Quotable

Ah to be famous and thus worthwhile. People hanging on your every word, desperate for a quote. And if you'd said something graceful and witty, people would report it but correctly punctuate it and make it aesthetically pleasing and add adverbs like "stoical" to the end of the quote to emphasise how majestic you'd looked as you'd said it. And if you'd said something a little less piquant, people would include the "er"s and erm"s (or "uh"s and "um"s, if you're that way inclined) you'd actually uttered in order to make you look indecisive and confused, as though even spouting that verbal shit had required untold cerebral effort.

This is an unappetising prospect. Thus, if I were notable, I'd be very conscious of the prying eyes and expectant ears and I'd never stop planning my next quip. Desperate to avoid the dreaded "er" and "erm" press tactic, I'd need to have something good to hand. In and amongst this constant plotting of the next witticism, I'd find myself unable (through lack of time) to continue with the activity which made me notable in the first place (the first image which came into my head as I thought of what the activity might be was plate-spinning, so let's say that). I'd then be in limbo, a celebrity without portfolio. Maybe if I was lucky and displayed great sarcastic aptitude I could make a name for myself as a "wit", a minor career change whilst still parading under the celebrity umbrella (and less physically arduous than plate spinning). Except then of course the stakes would be higher. A single slip could be fatal. Suddenly if I stumble over a carefully-plotted amusing anecdote, I'm not just a graceless clod, I'm bad at my job (or rather that activity for which I am notable).

What does this sort of pressure do to a person? To know that if you can't say anything sparkling, don't say anything at all, certain that 'tis better to be silent and be thought a Jedward than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. Does it turn you into a stressed, balding, sweating pun-machine incapable of a genuine human reaction which hasn't been painstakingly filtered? How does one cope with a mind that runs like a small looping school's educational electrical circuit, frantically flapping about until the lightbulb flickers? After a certain amount of time, the pressure would prey on my tiny mind and it'd submit and I'd be reduced from a blubbering stuttering mess into something altogether worse: a collapsed-brain imbecile whose mind has severed itself from the conversation.

Therefore, I've decided that if I should become notable I'll take the low-standards approach and say nothing which might be construed as witty or biting (and thus quotable). It'll be a tricky task, for sure, but I'm willing to resist the temptation. Many of my acquaintances would legitimately argue that I've been resisting the temptation for years.

Realistic New Year

Traditionally the time for short-term resolution and determination, the new year buzz is an easy target for a degraded cynic. There's fat people pretending they'll lose weight, skinny celebrities pretending they'll gain it, and all manner of exciting physical and mental challenges set by people drunk on the excesses of the festive season.

But, as much as I love an easy target which reduces the need to fully exercise my brain or acerbic facetiousness, it must be considered at least somewhat admirable that people acknowledge an area in themselves that they wish to change and thus resolve to change it. Certainly it's more worthy than the complacency which allows the person completely devoid of self-criticism to sustain themselves.

So, where do I go from here, having acknowledged that self-improvement isn't necessarily worthy of disdain? I go to the next easy target I can find - the emotionally frail and easily suggestible.

I recently read this blog post - 30 Things To Stop Doing To Yourself (opens in new window) - and unlike anything I've ever written, it appears to be uplifting and popular. Although published in early December, it's exactly the sort of the post-Christmas platitudinous tough love that we all crave - a handy list of the most essential self-improvements.

The problem with it, and similar lists, is that its resolutions are impractical, unmeasurable, facile and occasionally downright wrong:

Here a few examples:

3 - Stop Lying To Yourself
5 - Stop Trying To Be Someone You're Not
These two fall under the facile category because they fundamentally misunderstand basic human nature, which consists very significantly and vitally of self-delusion. People need to be shielded from themselves because it's a way of protecting their mental state from the harsh reality of the mess they really are. Number 3's paragraph actually says that the one person you can't lie to is yourself, which is patently bullshit. Confabulation is a recognised trait that everyone displays, for example when creating fictional narratives to explain actions they've taken or trying to explain the origin of emotional states that the person is completely clueless about.

No. 5 undermines the rest of the list because you'd have to be someone you're not in order to make changes to yourself. If I want to "stop being ungrateful" (no. 30), I have to act like a more grateful person, repressing the feelings of ungratefulness that are my more natural state, and forcibly change myself, suppressing the person I truly am.

20 - Stop Wasting Time Explaining Yourself To Others
28 - Stop Trying To Be Everything To Everyone
The first one here is both vague and dangerous.  Down the path of refusing to explain yourself lies arrogance and a refusal to confront one's own shortcomings. Its failure is compounded by the accompanying sentence: "Just do what you know in your heart is right." How could the author think that encouraging gullible and hapless followers to think "I don't have to explain myself to you. I know in my heart that what I did was right" could ever be a healthy way for people to progress? I'm not sure what the second one even means. Is it a command for people to be more selfish? Less changeable? More apathetic? Perhaps I'm an exceptionally selfish person, but to how many people does no. 28 even apply?

19 - Stop Letting Others Bring You Down To Their Level
Ah, vague and sort-of hard to disagree with. Platitudinous bliss. How many people who are routinely brought down to others' levels (however that's assessed) only do so because they haven't realised that it's probably not a good thing? Will someone read this and say "Hmm... ordinarily I'd feel comfortable degrading myself and lowering myself to the same level as 'others', but now this short sentence has directed me down a new path"? There's no accompanying practical explanation, just a second sentence restating the first in different words.

I won't go on, because this post is already so long that no one will read it, or even credibly suggest they have read it. I could write anything here and it'll never be read. So, down here, after everyone's lost interest, I'm going to bury the bit where I agree with the list:

17 - Stop Complaining And Feeling Sorry For Yourself 
26 - Stop Blaming Others For Your Troubles
Although, as before, these two are inadequately explained, they are useful if followed. So, how does one follow them properly? I've no idea, but then I'm not claiming to offer "PRACTICAL TIPS FOR PRODUCTIVE LIVING" as the author of "30 Things To Stop Doing To Yourself" is. My own modest contribution is to argue that one of the first steps towards any self-improvement is to acknowledge that one is the main agent for change in one's life and thus to take responsibility for yourself (no. 26). That's not to say that you shouldn't feel angry and resentful towards the people who've helped cause your troubles (and who would argue that it's possible to repress those feelings anyway?). But anyway, such a nuance is impossible when one glibly makes a list of short commands all beginning with "Stop".

Regarding no. 17, I would agree that self-pitying is damaging. I would argue this because it stops people from progressing practically or emotionally. It's so easily written and so much harder to achieve. But that's because you can't read a short list of desirable areas of self-improvement and expect to actually achieve anything by doing so. To quote Lisa Simpson (which is how all powerful paragraph-ending sentences start), "Self-improvement can be achieved but not with a quick fix. It's a long, arduous journey of personal... discovery."

As I stroll into the grey areas of hypocrisy, I'm rather disgusted at my own glibness here. I've tentatively agreed with 2 of the author's points and have written two medium-length paragraphs about why and I still feel as though this has been very inadequately explained or explored. I've no idea how the original author can reel off 30 sentences and expect them to be read as "practical" self-help. But then many people have commented positively on what he's written, so what the fuck do I know?

Last and First Men

What a fantastically ambitious and far-reaching novel Olaf Stapledon has written. I've just finished reading this. It's like H G Wells but more satisfying because fewer people know about it. It reads like high literature but tackles issues of time and space. Is it literature or sci-fi? Who cares, it was written in 1930 and the distinction would be nonsensical, because sci-fi didn't quite exist as a separate entity. The afterword informs me that the author himself would find the attempted division ludicrous, and that was good enough for me. Anyway, that's enough of a tangent.

The basic premise of the book is a brief history of time, from our own (1930s) era through world conflict, a simple story based on an imagining of the future. But it goes on, and on, through different species of human, their different ideas and characteristics. In all, 18 species of human exist, first on the Earth, then on Venus, then on Neptune, where the race ends. I'm not really one for synopses. Even that one has exhausted me.

Reading this so long after it was written is cruel to the author, because of the inherent difficulties an author has in trying to predict a possible future without framing everything in the context of his own times. Hence even the most advanced species rely heavily on "overalls" and "hoes and spades", because the author isn't aware that all future races actually wear foil and spandex, and he hadn't encountered the rudimentary robots which would have fed his imagination with new ideas for mechanical domestic help. And although some of the species of human eventually achieve varying levels of telepathic ability, there is no intermediate technological advance in the fields of communication to match this. Could it have been so hard to predict and augment the Internet? Luckily, he wrote after the advent of aviation, so that advanced races do experience the luxury of personal "flying craft", and even the occasional "ether ship".

But of course these facetiously-noticed petty peccadilloes take nothing away from the genius of the book, which has inspired so many. Arthur C Clarke said of it: "no book before or since has ever had such an impact on my imagination." It is a hugely imaginative cosmological journey that Stapledon takes us through, but the highlight for me is the sentence-by-sentence structure, vocabulary and, dare I say it, poetry. To pick one (almost) at random, when speaking of one of the species' view on the death of their fellow man, he describes it as "an irrevocable tragedy, an utter annihilation of the most resplendent kind of glory, an impoverishment of the cosmos for evermore." This one stuck with me so I made a note of it.

Not only that, but he teaches us important life-lessons:

"There is something else, too, which is a part of growing up - to see that life is really, after all, a game; a terribly serious game, no doubt, but none the less a game. When we play a game, as it should be played, we strain every muscle to win; but all the while we care less for winning than for the game. Ad we play the better for it."

But, but before we gain too much levity, we are also reminded that "thus the whole duration of humanity, with its many sequent species and its incessant downpour of generations, is but a flash in the lifetime of the cosmos."

I noticed that after reading substantial portions of the book, I looked at the world with a distant gaze, smiling wryly at the minutiae of every day life. Early in the book, our "First" humans stashed a huge vault-full of human knowledge in a cave, that it should never be lost. I thought that the retention of that knowledge would be pivotal to the cultural survival of man. It mattered slightly for a few thousand years, or perhaps 30 pages, but it meant nothing once hundreds of generations had passed, each with their own ideas of what's important, indispensable, sacred. In the end, it mattered not. It was a strangely liberating thought, not getting bogged down in the little things. I felt almost Buddhist. I didn't even bother shaving that day, such was its ascetic appeal.

So I would agree with Mr Clarke on the novel's influential properties. For example, I learned that life is an insignificant game. Life may be "but a flash in the lifetime of the cosmos", but it's still a game.

Pop-Psychology

One of the great pleasures in life is shallow pop-psychology, partly because it's so useful for understanding and interpreting people and their interactions, and partly because talking about it annoys those people who've actually spent years studying the science. At this point of confrontation between the experts and the amateurs, we the amateurs chortle merrily and say, "but these are the most interesting aspects of psychology, and I can learn about them from the Internet! Why would I want to waste years scratching any further beneath the surface of this science and bore myself with facts about the efficacy of barbiturates?" I appreciate the commitment of psychologists who've done the legwork in researching and verifying experiments, but virtually no one cares about anything beyond the headline.

That's why I, and all my lazily pseudo-intellectual kind, can appreciate the genius of a website like YouAreNotSoSmart.com, a handy synthesis of psychological phenomena both well-established and recondite. Each phenomenon is packed into a web post the size of a small chapter for comprehensive but digestible consumption. What I've learnt from these brief forays into psychology is that most of the brain's pop-psychology functions are concerned with self-delusion and self-preservation.

Confirmation bias? Fanboyism? The Benjamin Franklin effect? (Look them all up. I wouldn't do them justice). All of these are concerned with keeping the brain from frying in its own contradictions as we battle through life lying to ourselves and each other. The Benjamin Franklin effect especially brings home this truth.* When confronted with a reality which seems bizarre or incomprehensible to us, do we adjust our realities and expectations in order that we may better understand our surroundings and attain an awareness of the objective "truth"? Ha, no. We delude ourselves. We retroactively adjust our goals. We even go so far as to distort the things we've actually experienced and warp our own memories, because, for some reason, this is an altogether more agreeable solution to the contradictions than, say, confronting our own fallibility.

In many ways this is unsurprising. We're idiots. We're easily led. That's not an immense revelation.

Still, that's the real beauty of pop-psychology. It tells us things we already know, but in mock-authoritative fashion.

*http://youarenotsosmart.com/2011/10/05/the-benjamin-franklin-effect/

New Employment, New Dangers

I've settled comfortably into my new office role. Despite expected teething problems, such as horrifying initial incompetence and why-is-no-one-else-wearing-a-suit-syndrome, it's going okay. The people, though different from my usual crowd of hapless, giggling misfits, are affable and approachable. The office, though lacking in privacy and humidity, is spacious and calming. The work and procedures, though at first bewildering, are slowly sinking in and becoming familiar and comfortable. My major current concern is the office radio.

I like good music, not popular music, ffs. I feel like an old man, or, more accurately, a fraudulent geek. I don't understand these new cultural references. Why is everyone laughing when someone says a singer sounds like Avril Lavigne? I thought it was Avril Lavigne. And, anyway, what happened to Avril after her fabulous I'm With You. Wow, that was a cool song. Pretty nifty, in fact. Hip n' shit. But I don't understand. How come some of these new-fangled accepted songs have industrial-like instrumentals on when my own music is disregarded for its "noisome" tone? For what purpose auto-tune?

And why do they only ever sing about their worthless, failed relationships, their disgusting history of the inbreeding of the vacuous and the banal, their half-baked misremembrances of fictionalised saccharine pairings, concocted in the sweaty mind of the songwriter and regurgitated by a singer devoid of personality or flair, and whose entire claim to celebrity entitlement stems from a stealthy act of fellatio gleefully delivered to an emotionless Simon Cowell at the beginning of a long and sticky journey through a well-watched but ultimately soulless reality television show?

I even had the chance to put an end to the madness today. There was some dispute in the office when the Luddites in the row behind complained that their analogue radio clashed with the echo of the DAB radio next to me. I stupidly, selflessly fixed everything by pointing out that our radio could also receive and transmit an FM signal. Now I'm stuck in the Dark Age of analogue listening to popular music.

I can feel it eroding my soul. I have to come home and bathe in the disinfectant of Black Sabbath.

But they also have a nice water cooler here. So, like, swings and roundabouts.

On Poetry

You know how when people don't understand things they sometimes end up criticising or belittling them instead? I do that a lot. I'm going to do it now.* Against poetry.

But please read this disclaimer first:

I accept that poetry - the writing and appreciation of - is a noble and valuable pursuit. There is an extensive and rich cultural history of poets and poetry throughout the world, and it is written and appreciated by people who are far my intellectual, emotional and financial superiors. Many people who write poetry also write brilliant prose, and being accomplished in the art of the former is arguably conducive to excellence in the latter. Basically, anyone who would argue that poetry is in anyway irrelevant or defunct is clearly a terrible person. Good? Good.

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POETRY

So... here's an ironically-ragged collection of my dissatisfactions:

My objections tend around the form of poetry. For example, why should we reward disjointed phrases? Is it not the case that poetical phrases hang in the air because their author was unwilling or incapable of putting them into well-crafted and articulate prose? Is it any different from a shy and retiring author using a passive tone? Perhaps, in both cases, the writer cannot speak plainly and, in the case of poetry, must instead hide behind half-spoken sentiments and inconclusive strings of adjectives?

Fully-constructed sentences can be used to show everything from humour to outrage, affection to loathing. What do we gain from the use of irregular sentences except the shallow mystique which arises from obfuscation?

So then what do we lose with the astute use of full, flowing sentences? Perhaps a certain rhythm. Perhaps we don't read enough similes or metaphors. Perhaps we have less lurid description and imagery. But none of these problems are necessarily so when we make the transition from prose to verse, are they? I'm asking.

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*Despite the tone of this post, I don't feel anything negative towards those who indulge in poetry. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm jealous of them, because, to me, poetry is irrelevant, but I feel that it shouldn't be. I don't know how to appreciate it, or write it, or credit it. I write this not to mock, but as an acknoweldgement of my own inadequacies. Look, see how scared I am of poets? These caveats have taken up more space than the bit against poetry itself.

Mark Twain: The Ugly Years

I've written before about the delights of Mark Twain in his latter, misanthropic years. But now I've been studying him in a little more detail, reading a rather good biography by Ron Powers - Mark Twain: A Life. Unfortunately, as with all of one's heroes, studying Twain reveals his ugly side, his human flaws and weaknesses, which shatter the illusion that I've had of him as a faultless machine of pure satirical incision.

For example, in his early 30s, Twain became engaged to his first wife, Olivia Langdon. And he fell in love in the most clichéd and humiliating way that anyone can fall in love, complete with the worst and most offensive love-letters ever crafted, their appalling nature magnified when contrasted with his otherwise sterling verbal and written performances at the time.

Here are a few excerpts:

"Livy, Livy, Livy darling, it is such a happiness, such a pleasure, such a luxury, to write you, that I don't know when to stop."

"P.S. -- I do LOVE you, Livy!
~
P.P.P.S. -- I do love, LOVE, LOVE you, Livy, darling.
~
P.P.P.P.P.S. -- I do love you, Livy!"

"You are so pure, so great, so good, so beautiful. How can I help loving you? ... [H]ow can I keep from worshipping you, you dear little paragon?"

"I send a thousand kisses -- pray send me some."

And so on, and so forth.

Now, I value historical accuracy as much as the next graduate, but I can't help but think that Powers has done Twain a great disservice by faithfully reproducing these inane scribbles. In a new edition, perhaps he would consider striking out all references to love and replacing them with filth and bile. Mark "the truth is the most valuable thing we have, so I try to conserve it" Twain would, I'm sure, approve.

Right now, I eagerly anticipate the time, in a few years, when multiple members of his family will start perishing so that he might unlock the genius of his latter years. No one writes their best work when they're happy and complacent.

Pity Poor David Cameron

In the wake of the riots, there has been a false dichotomy presented amongst various commentators as to how we can or should proceed. EITHER we can pepper the looters with live ammunition and make their corpses homeless OR give them an unconditional discharge and their own radio show.

At the centre of this rather flimsy pretext is a rather elegant philosophical debate about determinism.

In the Red Dwarf episode "The Inquisitor", Rimmer, when asked to justify his existence, says, "What else could I have been? My father was a half-crazed military failure, my mother was a bitch-queen from hell. My brothers had all the looks and talent. What did I have? Unmanageable hair and ingrowing toenails. Yes, I admit it. I'm nothing. But, from what I started with, nothing is up."

A similar argument is heard referring to the recent rioters (who are, for the sake of the argument, assumed to be disaffected, poor youths with a lack of parental influence): what else could they have been, it's easy for us to say, we're very white and middle class, don't know what it's like on the street, they need their voice heard etc.

This is, of course, a valid argument. People are products of their genetics and their environment. The former they have no control over, and the latter they have little control over. The problem is that, if we follow the argument to its full extent, can we ever punish anyone? If someone comes from a broken and abusive home and in term becomes abusive, is that their fault? They can't help it, shirley. And so on, and so forth. The problem is knowing where to draw the line of personal responsibility.

(Arguably, this is also a problem with religion - if people go to Heaven for believing, what of the people who didn't have the advantage of a Christian upbringing? It's not their fault, but they're still more likely to be punished for eternity.)

The person I really pity is David Cameron. Wealthy, aristocratic family, privileged upbringing, Eton, Oxford, married to a woman from a wealthy, aristocratic family. And those genetics! Not only white, he also has the chubby baby-like cheeks of the aristocracy. I ask you, with this start in life, what else could he have been but a Tory?

What about George Osborne? Multi-million pound trust fund, privileged upbringing, middle name Gideon, a sneering face incapable of showing compassion? What else could he have been?

We should show empathy and intelligence in understanding how people's start in life can influence their behaviour and ask what we can do to promote equality in light of this. But we must be consistent. When these people dismantle or even destroy our country, we must realise that they haven't always had the same opportunities and experiences that we have. And neither have the rioters.

P.S. Overheard in a restaurant last night - news of _______'s riots filtering through to a family from that city. Children's response was concern that they would no longer be able to buy their jeans from a certain burned-out shop. The atmosphere became slightly tense and awkward after I angrily (and rather pompously) suggested that I felt a lot more concern for the people who would lose their £5.93-an-hour jobs in that shop.

Rules of the (trashy) Blog

I read a lot of trashy blogs. Personal blogs of people with issues. I only read them if they're well-written, so the people who write them are obviously clever people. However, when reading them, they still feel like the equivalent of watching Jeremy Kyle in trackies - low-brow, guilty voyeurism.

I'm now going to attempt to legitimise my indulgence of these blogs by pretending I've been intensely analysing them. To that end (and avoiding any observations which might identify the blogs or their writers), I've compiled a short list of the rules a person must follow in order to create a successful trashy, personal blog.

The Good
Use of culture and current issues
Like I said previously, these bloggers appear to be of a high intellectual calibre. The successful blog will demonstrate knowledge of literature, political debates or philosophy, and often frame their otherwise self-centred musings within more globally-relevant considerations.

The Bad
Constantly relating oneself to popular fiction characters
This is a tricky one. It's usually true, because popular fiction writers (of whatever medium) get to where they are by being able to encapsulate recognisable personalities. However, when this sometimes-legitimate observation is made too often, because of very slight incidental links, it begins to look a lot like unabashed egotism.

Thinking everyone cares loads about what one has to say
Okay, I'm aware that the ironymeter is creeping up here. The problem is that writing an exclusively personal blog is perhaps unavoidably egotistical. The other problem is that those with any self-awareness are conscious of this fact whilst writing their blog. Thus, they feel the need to half-apologise for their naked self-obsession whilst continuing with it. Some writers adopt a Charlie Brooker-level of self-abuse to negate further criticisms, and some power through with complete disregard for the criticism (after all, if you don't want to read about them, don't read their blog, etc.). But, for most people, the uneasy half-acknowledgement of this conflict is the best they can offer. The successful trashy blogger will apologise semi-frequently for their self-obsession.

Hints of future greatness
This is heavily tied-up with the previous point. "Why should I write a blog? Because one day, I'll be great." (Again, the ironymeter is hovering at "wry smile".) The successful trashy blogger must at all times assume that they're the next Salinger/Plath and that their blog-work documenting their early life is VITAL. One day, hordes of biographers will be scratching around, desperate to gain insight into your genius. "Please tell me she kept a notebook, a diary, anything! Shit! I've found desperatelysmiling.blogspot.com, a record of her pre-fame thoughts and feelings. Now we can give her the understanding and attention she obviously deserves." That's how the story will go. The successful blogger MUST retain this mindset, or risk annihilation.

"Nothing ever works out for me"
Why does the trashy blogger feel the need to blog? Because their life is an unmitigated disaster. Either their life is unfair and nothing goes their way, or they're predisposed to be unsuccessful because they weren't given the gift of commitment and get-up-and-go. Either way, at least documenting their lack of success will help them feel better. Maybe it'll make other like-minded "failures" make sense of their own shortcomings? Maybe the world can at least sympathise that, were things different, the trashy-blogger would be successful. And that's worth something.

The Ugly
Copious amounts of information about one's body
Are you boobs too small? Did the big girls make fun of your hairy forearms? Or, if you're a boy, did the older boys have smoother skin and bigger muscles? The successful trashy-blogger will document all such embarrassments, and post them on the famously-private Internet. Right next to that picture of you, which identifies you as the writer and curator of the blog.

Hating the cool kids whilst aspiring to be one
This is the trashy blog at its most subtle and nuanced. A cursory glance will reveal that there is no way that the trashy-blogger would try and be like them, the arch-nemesis - the boy who called you an ugly "munter" for 3 years at high school, the girl who spread that rumour about you and the caretaker's dog. The "hating" bit is pretty straight-forward. The more elusive "aspiring" part comes from the occasional longing and wistful tone, the self-conscious desire to look as much like them as possible when posing for the photo in the "about me" section, etc. Like the best of David Attenborough, it sometimes requires a lot of patient watching, but the successful trashy blogger will eventually reveal their secret aspirations.

The lack of humour
This is pretty self-explanatory. The trashy-blog isn't here to impress you, it's here to cover you in tar and let you sink into a pit of despair. Clearly, adding humour (or even an attempt at humour) would undermine this effort.

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Well, there we go. This has gone some way towards legitimising my observation of numerous versions of the trashy-blog. There's definitely a case for accusing BtM of being partially trashy, but I think I've definitely avoided some of the more egregious rules listed above. But tell me, what do you think? I, like, really care.

Aloof

There's a lot of frustration available. Frustration at widespread idiocy and the infantile nature of popular entertainments and my indulgence in the worst offenders. Frustration at a lack of purpose and drive which mars potentially-worthwhile endeavours. Frustration at the unsatisfactory life options available and the wastage of time. Frustration at the passive tone necessitated by my lack of shamelessness. Frustration at the immediate lack of compassion and resulting, comforting, guarded arrogance - warm and safe. A pointless egosurvivalist, living off tins of sausages and beans and sniping fellow survivors. A hermit with a blog and a twitter-feed.

Well, that's your dose of Saturday cryptic pseudo-psych bullshit.

Exhausting Small Talk

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.

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...

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.

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

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/8703173.stm

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Mark Twain: The Misanthropic Years

From Twain's unfinished The Mysterious Stranger, published posthumously:

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.

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.

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.