Sunday, 25 April 2010

Alan Sillitoe RIP

Alan Sillitoe

Published: 12:53PM BST 25 Apr 2010

Alan Sillitoe, who died on April 25 aged 82, was a novelist, poet and occasional playwright but, despite a long and varied writing career, remained best known for his first two books.

The best-selling Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1958) and The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner and Other Stories (1959) both chronicled the hopeless prospects, drunkenness, casual fights and drab sex lives of young working class men of that era. In so doing, they captured the post-Osborne desire of readers and theatregoers everywhere to experience the dramatic possibilities of a world that had hitherto remained unseen.

In his earliest work, before his powerful sense of social injustice began to dominate his fiction, Sillitoe created plausible, complex youths who rebelled against the establishment, epitomised by parent, policeman and boss. Inevitably his work chimed at a time when youth culture and adolescent anger were beginning to dominate the media through the work not only of John Osborne, but of Brando, James Dean, JD Salinger and the still-embryonic pop music.

But to consider Sillitoe solely as the author of two adroitly-timed works would be to diminish both his status and the art he brought to his craft over four decades. Among his further novels, collections of poetry, screenplays, essays, plays and children’s books, Sillitoe developed his themes and understanding of humanity and began to internalise injustice, to reflect oppression on the workings of the human psyche. If his life’s work forever explored the privations of his upbringing, in his maturity his singular characters were touched by the universal.

Alan Sillitoe was born in Nottingham on March 4 1928. His father was an unskilled labourer, often unemployed, and the family were perpetually moving to avoid the ministrations of rent collectors. He was educated at local elementary schools from where, despite an early enthusiasm for English Literature, he failed to pass the entrance exam for the local grammar school and he left at 14.

He walked out of his first job, at the Raleigh Bicycle works, after three months over a wage dispute, and worked briefly in a plywood factory before becoming a capstan lathe operator until he joined the Ministry of Aircraft Production as an air traffic control assistant in 1945. The following year he enlisted in the RAFVR.

Although he was initially accepted as a pilot, the cessation of hostilities with Japan had rendered further pilots unnecessary, and Sillitoe served his time as a telegraphist and radio operator in Malaya. In 1948 he was diagnosed with tuberculosis and spent 16 months in an Air Force hospital, where he began educating himself by reading Greek and Latin classics in translation.

He was also deeply influenced by Robert Tressell’s The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists (1914), a portrayal of lower class Edwardian England that Sillitoe felt did not treat the working class as caricatures. In 1949 he wrote his first novel and left hospital with his discharge papers and his first rejection slip.

In 1952 Sillitoe and the American poet, Ruth Fainlight, moved to Europe and lived for six years in France, Spain and Majorca, surviving on his limited RAF disability pension. He wrote steadily — short stories for magazines and unpublished novels — even writing on book covers when money was too tight for paper. At the suggestion of the poet Robert Graves, whom he met in Majorca, he began working his short stories about life in Nottingham into a novel.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was an instant critical and commercial success. Its portrayal of Arthur Seaton, a rebellious factory worker and amoral adulterous lover, was praised for its unsentimental evocation of working-class existence. The novel established many of the themes that were to occupy Sillitoe throughout his life; social injustice, the “bunker” mentality of the working-class, the mindlessness of their only realistic employment and the consequent banality and ephemerality of their lives.

Having moved to London, Sillitoe published, to great acclaim, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner and Other Stories which won the Hawthornden Prize. The collection included some of his finest work, but it was the title story, in which a Borstal boy deliberately loses a race he is capable of winning in order to spite the governor and thus retain his self-esteem, which won particular praise.

Sillitoe’s eagerly awaited third novel, The General was published in 1960, the same year his screenplay for Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was successfully filmed starring Albert Finney. The General, which was unmemorably filmed in 1967 as Counterpoint, was a fantasy concerning the relationship between war, art and human nature. It was savaged by the critics who accused Sillitoe, not for the last time, of allowing his politics to diminish the fiction.

There was a similar reaction to Key To The Door (1961) which followed Brian Seaton, the older brother of Sillitoe’s original protagonist, from childhood through his National Service in Malaya. The novel included some of his most vivid writing, but this was outweighed by heavy-handed political philosophising and a weak dramatic structure. Sillitoe concluded the Seaton trilogy in 1989 with The Open Door, which described Brian’s return from the Far East and his attempts to become a writer. Although well received, there was a wistful sense of an ageing writer returning to the scene of his greatest triumph.

After The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner was successfully filmed with Sir Michael Redgrave and Tom Courtenay in 1961, Sillitoe moved his family to Morocco. In Tangier he wrote The Ragman’s Daughter (1963), which was filmed a decade later and which displayed an increasingly simplistic depiction of the oppressors and the oppressed and an exhortation to violent insurrection which denude the characters of their psychological complexity.

Sillitoe’s view of Britain withered further after a trip to Russia as a guest of the Soviet Writers’ Union, an account of which he published in Road to Volgograd (1964).

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was unsuccessfully produced as a play in 1964 and 1966, and his own production of Lope de Vega’s play All Citizens Are Soldiers met a similar fate. By now Sillitoe was commuting between England and Spain and, in transit, he published his Frank Dawley trilogy, The Death of William Posters (1965), A Tree on Fire (1967) and the disastrously delayed The Flame of Life (1974).

The novels follow Frank Dawley, who forsakes his family for personal freedom and enlists as a revolutionary in Algeria before returning home to rabble-rouse from the base of his utopian community. Overwrought, with an excess of theorising, stylistic superfluity and little narrative tension, the trilogy did little to raise Sillitoe’s reputation.

Although Sillitoe considered himself a poet, and published volumes of poetry throughout his career, the critical response rarely raised itself above the mildly positive. More successful was his collection of short stories Guzman, Go Home, and Other Stories (1968) and the picaresque novel which he wrote in the comic manner of Fielding A Start in Life (1970).

In 1971 he was fined for refusing to fill in a census form, after which he travelled on the continent for a year while he wrote the Orwellian political fantasy Travels in Nihilon (1972) which described living in a nihilistic state. The nihilism described reflected the work’s reception — a mixture of critical reserve and public indifference.

By contrast, Raw Material (1972), which interwove novel and biography, philosophical speculation and family history, aroused great interest. A further collection of stories Men, Women and Children (1973), which included one of his finest short fictions, Mimic, in which a man tries to cope with life by imitating it, was similarly well received and marked a return to form in his portrayals of human complexity.

If his work was becoming less cumbersomely political, Sillitoe remained committed beyond his literary life. He attended Unesco conferences, criticised the Soviet treatment of Jews and was loudly pro-Zionist.

His increased focus on the individual dominated The Widower’s Son (1976), which traced the breakdown of a working-class army officer’s marriage, using marriage as an extended metaphor for war. He also wrote three plays for television, his first, warmly received, children’s story, Big John and the Stars (1977) and spent two months in Jerusalem at the invitation of the mayor at the Mishkenot Sha’anamin, a retreat for celebrated writers.

His 10th novel, The Storyteller (1979), was his most ambitious, charting the decline and suicide of a schizophrenic mute who is overwhelmed by the characters in his head that people his stories. In the book, distinctions of fantasy and reality are blurred as, analogously, they are in the work of any novelist. In The Second Chance and Other Stories (1980) Sillitoe developed this theme, dappling his tales with acting, mimicry and masquerade.

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s Sillitoe continued to expand his range as a novelist. Although he mined working-class Nottingham for Out of the Whirlwind (1987), he wrote a traditional adventure story in The Lost Flying Boat (1983), in addition to further volumes of poetry and stories for children. In 1994 he published his autobiography, Life without Armour, which enabled his readers to attempt to establish where the young Alan Sillitoe ended and the young Arthur Seaton began.

If Alan Sillitoe never regained the fame and focus of his early years, he nevertheless produced a substantial and variegated body of work that was, when taken as a whole, probably as underrated as his initial success, though undoubtedly merited, was excessive.

Sillitoe was a mild-mannered man who remained committed to political causes and social justice throughout his life. A workaholic, he relaxed by travelling, taking bicycle rides in the Kent countryside and tuning into foreign stations on his radio transmitter.

He married Ruth Fainlight in 1959. They had a son and a daughter.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/culture-obituaries/books-obituaries/7631815/Alan-Sillitoe.html

Haruki Murakami - What I Talk About When I Talk About Running review

MARATHON MAN
Alastair Campbell takes fellow novelist Haruki Murakami's views on life and running in his stride

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
by Haruki Murakami
Translated by Philip Gabriel

The Guardian
Saturday 26 July 2008

Whatever respect I had for Haruki Murakami as a writer - which is considerable - it is as nothing to the depth of my bow down before the Japanese novelist on discovering that he has run an ultramarathon.

His description of the physical and mental agonies as he struggled to complete the 62-mile course, followed by the near-religious experience of the last few miles, when he knew he was going to finish, is one of the highlights of what he calls "a kind of memoir". Non-running readers of his novels will probably ask: "Why on earth did he run 62 miles when he knew it would hurt so much?" Runners ask a different question: "Why have I never done that?"

I did have a plan to run 50 miles on my 50th birthday last year but a cycling injury to my calf - like Murakami, I also do triathlon - grounded me. Now, also like him, my running is accompanied by constant worries about ageing, reflected in ever slower times.

He is in a different class to me, as runner and novelist, and throughout he gives the sense that he cannot be one without being the other. He has done 25 marathons and written 11 novels. I have done one marathon and written two novels, neither yet published. My publisher doesn't really want me to talk about them till they're out, and certainly doesn't want me talking about the second one until the first is published (November, since you ask; it's about a psychiatrist and called All in the Mind.)

But it is difficult to review this book without acknowledging the role Murakami played in the second one, which will hopefully be out some time next year. I was reading his Sputnik Sweetheart, the story of a man's love for a woman involved in a lesbian relationship, replete with his usual themes of loneliness and worries about where people fit in their society. As I read, I began to wonder whether I could write a novel with a first-person narrator who becomes more than narrator, a central character too, like "K" in Sputnik Sweetheart. I'm on the third draft.

Non-runners should not be put off by the title of the book, a play on Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, because while the neuroses and obsessions of the runner leap from every page, along the way we learn little things about Murakami the writer and Murakami the man. We learn how and when he works. We get an insight into doubts and insecurities when he first started out as a writer, and what he sees as a novelist's greatest qualities - number one is talent, then focus, then endurance; the read across to running in qualities two and three is obvious enough not to need stating. We learn of his sleeping patterns, including his preference for a post-lunch nap which, lucky man, leaves him feeling totally refreshed. He has a low pulse rate (triathletes are obsessed with their pulse rates) and wears Mizuno running shoes. He used to run a bar. His wife has a sweet tooth and seems to spend much of her life at finishing lines. We learn that he rehearses speeches while running - snap - and that he gets nervous before making them - not snap - and prefers public speaking in his imperfect English to his native Japanese with its (for him) infinite choices of verbal expression.

So, provided admirers of his novels realise they are reading about him, not just about running, they will enjoy this little book - too little for me: I wanted more of the running detail. He describes well the brutality of the "wall" that hits many runners a few miles out from the end of a marathon. The near-insanity of the running mind is captured in his first marathon, which he ran from Athens to Marathon with only a photographer for company. He is good on how a hill can seem nothing on a short training run but loom like a mountain if it comes at the wrong time in a race. And all runners will identify with the devotion to certain musicians who help with the endurance of long training runs, and his rough conversations with muscles that do not want to operate as instructed by the will and the brain: "I have to show my muscles who's boss."

The style is very clipped, many of the sentences short, so you feel the pace of the runner skipping through the text. There are seeming inconsistencies in there, though, about the relationship between running and writing. On the one hand he says: "Most of what I know about writing I've learned through running every day." Yet he also writes: "Occasionally, hardly ever really, I get an idea to use in a novel. But really as I run, I don't think much of anything worth remembering." Presumably it is the focus and endurance he learned through running. Yet it is hard to imagine that his running does not unlock creativity too. I speak as someone for whom a disappointing run is one where I do not have an idea good enough to text to myself while running so that I can follow it up when home, and whose solution to any kind of mental block is to go for a run or a bike ride, BlackBerry in pocket ready to record whatever emerges when the block is gone. Then again, elsewhere Murakami says: "While I was running, some other thoughts on writing novels came to me."

Perhaps these inconsistencies are no more than a reflection of the fact that different runs create different moods and insights. This book is in some ways the story of the workings of Murakami's mind, dressed up as a book about running. Maybe he doesn't want to do a more standard autobiography. He should. He is a fine writer, and an interesting man. As I closed this slim volume, I was left wanting to know more about him, not less. Then I went for a run and tried to imagine what the last half-hour of a 62-mile run would be like. He knows, and I'm jealous.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/jul/26/sportandleisure

Misery

Saturday, 24 April 2010

Peter Porter RIP

Poet Peter Porter dies
Peter Porter, winner of the Forward prize, the Whitbread poetry award and the Queen's Gold Medal for poetry, has died at the age of 81

Richard Lea
guardian.co.uk
Friday 23 April 2010

The poet Peter Porter has died this afternoon, aged 81, after struggling over the past year with liver cancer.

Hailed by his friend and colleague Anthony Thwaite as "one of the finest poets of our time", Porter was a prolific writer, who combined erudition, sophistication and a human touch to produce a series of marvellous collections stretching over five decades.

Born in Brisbane, Australia in 1929, he came to London in 1951, working as a bookseller and in advertising before writing on poetry for the Observer. According to Thwaite, Porter "never quite knew where he belonged".

"In Australia he was considered English, and in England he was considered Australian," Thwaite explained. "He sort of floated."

Porter published his first collection of poems, Once Bitten, Twice Bitten, in 1961, already demonstrating the ingenuity and charm which came to typify his work. He found critical acclaim in 1978 with The Cost of Seriousness, a collection written after the suicide of his wife in 1974. In it, he examines whether art can wield any power over death and despair, suggesting that "it can only make gestures" in the face of "real pain".

A string of prizes followed, including the Duff Cooper prize, the Whitbread poetry award, the Queen's Gold Medal for poetry, and the Forward prize in 2001, for Max is Missing.

The editor of Poetry Review, Fiona Sampson, paid tribute to his "marvellously furnished mind" and called him "a tremendously generous presence in British poetry, not only because of his integrity, but also because of the range of his own work". He was "an enormous role model", she continued, who demonstrated how a "love of music and visual art and poetry could be brought to bear to produce magnificent poems".

His most recent collection, 2009's Better Than God, was hailed in the Guardian as "a densely fleshed book by a poet at the height of his powers". A selection of his poetry is due to be published by Picador next month.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/apr/23/poet-peter-porter-dies

See also http://www.clivejames.com/guest-poets/peter-porter

Your Attention Please

The Polar DEW has just warned that
A nuclear rocket strike of
At least one thousand megatons
Has been launched by the enemy
Directly at our major cities.
This announcement will take
Two and a quarter minutes to make,
You therefore have a further
Eight and a quarter minutes
To comply with the shelter
Requirements published in the Civil
Defence Code - section Atomic Attack.
A specially shortened Mass
Will be broadcast at the end
Of this announcement -
Protestant and Jewish services
Will begin simultaneously -
Select your wavelength immediately
According to instructions
In the Defence Code. Do not
Tale well-loved pets (including birds)
Into your shelter - they will consume
Fresh air. Leave the old and bed-
Ridden, you can do nothing for them.
Remember to press the sealing
Switch when everyone is in
The shelter. Set the radiation
Aerial, turn on the Geiger barometer.
Turn off your television now.
Turn off your radio immediately
The services end. At the same time
Secure explosion plugs in the ears
Of each member of your family. Take
Down your plasma flasks. Give your children
The pills marked one and two
In the C D green container, then put
Them to bed. Do not break
The inside airlock seals until
The radiation All Clear shows
(Watch for the cuckoo in your
Perspex panel), or your District
Touring Doctor rings your bell.
If before this your air becomes
Exhausted or if any of your family
Is critically injured, administer
The capsules marked 'Valley Forge'
(Red pocket in No 1 Survival Kit)
For painless death. (Catholics
Will have been instructed by their priests
What to do in this eventuality.)
This announcement is ending. Our President
Has already given orders for
Massive retaliation - it will be
Decisive. Some of us may die.
Remember, statistically
It is not likely to be you.
All flags are flying fully dressed
On Government buildings - the sun is shining.
Death is the least we have to fear.
We are all in the hands of God,
Whatever happens happens by His will.
Now go quickly to your shelters.

PETER PORTER

Metamorphosis

This new Daks suit, greeny-brown,
Oyster-coloured buttons, single vent, tapered
Trousers, no waistcoat, hairy tweed – my own:
A suit to show responsibility, to show
Return to life – easily got for two pounds down
Paid off in six months – the first stage in the change.
I am only the image I can force upon the town.

The town will have me: I stalk in glass,
A thin reflection in the windows, best
In jewellers’ velvet backgrounds – I don’t pass,
I stop, elect to look at wedding rings –
My figure filled with clothes, my putty mask,
A face fragrant with arrogance, stuffed
With recognition – I am myself at last.

I wait in the pub with my Worthington.
Then you come in – how many days did love have,
How can they be catalogued again?
We talk of how we miss each other – I tell
Some truth – you, cruel stories built of men:
‘It wasn’t good at first but he’s improving.’
More talk about his car, his drinks, his friends.

I look at the wild mirror at the bar –
A beautiful girl smiles beside me – she’s real
And her regret is real. If only I had a car,
If only – my stately self cringes, renders down;
As in a werewolf film I’m horrible, far
Below the collar – my fingers crack, my tyrant suit
Chokes me as it hugs me in its fire.

PETER PORTER
(from Once Bitten, Twice Bitten, 1961)

THE MANY HATS OF MICHAEL EDWARD LOVE

Shut Down?

Thursday, 22 April 2010

Shut Down!


Great Cars of Song: Shut Down

Muscle cars were made for one thing and one thing only: Beating the other guy down the strip. (Okay, maybe two things: impressing the chicks, but that's for another post blog). Although drag racing and hot rodding started earlier, the 1960s were, arguably, the heyday of street racing. Rock and roll went hand in hand with the youth culture that muscle cars and hot rods embodied, and many a song was devoted to the thrill and danger of street racing: Dead Man's Curve by Jan and Dean, GTO by Ronny and the Daytonas, and Hot Rod Race by Jimmy Dolan.

Ah, but nothing seems to catch that whole 1960s fun and sun and cruising the strip zeitgeist like the Beach Boys. Sun, sand, surfin' ... and racing. They did a lot of songs about cars -- Little Deuce Coupe, 409--but Shut Down is my favorite. Not being a product of the '60s (other than being born early in the decade), I came to this song later on, probably in the late '70s when my sister finally moved out and I had my own room and could listen to whatever music I wanted to without bugging my older brother. I'd sit in my room and play the dickens out of Endless Summer and, errr, well, with my feet up on my desk doing physics and chemistry homework, but that's another and altogether boring story (nerd alert!).To a Wisconsin teenager, all of that surfin' safari stuff seemed like paradise.

At the time, I had only a vague idea what "409s" and "Deuce Coupes" were, let alone the function of a "competition clutch" or a "powershift", but I still loved the song. I imagined the "413" to be some random box-shaped car, probably black, and driven by anonymous thugs, in contrast to the hot Corvette driven by the young, hip surfing hero. At the time I more or less identified with the protagonist driving the Corvette and saw the "413" as the big baddie that the hot little sports car would vanquish in mortal combat. Man, I must have listened to that song a hundred times, dreaming of cruising around in a hot car and attracting all those California Girls ... and then proceeding to drive and utterly adore a 4-door AMC Hornet for several years. Go figure.

But, as with the Red Barchetta, I can now look back on that old song and find out exactly what was going on and see if the reality matches up with what my adolescent imagination conjured up. So slap on a pair of baggies and huarachi sandals, comb up your bushy bushy blonde hairdo (if you still can), and let's meet up down on the strip where the road is wide (how many song lyrics can I work into this post?).

It happened on the strip where the road is wide
Two cool shorts standing side-by-side
Yeah, my fuel-injected Sting Ray and a 413,
We're revvin' up our engines and it sounds real mean

The song itself was released in 1963 on the Surfin' USA album (the image above comes from the 1964 album of the same name) and tells the story of a drag race between a 1963 Corvette Sting Ray and a 1962 Super Stock Dodge Dart with a 413 Max Wedge engine (yes, your humble correspondent is actually writing a post about the Dart). The "shorts" referred to above were slang for hot rod, wheels, etc., and may have been a regional west coast term, but it may also have referred to the relatively short wheelbases of the cars in question. At any rate, they're meeting up for a *gasp!* illegal street race. [insert obligatory anti-street racing message here]

Declining numbers at an even rate
At the count of one we both accelerate
My Sting Ray's light, the slicks are startin' to spin,
But the 413's really diggin' in
(Gotta be cool now, power-shift, here we go...)

The 413 came out of Chrysler's "B" line of big-block V-8s, and got the name "Max Wedge" from the wedge-shaped combustion chambers, sometimes also called "semi-hemis". In 1959, Chrysler introduced the "RB" (Raised-Block) line of big-block V-8s that had slightly longer strokes than the original Bs. The cylinders on either side were fed by 4-barrel carbs that sat on the opposite side of the engine. Chrysler engineers tuned the intake manifolds to the engine and then bent them around so they would fit under the hood of a production car -- all to satisfy racing regulations requiring stock availability. Chrysler called this "tuning" of the manifolds Ram Induction and it functioned the same way as a supercharger by dumping more air into the fuel mixture; it's also based on the same principles that govern the design of ported base and passive radiators in stereo speakers (see, all that physics came in handy).

The 413 was originally only available on Chrysler's big luxury models, but in 1961 it found its way into some of the smaller models including the newly redesigned (and smaller) Dodge Dart. Some say the styling of the new Darts was something only a mother could love and they have a point: they're kinda weird-looking. But on the positive side, they lost 2 inches of wheelbase and considerable weight and a stripped-down version cost only around $2900. One could reasonably argue that this has priority over the GTO as the first true muscle car: a cheaper model with few options but outfitted with massive power. And at 420 horsepower, it had plenty of power.

The other car in the race is a 1963 Corvette Sting Ray, which was completely redesigned for 1963 and an instant hit with its distinctive styling and really world-class performance. It had a 327 Rochester fuel-injected engine (optional) and although this wasn't the first fuel-injected engine offered on the 'Vette--it debuted in mid-1957--the horsepower had significantly increased to 360 horsepower. Otherwise, well heck, what else is there to say about it, it was a great car and remains a classic (though some of us rather prefer the '62).

The Super Stock Dodge is windin' out in low, but
My fuel-injected Stingray's really startin' to go
To get the traction, I'm-a-ridin' the clutch,
My pressure plate's burning, that machine's too much!
The 413 had great low-end torque and would probably have had the jump on the Corvette. Oddly, there doesn't seem to have been that great of a weight difference between the two cars, both about 3200 pounds (see here for the Dodge).

Pedals to the floor, hear his dual quads drink
And now the 413's lead is startin' to shrink
He's hot with Ram Induction™ but it's understood
I got a fuel injected engine sittin' under my hood
(Shut it off, shut it off, buddy now I shut you down)

And so, the Corvette wins and our hero can get back to the beach, wax down his surf board, plan out a route, and head down Doheny way to check out the girls on the beach. Did it really happen? Who knows. Could it have happened? Sure. Would the result be the same? Ah, well, that's an interesting question. Given the similar weights of the cars, my back-of-the-spreadsheet calculations (physics again) give power/weight ratios of 0.13 for the Dodge and 0.11 for the 'Vette, so I suppose on that measure you'd have to give the advantage to the Dodge. Yeah, that's not the only measure of importance, but that's about all we've got to go on.

But wait, there's more! As luck would have it, the 1990 issue of High Performance Mopar magazine put a Max Wedge Dart against a '64 Corvette to settle the question once and for all. An earlier race by the National Muscle Car Association had the Dodge beating a '63 "fuelie", and to uphold Chevy's honor another 'Vette driver wanted to have a go at the Dodge. His '64 had slightly more power (375 bhp) than the '63 in the song and actually won the first race by a couple tenths of a second. . .but then lost the next three in a row, by pretty good margins. So at least the empirical record suggests the song was a bit overly optimistic.

When I was younger I rooted for the Sting Ray, whether it was out of a sense of wanting to be on the winning side or my young mind just plain thought the Corvette was cooler. Nowadays, I tend to favor the 413, an otherwise ugly duckling of a car that was turned into a fire-breathing ugly swan of a car. That and I now kind of imagine the 413 being driven by a displaced midwesterner come out to the Golden State to show those surfer boys what's what. My inner sense of balance, however, likes the idea of one being the eternal winner in song while the other takes it on the track years later.

--Anthony J. Cagle
http://www.carlustblog.com/2010/04/great-cars-of-song-shut-down.html

Last night's set list

At The Habit, York

Out On The Weekend
On The Way Home
Heart Of Gold
Harvest Moon
Don't Let It Bring You Down
Cinnamon Girl


The host broke a string 30sec into his opening set, so I was asked to act as sub and open the show. It was free drinks for Da after that. Excellent!

Gauguin at the Tate Modern

Paul Gauguin exhibition reveals artist as self-publicist and truth manipulator
Tate Modern to shed new light on sensual and sensationalist painter in UK's first major Paul Gauguin exhibition in 50 years
Charlotte Higgins
guardian.co.uk
Monday 19 April 2010

He was a fabulist and shameless manipulator of the truth as well as a canny self-publicist, the sort of self-conscious user of shock tactics we might associate with a modern generation of artists.

That is the Paul Gauguin who will be revealed to visitors to Tate Modern this autumn, as the museum mounts the first major exhibition devoted to him in the UK for 50 years. A third of the more than 100 works in the show will be seen in London for the first time when the exhibition opens in September.

His most famous works are, of course, his sensual, prelapsarian visions of Tahiti. The curators will show how his Tahiti paintings weave their own kind of mythology, sometimes rather sensationally referring to "primitive" Oceanian manners and morals that were, by the 1890s, distant memories or indeed simply fantasy.

For instance, his beautiful semi-naked young women proffering platters of fruit were, argue the curators, largely a product of Gauguin's imagination. By the 1890s, Tahiti, a French colony, had been comprehensively worked over by missionaries.

"They were wearing smocks and going to church on Sundays," says Belinda Thomson, curator of the exhibition. She called his relationships with his Tahitian models-mistresses "fairly exploitative". They were not, she says "equal relationships, nor could you call them properly professional relationships".

In Parahi te Marae (1892), a landscape in which a glowering idol looms over a yellow field circled with elaborate fencing (its form gleaned not from observation on the ground, but rather from looking at objects in Parisian museums), Gauguin hints at cannibalistic ritual ‑ a feature of Tahiti's very distant past. "He is reinventing the scene, playing on his audience's prejudices," says Thomson.

In his book about Tahiti, Noa Noa, Gauguin claimed to have been told ancient myths and legends about the island's past by his Tahitian lover, Teha'amana. In fact he read them in the 1837 book Voyages aux Iles du Grand Océan, by JA Moerenhout.

In his fascination with the "primitive" Gauguin was nothing out of the ordinary in 19th-century Europe. But in his employment of shock tactics ‑ his deliberate sensationalising of Tahitian life ‑ says Thomson, "he was ahead of the game".

If the Tahitian pictures are among his most recognisable works, the exhibition, Gauguin: Maker of Myth, will also examine his output beyond this colourful period in his artistic life.
Four paintings made in the late 1880s in Brittany will be brought together for the first time. These works ‑ Yellow Christ, Green Christ, Self-portrait as Christ in the Garden of Olives and Vision of the Sermon ‑ see the painter, in an earlier period, already in the business of drawing on myth, fable and a large dose of his own prejudices about the Breton people to create works with an intriguing narrative content.

In his La Perte de Pucelage ‑ or "loss of virginity" ‑ he layered motifs, allusions and symbols to hint at a kind of narrative. A woman lies in the foreground, naked, with a fox. In the background is seen a Breton wedding procession. "On the one hand it is a kind of Breton version of Manet's famous painting Olympia," says Thomson. "On the other there is a layering of symbolism and elements of Breton folklore, with the fox as the malign seducer."

According to Thomson, "he played up certain aspects of Breton life: a superstitious intensity of faith, for instance". Co-curator Christine Riding says: "He paints them in a decorative and childlike way. You certainly don't get a sense of the harshness of Breton life." Yellow Christ, for instance, shows Jesus crucified in a Brittany landscape; beneath the cross kneel three praying women dressed in traditional Breton headdresses.

Gauguin was also an adept self-mythologiser: the Self-portrait as Christ in the Garden of Olives sees him paint himself as if Jesus before the crucifixion: isolated, betrayed. According to Thomson, "it is the ultimate bombastic or overblown statement of the artist as creator". Riding says: "He was an arch-manipulator of his own artistic identity and wove elaborate myths around himself."

Gauguin had been a stockbroker and what Riding called "a Sunday painter" before taking up art full-time after an economic downturn in the early 1880s, as a result of the collapse of a French bank. He was largely self-taught, using the art he had collected when a stockbroker, including Pissarros and Cézannes, as a study aid.

Gauguin: Maker of Myth is at Tate Modern, London, from 30 September until 16 January 2011

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/apr/19/paul-gauguin-exhibition-artist

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

Donald Fagen writes about John Updike


In a 1997 review for the New York Observer, the late David Foster Wallace said that many of John Updike's protagonists - "clearly stand-ins for the author himself"—are "incorrigibly narcissistic, philandering, self-contemptuous," and "self-pitying," and that many younger readers consider him to be the worst of the generation of "Great Male Narcissists" that included Mailer, Roth, Exley, and Bukowski. As a reader who came of age in the bohemian subculture of the '60s, I've found myself reacting in much the same way to Updike's "old school" attitude toward women and to the sometimes near-sociopathic detachment that seems to be part of the profile of his leading characters.

And yet I remember my excitement when the publication of a new installment of the Rabbit Angstrom series was announced. Each novel was a reality check on the preceding decade, revealing a just-lived chunk of time in startling new ways. If you want to know what it really felt like to live through the late '60s, forget Easy Rider: check out the creepy, entropic nightmare that is Rabbit Redux. That strangely nourishing epic Rabbit is Rich nails down the Me Decade in the most entertaining possible way. And throughout the series, as in all of Updike's work, we're treated to those Proustian waves of prose in which Rabbit, magically endowed with his creator's extraordinary perceptual depth and descriptive power, tries to find some key to eternity in the details of the physical world.

http://www.slate.com/id/2210094/pagenum/4

John Updike - End Point


May 3, 2009
FINAL ACT
By CLIVE JAMES

Endpoint and Other Poems

By John Updike

97 pp. Alfred A. Knopf. $25

John Updike was always so careful not to make high claims for himself as a poet that he gave his more owlish critics the opportunity to say he wasn’t a poet at all. They should have looked harder. Most of the poems he ever published in book form counted as light verse, but his light verse was dauntingly accomplished. Very few recognized poets could handle the formal element that well, and occasionally there was a serious poem with all the linguistic vigor of the prose that had made his novels compulsory reading.

Nevertheless, and despite a fairly large body of work as a poet, it was as a novelist that he was hailed. Clearly he had poetic qualities as a writer: he had the imagery, the observation, the rhythm, the delight in making words click into their ideal working order. But it was into his novels that he put these things, was it not? Nobody, and especially not other poets, wanted to think of him as a poet as well. Helpfully, he appeared to think the same.

But this posthumous volume, “Endpoint: And Other Poems,” tells a different story. Consisting entirely of poems he wrote in the last years of his life, it is a serious book indeed. The subject is his approaching death, and it turns out that he started treating it as a special poetic subject several years back. The “Endpoint” poems, written at the rate of roughly one a year since 2002, deal with no other theme, and the “Other” poems are plainly collected and grouped so as to reinforce the same theme from all directions, especially the direction of the past.

The lawn’s begun to green. Beyond the Bay —
where I have watched, these twenty years, dim ships
ply the horizon, feeding oil to Boston,
and blinking lights descend, night after night,
to land unseen at Logan — low land implies
a sprawl of other lives, beneath torn clouds.

In these “Endpoint” summaries the Top Gun technician makes it easy for himself from the mechanical angle: the forms are loose and unrhymed, held together only by the beat of the iambic pentameter. But from the thematic angle there is a strict discipline in operation. Every recollection has to be specific. If it passes that test, it can come from as far back as early childhood.

The way these poems search their author’s early mind suggests he has belatedly discovered a modus operandi that he might have used all along. He used the novel instead, with results that we all know. The Rabbit and the Bech novels placed him securely among the high achievers of Team America, up there with Roth and Bellow, and made him more substantially accredited, as a novelist, than Mailer, Vidal and Salinger. Yet when it came to the last he chose another form.

In his early verse, Updike could be boastful about his sexual prowess. Here, at the 11th hour, he is more regretful about his overmastering, though obviously masterful, early lust.

I drank up women’s tears and spat them out
as 10-point Janson, Roman and ital.

The typeface vocabulary is the tip-off to where those early feelings of virile immortality came from. It was being a published writer that turned him into Errol Flynn. (That priapic actor is tellingly invoked here, along with, for other qualities, Jack Benny, Fred Astaire and Lucian Freud. The book is a gallery of role models.) In the New York publishing world, natural home of the Jewish upmarket wordsmiths, he saw himself as the go-to goy who could write anything. He reveled in the girl-­getting fame.
Details of his earlier life are plentiful in the sequence, giving us a touching counterpoint to the details of his life coming to an end. For that second aspect, no detail is too grim to be recorded. Updike was always a clinical observer of his own body. Right to the wire, he took inventory; he had the mind of a regimental quartermaster. We find him planning the guest list for the last hours: “My visitors, my kin.” The celebrities in the “Other” poems would clearly be invited, too, had they not already moved on. For the young Updike, Frankie Laine ranked with Flynn, Benny and Astaire as an incarnation of the all-male possibilities. Like a classical poet calling up a shade from the halls of Dis, Updike addresses Laine’s ghost through the teenage-hormone-laden haze of the Sweet Shop in 1949:

Your slick voice, nasal yet operatic, sliced
and soared, assuring us of finding our
desire, at our old rendezvous.

The famous faces and voices lay out the terms of the sexual drama that will be the writer’s life. Doris Day looms large, especially with regard to her bosom, which Updike in his first days of fact-based social research was pleased to discover was as ample as Marilyn Monroe’s, just more discreetly reined in. As a teenage prodigy Updike was mad about Doris Day, and on his deathbed he still is. Philip Roth and Nicholson Baker would acknowledge the tone in which he addresses her shade:

Give me space to get over the idea of you —
the thrilling silver voice,
the gigantic silver screen. Go
easy on me. Cara, let’s take our time.

The phrase “gigantic silver screen” is uncharacteristically automatic: in a novel Updike would not have permitted himself to be so ordinary. But poetry was his holiday. A pity, perhaps — though he would have had to live in a smaller house, he might have written the poetry that reported America. He could have given us a lot more about Doris Day. Frank O’Hara became famous largely for a single mention of Lana Turner.

The poetic reporting of America began before Whitman, and in the 20th century even the novelists joined in. Not many recognized poets wrote as effectively about actual events as John Dos Passos did in the montage passages of his “U.S.A.” trilogy, the work that, for the future stars of Team America, made their mission clear. But Updike was unusually well qualified to write the kind of poem that gives a news event its historic dimension. Witness his bloodcurdling poem about the death of the golfer Payne Stewart in the private jet

that rode the automatic pilot up and down
like a blind man doing the breast stroke
at forty thousand feet, for hours.

Updike could have reported the nation like this all his life, but he chose another method. Let there be no doubt, though, about the high quality of what he might have done. In a single poem, he did enough to prove that he not only had the whole tradition of English-language poetry in his head, he had the means to add to it. “Bird Caught in My Deer Netting” deliberately and justifiably echoes Frost in its title, and in its body we can hear Gerard Manley Hopkins and John Crowe Ransom and — well, everyone, really, Jack Benny included.

How many starved hours of struggle resumed
in fits of life’s irritation did it take
to seal and sew shut the berry-bright eyes
and untie the tiny wild knot of a heart?
I cannot know, discovering this wad
of junco-fluff, weightless and wordless
in its corner of netting deer cannot chew through
nor gravity-defying bird bones break.

It’s a wonderful poem, but we shouldn’t fool ourselves. He wrote very few like it, and usually, even on the comparatively rare occasions when he tried to give it every­thing, he was led toward frivolity by his fatal propensity for reveling in skill. But his very last book, a book of poems, proves that he always had what it took.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/03/books/review/James-t.html?_r=3

Sunday, 18 April 2010

Glen David Gold Interviewed


The Times July 4, 2009

Mike Harvey interviews Glen David Gold
The author of Carter Beats the Devil talks about fame, the strange ways of publishers, and why his new novel, Sunnyside, focuses on Charlie Chaplin

Glen David Gold is sitting in a corner of Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store Café, in arty, beatnik North Beach, San Francisco. The author of Carter Beats the Devil looks appropriately at home with a beer in front of him amid the hustle of the landmark café where for decades artists, novelists and musicians have come to drink espresso and eat meatball sandwiches.

International fame sits lightly on the 45-year-old writer, and as we decide to move to a quieter Italian café round the corner he is nervous and excited about the reception that his new work, Sunnyside, is getting. He admits that he has stopped googling himself and leaves it to his wife, Alice Sebold, the even more acclaimed author of The Lovely Bones, to pick out the bits from reviews that he should hear.

The praise heaped on Gold eight years ago for Carter, a conjuring trick of a first novel about the lost era of the great illusionists and escapologists, means that there is much riding on Sunnyside for him and for his publishers. His subject this time is Charlie Chaplin in the early days of Hollywood and the opening scenes do not disappoint. Gold produces a masterly description of the Little Tramp, then probably the most famous person in the world, drowning off the North California coast while simultaneously causing a riot at a railway station in east Texas.

In reality, Chaplin is on the roof of the Los Angeles Athletic Club, about to have an encounter with his lover.

The scenes are drawn from a real episode of mass delusion when on a Sunday in November 1916 Chaplin was seen in more than 800 places across the US at the same time. It sets in motion a complex weaving of storylines and themes starring not only Chaplin but also Leland Wheeler, a lighthouse keeper’s son who winds up in the trenches of the First World War, and the bookish Hugo Black, who goes to Russia as part of a failed multinational expedition against the Bolsheviks. If that seems a bit complicated, well, it is. A host of co-stars and supporting acts people the novel — so much so that Gold provides a 43-name cast list at the beginning.

Sunnyside, by Gold’s own admission, is a different kind of book from Carter. If that work was a narrative romp, a rollercoaster that took the reader on an exhilarating ride through the life and loves of Charles Carter, a famous stage magician in the 1920s, Sunnyside is a work that cannot be read in a hurry. It is even, Gold suggests, a novel that might take you a month to read and then need to be read again (and again) to be fully appreciated.
Douglas Fairbanks Jr lifts Charlie Chaplin at a parade in New York, 1918, to raise money for the war effort
The power of cinematic fame in the formative years of the industry courses through the novel. In one memorable scene Russian peasants stare transfixed at moving images of Mary Pickford. Gold, born in Hollywood, says that the early screen stars were the first global celebrities — and that’s why people might claim to see Chaplin in 800 places at once.

It was, he says, a “brand new focus on a brand new hero in a brand new medium . . . It was a social experience to see Chaplin. I think this was new, too — people went to the theatre before, but not to see something that came out of a machine. Chaplin was the first appealing person to be mass produced”.

The idea for the historical novel grew out of an image Gold discovered when he was researching Carter. “There is a picture of Houdini and Chaplin with their arms around each other in one of Houdini’s biographies.But I could find no mention of the meeting anywhere,” Gold says. The episode fascinated him because, he says, Houdini was the first person to be famous worldwide for his image alone, not because of his status as a leader or king or religious figure. His successor, thanks to the silver screen, was Chaplin.

“I realised that what I had in my hand was a perfect metaphor for how the United States went from being farm country to being a superpower. The connection between the United States and Chaplin was Hollywood, which also went from being farm country to being a superpower.” The era is a critical moment in history, he says, with its reverberations still felt in the dominance of the US, politically and culturally, including the pervasive cult of celebrity.

Gold acknowledges that his wife is crucial to the writing process. It was Sebold who recognised that his authorial “voice” in the opening passage was perfect for the whole book, he says.

“My wife is my first reader. Before we became a couple we were critics of each other’s work. One of the things we had in common was that work was fantastically important and fiction was important. This gave us a good starting point. We don’t bulls*** each other whether we like something. That started in the workshop and that has continued,” he says.

Her book, the story of a murdered teenager who observes her grieving family and community, dominated the bestseller lists in 2002, selling 2.5 million copies in hardcover, a record for a first-time novelist. Sebold’s book was rooted in her own experience — recounted in her memoir, Lucky — when she was attacked and sexually assaulted while at university.

The couple married in late 2001, after Carter was published, but they had met six years before, on the first day of the master of fine arts writing programme at the University of California’s Irvine campus. He was wearing a motorcycle helmet in class because he could not remove it. But she liked the look of him anyway.

He says: “She shows me things in draft and there are points when I think my work is finished enough that I can show it to her. Neither one of us is the final authority on anything and we each have blind spots on each other’s work but we are both pretty good about it. I ignore her at my peril,” he adds.

The couple live with their dog in a house on top of one of the hills in an upmarket part of San Francisco. They have avoided the celebrity writer circuit since their dual success. He has written short stories and essays and she has published The Almost Moon, in 2007. Gold says it is enough for them simply to enjoy being able to support themselves by writing. Little, he says, has changed for them on a day-to-day level.

He checks himself and quickly adds: “I always hated it when I was unpublished and a writer would say in an interview that it is no different on the other side, it’s the same sort of struggle. It’s not the same sort of struggle. When I talk to someone and they say, ‘What you do for a living?’ and I say ‘I am a writer’ and they ask, ‘What have you published?’ I can tell them. They may not have heard of it, but that bit of identity is so affirming.”

He is similarly quick to dismiss suggestions that they are a literary power couple. “I don’t understand what that means. Is there a secret handshake?” he asks.

For all this modesty, there will be another round of publicity for the couple in December when the movie of The Lovely Bones comes out. Directed by Peter Jackson, it is a star-studded affair, with Saoirse Ronan as the murdered Susie Salmon, Rachel Weisz and Mark Wahlberg as her parents, Susan Sarandon as her grandmother and Stanley Tucci as George Harvey, the killer.

Gold was also close to seeing Carter made into a movie. It was optioned by Tom Cruise at one point and a screenplay was written, but the project is now officially dead, he says. He recently went back to Hollywood to pitch a TV series about a love triangle at a suicide prevention hotline.

But for now there is the publicity tour for the UK launch of Sunnyside. A minor publishing furore broke out when Gold’s British publisher, Sceptre, announced that it was to make the hardback available exclusively through Waterstone’s, cutting out the rest of the book trade. Independent booksellers complained that it was unfair for them to have to turn away customers.

The publishers eventually relented and brought forward the general publication of Sunnyside with the trade paperback to follow in September.

Gold is rather nonplussed by the controversy. “My first reaction was that I know that there are books that come out where they don’t get reviewed, but the novelist’s advance gets reviewed instead. I thought this might be the first time in history when the promotion plan got reviewed but the book didn’t,” he says with a smile.

His connection with his readers is important to him. He has a blog and after our meeting he e-mails me details of one reader’s comments to illustrate a point he was making.
Some early reviews of Sunnyside in the US have spoken of the novel being “overstuffed” with detail. Research is certainly a central part of Gold’s creative process. He realises that this dense, intricately researched work may not provide the literary snack that some might be looking for. But he takes real delight if, by the addition of a particular detail, he can bring a smile to the face of an aficionado of, say, the wheelbase pattern for a particular type of train used in a rural part of America in 1916. There is, for some readers, a sort of pornography in authentic detail.

Gold recently sorted out his library and counted more than 400 books on everything from observer squadron aircraft to 1920s cotillion etiquette that contributed to Sunnyside in some way. And then there were the thousands of hours spent in newspaper libraries and on the web, checking, ferreting out and sometimes getting lost in wonderful stories that, he says, he knows will never find their way into the work itself.

He describes how one of his most concentrated pieces of research involved trying to re-create a weekend in April 1918 when a liberty loan parade took place in San Francisco to raise money for the war effort. Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford were the stars of the show.

Gold spent weeks looking at the microfiche archives of several local newspapers in a San Francisco public library. He even photocopied pages from the papers and stuck them on his wall to get a better feel for the event.

The author denies that he is trying to achieve an “archaeological dig”. He says: “I am trying to give a sense of something that feels real to us today and by necessity is altered. I like to point out that fact by inserting the word ‘novel’ on the cover.”

The result, when Gold gets it right, is a richness of reality that shines out from the pages. But there has to be a sense, he admits, that he is also keeping the story moving forwards, that he is keeping the “marquee lights flashing”.

But if there is one reason, above all, for persevering with Gold’s new novel, it is the ending. This is a moment of true shock.

He says: “I was trying through the entire book to construct how it was that Chaplin went from being a great comedian to being the greatest genius in the predominant art form of the 20th century and, as any Chaplin scholar will tell you, something happened in 1918 that changed him.”

Having shocked you, Gold wants you to begin again and re-examine his novel in the light of what you have just read. In these days of 140-character Tweets, instant messaging and prose that reads like e-mail spam, it is a big aim, an old-fashioned one.

Gold says he does not measure success in the number of copies sold. Before we part and he disappears up one of the steep streets of San Francisco, he says that being a bestseller of books is a “terrible way to validate yourself”.

“When I was writing Carter I had 18 months of not writing anything at all. I went into a clinical depression. That was because I was so bound up in the identity of being a writer I forgot how to be a human being. I had to recover that. Ever since then it has been human being first and the writing has sort of come with it.”

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article6624333.ece

Warner Brothers options Cater Beats the Devil - which may or may not be a good thing!


http://www.obsessedwithfilm.com/movie-news/warner-bros-option-carter-beats-the-devil-yessss.php

Bob Dylan magazine The Bridge Issue #36


The new issue's out! Johnny Cash isn't featured, but I like the photo, so what the hell!
http://www.two-riders.co.uk/menu.html

A Fella With An Umbrella: PJ in Pink Lane, Newcastle, today.

Saturday, 17 April 2010

Glen David Gold - Carter Beats the Devil review

Magical Mysteries
Peter Preston on Carter Beats the Devil, the debut of Glen David Gold, a superb conjuror

The Guardian
Saturday 1 September 2001

Carter Beats the Devil
Glen David Gold


Here is a book - a first novel, no less - to blow you away. It seeks to stun and amaze and deceive and, always, to entertain; and it seldom misses a trick in 600 pulsating pages. The style may be School of Doctorow, with florid flushes of John Irving, but the essential conceit is wholly original.

We begin and end in San Francisco, 1923, with the sudden death of Warren Gamaliel Harding (a US president to make George W Bush look imposing). Two hours before some mysterious illness carries him off, Harding appears on stage with Charlie Carter the Great, master magician, and confides an awful secret to him. Cue much mayhem and hectic adventuring.

But Gold's real aim is to recapture the lost era of the great illusionists and escapologists, of Houdini, Thurston and Devant, to evoke the time when audiences believed what they saw; a time when real magic was somehow possible and its prime purveyors were among the most famous people on earth. And his plot - garish, crude, infernally clever - is precisely honed to the task: it is a triumph of misdirection, a nest of boxes constantly springing fresh surprises.

Stage illusions were a popular art; they worked at pace, with drive and rolling drums. Gold's prose has precisely that energy. He creates his own rich, strange world where anything is possible, where characters from fact and fiction mingle.

Every one of these tricks - the vanishing elephant, the lion who becomes a man, the motorbike disappearing into thin air - comes rooted in fact. What was Houdini like? How did he do what he did? The feisty little runt is given flesh. Since this is also, in part, a quasi-biography of Carter, we meet him young and set out on the dusty road of small-town touring with him, watching the rich boy with an ambition tinker with Kards and Koins till the moment of great illusions arrives. It's a novel that works on every level: as an evocation, an instruction, a revelation; as fun.

Because conjurors guard their secrets, it's hard to tell too much of the plot without giving too much away - except to hint that we're at that cusp of the 20th century where television came to sweep vaudeville into oblivion. Yet the convolutions don't matter hugely. The logic of events is always bizarrely random anyway. Nothing makes sense if you stand back and analyse it - but Gold allows no such luxury. He is at his best in page after page of description of acts and actions, where the reader has his or her own seat in the stalls.

He also has a gift for anecdote and dialogue. "Where's your American national identity?" asks Charlie's Belgian wizard of special effects, Ledocq. "We Belgians believe in idling and progress, no more, no less. But Americans, they all say 'I seen everything, you can't pull one on me, I'm a real wise guy' and then two minutes later we show them a chess-playing automaton and they lose every ounce of savoir faire. 'Hey, that automaton is marvellous, what's that?' and the truth is they really don't want to know how it works." It is the Son of Star Wars renamed national missile defence all over again. A gawping public will still buy anything from snake-oil salesmen with imposing apparatus.

Are there points to criticise here? Perhaps, in the sense that the mood swings so violently, that characters come and go without reason. Where's Houdini himself? Gone suddenly, a quarter of the way through, only to return as an afterthought. The madcap whirl of 1920s politics, where presidents were jokes and federal agencies were Keystone Kops, is Ragtime revisited. Sometimes Gold seems to have wandered too far from any possible relevance, to be simply enjoying himself.

But it's impossible, at the end, to carp. This is the most exuberant stew of a novel: strange, tasty, addictive. Do we ever know its central protagonist, the man who called himself Carter the Great? No, not quite; but then, he was a man of mystery when two dollars bought you an evening of miracles. Glen David Gold has poured thought and toil and inspiration into telling - or seeming to tell -his story, and he leaves himself with only one resounding problem at the close. After such a debut what does he do for his next trick?

• Peter Preston, a former editor of this paper, is also a former member of the Leicester Magic Circle and a writer on magical matters.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/sep/01/fiction.reviews3

Ian Hamilton on Salinger


http://www.faber.co.uk/work/in-search-of-j-d-salinger/9780571269273/

Ian Hamilton wrote two books on J. D. Salinger. Only one, this one, was published. The first, called J. D. Salinger: A Writing Life, despite undergoing many changes to accommodate Salinger, was still victim of a legal ban. Salinger objected to the use of his letters, in the end to any use of them. The first book had to be shelved. With great enterprise and determination however, Ian Hamilton set to and wrote this book which is more, much more, than an emasculated version of the first.

For someone whose guarding of his privacy became so fanatical it is perhaps surprising how much Ian Hamilton was able to disinter about his earlier life. Until Salinger retreated completely into his bolt-hole outside Cornish in New Hampshire many aspects of his life, though it required assiduousness on the biographer's part, could be pieced together. A surprising portrait emerges; although there were early signs of renunciation, there were moments when his behaviour could almost be described as gregarious. The trail Hamilton follows is fascinating, and the story almost has the lineaments of a detective mystery with the denouement suitably being played out in Court.

The Collected Poems of Ian Hamilton


http://www.faber.co.uk/work/ian-hamilton-collected-poems/9780571227365/

THE FORTIES

'The self that has survived those trashy years',
Its 'austere virtue' magically intact. Well then,
He must have asked himself, is this
The 'this is it'; that encapsulable Life
I never thought to find
And didn't seek: beginning at the middle
So that in the end
The damage is outlived by the repair?

At forty-five
I'm father of the house now and at dusk
You'll see me take my 'evening stroll'
Down to the dozing lily pond:
From our rear deck, one hundred and eleven yards.
And there I'll pause, half-sober, without pain
And seem to listen; but no longer 'listen out'.
And at my back,
Eight windows, a veranda, the neat plot
For your (why not?) 'organic greens',
The trellis that needs fixing, that I'll fix.

THE STORM

Miles off, a storm breaks. It ripples to our room.
you look up into the light so it catches one side
Of your face, your tight mouth, your startled eye.
You turn to me and when I call you come
Over and kneel beside me, wanting me to take
Your head between my hands as if it were
A delicate bowl that the storm might break.
You want me to get between you and the brute thunder.
Settling on your flesh my great hands stir,
Pulse on you and then, wondering how to do it, grip.
The storm rolls through me as your mouth opens.

BIOGRAPHY

Who turned the page? When I went out
Last night, his Life was left wide-open,
half-way through, in lamplight on my desk:
The Middle Years.
Now look at him. Who turned the page?'

THE MANY HATS OF MICHAEL EDWARD LOVE

With Al Jardine in happier times