End of year lists 2011

Here are the Art Student’s best five movies for the year, in no particular order. That’s five out of roughly 43 movies we went to. (If you don’t know a movie the title links to  its IMDb page.)

Inside Job: A documentary about the Global Financial Crisis. The most memorable thing is that at the end Obama kept in something like 20 key positions the same people whose advice had led to the policies that brought about the collapse.

Of Gods and Men: The AS knew this was on my list and wouldn’t give me a comment.

Win Win: She liked this for its moral complexity and understatedness.

The Guard: This made her laugh. She liked being seduced by someone who did bad things.

Bill Cunningham New York: She was exhilarated by this and loved it as a model of a kind of integrity that may well be disappearing from the western world.

And mine:
Bill Cunningham New York: See the Art Student’s comment above

Of Gods and Men: Interestingly enough, this is also a study in integrity, and though it’s fiction, it ends with a profound letter written by the actual man it’s based on.

Source Code: An SF Groundhog Day that I found completely delightful.

If a Tree Falls: A Story of the Earth Liberation Front: There seems to be a theme emerging: what I loved about this was that its main character had done bad things with good intentions and took responsibility for his actions. It also cast yet more unflattering light on the US authorities’ response to ‘terrorism’.

Toomelah: I saw this at the Sydney Film Festival, introduced by Ivan Sen in the company of two young actors. Perhaps that’s why I saw it as an ultimately hopeful, though unsparing, look at life in a crushed, neglected and dysfunctional Aboriginal community.

About books, the Art Student claims not to be able to remember back past the last book she read, but she’s happy to have Edmund de Waal’s The Hare with Amber Eyes in her top five books for the year. This year, following the shocking VIDA statistics on gender bias in literary journals, I decided to keep track of whether books I read were by men or women, and a quick count shows, astonishingly that I read 25 books by men and 23 by women. Compulsive honesty has me acknowledge that many of the books by women were very short. the most dubious inclusion being a YouTube video of Harvard Professors reading Margaret Wise Brown’s Goodnight Moon.  My top five, a list that might look quite different if I did it on another day:

Christina Stead, The Man Who Loved Children. What a painful pleasure to re read this! I can’t think of a character I’ve hated more, while being fascinated, than Sam Pollitt.

Francis Webb, Collected Poems and a number of ancillary books.

Charles Dickens, Bleak House. I’m that much less likely to win a game of Humiliation now that I’ve read this. I completely understand why Claire Tomalin read this twice when researching her biography of Dickens – she wasn’t prompted by duty but by pleasure.

Kim Scott’s That Deadman Dance. Phew! We’re into the 21st century. After the necessarily careful correctness of, say, Kate Grenville’s novels about early contact in Sydney, this exuberant, multi-faceted, generous, funny, heartbreaking novel is like a blast of clean air.

Robert Whitaker’s Anatomy of an Epidemic: Magic Bullets, Psychiatric Drugs, and the Astonishing Rise of Mental Illness in America. Whenever I’m asked what my favourite book is I’m tempted to name the one I’m currently reading, but this really is a wonderful book, all the more shocking for the care with which it marshals its evidence and argument. I want to push it into the hands of everyone I know.

Please quarrel with these lists, add your recommendations, etc.

Memorising poetry with Dan Beachy-Quick

The Poetry Off the Shelf podcast for 13 December is a lovely interview with US poet Dan Beachy-Quick about memorising poetry, ‘Inscribe the poem on yourself’. I listened to it when I had just finished my first stab at memorising Stevie Smith’s ‘The Lads of the Village’ (of which more in a later post), and a lot of what was said on the podcast rang very true for me. Here are a couple of hastily transcribed highlights:

Something about the act of memorisation puts the poem inside me in such a way that I feel like when I do need to know what exactly it is in the poem that draws me so much it will be there as a kind of constant resource that I can call upon whenever I want to or when I need to.

And this on memorising poems using traditional forms:

When you go through the work of memorising a poem the metre of it or the rhyme of it or the formal pattern that it’s in ceases to just be a technology of the poem and you begin to see the real necessity that might underlie the choice of writing in a sonnet or the power of taking as a genuine concern the need to find a perfect rhyme or a slant rhyme, because those things too, metre and rhyme, are so absolutely bodily and part of the meaning. One feels a rhythm. Rhyme is felt as much as heard. It’s almost as if the ear is learning to feel when it hears a great rhyme. So I think in a way memorising such poems helps one learn to read and take seriously traditional poetic values that in a postmodernist framework might be easily dismissed.

If you have 12 minutes and 19 seconds to spare, you could do better with that small slab of time than listen to the whole thing.

Incidentally, as I was fiddling around trying to get you that link, I found that the Poetry Foundation’s Poem of the Day has featured a swathe of Australians, including most recently Michael Sharkey reading his ‘Eating Sin‘.

You wouldn’t read about it

On Friday night my book club had its end of year meeting. That’s the book club where we swap books and keep discussion to a minimum. I missed the end of year meeting of the book group, where the rest of the chaps discussed a book of essays by David Foster Wallace which I hadn’t managed to read, so I didn’t miss anything but conviviality and shame (unless of course something happened that they’re being secretive about). The book club met at Anong in Kings Cross for the best Thai food I remember ever eating, and we had a wonderful night, helped by two of our number being on first name terms with the restaurant owners and several having had recent travel adventures.

Rather than the usual complex swapping, this meeting each year is the occasion of a bit of simple giving. Each of us brings a gift-wrapped book, and each goes home with one. Two years ago three of the six books turned out to be The Slap, which has become even more ubiquitous since then, if that’s possible. This year, despite all the double guessing and byway exploration that goes into the choice of books, there was another hat trick: Jeanette Winterson’s Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

Revisionism?

Along with about 30 other people, the Art Student and I heard Paul Ham talk at Gleebooks last night. It was one of the smallest Gleebooks turn-outs I’ve seen, and it’s hard not to think the subject may have had a bit of a deterrent effect: his new book Hiroshima Nagasaki. In fact it was a terrific talk. I’ll save whatever I have to say about his argument for when I read the book, which may be some little time. (He was on Lateline recently – here’s a link if you want his gist.)

What I want to note here is that he described what he does as Narrative History. I’m sure learned historians have many finely nuanced definitions of  that, but I liked his version, which is that it is history told without benefit of hindsight – that is, trying to get to the story as it was understood by the actors themselves. He is categorised as a revisionist historian, but objects, saying that the orthodox version (that the bombs were the ‘least abhorrent option’, that they saved a million US lives, that they brought about Japan’s unconditional surrender) is itself revisionist – a recasting after the event that distorts what actually happened on almost all counts.

Fortuitously, I have just been reading Ta-Nehisi Coates’s article in the Atlantic,  ‘Why Do So Few Blacks Study the Civil War?‘ I can’t recommend this article strongly enough for its eloquent challenge to received versions of history. The bit that chimed with Paul Ham’s talk, and with some reading and thinking I’ve been doing about massacres in Australia, was this, in reference to the 50th anniversary celebrations of the Battle of Gettysburg:

Speakers at the ceremony pointedly eschewed any talk of the war’s cause in hopes of pursuing what the historian David Blight calls ‘a mourning without politics’. Woodrow Wilson, when he addressed the crowd, did not mention slavery but asserted that the war’s meaning could be found in ‘the splendid valor, the manly devotion of the men then arrayed against one another, now grasping hands and smiling into each other’s eyes’. Wilson, born into the Confederacy and the first postbellum president to hail from the South, was at that very moment purging blacks from federal jobs and remanding them to separate washrooms. Thus Wilson executed a familiar act of theater—urging the country’s white citizens away from their history, while continuing to act in the spirit of its darkest chapters.

Urging the country’s white citizens away from their history, while continuing to act in the spirit of its darkest chapters. Familiar indeed, but ne’er so well expressed.

Asia Literary Review 21

Stephen McCarty (editor), Asia Literary Review No 21 ([Northern] Autumn 2011)

[Note added in 2021: All the links in this blog post are broken except the ones in the journal title above and in the image to the left. The whole journal is still available online to subscribers.]

Under Stephen McCarty’s editorship, the Asia Literary Review tends to have themed issues. The last three focused on China, Burma and Japan respectively. This one moves to a subject that transcends political and geographic boundaries: food.

Where a focus on a single country can lead to a journal as diverse – and as integrated – as anyone could wish, other kinds of themes, even one as vast as food, risk crossing the line between relatedness and sameness. This issue comes close to that line a couple of times, but it manages to stay on the right side. Notably, Felipe Fernández-Armesto kicks things off with ‘History à la Carte‘, a short essay on food as an ‘instructive historical document’, particularly about the ‘relative input of different cultures to a globalising world’ over the centuries – and the pages that follow provide a number exemplars of the kind of thing he means: Fuchsia Dunlop, an Englishwoman who has trained as a chef in Sichuan, writes of her childhood love for sweet and sour pork, and explores its origins as a dish invented for despised foreigners (or was it?); Bernard Cohen’s story about a disintegrating marriage, ‘The Chinese Meal, Uneaten‘ can be read as a meditation on the cheap Chinese restaurants of a bygone Australia; in Erin Swan’s ‘Tomatoes‘, a couple of western tourists in the Himalayas get some humility about their privileged status thanks to a box of tomatoes; Jennifer 8. Lee’s ‘Making Pasta Sauce: My Independence’ tells of a Chinese New Yorker’s discovery in Italian cuisine (this little memoir-recipe, sadly not available online to non-subscribers, has had a significant impact on the cooking in this house); in Wena Poon’s story ‘Fideuà’, a woman who was a ‘China baby’ adopted by a Spanish couple finds in seafood noodles a deep emotional connection between her birth home and her adoptive one (a Chinese matriarch watches the protagonist cook Spanish fideuà in a paella pan and says, a little scornfully, a little proudly, ‘This pan is like our wok. This noodle, come from China. Seafood, same. All same. We call it hoi seen meen. We use same ingredients.’). Perhaps because a jungle of self-sown vines is producing abundantly in our tiny back yard, I particularly enjoyed the way tomatoes kept appearing: here we learn they are known in some parts of China as barbarian aubergines, there that Europeans thought they were poisonous for hundred of years after they were brought over from the Americas, in a third place that they have delicacy status in Himalayan villages.

I should mention Lizzie Collingham’s fascinating piece of history, ‘Japan and the Battle for Rice’, which makes the case for thinking of Japan’s participation in World War Two as in part a war about food, of which we may be about to see many more. Chandran Nair stops short of making that prediction in his chilling article, ‘The World Food Crisis – An Asian Perspective’, which echoes the Annie Leonard video I posted yesterday by calling on Asian governments to ‘reject the consumption-led growth model and adopt instead an approach that makes resources conservation the heart of all policymaking’. Good luck to us all with that!

Oh, and there’s ‘Table d’Hôte’ by Murong Xuecu, translated by Martin Merz and Jane Weizhen Pan. It’s the journal’s only prose piece translated from an Asian language and easily its most powerful fiction, with something of the feel of that contemporary Chinese art that plays around with death and mutilation.

And there’s plenty else. I’ve linked to the stories that are accessible online. If you want to read the others you have to subscribe.

The Story of Stuff

This has been around for a while, but just in case you haven’t seen it, here it is for your instruction. Annie Leonard spent 10 years researching the materials economy and made this incredibly lucid video The Story of Stuff:

That was a while back. Just recently the Story of Stuff Project uploaded a new video, The Story of Broke:

‘So where is all that money going?’

I like the way she never mentions Marx – though she does seem to mean capitalism when she talks about the dinosaur economy.

Harpur on the sonnet by way of Middlemiss

Perry Middlemiss often blogs Australian newspaper articles from decades past on literary subjects. He recently treated us to a  essay on the sonnet by Charles Harpur, originally published in the Sydney Morning Herald in 1866, which I found fascinating for reasons that might be obvious. Here’s a sample:

the untransgressible limits of the sonnet often tend to induce that closeness of expression, and that sublimation of imagery which are proper to the highest kind of enduring poetry, namely, that kind which is suggestive rather than descriptive, or which by a few select images, intensified in the putting, suggests infinitely more than could be circumstantially described, or otherwise than wearisomely; and which, therefore, while it amply recompenses the imagination of the reader, exercises it as well, and thereby quickens and strengthens it for direct conception upon its own account, or as an individual and self-sustained faculty. And, having, as I think, this tendency, of course these exact limits prevent in an equal degree that verbal delusion of the sense which is the besetting weakness of most modern writers, both in a verse and prose.

LoSoRhyMo #14

It’s the end of November, and with this post I’m filling my quota of 14 sonnets. I know that’s trivial compared with the 50 000 words that NaNoWriMoers manage, but I’m pleased with myself anyhow.

This one takes off from a comment the Art Student made as we were walking in beautiful autumn sunshine. The ‘she’ in what follows bears only incidental resemblance to any persons living or dead.

Sonnet 14: On gloom and doom
She sees blue sky and dreads the rain
it bodes. She hardly draws a breath
of pleasure without fearing pain
and nothing rhymes with ‘breath’ but ‘death’
or crystal meth which, failing guns
or cars or flame, will kill her sons.
And if she takes the wider view
there’s war and global warming, eu-
ro in trouble, AIDS, blind greed.
She knew that Rudd would disappoint,
thinks Abbott soon will run the joint
and make the very cosmos bleed.
But then, although she’s mostly right,
she won’t give up without a fight.

This was heading for some kind of variation on ‘seize the day’, but when I had 11 lines done, I read them to the Art Student, and she suggested the final couplet pretty much as it is here. How could I resist?

It may be no coincidence that as I type this the rain is bucketing down, and we’re sitting in a warm room watching the gum trees’ branches outside wave and bow in response.

Next year I might see if I can persuade some hardy souls to join me in this venture …

LoSoRhyMo #13

I read some lines from Les Murray’s poem ‘Poetry and Religion‘ somewhere recently, and they became an ear worm. It’s a wonderful poem, and very challenging to readers like me who have no sense of the religious.

Sonnet #13: Not exactly Ars Poetica
Every poem’s a small religion
said Les Murray. P’raps that’s true
of his. Mine’s more a kerbside pigeon
[I’ve found a rhyme – now from the slew
of possibilities find reason]:
puffed up in the mating season
it coos alliteration, rakes
the ground with fanned iambics, makes
a strut around its object. Full
religion, Les says, is the large
poem. Buddha, Jesus, Thor,
the Prophet, Moses: metaphor.
Oh Dawkins! If no god’s in charge
poems like pigeons when they fly
in large flocks can blot out the sky.

Added later: Close readers will notice that this one has 15 lines. All I can say by way of explanation is ‘Oops!’

And later again: perhaps the last six lines should have gone:

Full
religion, Les says, is the large
poem. If no god’s in charge
can poetry be meaningful?
Shall poems like pigeons when they fly
in large flocks obfuscate the sky?

Correspondence on Manne (no sonnet)

Quarterly Essay No 44 is just out. It may be a while before I get to read the essay itself, Andrew Charlton’s Man-Made World: Choosing between progress and planet, but I went straight to the pages up the back with correspondence about last quarter’s essay, Robert Manne’s critique of the Australian. In the past I have been glad that QE doesn’t include correspondence from the name-calling, straw-dog destroying, science-denying voices that dominate some other forums. This time it would have been odd not to have a contribution by someone from Rupert Murdoch’s empire – and indeed the discussion is kicked off by Nick Cater, editor of the Weekend Australian. He comes out fighting:

For thirty years or more, Manne has distinguished himself through his rare determination to exercise his intellect in the town square. There is no sign that he intends to relinquish his position as a public intellectual, but with this essay he has retreated further into the cloisters. He has become ever more abstract, aloof and contemptuous of his interlocutors. I mean no disrespect by suggesting that Manne needs to get out more.

Clearly he does mean disrespect. And so when the other correspondents make what might seem to be outrageous assertions and implications about the ethos of the Australian – that it is not a newspaper so much as an organ for political propaganda whose employees are in a state of denial that results in their responding like cornered beasts to any criticism, for example, or that it would be a good idea if they tried to represent accurately the arguments of people they disagreed with – there is a living, breathing example of the kind of thing they are talking about just a few pages earlier. Manne’s contribution or the correspondence is to thank the other correspondents and then attempt to extract the actual arguments from Cater’s piece, ignoring the abundant ad hominem elements, and counter them methodically. It’s a good read, though one is left with an uneasy sensation that Cater and Manne have widely divergent assumptions about what constitutes an argument.

It’s a pity that the correspondence doesn’t include anything from the left, putting the kind of position that Tad Tietze did on the Overland blog a while back. While appreciating the great service Robert Manne’s article has done us, among other things he laments Manne’s lack of analytical tools in relation o the media, gives a brief account of the Propaganda Model of the private media, and concludes:

Manne seems to believe that we’d have a better country if The Australian was somehow reined in, but this gets things the wrong way around. It is because things have gotten worse, and because elite hegemony has been unravelling, that we have been blessed with The Australian we have today. Better to stop obsessing about Murdoch’s apparent omnipotence and figure out how our side can more effectively prepare for the battles ahead.