alexsarll: (Default)
I think it's fair to say that I have had better weeks. Neither finances nor my immune system have been all they could have been, there were all too many intimations of mortality (Dexter Fletcher's decrepit appearance in Misfits the least of them), and even a book I'd been hoping might provide a romping diversion, Charles Yu's How To Live Safely In A Science-Fictional Universe, turned out to be largely a McSweeney's-style autobiographical affair about a difficult childhood, in which the main power source for time travel is regret. I feel it was slightly misrepresented. Keeping me on an even-ish keel, as ever: friends, TV comedy and Doctor Who. The one big excursion was Friday's Nuisance, packed with lots of people I knew and, as ever, a few too many I didn't including some right dodgy elements. And I remain unsure whether the two strangers who wanted pictures with me were impressed or taking the piss. Still, onwards and - hopefully - upwards.

One interesting revelation in the slightly disappointing Neil Diamond documentary Solitary Man: talking of the period in the sixties when his 'I'm a Believer' was a massive hit for the Monkees, there was discussion of the difficulty in following it up. One miss, everyone agreed, and you were no longer infallible, you were human, and your career could well be over. Whenever you see someone talking about the short-termism of the modern music industry, its failure to develop artists, remember that. The music industry always broken, foolish and greedy.

Giuseppe di Lampedusa wrote The Leopard, one of the finest novels of all time. He came from Italy, often rated as a country that knows a thing or two about food. And yet his letters show that upon his arrival in Britain, "toast comes as a great and pleasant surprise". Truly a wise man.
alexsarll: (howl)
Sentences which could easily be misinterpreted: "I was mourning the end of a long-term relationship with a massive bender."

Grant Morrison has abandoned The Authority, putting most of the blame on the predominantly poor reviews the first issue received. What? Where would he be, where would we be, if he'd quit Animal Man or Doom Patrol or JLA over the reviews which missed the point? Even with his current Batman run, a lot of people were underwhelmed until he deployed the issue that pulled it all together. On top of which, this is a man who more than anyone else understands art's roots in magic. That first, brilliant set-up issue of The Authority began with our world, our poor hero-less world...and then threw in The Authority to save us. You can't leave a spell like that half-cast, man! And for pity's sake, it was only meant to be a four issue run anyway. If he'd been on schedule in the first place, it would all have been written before those bad reviews even appeared.
I'm still looking forward to his DC Universe stuff, obviously. But this has really dented my respect for him.

It's little more than a month since I first saw The Long Blondes live; this time I knew the new album and they played 'You Could Have Both', but I still have my reservations, and they come down to one thing: Kate Jackson's not the 'Kate Jackson' of the songs. I say this not as any criticism of her, you understand - only with the same sense of regret as accompanied my realisation that Viggo Mortensen is not actually Aragorn. I love the Blondes' music for its loneliness, the predatory gleam in its eye, its desperation. My kind host [livejournal.com profile] cappuccino_kid tells me that in the smaller shows in earlier days, more of that sort of stuff came across. But at a triumphant Forum show, with the crowd singing back every line...well, Kate's too busy having fun to get caught up in all that angst, and who can blame her? It suits some of the songs (from 'Guilt' onwards, the show really comes alive) but I am forced to conclude that, like St Etienne among others, for me The Long Blondes are a band where the live incarnation just isn't quite what I'm after.

Hushang Golshiri's The Prince seems to be accounted quite the classic of Persian literature - Golshiri was imprisoned by the Shah and no more popular under the ayatollahs, which always augurs well. Nor have I any criticism of James Buchan's translation, or his introduction (which one critic correctly classifies as "lucid"). The problem is...there's only so far a translation can go. The back cover told me of an ageing prince looking back on his life and his dynasty's extinction, which made me think of Lampedusa's The Leopard; the tone sounded somehow akin to that obscurely poisonous quality in Mishima. These are both writers I've enjoyed in translation, and yes, there are resemblances to both. But the hallucinatory shifts in identity, the portraits unconfined by their frames...these reminded me more of Polanski's Repulsion or Cronenberg's Spider*. Imagine trying to write those out as prose. Now, imagine trying to translate that prose. Oh, and all the characters are obliquely identified historical and political figures about whom your translation's readers are unlikely to know much, if anything. Imagine a Mongolian reading The Damned United, or a member of a remote tribe whose first encounter with Western literature is The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier, and you will have some handle on my frustration.
The LoEG comparison's an interesting one, because straight after finishing The Prince I read an earlier, simpler Alan Moore - the recoloured 'Killing Joke'**. A book Moore has damn near disowned, purportedly because he doesn't feel it means anything in the wider world - it's just about Batman and the Joker being very similar, and since they don't exist, so what? Well, I'm not so sure about that. It's not his finest hour, for sure - like most of his DCU work bar Swamp Thing it's maybe a little sketchy, a little hurried. But would it mean anything to someone who'd never encountered these characters before? I think maybe it would. A murderous madman says all it needs is "one bad day", and any one of us could end up like him; another madman tries to prove him wrong. That's universal, isn't it? At least as much so, I would contend, as Golshiri's last scion of a deposed dynasty, at once ashamed and envious of his royal ancestors' excesses. Batman and the Joker don't exist - but nowadays, do faded princelings? Only a handful in the gossip columns; for the rest of us, strictly by analogy.

*Yes, I know it was a book first. But still...
**Yes, the new colouring job is much smarter, much more evocative, and simply better. But perhaps not so much so that the book's worth buying again if you already own it. Handily, I didn't, and this was free.
alexsarll: (crest)
Irksome that an ace Live Gloom line-up should clash with the inaugural Black Plastic, and on a night with no Bank branch too; if for some reason you can't make it to Bethnal Green I would certainly recomment catching Private Lives and Paris Motel at Bar Academy. As for tomorrow - does anyone Local fancy a Stroud Green history walk? Saw a poster for it in a shop window, know nothing more except that it meets outside the Dairy at 2pm. Then later I may go down to Clitoris Park to catch Morton Valence, who are playing a free festival there. Oh, and I went to the pub last night after all. I'm sure I'll get a night off at some point. 2009, maybe.

Lampedusa's The Leopard is, quite simply, one of the best novels ever written. This posthumous masterpiece aside, Lampedusa only wrote a fragment, a couple of short stories - and some essays, in one of which he declared Stendhal's The Charterhouse of Parma to be the best novel ever written. Having just finished The Charterhouse, I'm puzzled. I don't fully recall Lampedusa's arguments - I didn't want to, or else I'd know too much of what was coming - and I'd love to go back and check his working, but Westminster Libraries no longer seem to have the relevant volume; clearly it was insufficiently 'accessible'. It's a disjointed, vaguely picaresque mix of satire, adventure and romance, not dissimilar to Byron's Don Juan - but where Byron harmonised his elements, picked each word perfectly, Stendhal hacked out ten pages a day for 50 days and boy, it shows. Nor does anyone seem to have edited it at any stage; half the footnotes are advising that he misattributed this painting, misquoted that writer - Hell, in one of the epigraphs The Charterhouse even misquotes *itself*. He'll repeat himself, leap back and forth, suddenly remember he's forgotten to mention a key detail. Outside the core cast, one is left with no real understanding of who many of the characters are as people, only of what roles they need to perform. It might be the translation which explains why, 'Stendhal Syndrome' notwithstanding, I was never overcome with the beauty of the art - but these other failings, they're not translator's errors. So what did Lampedusa so love? Presumably coming from the Italian aristocracy gives you more of a natural connection with a novel about them, but surely that can't have been it?

Found a copy of a novel by one Cassandra Clare, who first came to prominence through writing Harry Potter fanfic and the Lord of the Rings 'Very Secret Diaries. Obviously I've not read the Potter material, and though the Diaries were extremely funny, they never exactly made me think 'hey, someone get this person to write a modern dark fantasy trilogy, pronto!' Reading the first couple of pages of her 'original' work...well, in fairness, it's no worse than a lot of the books chasing the goth dollar these days. But this is more because those writers should have stuck to fanfic too than because Clare should be getting published.

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