it lost some of its focus. Fuck off.)
Monday 31 May 2010
The Inherent Dangers of Social Networking
I've now signed up to twitter. It's like FaceBook's status updates, but more limited. Also, you can find out what famous people have been eating for dinner and laugh at their little in-jokes without really understanding them. It's the second time I've tried twitter, and I'm going to try and stick with it this time. I don't know why. I think it's a form of masochism. Soon I'll be strapped in to more social-networking sites than I can fit across the links section of Google Chrome. I've already got email accounts, network sites, forums and blogs up there, alongside all my news and information sites. I'm going to eventually run out of time in the day to check all these different ventures, and I'll end up not having time for a real job because I'll be too busy trying voyeuristically tracking Stephen Fry's every move. And then there's always the inherent risk that one of those crazy survivalist USA films about the government's unlimited power will turn out to be real, and I'll be cursing the day that I got myself addicted to twitter as the government surround my house and we have an exciting high-octane shoot-out.
I drew a picture to illustrate what this could look like:
Writing things down - as in, using a pen and paper - now has the feel of a bizarre form of resistance. I realise that I should be ashamed of my adherence to such an archaic system of transcribing my thoughts. And, the downside of this ancient system is that rather than everyone instantly finding out how I feel, they'll have to wait 'til I'm dead and my thoughts are published posthumously. And that'll only happen if I get famous somehow and people actually give a crap, which, let's face it, is not the most likely course of my life. So it's really a complete waste. Unlike social-networking. Which is the best use of anyone's time, always.
Sunday 30 May 2010
Loners
According to the BBC, there is a distinction between being lonely and being a loner. The basic difference is:
A loner gets satisfaction from being alone, someone who is lonely doesn't
Which seems simple enough, except for the fact that everyone loves to be alone at some point, unless they're some sort of deranged, psychotic leech who lives off the constant attention of their social betters. And, if that is the sort of person they are, then "their social betters" probably encompasses everyone.
Anyway, regardless of the adequacies of the BBC's magazine section - which after all, is written by a hungover intern to fill the space at the bottom of article templates - the point I'm going to make is that loners have it right, because, statistically, you will not meet anyone who is worth letting down your façades and defences for, and becoming emotionally intimate with. And besides, if you do (I'm still speaking statistically here), they'll already be tied down to a fat, useless stoner. If they're a friend, they'll let you down again and again (and vice-versa, of course). Even if you do find that special someone, statistically (still) you'll end up splitting up with them or divorcing them, or losing them in a bizarre gardening accident. As any economically-minded intellect will tell you, the potential benefits are minimal, and are in no way outweighed by the almost-certain humiliations, miseries and disappointments.
The problem is that humans are idiots, so we still live with that inane, air-headed sense of wonder which makes us crave the miseries of the future even as we recover from the previous endurances. My advice to the "lonely" is to accept the logic of a life independent of the capricious frivolities of human contact and act as though their entire pathetic life was the result of an intricate and successful plan.
Monday 17 May 2010
Against Their Own Interests.
Warning: Lazy Generalisations Ahead.
Why do people so consistently support those who won't support their interests? The answer is, of course, that everyone is a moron. Take, for example, poor Southern whites rallying against the USA's healthcare bill when it would benefit them. Or, for that matter, their support of the Republican Party at all, considering its links with the wealthy business elites. Another example is The Sun, the shameless Murdoch publication which supports the party of the rich, tax-cutting Etonians, despite its readership of low-earners and white-van men (see what I mean about the generalisations?) who would be most likely to benefit from a less evil state.
This doesn't always happen in other publications, which match their readership more. For example, The Guardian and The Independent are liberal-ish, left-ish, generally intellectual papers, designed for mid-level earners who embrace a slightly more social view of capitalism. The Telegraph is designed for the more stuffy Tory-voting rich, who are a little confused by the complexities of modern life and long for the good old days. The Daily Mail is designed for their hate-filled moron counterparts.
I suppose in many ways, Murdoch is to be congratulated for making his readership consistently and unquestioningly lap up the bile he spews out in his publications (picture all those white-van men, lapping bile. It helps). It should be viewed as a triumph of stupidity over everything else. Still, it's not the world's most complex business strategy, is it? It basically amounts to slapping breasts alongside the propaganda to distract the idiots. What a visionary.
Why do people so consistently support those who won't support their interests? The answer is, of course, that everyone is a moron. Take, for example, poor Southern whites rallying against the USA's healthcare bill when it would benefit them. Or, for that matter, their support of the Republican Party at all, considering its links with the wealthy business elites. Another example is The Sun, the shameless Murdoch publication which supports the party of the rich, tax-cutting Etonians, despite its readership of low-earners and white-van men (see what I mean about the generalisations?) who would be most likely to benefit from a less evil state.
This doesn't always happen in other publications, which match their readership more. For example, The Guardian and The Independent are liberal-ish, left-ish, generally intellectual papers, designed for mid-level earners who embrace a slightly more social view of capitalism. The Telegraph is designed for the more stuffy Tory-voting rich, who are a little confused by the complexities of modern life and long for the good old days. The Daily Mail is designed for their hate-filled moron counterparts.
I suppose in many ways, Murdoch is to be congratulated for making his readership consistently and unquestioningly lap up the bile he spews out in his publications (picture all those white-van men, lapping bile. It helps). It should be viewed as a triumph of stupidity over everything else. Still, it's not the world's most complex business strategy, is it? It basically amounts to slapping breasts alongside the propaganda to distract the idiots. What a visionary.
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Dr. Greg's Sure Cure for the Blues
- Routine, and lots of it.
- Getting up early, so the day is never wasted.
- Regular exercise.
- Regular, healthy diet.
- At least 4-5 cups of tea a day.
- Classic novels / films.
- A love of comedy in every facet of life, no matter how irrelevant or irreverent.
- Pig-headed arrogance.
Sunday 25 April 2010
‘Thoughts on the Revolution’ or The drunken ramblings of a wannabe radical
As I sit in the faux-tropical surroundings of Varadero’s ‘Club Tropical’, sipping my umpteenth all-inclusive Cerveza-Cristal from a bamboo cup adorned with the infamous image of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, I am inspired to consider the things I have seen over the last few days.
As I’m sure has been commented on a million times before by tourists, guide books, and not least by the Cuban people themselves, Varadero couldn’t further from the truth of real Cuba. Originally built by holidaying tycoons in the Batista era, the tropical peninsula paradise cum metropolis of tourism still retains many of the features that made Cuba popular for visiting Americans back the pre-revolutionary days. Now of course, there isn’t an American in sight. Except for the Latin kind. The American embargo is the constant but unspoken background to all life here. One can’t help thinking that much of the visible poverty you see on the streets of Cardenas for example, is not the inevitable of a ‘backward’ communist dictatorship, but of the trade embargo imposed on a small developing country by its vast economic hegemon of a neighbour ninety miles to the north. There is an easily identifiable contrast between the Cuba America likes to portray, and the Cuba of reality. Even in the most run down urban shack, or in the tiny hamlets in the Valle de YumurÃ, people are still well fed, happy and in good health. This is more than one can say for many living in the favelas of westerner-friendly Brazil, and Cuba is much safer than violently homophobic Jamaica for instance. Of course the human rights issue is incredibly important, and I subscribe entirely to the Jeffersonian idea that those who would trade liberty for safety deserve neither, but if there is a place on this Caribbean island where people are being tortured and degraded for their beliefs, it is Guantanamo Bay, not Havana.
Despite all this, it is painful for me to see the divide between the bourgeois luxury of ‘Tourists only’ Varadero and the daily grind of life elsewhere. Surely the revolution was supposed to end the prioritisation of wealthy drunks over ordinary people? And yet I’d be lying if I said that I thought tourism was an entirely negative force for the country – it isn’t. The income generated by holidaying (non-US) westerners creates valuable income for this impoverished country, helping to fund infrastructural, environmental and social welfare programmes, whilst tipping puts hard cash straight into people’s pockets, supplementing pitiful state incomes. However, the dual economy that this has created, of which Varadero is the most visible element, is a blight on Cuba which deeply distorts society; the poolside barman pouring my Cerveza-Cristal likely earns many many times more than even the highest paid doctor or teacher. Such an outcome is almost a parody of what communism is supposed to be about. The economic hierarchy has been inversed, not levelled. For this reason I feel a slight tinge of hesitancy every time I tip a waiter or bar worker; to what degree am I putting money into the pockets of people who need it and to what degree am I helping to entrench an economic system which is deeply unfair? And yet even when I consider these things I am aware how much of an arrogant assuming westerner I am. It’s kinda like the people who will only ever give the homeless a sandwich or a coffee, but never money. I understand the reasoning behind it, but ultimately they are just human beings like us and who are we to decide how they live? Maybe those quids and loonies aren’t just being spent on booze, but are being put towards some savings to help lift themselves out of homelessness. And you know what? If I was living on the streets of London or, god help me, Toronto, in the middle of winter then I wouldn’t expect people to begrudge me a little scotch to lift my spirits if thats what I wanted to buy. *
The thing about Cuba is that I really can’t decide if I think well of it or not. In a political sense I mean. If I was to just forget politics and let the atmosphere absorb me I would leave with an unreservedly positive impression. But that’s the impression Varadero is designed specifically to leave. There’s a reason we think of cigars, rum and palms and not of crumbling towns and barefoot children when we think of Cuba. I don’t want to end this entry on a boring ambiguous note, and it is tempting to simply quote my Caribbean studies teacher, Melanie Newton, who told me that life was complex and that one shouldn’t simply think in terms of good revolution/bad revolution, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that the revolution has been generally positive for Cuba. There’s poverty here sure, but even the poorest have access to food and free healthcare, more than can be said for those on the lowest rung of society in the rest of the Americas, including the United States. Things need to improve; Castro should be ashamed of his refusal to allow free speech and this in itself is unforgivable, but Cuba is a country under siege. Ever since the Missile crisis and the Bay of Pigs the Cuban government has been terrified of another invasion. But the ideals of the revolution are unassailable. Things need to improve, but this is not the ‘bad’ country the US makes it out to be.
* Unlike London or Toronto, there are no homeless on the streets of Havana. Everyone is guaranteed housing.
As I’m sure has been commented on a million times before by tourists, guide books, and not least by the Cuban people themselves, Varadero couldn’t further from the truth of real Cuba. Originally built by holidaying tycoons in the Batista era, the tropical peninsula paradise cum metropolis of tourism still retains many of the features that made Cuba popular for visiting Americans back the pre-revolutionary days. Now of course, there isn’t an American in sight. Except for the Latin kind. The American embargo is the constant but unspoken background to all life here. One can’t help thinking that much of the visible poverty you see on the streets of Cardenas for example, is not the inevitable of a ‘backward’ communist dictatorship, but of the trade embargo imposed on a small developing country by its vast economic hegemon of a neighbour ninety miles to the north. There is an easily identifiable contrast between the Cuba America likes to portray, and the Cuba of reality. Even in the most run down urban shack, or in the tiny hamlets in the Valle de YumurÃ, people are still well fed, happy and in good health. This is more than one can say for many living in the favelas of westerner-friendly Brazil, and Cuba is much safer than violently homophobic Jamaica for instance. Of course the human rights issue is incredibly important, and I subscribe entirely to the Jeffersonian idea that those who would trade liberty for safety deserve neither, but if there is a place on this Caribbean island where people are being tortured and degraded for their beliefs, it is Guantanamo Bay, not Havana.
Despite all this, it is painful for me to see the divide between the bourgeois luxury of ‘Tourists only’ Varadero and the daily grind of life elsewhere. Surely the revolution was supposed to end the prioritisation of wealthy drunks over ordinary people? And yet I’d be lying if I said that I thought tourism was an entirely negative force for the country – it isn’t. The income generated by holidaying (non-US) westerners creates valuable income for this impoverished country, helping to fund infrastructural, environmental and social welfare programmes, whilst tipping puts hard cash straight into people’s pockets, supplementing pitiful state incomes. However, the dual economy that this has created, of which Varadero is the most visible element, is a blight on Cuba which deeply distorts society; the poolside barman pouring my Cerveza-Cristal likely earns many many times more than even the highest paid doctor or teacher. Such an outcome is almost a parody of what communism is supposed to be about. The economic hierarchy has been inversed, not levelled. For this reason I feel a slight tinge of hesitancy every time I tip a waiter or bar worker; to what degree am I putting money into the pockets of people who need it and to what degree am I helping to entrench an economic system which is deeply unfair? And yet even when I consider these things I am aware how much of an arrogant assuming westerner I am. It’s kinda like the people who will only ever give the homeless a sandwich or a coffee, but never money. I understand the reasoning behind it, but ultimately they are just human beings like us and who are we to decide how they live? Maybe those quids and loonies aren’t just being spent on booze, but are being put towards some savings to help lift themselves out of homelessness. And you know what? If I was living on the streets of London or, god help me, Toronto, in the middle of winter then I wouldn’t expect people to begrudge me a little scotch to lift my spirits if thats what I wanted to buy. *
The thing about Cuba is that I really can’t decide if I think well of it or not. In a political sense I mean. If I was to just forget politics and let the atmosphere absorb me I would leave with an unreservedly positive impression. But that’s the impression Varadero is designed specifically to leave. There’s a reason we think of cigars, rum and palms and not of crumbling towns and barefoot children when we think of Cuba. I don’t want to end this entry on a boring ambiguous note, and it is tempting to simply quote my Caribbean studies teacher, Melanie Newton, who told me that life was complex and that one shouldn’t simply think in terms of good revolution/bad revolution, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that the revolution has been generally positive for Cuba. There’s poverty here sure, but even the poorest have access to food and free healthcare, more than can be said for those on the lowest rung of society in the rest of the Americas, including the United States. Things need to improve; Castro should be ashamed of his refusal to allow free speech and this in itself is unforgivable, but Cuba is a country under siege. Ever since the Missile crisis and the Bay of Pigs the Cuban government has been terrified of another invasion. But the ideals of the revolution are unassailable. Things need to improve, but this is not the ‘bad’ country the US makes it out to be.
* Unlike London or Toronto, there are no homeless on the streets of Havana. Everyone is guaranteed housing.
Monday 19 April 2010
"Nationalism is an Infantile Disease."
The title of this post comes from Einstein, who was often critical of blind patriotism because of its inevitable descent into jingoistic violence.
Friday is St George's Day, the day which commemorates the patron saint of about half the known world, "as well as a range of professions, organisations, and disease sufferers." (Thanks, Wikipedia). I feel no connection with the man, who appears to be a semi-mythical, barbaric zealot. Since I was born in England, however, he is apparently my patron saint too.
This could be rather daunting, except England doesn't feel the need to wrap itself in flags and blind nationalism in the same way that the USA does. This is a good thing. Patriotism, regardless of its actual worth, has been disfigured by its close association with the worst, lowest elements of society. Crude racism, anti-immigration sentiment, and all-round xenophobia are the cornerstones of English nationalism, and I am glad that St George's Day receives comparatively little attention.
Apart from anything else, patriotism is completely unnecessary and unwarranted. I have no particular love for my country (although I enjoy residing in parts of it, and will happily pay for its upkeep), and I genuinely can't see why anyone else would. What is there to love? Our political system? It's certainly reasonable, and a lot better than many countries'. Our history? Like most other countries', largely shameful. The people? I like a lot of them, but only because of them, not because of their "Englishness". There's nothing inherent to England which means I should love it, any more than I should love one of perhaps ten to twenty of the most developed and progressive nations.
Perhaps, instead, patriotism is just a crude form of gang mentality. We can band together, and feel stronger in unity. I suppose that has a warm, fuzzy feel to it if you, say, decide to support England in the football World Cup (god knows why you'd want to) The downside of this gang mentality is its inevitable decline into right-wing violence. In an arguably enlightened age, I think we can dispense with this, along with the whole despicable relic of nationalism.
Friday is St George's Day, the day which commemorates the patron saint of about half the known world, "as well as a range of professions, organisations, and disease sufferers." (Thanks, Wikipedia). I feel no connection with the man, who appears to be a semi-mythical, barbaric zealot. Since I was born in England, however, he is apparently my patron saint too.
This could be rather daunting, except England doesn't feel the need to wrap itself in flags and blind nationalism in the same way that the USA does. This is a good thing. Patriotism, regardless of its actual worth, has been disfigured by its close association with the worst, lowest elements of society. Crude racism, anti-immigration sentiment, and all-round xenophobia are the cornerstones of English nationalism, and I am glad that St George's Day receives comparatively little attention.
Apart from anything else, patriotism is completely unnecessary and unwarranted. I have no particular love for my country (although I enjoy residing in parts of it, and will happily pay for its upkeep), and I genuinely can't see why anyone else would. What is there to love? Our political system? It's certainly reasonable, and a lot better than many countries'. Our history? Like most other countries', largely shameful. The people? I like a lot of them, but only because of them, not because of their "Englishness". There's nothing inherent to England which means I should love it, any more than I should love one of perhaps ten to twenty of the most developed and progressive nations.
Perhaps, instead, patriotism is just a crude form of gang mentality. We can band together, and feel stronger in unity. I suppose that has a warm, fuzzy feel to it if you, say, decide to support England in the football World Cup (god knows why you'd want to) The downside of this gang mentality is its inevitable decline into right-wing violence. In an arguably enlightened age, I think we can dispense with this, along with the whole despicable relic of nationalism.
Tuesday 23 March 2010
We're just no better
No, I wouldn’t steal a car. No, I guess I wouldn’t steal a handbag. No, I don’t think I’d steal a television or a DVD. I wonder where you’re goin- Ah! I see. Well, when I answered your original formulation of the questions, Mr. Piracy Man, I wasn’t really aware that you were going to be drawing a heinously false analogy. In order to make the argument follow you have to make me accept that stealing a car, handbag, television or physical DVD is just the same as downloading a film; which it isn’t. Here’s how to improve your argument:
You wouldn’t steal a car, assuming that that car in question was a replica of a car that someone had bought legally. They had built that replica (somehow) using their own equipment, copying the original car. Now apply that to handbag, DVD etc. If you answer “no” to all these questions now, then quit downloading Marley & Me (the dog dies by the way, but not before you realise that Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston are so rubbish at acting that they can be upstaged by a fucking dog) and continue with your life, safe in the knowledge that downloading is, by your own standard, a crime.
But what if you were to say ‘yes’? If your friend had built a replica of a car and put up a sign saying ‘PLEASE TAKE THIS CAR’ then most people probably would take it and this clearly wouldn’t be termed as stealing.
Is that different? The only conceivable difference is that you may not know the person whom you are downloading and this is different to them being your friend. However, we’re only six degrees of separation from anyone in the world, and I can maintain a relationship with friends of friends. Not only this, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend, which frankly makes me a lot of friends (including some enemies). So it’s conceivable that anyone in internet land could be termed by friend
But this is beside the point.
The point is go outside.
Wednesday 17 March 2010
Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years pt.3
Okay, you'll have to bear with me on this final quote, which is how The Mysterious Stranger ends. It's a bit long, but rewarding, if you're a fan of grim, misanthropic speeches, as I am. "Satan", once again, is the speaker, delivering Twain's own damming verdict on religion, and perhaps also showing his ideas on the general futility and bleakness of life.
The book then ends with the protagonist reflecting on this: "He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realised, that all that he had said was true."
Life itself is only a vision, a dream... Nothing exists; all is a dream. God - man - the world - the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars - a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space - and you!
Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago - centuries, ages, eons, ago! - for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane - like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell - mouths mercy and invented hell - mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honourably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!
It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!
The book then ends with the protagonist reflecting on this: "He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realised, that all that he had said was true."
Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years pt.2
A couple of quotes from "Satan" in The Mysterious Stranger, which (put criminally simplistically - I'm tired) show Twain's dissatisfaction with the human race, among other things:
For a million year the [human] race has gone on monotonously propagating itself and monotonously reperforming this dull nonsense - to what end? No wisdom can guess! Who gets a profit out of it? Nobody but a parcel of usurping little monarchs and nobilities who despise you; would feel defiled if you touched them; would shut the door in your face if you proposed to call; whom you slave for, fight for, die for, and are not ashamed of it, but proud; whose existence is a perpetual insult to you and you are afraid to resent it; who are mendicants supported by your alms, yet assume toward you the airs of benefactor toward beggar; who address you in the language of master to slave, and are answered in the language of slave to master; who are worshipped by you with your mouth, while in your heart - if you have one - you despise yourselves for it. The first man was a hypocrite and a coward, qualities which have not yet failed in his line; it is the foundation upon which all civilisations have been built.
Monarchies, aristocracies, and religions are all based upon that large defect in your race - the individual's distrust of his neighbour, and his desire, for safety's or comfort's sake, to stand well in his neighbour's eye. These institutions will always remain, and always flourish, and always oppress you, affront you, and degrade you, because you will always be and remain slaves of minorities.
Monday 15 March 2010
Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years
From Twain's unfinished The Mysterious Stranger, published posthumously:
So says "Satan", anyway.
Every man is a suffering-machine and a happiness-machine combined. The two functions work together harmoniously, with a fine and delicate precision, on the give-and-take principle. For every happiness turned out in the one department the other stands ready to modify it with a sorrow or a pain - maybe a dozen. In most cases the man's life is about equally divided between happiness and unhappiness. When this is not the case the unhappiness predominates - always; never the other. Sometimes a man's make and disposition are such that his misery-machine is able to do nearly all the business. Such a man goes through life almost ignorant of what happiness is. Everything he touches, everything he does, brings a misfortune upon him. You have seen such people? To that kind of a person life is not an advantage, is it? It is only a disaster. Sometimes for an hour's happiness a man's machinery makes him pay years of misery.
So says "Satan", anyway.
Monday 8 March 2010
Student Elections and Lessons for Tories.
In perhaps the most meaningless, tedious and underwhelming process ever conceived, student "officers" have been elected to various posts at the University, where they will perhaps decide crucial policy, will possibly represent the Union, and will probably just give inarticulate comments to the meaningless, tedious and underwhelming student press whenever a similarly dry student issue makes the front page.
Aside from the obvious advantage of culling a significant number of the bloated student population, as scores of young adults find themselves unable to expose themselves to further campaigning leap to their death from the top of the library, what is the point of this process? Well, disillusioned voter, let me enlighten you:
The answer is, of course, that they provide a lesson for nationwide political processes. Instead of spending millions on "genocidal ghoul" photoshop fiascos, power hungry megalomaniacal politicians should create little cardboard-and-sellotape signs saying "Brown: poo" and "Clegg: more strong than egg", and other signs of the same intellectual calibre as university students. I don't simply say this because of the potential goldmine of negative advertising (I reckon Lab/LibDems could rhyme "Cameron" with "moron"), but because these awful, inadequate signs which would make a drunk, illiterate hobo blush, are patently the future of politics, both at the student and national level. They provide the personal touch, they show that election nominees aren't any better than "real" people (quite the opposite, in fact), and they are useful in justifying the average (non)voter's (ir?)rational hatred of politics and politicians.
The risk is that these signs will have the same effect on national politics as they do on student politics: no one will give a solitary shit what the outcome is, and all the candidates will fade into a pointless, grey blur. But that would surely be an improvement on the current state of affairs, no?
---
p.s. I'm allowed to be critical, because I voted. I may have had little idea who each of the candidates were, and I may have simply voted for them based on their hair and the literary coherence of their campaigns, but I still fulfilled my democratic duty.
Aside from the obvious advantage of culling a significant number of the bloated student population, as scores of young adults find themselves unable to expose themselves to further campaigning leap to their death from the top of the library, what is the point of this process? Well, disillusioned voter, let me enlighten you:
The answer is, of course, that they provide a lesson for nationwide political processes. Instead of spending millions on "genocidal ghoul" photoshop fiascos, power hungry megalomaniacal politicians should create little cardboard-and-sellotape signs saying "Brown: poo" and "Clegg: more strong than egg", and other signs of the same intellectual calibre as university students. I don't simply say this because of the potential goldmine of negative advertising (I reckon Lab/LibDems could rhyme "Cameron" with "moron"), but because these awful, inadequate signs which would make a drunk, illiterate hobo blush, are patently the future of politics, both at the student and national level. They provide the personal touch, they show that election nominees aren't any better than "real" people (quite the opposite, in fact), and they are useful in justifying the average (non)voter's (ir?)rational hatred of politics and politicians.
The risk is that these signs will have the same effect on national politics as they do on student politics: no one will give a solitary shit what the outcome is, and all the candidates will fade into a pointless, grey blur. But that would surely be an improvement on the current state of affairs, no?
---
p.s. I'm allowed to be critical, because I voted. I may have had little idea who each of the candidates were, and I may have simply voted for them based on their hair and the literary coherence of their campaigns, but I still fulfilled my democratic duty.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
Greg's Law
I've decided to put my name to the law describing a phenomenon which probably already has a name and a law to go with it. Still, it reads:
As a celebrity story progresses, the chance of Max Clifford becoming involved approach 1.
This is in relation to the following news story: Max Clifford represents No 10 bully claims charity boss.
Obviously the aptly-named Ms. Pratt has spread her scurrilous rumours for political reasons (the website for her charity helpfully has quotes from two Tories on the homepage to indicate her allegiance), but the poor dear is suffering a backlash for her breach in confidentiality as everyone realises how transparent and despicable her motives are. Cue the entrance of Mighty Max to save the day and commandeer the vocal chords of another client, who has, to be fair, shown herself incapable of communicating in the grown-up world. Her already-tattered reputation is, with the inclusion of the egregious Clifford, now in shreds (is a shred smaller than a tatter?), and the smug publicist has increased his own profile. Everyone's a winner.
As a celebrity story progresses, the chance of Max Clifford becoming involved approach 1.
This is in relation to the following news story: Max Clifford represents No 10 bully claims charity boss.
Obviously the aptly-named Ms. Pratt has spread her scurrilous rumours for political reasons (the website for her charity helpfully has quotes from two Tories on the homepage to indicate her allegiance), but the poor dear is suffering a backlash for her breach in confidentiality as everyone realises how transparent and despicable her motives are. Cue the entrance of Mighty Max to save the day and commandeer the vocal chords of another client, who has, to be fair, shown herself incapable of communicating in the grown-up world. Her already-tattered reputation is, with the inclusion of the egregious Clifford, now in shreds (is a shred smaller than a tatter?), and the smug publicist has increased his own profile. Everyone's a winner.
Thomas Paine
He that would make his own liberty secure must guard even his own enemy from repression; for if he violates this duty he establishes a precedent that will reach to himself.- On the Propriety of Bringing Louis XVI to Trial.
If only the various global revolutions and counter-revolutions had heeded Paine's advice. Damn you, France!
Sunday 21 February 2010
Extra-ordinary
I once initiated an argument with a man who resented my bland inoffensiveness. It was likely that, in the eyes of wider society, I was worth a lot more than this fusty old gentleman. I was reasonably intelligent, relatively attractive, and perhaps even vaguely witty and amusing. He was unemployed, unkempt, and warranted numerous governmental health warnings. My weakness, however, was my vanity, and he exposed it ruthlessly. He whiled away hours on his hobby of undermining self-belief. And in many respects, in this instance, he was entirely justified.
I had achieved nothing of note. I went from dreaming of stardom, to hoping for success, to wishing I was someone else, somewhere else. My love life, for example, was dull, uninteresting, and frequently gave me cause to feel utter humiliation when recalling past romantic events. Everything about me was loathsome and ordinary, and left little or no impression on anyone who had the ambivalent pleasure of meeting me. His crushing conclusion would always revolve around the observation that I was one of billions of identically-ordinary little humans pursuing their unattainable and worthless lives.
As he reached this damming summation, he chuckled blithely, because he knew that his hurtful words could not penetrate his own thick hide, and because he, pointless and worthless as he appeared to others, was self-assured, self-confident, and self-congratulatory on his ability to ridicule others. But I don't see him often.
I had achieved nothing of note. I went from dreaming of stardom, to hoping for success, to wishing I was someone else, somewhere else. My love life, for example, was dull, uninteresting, and frequently gave me cause to feel utter humiliation when recalling past romantic events. Everything about me was loathsome and ordinary, and left little or no impression on anyone who had the ambivalent pleasure of meeting me. His crushing conclusion would always revolve around the observation that I was one of billions of identically-ordinary little humans pursuing their unattainable and worthless lives.
As he reached this damming summation, he chuckled blithely, because he knew that his hurtful words could not penetrate his own thick hide, and because he, pointless and worthless as he appeared to others, was self-assured, self-confident, and self-congratulatory on his ability to ridicule others. But I don't see him often.
Mr Hollow
I know a man with no strong talents or opinions, whose only transferable life skill is a well-developed sense of irony and an ability to be inhumanly sarcastic at the most inappropriate times. It is quicker to list the things he likes than those which he despises, because the former consists of nothing save himself, and the latter, for all intents and purposes, encompasses everything.
His entire being is devoted to callously destroying the dreams and ideals of those who are unfortunate enough to know him, and his caustic wit respects no boundaries of friendship or familiarity.
His life is undeservedly easy, because no one can respond to his criticism. To do that, one would need to know where his own loyalties lay, and no one does know, because he has none. He is hollow.
His entire being is devoted to callously destroying the dreams and ideals of those who are unfortunate enough to know him, and his caustic wit respects no boundaries of friendship or familiarity.
His life is undeservedly easy, because no one can respond to his criticism. To do that, one would need to know where his own loyalties lay, and no one does know, because he has none. He is hollow.
Monday 25 January 2010
Pointless Internet Arguments
The removal of "For each member who joins, we will donate $0.50 to Haiti earthquake victims".
Today, I won the most pathetic, worthless victory imaginable, barring [sports analogy]. I oversaw the removal of a group purporting to donate money to Haiti earthquake victims, which was, of course, a stupid hoaxing spam group set up by a teenager from Singapore with too much time on his hands.
It started with a message explaining how 50 businesses had agreed to donate 50 cents for every member who joined the group, encouraging members to invite all their friends, etc. It's an old formula. Obviously there was no mention of who these companies were, or when the end date for the donation would be, or whether people's leaving would result in money being taken away from Haitians, and the whole thing was so transparently fake that it was almost laughable.
Except, for some reason, almost 300,000 people had joined, presumably (excepting the minority of angry misanthropes like me) because they believed they were helping in some small way. Their ignorance was breathtaking. Unsurprisingly, I was called "sick", "cynical" and "disgusting", and many other somewhat less-eloquent words, simply because I thought that exploiting human sympathy at a time of genuine suffering was despicable.
Thanks to people pointing this out, the founder (that is, the power-crazed nerd exciting himself over the thought of getting friends to spam each other) decided to remove all forms of interaction in the group, annoying even some of the most diehard (stupid) members, but not before a tremendously underwhelming showdown where I got to tell him just how pathetic and worthless he was. I, and many others, I hope, had also reported the group repeatedly for its spam-tastic content.
A few hours later, the group had disappeared. I'm taking partial credit for this. My god, my life is so completely pathetic, that I actually feel a bit disgusted with myself for how I've wasted today.
Today, I won the most pathetic, worthless victory imaginable, barring [sports analogy]. I oversaw the removal of a group purporting to donate money to Haiti earthquake victims, which was, of course, a stupid hoaxing spam group set up by a teenager from Singapore with too much time on his hands.
It started with a message explaining how 50 businesses had agreed to donate 50 cents for every member who joined the group, encouraging members to invite all their friends, etc. It's an old formula. Obviously there was no mention of who these companies were, or when the end date for the donation would be, or whether people's leaving would result in money being taken away from Haitians, and the whole thing was so transparently fake that it was almost laughable.
Except, for some reason, almost 300,000 people had joined, presumably (excepting the minority of angry misanthropes like me) because they believed they were helping in some small way. Their ignorance was breathtaking. Unsurprisingly, I was called "sick", "cynical" and "disgusting", and many other somewhat less-eloquent words, simply because I thought that exploiting human sympathy at a time of genuine suffering was despicable.
Thanks to people pointing this out, the founder (that is, the power-crazed nerd exciting himself over the thought of getting friends to spam each other) decided to remove all forms of interaction in the group, annoying even some of the most diehard (stupid) members, but not before a tremendously underwhelming showdown where I got to tell him just how pathetic and worthless he was. I, and many others, I hope, had also reported the group repeatedly for its spam-tastic content.
A few hours later, the group had disappeared. I'm taking partial credit for this. My god, my life is so completely pathetic, that I actually feel a bit disgusted with myself for how I've wasted today.
Friday 22 January 2010
The Idiot (iii)
And yet another quote, but it is a damned fine book:
I hate you, Gavril Ardalionovitch, simply because - this will perhaps seem marvellous to you - simply because you are the type, the incarnation, the acme of the most insolent and self-satisfied, the most vulgar and loathsome commonplace. Yours is the commonplace of pomposity, of self-satisfaction and Olympian serenity. You are the most ordinary of the ordinary! Not the smallest idea of your own will ever take shape in your heart or your mind. But you are infinitely envious; you are firmly persuaded that you are a great genius; but yet doubt does visit you sometimes at black moments, and you grow spiteful and envious. Oh, there are still black spots on your horizon; they will pass when you become quite stupid, and that's not far off; but a long and chequered path lies before you; I can't call it a cheerful one and I'm glad of it.
Wednesday 20 January 2010
The Idiot (ii)
There is nothing more annoying than to be, for instance, wealthy, of good family, nice-looking, fairly intelligent, and even good-natured, and yet to have no talents, no special faculty, no peculiarity even, not one idea of one's own, to be precisely 'like other people'... There is an extraordinary multitude of such people in the world, far more than appears.
This bland multitude are subdivided by their intelligence, "some of limited intelligence, some much cleverer":
Nothing is easier for 'ordinary' people of limited intelligence than to imagine themselves exceptional and original and to revel in that delusion without the slightest misgiving... Some have only to meet with some idea by hearsay, or to read some stray page, to believe at once that it is their own opinion and has sprung spontaneously from their own brain. The impudence of simplicity, if one may so express it, is amazing in such cases.. this unhesitating confidence of the stupid man in himself and his talents...
The second category has it much tougher:
[Gavril Ardalionovitch] belonged to the class of the 'much cleverer' people, though he was infected from head to foot with the desire for originality. But that class... is far less happy than the first; for the clever 'commonplace' man, even if he occasionally or even always fancies himself a man of genius or originality, yet preserves the worm of doubt gnawing in his heart, which in some cases drives the clever man to utter despair... His passionate craving to distinguish himself sometimes led him to the brink of most ill-conceived actions, but our hero was always at the last moment too sensible to take the final plunge.
Monday 18 January 2010
Dostoevsky: The Idiot
There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one's idea for thirty-five years; there's something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you for ever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps, the most important of your ideas.
..and they say that strange fictional teenagers with consumption don't give good advice.
Tuesday 12 January 2010
Godwin's Law
A good example of Godwin's Law came up today in a FaceBook group which opposed the proposed installation of Rod Liddle as editor of the Independent:
It made me smile, and I got to publicise my AMAZINGLY-APT FaceBook group:
The link to which I've removed as part of my bizarre privacy drive (26th July 2011).
which is titled removed I did thoroughly enjoy this man's (boy's?) post though, as it combined a reasonable level of verbal sophistication with naked anti-snobbery and poor logic. I might make him a literary caricature! Incidentally, this would be the highest honour ever bestowed on anybody. And that's including receiving the Oscar for Best Picture. I rate myself highly.
Liddle in the running for the Indie editor? Whatever next? Thank god for the web. Do we really need newspapers and TV "news" these days? The Sutton Trust did a survey of the educational background of leading Brit media journalists a couple of years ago. Over 50% attended private schools. You know, the ones that Hitler so admired. [http://www.suttontrust.com/reports/Journalists-backgrounds-final-report.pdf]. The BBC refused to co-operate with the survey. Can't think why. When I subsequently sent an FOI request to the BBC for this info they fobbed me off with some lame excuses for not providing it. So it seems that British media is the old boys'/girls' eye view of the world. No prizes for guessing which posiitons in the hierarchies of the media they occupy.
Godwin's Law: "As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches one."
It made me smile, and I got to publicise my AMAZINGLY-APT FaceBook group:The link to which I've removed as part of my bizarre privacy drive (26th July 2011).
which is titled removed I did thoroughly enjoy this man's (boy's?) post though, as it combined a reasonable level of verbal sophistication with naked anti-snobbery and poor logic. I might make him a literary caricature! Incidentally, this would be the highest honour ever bestowed on anybody. And that's including receiving the Oscar for Best Picture. I rate myself highly.
Saturday 2 January 2010
Christmas as a Heathen
Back when I was a believer, Church at Christmas seemed like cough medicine: it was unpleasant, but I knew that it was good for me. Nowadays, I happily go because it's only once or twice a year, it makes one or both parents happy, and the unpleasantness of Church provides me with karma balance, so I can enjoy the pleasures of food, drink, family and presents guilt-free. Because I'm such a nice person, I tear myself away from the warmth of my room and the excitement of various free online games and attend the Christmas Church service.
I'm handed an exciting looking candle upon entry, which distracts me throughout the prayers being offered by a ten-year-old, which all end with a resounding "god wiv us". I'm clearly not looking devout enough, as a man in white, like the priest but not the priest (his sidekick, perhaps?) frowns disapprovingly at me. For a second, I feel we're going to start a horrendously violent physical fight atop the altar, as the priest faints and various members of the congregation bay for blood on the outskirts, placing bets on who'll be disembowelled first. But he seems to lose interest as a cake is brought out for Jesus. Although we sing him Happy Birthday, Jesus declines the opportunity to blow out his own candles, and the priest, who considers himself a reasonable stand-in for the son of god, does it himself.
The inevitable contradictions of a Christian service all seem to be present, as the priest lectures us on the nearest fire exits, whilst lighting the hundreds of candles he has distributed. No one seems to mind either that the ten-year-old next to me is three inches away from setting his mother on fire, or that I'm entertaining myself by trying to drip candle wax on everything around me. I also know for a fact that around 30% of the musicians playing hymns in front of me are atheists. As we eat Jesus's birthday cake, I wonder whether there are parts of the congregation's body baked into the cake, as a small way of saying thank you for the millions of pounds of flesh Jesus must have given Christians worldwide throughout the centuries. Although I make fun of their beliefs now, I find these sorts of Christians relatively benign and mostly very pleasant too, so I don't mind making the occasional sacrifice to spend an hour or two with them. After all, did not Jesus give himself up for sacrifice at Christmas? No? Oh.
If money were no object: Comedy shop
If I had to have a job, but at the same time I was fabulously wealthy and didn't need to make money from that job, I would create the world's best comedy shop. There'd be a physical comedy section for whoopee cushions, fake turds, and the like, a DVD section, split into sections like animation, stand-up, sit-com, film, etc., and a section on humorous literature. It wouldn't need to make money, because I'd live on a lottery salary (I've decided that the lottery is how I'll make my millions), and I could sell everything at cost price, so I'd effectively compete with big retailers. I'd offer my expert opinion on comedy to everyone who entered the shop, and people would come in for that, the creative atmosphere, and the canvas paintings of comedians plastered all over the wall. It would be a one-off shop, so I'd need to plan carefully where the funniest place in Britain is, where they'd most appreciate the genius of this shop.
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