A problem of the truly prolific writer is to keep track of the treasured words once the avaricious agent gets hold of them, especially with all the new-fangled publishing formats we're confused by nowadays. Search my name on Amazon and you'll find hardbacks, softbacks, audio-books, podcasts, manga-streams, tweet-weaves, snip-vines, me-mozaics, and countless other forms of publication upon which the fans shower their money. Half the time I don't know stuff's published until its waved under the nose with pens by the autograph hunters.
This morning was a case in point. Working through the papers over breakfast, I got to the New Yorker, unfolded it, and blow me down if the front page wasn't a Searle caricature of yours truly as Gulliver looking down at a dozen or so Lilliputians, among whom could be recognised Huxley, Russell, Godel, Bacon, de Beauvoir, Keynes, Feynman, and so on. To right, just above the little figures at the bottom, was the caption: 'Peter Frith on Essay den Sushing'.
Anyway... flick to page 2 of New Yorker..scan introductory column headed 'This Week'...yep, there we go- little bit of blurb about me... true polymath, giant of post-modernism, statesman, champion of women's rights, towering intellect, Nobel oversight, etc etc, recently published book 'The 'Best of' Essay den Sushing', review by Frith on page 5.
On the one hand it was a complete surprise- I'd no idea that the anyone had been working on a collection of my best work, let alone that one had been published and sent to the New Yorker for review. And a damned thick book that would be. On the other, with so much superlative writing to my name, you'd be puzzled why a 'Best of' wasn't cramming the shelves years ago.
Fair enough so far. Nod to maid to top up coffee. Take next mouthful of nourishing breakfast. Turn to page 5. Start to read Frith's review:
"Welcome over-due publication of the best of den Sushing. Editors faced difficult choices. Unparalleled breath and depth of insight. Unique cocktail of humour, invention and serious message." And so on.
Reach seventh paragraph. See the words "den Sushing's occasionally overwrought prose style". Experience moment of disbelief. Re-read the words to be sure. Drop scalding coffee on thigh. Almost choke. Spray stream of toast crumbs and caviar over nearby secretary... OVERWOUGHT PROSE STYLE?????!!!!!!!
F***ing Firth. Overwrought prose style? I suppose he considers Hussein Bolt overfast, the oceans overwet, the Mona Lisa overpainted, Bach's cannon overmusical, the Great Pyramids overmonumental, our dear Queen overregal, my quantum electrodynamic calculations of the magnetic moment of the Higgs Boson overprecise, the...
Ed- don't forget the style guide. Looks to me like we're forgetting the style guide.
Eh? What? Oh, right, yes, but those ******** ***** ******* at the ********** New Yorker had better look out.
Ed- and the Defamation Avoidance Policy. Let's not be forgetting that either.
Friday, 13 February 2015
Thursday, 12 February 2015
The Glib Dems
At the House of Commons this morning a harassed and despondent Nick Clegg entered the gentlemen's toilets as I was washing my hands in preparation for leaving them (the toilets that is, not the hands). I acknowledged his presence with a fractional nod towards his reflection in the glass above my sink. After the customary preliminaries- his fawning, mine perfunctory and austere- an impromptu consultation took place in which he sought my advice on the best way to counter the portrayal of his party as superficial and ill-prepared which was gaining currency following his decision to publish only the cover of the Lib Dem election manifesto. Looking him squarely in his tear-moistened eye I told him that the only course of action was the obvious one- he should publish the remaining page as soon as possible.
Tuesday, 10 February 2015
C.J. Sansom's Cover Story
For entertainment certain cheap trashy paperbacks cannot be beaten. At Davos I almost missed my keynote speech, so absorbed was I in the latest C.J. Sansom. Perhaps 'in' is not the mot juste here, suggesting, as it does, that my attention had been gripped by the words inside the book; for it was the wording on the cover which wholly occupied my mind for the two hours and thirty seven minutes by which my talk had been delayed pending the arrival of an unpunctual Barrak Obama. The words- a quote from an un-named critic at The Sunday Times- were remarkable for such a complete absence of literary sensibility that ones mind could not completely contemplate the sort of conspiracy of incompetence that must have led to their publication. The author of the words was clearly borderline illiterate. Some sub-editor at The Sunday Times had been sufficiently uncultured to allow the words to appear in the review section of that publication (the literary review section, mind you). The publisher of the book must have failed to spot the gross literary shortcomings of the words to be emblazoned on its cover. I mean... words almost fail me. I'll tell you what, here's the quote. Read it yourself, then you'll see what I mean...
'So compulsive that, until you reach the end, you'll have to be almost physically prised away from it.'
Where does one start? So much to criticise. Let's begin with punctuation. What is the purpose of the two commas? Surely the sentence (rubbish as it is) would scan more straightforwardly without them. And then, why bother with the interpolated words at all? Surely if the sentence read 'So compulsive that you'll have to be almost physically pried away from it' the reader would gather that the extreme degree of compulsiveness would probably abate once the book had been read. Or did the critic suppose that readers might be concerned that they would be inseparably attached to this supremely captivating book for ever? And then there's the 'away from'. Why include the word away? And then there's 'physically prised'. Confusion with what other common sort of prising was the literary critic taking care to avoid? Emotional prising? Spiritual prising? Immaterial prising? And the ambiguously-placed 'almost'. What is its focus? Did our literary critic mean prised in an almost physical way (presumably some specific point along the non-physical-to physical prising continuum)? Or did the critic mean physically prised almost, but not quite, to the point of being 'away from' the book? Or did the critic...
Connoisseurs of literary humour world-wide: You can see why he nearly missed his speech. He can go on for hours about this sort of stuff. Sure he's a critic's critic alright.
'So compulsive that, until you reach the end, you'll have to be almost physically prised away from it.'
Where does one start? So much to criticise. Let's begin with punctuation. What is the purpose of the two commas? Surely the sentence (rubbish as it is) would scan more straightforwardly without them. And then, why bother with the interpolated words at all? Surely if the sentence read 'So compulsive that you'll have to be almost physically pried away from it' the reader would gather that the extreme degree of compulsiveness would probably abate once the book had been read. Or did the critic suppose that readers might be concerned that they would be inseparably attached to this supremely captivating book for ever? And then there's the 'away from'. Why include the word away? And then there's 'physically prised'. Confusion with what other common sort of prising was the literary critic taking care to avoid? Emotional prising? Spiritual prising? Immaterial prising? And the ambiguously-placed 'almost'. What is its focus? Did our literary critic mean prised in an almost physical way (presumably some specific point along the non-physical-to physical prising continuum)? Or did the critic mean physically prised almost, but not quite, to the point of being 'away from' the book? Or did the critic...
Connoisseurs of literary humour world-wide: You can see why he nearly missed his speech. He can go on for hours about this sort of stuff. Sure he's a critic's critic alright.
Tuesday, 3 February 2015
The Comedians
This morning I hear that Robert Peston, the erratically-spoken 'Business Editor' of the BBC, is to present a radio programme on financial inequality, featuring 'politicians, policy-makers and a comedian'. Any listener sufficiently able to tolerate Peston's discordant delivery to leave the radio playing throughout the broadcast will face another challenge: how to tell which of the speakers are not the comedian.
Monday, 2 February 2015
Excellence in execution
Naïve, childish, ill-informed, unproductive, futile, pointless, illogical... these adjectives and others like them might equally describe the arguments we hear about the privatisation of the NHS, or the idiots propounding them, who are unable to distinguish between the qualities inherent of a process and those of its execution. To put it more simply, privatise the NHS in a good way and good will result; privatise in a bad way and bad will result.
So too the arguments that are pointlessly made for and against the return to public ownership of the British railways. I have no doubt that a promptness and reliability to make Mussolini beam could be achieved were our railways in the hands of intelligent, well-motivated, capable, experienced, diligent civil servants. Equally we could have a chimps tea-party on rails if the idiots at my local council were put in charge.
Take the example I overhead on the radio this morning- an argument over the Macadamisation of schools. There are some, it seems, who assert that academic standards would assuredly be raised if all schools were to become Macadamised. Utter nonsense, of course, as a general and unqualified assertion. Certainly if it were well done- if the playground was tarmacked to an exacting standard, with perfectly undeviating planes, a tightly compacted and impervious surface, subtle and artistic falls, consistent radii at corner details, and so on- then the aesthetically disciplined neatness of it all might be expected to instil a more-potent esprit de corps among the pupils, leading to a more-stoic and purposeful attitude to study. But a quick tar-spray and chip by the cash-in-hand gang that did the head's driveway last Friday is likely to have the converse effect. The shabbily uneven surface, the wobbly and crumbling edges, the overall effect of slapdash and lethargic workmanship, will inevitably erode the morale of the student body, and lead to falling standards not rising ones.
The lesson is that whether something is good or bad depends not on what it is but on whether it is well or badly done. Take this very post. At heart a trivial pun on the resemblance between academisation and Macadamisation, inherently worthless. And yet, faceted and burnished by a master of literary comedy it becomes an exquisite jewel of humour at which you, my reader, may only stare with breathless reverence.
So too the arguments that are pointlessly made for and against the return to public ownership of the British railways. I have no doubt that a promptness and reliability to make Mussolini beam could be achieved were our railways in the hands of intelligent, well-motivated, capable, experienced, diligent civil servants. Equally we could have a chimps tea-party on rails if the idiots at my local council were put in charge.
Take the example I overhead on the radio this morning- an argument over the Macadamisation of schools. There are some, it seems, who assert that academic standards would assuredly be raised if all schools were to become Macadamised. Utter nonsense, of course, as a general and unqualified assertion. Certainly if it were well done- if the playground was tarmacked to an exacting standard, with perfectly undeviating planes, a tightly compacted and impervious surface, subtle and artistic falls, consistent radii at corner details, and so on- then the aesthetically disciplined neatness of it all might be expected to instil a more-potent esprit de corps among the pupils, leading to a more-stoic and purposeful attitude to study. But a quick tar-spray and chip by the cash-in-hand gang that did the head's driveway last Friday is likely to have the converse effect. The shabbily uneven surface, the wobbly and crumbling edges, the overall effect of slapdash and lethargic workmanship, will inevitably erode the morale of the student body, and lead to falling standards not rising ones.
The lesson is that whether something is good or bad depends not on what it is but on whether it is well or badly done. Take this very post. At heart a trivial pun on the resemblance between academisation and Macadamisation, inherently worthless. And yet, faceted and burnished by a master of literary comedy it becomes an exquisite jewel of humour at which you, my reader, may only stare with breathless reverence.
Tuesday, 27 January 2015
Period pains
You know me to be an indefatigable champion of women's rights, often working until I drop for the good of the cause. I was naturally first to stand at Davos to lead the ovation that followed Emma Watson's speech on gender equality, and I felt a justifiable moment of pride at what I and my sisters had achieved since the early days of our movement. You will readily imagine, therefore, the deflation of my spirits upon catching 'Women's Hour'* on the Internet radio at my hotel...
Women's Hour has been such a shrine to petty ambitions for women, legitimising under-achievement, and lowering the expectations of an entire sex. Today, for example, a particular authoress, whom I will not name, was described as 'very brave' for talking about the impact of periods on her writing. Ha. Before I had learned to shave I had already written a monograph on the use of the semi-colon, and by my late teens I was recognised as an authority on the use of periods of every sort. And yet I thought nothing of it, because I had been raised by enlightened foster parents, in an enlightened commune, with enlightened role models, and given to believe that I could and should aim for the highest levels of attainment. Had there been a 'Men's Hour' on the radio once a day, filling my mind with thoughts about which shade of tie was most appropriate for a business meeting, as if that was the supreme concern for my gender, no doubt I would not be the billionaire eminence grise and bloggeur you have come to love today.
If women are to fulfil their potential they must focus on lofty ambitions, and put aside the humdrum concerns with which they have occupied their minds. So let that be the end of it. Let that be the very last word we have to hear on Women's Hour about women's problems. Period.
*A long-running programme on the 'Radio 4' channel of the BBC- Ed.
Women's Hour has been such a shrine to petty ambitions for women, legitimising under-achievement, and lowering the expectations of an entire sex. Today, for example, a particular authoress, whom I will not name, was described as 'very brave' for talking about the impact of periods on her writing. Ha. Before I had learned to shave I had already written a monograph on the use of the semi-colon, and by my late teens I was recognised as an authority on the use of periods of every sort. And yet I thought nothing of it, because I had been raised by enlightened foster parents, in an enlightened commune, with enlightened role models, and given to believe that I could and should aim for the highest levels of attainment. Had there been a 'Men's Hour' on the radio once a day, filling my mind with thoughts about which shade of tie was most appropriate for a business meeting, as if that was the supreme concern for my gender, no doubt I would not be the billionaire eminence grise and bloggeur you have come to love today.
If women are to fulfil their potential they must focus on lofty ambitions, and put aside the humdrum concerns with which they have occupied their minds. So let that be the end of it. Let that be the very last word we have to hear on Women's Hour about women's problems. Period.
*A long-running programme on the 'Radio 4' channel of the BBC- Ed.
Truth stranger than fiction
The Day After Tomorrow and Cloverfield we remember with a chuckle as recent successes of the comedy film genre- the humour in each anchored by the extreme implausibility of its plot. The 'just as if' we muttered as the flakes of snow began to fall in July, blossomed into a 'ha ha ha' when New York had become an icy white wilderness. Our sides we split as the Statue of Liberty lost her head to a giant iguana. And yet this morning, hearing the news on BBC radio, I caught the announcement that lizards and snow were battering New York. Unbelievable.
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