Book Notes: "The Cossacks" and "Hadji Murat" by Leo Tolstoy

The Cossacks and Hadji Murat by Leo Tolstoy

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

One can only imagine how good Tolstoy is in the original Russian. In Cossacks I found a story that resonates with the short-lived camaraderie of living in close proximity that peters out and then vanishes with distance, and becomes a barely-recalled memory over time. Yet, at its zenith, the relationships are admirable and true. Hagan, in a journal article about the novel, suggests that Tolstoy is writing about ambivalence. While this may be true it is hard not to actually feel Tolstoy's work. This was nowhere more so than in Hadji Murat. The novella leaves one feeling the horror, the banality, the honour, the futility of war, but also its raw carnality. Not endlessly, but in a conclusion that takes one from the present to the past and back to the present again, leaving one "ambivalent" about the future. Tolstoy was so clever he seems to be far beyond my understanding, now or ever. That this is merely a translation boggles the mind.

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References

Hagan, J. (1969). Ambivalence in Tolstoy's "The Cossacks". NOVEL: A Forum on Fiction, Vol. 3, No. 1 (Autumn, 1969), pp. 28-47.

Remnick, D. (2005). The Translation Wars: How the race to translate Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky continues to spark feuds, end friendships, and create small fortunes. The New Yorker, 7 November.

Conquering the Universe One Peace at a Time, or: Pursuing the Cultured, Prosperous, Stoic Life

Peace and Prosperity, 1896. Mural by Elihu Vedder at Library of Congress. Photo by Carol Highsmith.

In a recent post I grappled with the concept of parsimony in explaining complex problems. Critics will often suggest one is conflating issues when the complexity becomes too much for them to bear. But that doesn't mean there is no merit in pursuing answers to complex problems, or that a parsimonious solution is the best one. In this article, I grapple with the pursuit of peace and prosperity and the lofty ideals of high culture, as I journey with Epictetus, Tolstoy, James Allen, Harold Bloom, and Joseph Epstein.

This journey began with Joseph Epstein. Or was it Tolstoy. Or Harold Bloom. Definitely not Howard Bloom. I think I bumped into Howard Bloom on my journey with Dante. I am already conflating my ideas, it would seem, so let's start with Epstein. But how did I get there? Already, I must become a detective of my own thoughts. But the detective is Inspector Clouseau [goes off to look at bookmarks and various hardcopy printouts]...

I can't find the connection, but it came from reading about how many books one will read before one dies. It turns out that, assuming my life follows an average trajectory and I can continue to read 80 books per year until I die, that leaves me with 2,960 books I could potentially read until I cark it. I better write a list of "must-reads".

Going off on this tangent is a good thing, apparently, because it means I am deliberately self-regulating my knowledge processes, and therefore developing "expert knowledge". The process will become faster over time. However, my writing timeframes are blowing out. So, like Clouseau, I stumble off in the hope that this will be fruitful in the long run (see Glaser 1995, p. 265, point 5). But I digress.

I have been working through Ryan Holiday's The Daily Stoic, while completing Benjamin Franklin's personal improvement plan (I have just completed week 9 of 13), and also reading James Allen's "Morning and Evening Thoughts" from As a Man Thinketh. This is a daily process which includes writing a journal, ritualised each morning and evening, and accompanied by a good dose of daily reading. Which brings me to Epstein.

Given that the number of books I can read is restricted by the length of my life, Epstein provides some suggestions that may prove useful in making best use of this time. To use his words:

My media diet is the equivalent of vegan.

Epstein reads a few magazines, but avoids most of the hype about day to day politics. He has cancelled his subscriptions to The New York Times  and The New Yorker. So what does he do with the extra time he has freed up?

Well, I've made a little discovery of a marvelous invention called books, which I'm told are going out of style but which give a satisfaction that is deeper than any other means I know.

If you haven't read a book for a while, this won't make much sense. But if you have, you might wonder whether there is any truth to the claim that the novel is on its way out.

So I turned to the Times Literary Supplement, where Ben Jeffrey tells me all about The Oxford History of the Novel in English. Apparently the novel has been on its last legs in every decade since the 1940s. The novel has apparently been made obsolete by technology. Yet this has been accompanied "by a constant increase in the number of novels written, published, and read".

However, Will Self suggests that the novel will be a specialist form of reading. Using my bounded experiences to guide me, I can readily agree with Self. I rarely meet people I can talk to about the books I read. That is no boast; I find it rather sad. Will Self says what I think:

Nor do I mean to suggest that in our culture perennial John Bull-headed philistinism wasn't alive and snorting: "I don't know much about art but I know what I like". However, what didn't obtain is the current dispensation, wherein those who reject the high arts feel not merely entitled to their opinion, but wholly justified in it. It goes further: the hallmark of our contemporary culture is an active resistance to difficulty in all its aesthetic manifestations, accompanied by a sense of grievance that conflates it with political elitism... The current resistance of a lot of the literate public to difficulty in the [novel] is only a subconscious response to having a moribund message [that reading novels is good for you] pushed at them.

And on and on it goes. Anti-Stoically (with a deliberate capital S), Sandy Grant recommends we don't try to control our emotions in order to resist Trump. Then, Stoically, Ryan Holiday suggests that focusing on the things we can control and avoid, echoing Epstein, the media trap. Conveniently, this brings my meandering back to Epstein.

On 30 June 1999, in an interview in The Atlantic, Epstein spoke about death and its influence on how he thinks about his life and work:

I don't mope and think about death all the time -- not quite -- but the idea that life is going to be over conditions almost everything I do. I'm always thinking about this -- when I work, when I read. I just don't want to waste myself on too much trivia.

Given that Epstein had undergone open heart surgery only a few months before, such a view is not surprising. And in speaking about his surgery in The New Yorker on 12 April 1999, Epstein hints at a Stoic reality:

I still feel an abiding vulnerability I hadn't felt before. The surgery has left me with what I can only call heart-consciousness. I turn over in bed at night and hear my heart, and feel less in control of my destiny. Rationality, of which I have always considered myself a devotee, has its distinct limits, and one of them is over the fate of my body: it will check out when it is ready, not, as I should prefer, when I am. All this was true, of course, before my bypass surgery, but now it seems more than merely true - I know it to be ineluctably true.

Then just last week, Epstein, writing in The Weekly Standard, addresses the issue of high culture. He writes of Matthew Arnold (I am reading Culture and Anarchy right now), and how reading the classics and discovering that someone 2,000 years ago dealt with the same issues and had the same thoughts as you do is a fascinating form of connection. The introduction to Culture and Anarchy mentions Mrs Humphrey Ward, who happened to be Matthew Arnold's niece. I read Ward's book because of another connection as I journeyed through literature.

Epstein then mentions Tolstoy. I have just finished The Cossacks (I will review this as soon as I have finished Hadji Murad, which happens to be about love and death), which is part of the same book.

This sent me off on the tangent of "ambivalence" in The Cossacks and how nobody else really cares about what someone does, and again the final scene in La Vie En Rose "we die alone", and don't get me started on the actress who also happened to be in Midnight in Paris and then Hemingway and Fitzgerald... [take a breath]... so what does it all mean to be peaceful and prosperous?

According to Marcus Aurelius, and as echoed by Epstein:

You have power over your mind -- not outside events [including your body]. Realize this, and you will find strength.

I do not control my body, but I can control my mind. So what do I need to be at peace? Epstein suggests that it is much easier to be happy if you avoid high culture:

The pursuit of high culture came with a price. Once hooked on it, one was no longer entirely at ease with popular culture—the culture, that is to say, most of us grew up with and that remains the mainstream culture. Once one is devoted to the pursuit of high culture, the bestseller, the Oscar-winning movie, the highest-rated television shows—all uncomplicatedly enjoyed by one's contemporaries—are, if not of no interest, then thought somewhat out of bounds, with the enjoyment of them tending to fall under the category of guilty pleasures.

This echoes what I tell my first-year students:

You need to know these things so you don't look like a goose at a dinner party. Nevertheless, once you know these things, there is no turning back: Ignorance truly is bliss.

And then I find solace in Epstein's words to his:

But if as writers you intend to present yourself to the world as cultured persons, you have to know these names and events and scores of others, and what is important about them. This is not something that one gets up as if for an exam, or Googles and promptly forgets, but that must be understood in historical context—at least it must for those who seek to live a cultured life.

And so Inspector Clouseau solves the case. Or rather, Epstein does:

A cultured person has a standard, a recollection, through literature and history and philosophy—if not necessarily through personal experience—of greatness. Without such a recollection, rising above mediocrity is difficult, if not impossible.

And Oakeshott (cited in Epstein), rounds out the whole death and reading business:

To be educated is to know how much one wishes to know and to have the courage not to be tempted beyond this limit.

Surely, pursuing high culture will help me to find peace. But what of prosperity? In A Brief Economic History of Time, Derek Thompson suggests that those who are happiest value time over money. I know this is true for me, to paraphrase Rousseau, bought through experience that was barely worth the cost. So being cash rich but time poor is not prosperity.

It makes me wonder what academic colleagues mean when they say "I don't have time to read". I really hope they are stinking rich. But give me time any day.

Then what would I do with my time? Well, read, of course, and write. But I need to know what I need to know and not be tempted beyond this limit. Given there is only a certain amount of time for this pursuit, I need to make it worthwhile.

My next steps are to read, in this order, are to read:

1. Martin Heidegger - Being and Time
2. Jean Paul Sartre - Existentialism is a Humanism
3. Soren Kierkegaard - a few things!
4. Simone de Beauvoir -  The Ethics of Ambiguity

According to Sartre, "You are your life, and nothing else". And we are what we do - not what we might do or wish we did. Add to this the time pressure, and you can probably connect the dots to see why these readings are important. But why do all this? I will give James Allen (1921:48) the last word:

He (sic) who has conquered self has conquered the universe.

New music livens up Old Courthouse

The String Contingent, Old Courthouse at Gunning, 19 March 2017. Photo by Gunning Focus Group

The String Contingent, Old Courthouse at Gunning, 19th March 2017.

The String Contingent, presented by the Gunning Focus Group, arrived at our village on Sunday 19th March 2017. The trio performed to a packed crowd of more than 60 people in the Old Courthouse at Gunning. According to Mike Coley, this was a record crowd for the Gunning Focus Group, which has been bringing fine artists to Gunning since 1998.

Consisting of a double-bassist and a violin player (both graduates of the ANU School of Music) and a guitarist (from Scotland), the group have recently completed a residency where they composed a whole suite of new music. Many of the new pieces were on the ticket and the composer of each piece explained the concept and the importance of the composition before its performance. This was far from a dry affair, with bassist Holly sending the audience into fits of laughter with her antics towards her colleagues, Chris and Graham.

The String Contingent is an award-winning trio focused on original music in the developing genre of acoustic chamber/folk. One should never underestimate the aural power of a trio, and these three young musicians did not disappoint. If you are tired of the same old music, and don’t know where to look for something different, then you can check out The String Contingent at their website at http://www.thestringcontingent.com/.

The fact that you can discover new music in the village of Gunning is an added bonus. If you’d like to support ongoing musical performances in our village, you can join the Gunning Focus Group by visiting http://gunningfocusgroup.com/contact-us.

The next performance will be by Adhoc Baroque, performing at St Edmund’s Anglican Church, Biala Street, Gunning, on 23 April 2017 at 2pm.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Or, If I put these here, will I watch them later?

I am fascinated by literature. When I am procrastinating, I turn to history and literature and wish I had studied something else. And then I realise I didn't study something else, and that romanticising one thing over another is a sub-optimal strategy. Especially when one's time is limited. Of course, everyone's time is limited but we don't know about the end when it happens, so it is not so obvious. But when one's limited time appears so obvious, then one's reflection turns to such matters as priorities. But the truth is I am just finding excuses to procrastinate.

Yet there is much to learn from literature, as there is from politics. In my Daily Stoic reflection today, the focus is on "Who watches the watchmen?", or, in Juvenal's Latin:

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

I am finding so many good things to read and watch that I am feeling the weight of the goodness. It is becoming a problem: What do I want to know? Can I know what I want to know, and worse, can I want to know what I want to know? What is clear is that if I do not make a choice, then I will not be able to focus. A lack of focus leads to the passing of time as a surprise. If this is what I want, then that is fine, but if I wake up some time in the future and think, "Where am I?", then I have missed the point.

So what rules my ruling reason?

This would seem to be a lifelong quest. But, as the adage goes, "He who fails to plan, plans to fail".

Can one ever work out what rules one's ruling reason? I suppose it is too late to turn back now.

I haven't looked at the first video, and I have only watched part of the Harold Bloom video. Bloom makes me laugh. What strikes me is how he says: "We should not be afraid of saying 'elites', we need elites". This echoes Sir Bernard Crick when I listened to him in Sydney years ago.

Book Notes: "The First Three Circles of Hell" by Dante Alighieri

The First Three Circles of Hell by Dante Alighieri

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I have a slew of these abridged Penguin 60s Classics and decided to get over my aversion to abridged books and read them whenever I wanted a quick read. Dante's "Inferno", the first part of the Divine Comedy, is one of those poems one has read excerpts from, knows the key historical and philosophical (and controversial) issues concerned, but never reads the epic in its entirety. So reading the first three circles means I must go on and finish the whole thing. Despite its brevity, I must admit to learning much about philosophy and religion. I was unaware of The Apocalypse of Paul, or that there was also a Coptic Apocalypse of Paul. Dante seems to have plagiarised the ideas from 1,000 years beforehand. Nevertheless, and what I find interesting, is that Dante was a layman, and more or less an autodidact. He was well-versed in the Roman classics (he uses Virgil for his guide), but, surprisingly, also Aristotle. Why was this a surprise? Well, I wasn't sure that, at the time, the works of Aristotle were available in Latin (Plato was not translated until a couple of centuries later). Known as the "Recovery of Aristotle", Islamic scholars had kept the classics alive by translating the Ancient Greek into Arabic, which was subsequently translated into Latin, which meant that Dante had read Aristotle. My historical chronological sense was tripped up. I have spent years trying to memorise key historical events to put various elements of time (history) and space (geography) in context. After a little investigation, it turns out that Dante completed the work in 1320, and Aristotle's work was available in Florence from at least the early thirteenth century, and Thomas Aquinas had enabled Aristotle to be read without necessarily requiring the reader to be burned at the stake (that would come later as humanity supposedly advanced - a bit like what is happening now). Dante was well-read. To top it off, Dante wrote in the Italian vernacular (with the Tuscan dialect), rather than Latin. This created Italian as the dominant literary language in Western Europe for centuries (I wonder if this added to the prevalence of Italian in opera, too?). And all this without even mentioning the plot! I was a little surprised by the rationale for placing certain historical figures in the first three circles. But such an elaborate scheme to eternally torment people for misbehaving wouldn't stand a chance with neoliberalism, so it probably isn't too much to worry about these days. At least in the after-life. Hell on earth is another matter entirely.

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Book Notes: "The Big Sleep" by Raymond Chandler

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It's difficult not to like Raymond Chandler's work. This is only the second of his novels I have read, but this time, because I doubted Hollywood would replicate the pornography ring in detail, and it was a wet and windy Saturday night, I watched the 1946 film version of The Big Sleep starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It was sufficiently different to the book not to affect my enjoyment of the story, and, I must say, it was good to watch a crisp black and white movie on my television. I watched it on Youtube, but the rented, rather than the pirated, version of the film. I am now off in search of African Queen and other Bogart classics and will follow these up with the novels, too. But The Big Sleep was an excellent read. I am struck by the complexity of Philip Marlowe's character that eludes the Bogart version. Because there is no real love story, as in the Hollywood version, there is much more to explore, and no need to find excuses for Lauren Bacall to appear so frequently. Marlowe reminds me of the Protestant ethic. It is OK to be a booze-hound and to smoke yourself to death, as long as you don't do reefers and you are admirable in your smuttiness towards the upper classes. Chandler's prose is brilliant, and it would appear, for now at least, that this novel is considered his best because it is his best. Not so many wise-cracks and heavy similes as Farewell, My Lovely, but, all the same, a cracker of a story, a likeable character, and a paddock full of fertilizer for the imagination in a mere 250 pages, and a one-page conclusion that brings multiple stories to a neat and satisfying finish.

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Book Notes: "Murder on the Orient Express" by Agatha Christie

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is my first Agatha Christie novel. Strange, I know, but as a teenager, I really didn't care whodunit. However, I have been a fan of David Suchet in Agatha Christie's Poirot in recent years, and I have seen the movie Murder on the Orient Express several times. So as I was reading the original novel, I noted the absence of the film's dark, religious undertones, and Poirot's struggle with the ideas of justice and the rule of law, and all that distinguishes humans from animals and how this was all exuded by Poirot's noble character. The novel, of course, exhibits none of these themes, and ends abruptly with Poirot more like Philip Marlowe in his pragmatic application of the finer elements of his vocation, albeit in a dandified manner rather than Bogart-esque grungy suaveness. How I would react to the novel had I not seen the film, one can never know, but I cannot help feel a little disappointed, while at the same time pleased with the obvious improvements introduced by the film. Christie is clearly an excellent story-teller, and I will now have to read one of her stories that is not familiar to know for sure. But there is something about the prose that captures and holds the reader. I call this being a "storyteller", and I immediately think of Somerset Maugham in the same vein. Nevertheless, the comparison ends there, as Christie is not in the same class as Maugham, and had it not been for the film, I would find it hard to think of this novel as little more than a story well told; a Commando comic type of novel, a short, quick spot of entertainment while taking a train (well, maybe not a train!) or a bus to work, but one that cannot be taken seriously. It does, however, raise for me the issue of how a good screenwriter can do wonders with a story. I immediately think of James Clavell, who was also an excellent storyteller, but who had the ability to write for the screen (such as The Great Escape and 633 Squadron. By the way, Clavell's main character was Peter Marlowe, echoing Raymond Chandler, and Clavell was Australian born). This little exploration led me to look at the works of the screenwriter for Orient Express, Stewart Harcourt. I could not find a novel written by him. This also led me to look at that other brilliant screenwriter, Woody Allen. I did not know but Allen has written many books and I must read some! So, what have I learnt from Agatha Christie? Well, and without being so conceited as to put down her work, I feel I didn't miss much by seeing the screen versions rather than reading her stories. Still, it is strange that it has taken me nearly half a century to get to her novels. To put the story in the context of her times, one must acknowledge Christie's talent. One must acknowledge, too, that, apparently, Christie now leads William Shakespeare on the best selling author's of all time list, and, I understand, second only to God and His Holy Bible. That's not a bad innings as an author.

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Book Notes: "Theatre" by W. Somerset Maugham

Theatre by W. Somerset Maugham

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Maugham's work is easy to read, not because it is simple, but that he is a story teller. Many subtle nuances permeate the prose, and topics including art, poetry, politics, and sexuality, amid class consciousness, are as near or far as the reader wishes them to be. A few themes that resonate with me recently include the notion of solitude. I often think of the 2007 film La Vie en Rose and how Édith Piaf's character at the end says words to the effect of "we all die alone". When I tried to find the precise quote, I stumbled upon a review of the movie in The Guardian from 2007 that indicates the movie was "empty". Yet for me, I had shuddered at the prospect of dying alone until some time after I "unDisneyfied" myself in my forties. In the review, a quote from Olivier Dahan reads that the movie provides "the perfect example of someone who places no barrier between her life and her art". Julia Lambert, Maugham's protagonist, occupies exactly this same space. Although this book can be considered either a tragedy or a comedy, depending on how you look at it (is this even possible?), there is a strong theme of solitude, as in being alone with one's thoughts while being part of society but remaining autonomous from family and friends - as if there is no bond beyond mere convention (Marxist maybe?). Out of the entire cast, Julia Lambert's son emerges as the one intelligent being among a crowd of self-seeking and emotionally greedy individualists who by the end are all likeable but rather annoying (think of Agatha Christie's Poirot and how even she tired of his conceited dandyism - he was a bore). In some ways, an alternative title might even be How to be or not be a Bore. Not that the book is boring, but the characters and their mutual disregard for each other certainly make one think about one's own level of boringness as highlighted by these characters. I think that while audience sympathy for Piaf makes all the difference in the movie, Lambert's rich life of high culture doesn't allow the same leniency. But what is clear is that we live and die alone, whether we think so or not. Theatre leaves me wondering to what extent I bore those around me, live selfishly without noticing, and think I am better than everyone else. To err is human, and Maugham points out that our propensity for being boring, selfish, and judgemental mean that we can only ever err in this regard. Lambert shows us how far we can push it in the guise of blurring life and art. There are a couple of quotes that I find brilliant. First, on acting and poetry: "You had to have had the emotions, but you could only play them when you had got over them. She remembered that Charles had once said to her that the origin of poetry was emotion recollected in tranquility. She did't know anything about poetry, but it was certainly true about acting" (p. 290). Second, when Lambert's son is telling her how he perceives her: "When I've seen you go into an empty room I've sometimes wanted to open the door suddenly, but I've been afraid to in case I found nobody there" (p. 261). The former is true in my experience, but I have never said it so elegantly. The latter is what concerns me more now than dying alone. I can accept that as a future fact, but if I were to be, as Lambert's son does to his mother, peeled back like an onion, would there be anything of substance? In Poetics, Aristotle makes clear distinctions between tragedy and comedy. It seems an absurdity that a story could be both. But I think that is what Maugham achieves. That he does this in a book called Theatre in a story that focuses on actors makes it possible, and, like I said, you could read this story as a comedy and think "those crazy artist types", or, you could read this as a tragedy and think "do I do that with my life?" In either mode, Maugham displays his genius.

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My comments on mobile broadband speeds at Xinhua https://t.co/uW9lPnitgA

— Michael de Percy (@madepercy) March 13, 2017

Anchorites versus Thoreauvian Solitude: Or, Could I please unlearn this historical fact?

© Depositphotos.com/@olly18

On reading parts of Thoreau and Emerson, and to some extent Walt Whitman, I have learnt to have moments of deliberate solitude and find the practice quite soothing. Aside from a handful of ecstatic moments experienced in solitude in the scrub at night or in thunderstorms, especially on the Cape York Peninsula, this is a recent development in my personality. But there are limits, and Dr Green just slammed these in my face.

Until I was in my late thirties, I found it rather difficult to be alone. Now, I wait patiently for those periods where I can do my own thing for as long as I choose. But after reading the essay "Solitary Refinement" by Dr Matthew Green in The Idler magazine (Issue 50, Autumn 2016, pp. 57-63), it is clear that balance is crucial.

It turns out that some Middle Age celebrities were known as "Anchorites". Think of them as extreme hermits, or even caged oracles. Now, I read Cave in the Snow not long after it was first published, and I remember shuddering at the thought of so lonely an existence and for so long. But more recently, watching Bill Murray in the 1984 film adaptation of Somerset Maugham's The Razor's Edge reminded me of Vicki Mackenzie, and I thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Then along came anchorites.

So an anchorite gave up their freedom to be walled in to a prison cell. Forever. They were not prisoners, but more or less volunteers who were built into a closed cell with a barred opening covered with a dark cloth. The opening served as a portal for the passing back and forth of food and waste, while the anchorite gave their life to be "close to God".

Green says there were actually long waiting lists for "anchorholds" in London. Being an anchorite (or indeed, anchoress) "was a way of being someone". In the 13th century, there were even handbooks for anchoresses. Many were driven by fame.

I recently wrote about the uncanny valley, and how the mannequins in the Old Melbourne Gaol introduced me to the uncanny valley. I wonder if the uncanny valley was amplified by the prison cell. The idea of being locked in forever is enough to make me physically ill, and I am certain I would die within days.

But many anchorites lived in a room, some even had a garden area, like a gilded forever-prison. But what about this from Green?

An anchorhold survives in London today, at the Church of St Mary Magdalene in East Ham, measuring just three feet by two feet, and six feet high.

I cannot stop shuddering.

Here I was thinking Green's essay would be about monks and how the scholarly life was a solitary process yet it was fulfilling and so on. But this "extreme hermit" gig makes me want to go for a long walk and talk to and embrace everybody I meet.

Once again, it would seem that balance is key. Thank you, Dr Green, but the anchorite level of idleness is not for me!

Putting the "Goulburn" back into Miles Franklin

Jennifer Lamb at the Goulburn Mulwaree Library, 12 March 2017

I travelled to Goulburn today to hear Jennifer Lamb, resident Miles Franklin researcher, give an illustrated talk on the author and the city of her day. Franklin is regarded as one of Australia's literary greats for her novel, My Brilliant Career, published at the time of Federation in 1901.

Ms Lamb became an avid Franklin researcher after "rediscovering" the author many years ago. At the time, there was little awareness of the important link between Goulburn and Franklin's novel, but there are many interesting back stories to the novel's protagonist, Sybylla Melvyn, that mirror events in Franklin's own early life and society. 

Stella Maria Sarah Miles Franklin (1879–1954) lived at Stillwater, a property near Goulburn, from 1891 to 1903. Franklin wrote her most famous novel at age 18 while residing there. Her novel caused a bit of a stir at the time because of the many parallels between fiction and real life.

Ms Lamb's presentation included many interesting photographs and links to Goulburn. For example, in the novel, Sybylla tells how she loved the organ music in either of the two cathedrals, and would often attend church just to hear the music. 

These same cathedrals still stand in Goulburn today, as does the store where the novel was first sold, and the house where Franklin was mentored by Thomas Hebblewhite, editor of the Goulburn Evening Penny Post, a newspaper that is still in circulation. Franklin's teacher, Mary Gillespie, provided early encouragement for the young writer, who was described by Ms Lamb as "a strident firebrand".

About fifty people attended the talk, followed by a pleasant afternoon tea. There were many questions from the audience and a keen interest in the obstacles Franklin faced trying to publish as a young woman and the circumstances around the support offered by Henry Lawson. 

The talk highlighted the past avoidance of Australian literature in our education system. Indeed, one audience member had read Australian literature at his school in England decades ago while many Australians are only now discovering what should otherwise be a strong local literary tradition.

Ms Lamb's talk also introduced the work of Brent of Bin Bin, especially the book Cockatoos, which encompasses my home town of Gunning, just west of Goulburn. It turns out that Brent of Bin Bin was Miles Franklin's pseudonym, allowing her to write stories inspired by the people and places of her youth while shielded by anonymity.

Ms Lamb continues to educate audiences about Miles Franklin, which over the years includes involvement in a play in 2013 and an art exhibition showcasing the life of Miles Franklin in Goulburn in 2001. The talk was a wonderful way to spend a Sunday afternoon and to learn more about this fascinating part of Australia.

Today's even was hosted by the Goulburn Mulwaree Library as part of Goulburn's "Our Living History" program.

Defending the Enlightenment with the Knowledge Illusion: Or, Why our desire for parsimony ensures we know diddly

What do we know? Photo by Linda Tanner CC BY 2.0

There are many statements about new knowledge and how, if you cannot explain something in so many words or less, then you do not understand the thing at hand. Or when senior executives want complex issues reduced to dot points to reduce their reading time.  Here I begin a critical examination of the opinion essay entitled "The Enlightenment's legacy is under siege. Defend it." by Damon Linker from The Week.

It would appear that our understanding of things, based on the academic desire for parsimony in developing new knowledge, has created an extreme that is ripe for the plucking by those who only think they know. If you are asking "Please explain?", then allow me to do so. But if you want my answer in so many words or less, then just go off and live your life as you please. It won't bother me.

What I want to do here is to not only critically examine Linker's essay, but to cross-examine the piece by superimposing a review, appearing in the April 2017 edition of Psychology Today, of the book The Knowledge Illusion, which is due for release soon. Obviously I cannot have read the book, but I will draw on the information provided in the review which touches on some key issues I wish to explore in the near future.

But first, let us begin with "Occams' Razor". Occam's Razor refers to the principle of parsimony in scientific research. In effect, if you are looking at two competing hypotheses, then the simplest is deemed the most likely. But we might also consider the hypotheses on a spectrum, with Occam's Razor on one extreme, and a Sherlock Holmes-style balance of probabilities on the other. Tania Lombrozo explains this far better than me. But apparently, Occam's Razor + Sherlock Holmes = Clever Kid.

Eyeball razor blade scene from Luis Buñuel's 1929 film Un Chien Andalou

When I read Linker's essay, I see Occam's Razor in action (a term which, incidentally, gives me the image of Luis Buñuel's eyeball razor blade in Un Chien Andalou). As I have not read Linker's other work, I can only examine the evidence presented, but, if I am to believe what is written about one of his major works, The Religious Test: Why We Must Question the Beliefs of Our Leaders, then he is not simply all for science and against everything else.

Nevertheless, Linker divides society into those for the Enlightenment, in a liberal arts or liberal democratic sense, and those who rejected Enlightenment thinking and have now come back to instigate Brexit, Trump, and here in Australia we rolled over the dead horse and flogged the other side of that other red-headed clown. 

No middle ground and a belief that "you're either with us or against us". Parsimonious, easy to put into dot point format, but oversimplified and wrong.

It may well be a case of heuristics, where the rule of thumb in Australia remains Labor = unionist, Liberal = silver-tail, and Greens = professional protestor who looks forward to state-led socialism. Of course, this is sometimes true but too simplistic to be useful in developing policy.

It is the same with Enlightenment versus counter-Enlightenment thinking. In The Knowledge Illusion, Sloman and Fernbach argue that the Dunning-Kruger effect is running rife in politics. Put simply, the effect explains "how difficulties in recognizing one's own incompetence lead to inflated self-assessments".

And so it is with Linker's essay. Not Linker, but the people "out there" he is writing about. If we look at the issues of globalisation, free trade, immigration, and so on, it is not the theory that has been disproven, but the way it has been done. Here are two of my favourite anti-globalisation cartoons:

The cartoon on the left shows the worst kind of tourist. People who go to other cultures like they would to a zoo. And on the right shows the worst kind of trade, where multinationals drive out choice by driving efficiencies.

None of this is new. The Greek and Roman Empires did the same, be it democracy or administration, as did the Mongols, the Ottomans, the British and so on. But in the grand scheme of things, it is a misnomer to equate globalisation with Americanisation, or to think that the American Empire will somehow outlive history. 

Time crumbles things; everything grows old under the power of Time and is forgotten through the lapse of Time (Aristotle's Physics, 221a).

I doubt the momentum of globalisation will be easily reversed. Nationalism cannot be the solution to all future problems. Brexit will not create jobs for underemployed Britons, Trump will not help the US economy by removing the ten or so million illegal workers who do all the dirty work without ever claiming social security benefits or receiving a tax refund.

Yet Linker draws on Heidegger and Nazis and tries to put Rousseau back in his illiberal box. I notice too that Linker has written a book entitled Theocons, so I suspect he is clinging to a New Right view of the world. Dare I say Orientalist.

So what is my point? The division of people into Enlightenment and counter-Enlightenment camps is problematic because it relies on a two-dimensional divide. It also hides behind a thick veil of the Dunning-Kruger effect based on cultural competence. 

Which is why I say that you cannot just review one article and forget about bringing other things in for the sake of parsimony. The world is far more complex, and complexity is best fought with complexity. The graph below indicates that the less you know, the more competent you think you are, and the more likely that you have an opinion on climate change based on the principle of parsimony but you had to look up the meaning of parsimony.

Indeed, Gary Drevitch's review (Psychology Today, April 2017: 44-5) of The Knowledge Illusion uses climate change as one of the major examples of confident incompetence presently in vogue. So is it possible that Linker's view is not that of an "indifferent spectator"?

Adam Smith, the Father of Capitalism, used the concept of the "indifferent spectator" in The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759) to arrive at the conclusion that our "social psychology is a better guide to moral action than is reason". I suspect that Linker is not indifferent at all but also doesn't know that is the case.

And surely Adam Smith, one of the leading lights of the Scottish Enlightenment, is using counter-Enlightenment thinking by arguing for a social psychology over reason in matters of morality? Linker has no answer to this problem.

I see this same hardheadedness in the I Fucking Love Science crew I regularly see on Facebook. Sure, science is great, but please don't pretend that science has all the answers or that, if you looked hard enough, you couldn't find a photograph of a relative who received blood-letting as a medical treatment. You may fucking love science but the knowledge illusion is still very real.

How do we overcome this? I think we need to revisit the principle of parsimony. I don't think it helps with complex problems. And, like reviewing one thing at a time for an orderly review, it does not illuminate biases or enable a triangulation or cross-examination of the issues at hand.

This has been an interesting activity. Linker points to many areas I am under-read in, and Psychology Today is proving to be, pardon the pun, an enlightening magazine. But complexity needs complexity, and binary solutions to systemic problems are not the answer, either in practice, or in our thinking.

Nothing to see in Gunning. No inspiration here, just keep moving right along...

Nothing to see in Gunning, just keep moving along. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

As many Canberrans who happen to be ex-Queenslanders will know, you do not tell family members that Canberra is actually a great place to live. Whenever somebody says "Too bloody cold to live down there!" I always say "Too bloody right!" agreeably, knowing that my sanctuary is safe from intruders.

Hume and Hovell Obelisk, Fish River. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

But that was before I moved to Gunning. This is the second best thing I've ever done after fooling my wife into marrying me. And now it is Canberrans I am afraid of - it's sheep country, lots of flies, everything closed, nothing to see in Gunning.

What are you looking at? Photo by Michael de Percy, Cullerin NSW 11 March 2017

I've finally had time to play around with my camera. I am hoping to have time to pre-record some shows for The Rebel Chorus; Folk with a political edge on 2XX 98.3 FM, too. I haven't had a chance to do this since moving to Gunning. I also intend to produce a few podcasts and vlogs, and use these here on my blog. Today, I needed a dash of inspiration.

Councils insisting on COLORBOND® has nothing to do with aesthetics. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

So trusting that nobody reads the text other than the bits that appear in the Facebook feed, I thought I would add some of the best photographs from today's trip around the region with my father, and my trusty mini-fox terrier and best mate, Pablo.

Pablo near Mutmutbilly. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

So what's special about Gunning? Fish River, just east of Gunning, marks the spot where Hume and Hovell commenced their overland journey to Port Phillip.

St Brigid's Catholic Cemetery, Mutmutbilly. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

Today is a perfect day. It is warm and one needs a hat and sunscreen, but not so hot that you wish it would snow. It is as perfect as it gets. Such perfect weather heralds the lighting of wood fires and marvelling at chimney smoke rising in the cool, crisp morning air. Blissfully in the present.

Old Hume Highway near Breadalbane. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

I had been told that Breadalbane, formerly known as Mutmutbilly, was originally on the northern side of the Old Hume Highway. Today I found the Old South Road turnoff and drove the big loop through Mutmutbilly and Cullerin. Part of it is gravel road, but it is fairly hard at the moment. Don't take your Ferrari through there, but any conventional car should cope.

Ruins at Cullerin. Range. I believe this was originally the toll gate built circa 1863 to raise funds for the Goulburn-Yass road.. Photo by Michael de Percy.

The region is also known to be a trainspotter's paradise, and I can see why. A short trip along the Old Hume Highway between Gunning and Breadalbane has interesting bridges and viewing spots with easy access.

A Trainspotter's Paradise. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

While a bit dry at the moment, the countryside is still breathtaking, and there are interesting ruins and other features that proved a source of inspiration for me today.

St Brigid's Catholic Church, Mutmutbilly (built 1865). Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

But take it from me. There's nothing to see in Gunning, so just keep moving right along.

Steam-era Water Tank at Fish River, circa 1875. Photo by Michael de Percy 11 March 2017.

Book Notes: "The Flapper Wife" by Beatrice Burton

The Flapper Wife by Beatrice Burton

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I purchased this book because our 1923 Beale Pianola came with a roll, The Flapper Wife, a foxtrot from the 1920s. Our house dates to this period, and the 'twenties have always fascinated me through the works of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and many others. Two things I must record. First, the novel mentions the term "Mrs Grundy", which is defined as "A person with very conventional standards of propriety", and is used to describe how a prude might view a particular attitude or behaviour. Second, the book mentions the song being whistled by one of the characters. Given that Gloria, the protagonist, is mentioned in the song, I found this a little bizarre. But it appears that the words were written by our very own Beatrice Burton, and the music was composed by Carl Rupp, and recorded in 1925. It may well have been a clever package deal. If you are interested in a commentary of the plot, Mary Miley says it much better than me. But this was a real gem, and its long train wreck of a trajectory ends with an abrupt climax that, deep down, I (am I a long lost descendant of Mrs Grundy, I wonder?) wanted to happen (even though part of me wanted more of a Fitzgerald real-life ending). For its historical snapshot, this is a great read. As far as literature goes, that a train wreck can drag on for so long and keep me captivated, it is a real marvel. So the next time I play The Flapper Wife on our pianola, I will be "all over it like a tent" (as Ms Burton might say).

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George Saunders On Writing: Author of New York Times best seller tells all

Lincoln Memorial. Photo by Jeff Kubina [CC BY-SA 2.0]

At the time of writing, George Saunders' novel Lincoln in the Bardo is in its second week on the New York Times' bestseller list. After reading Colson Whitehead's review, I have the novel on my Book Depository wishlist. In an essay in The Guardian last week, Saunders discusses the creative process he adopts when writing. There are a number of small but helpful approaches and I record here the parts that struck a chord with me.

The first and probably the most important lesson is to keep the reader in mind. This should be no surprise, as I tell my students the same thing. But Saunders seems to assess each sentence using a P (positive) and N (negative) meter that he uses like a metaphorical head-up display as he writes. 

As Saunders writes, he asks himself "Where’s the needle?" and accepts:

...the result without whining. Then edit, so as to move the needle into the “P” zone". Enact a repetitive, obsessive, iterative application of preference: watch the needle, adjust the prose, watch the needle, adjust the prose (rinse, lather, repeat), through (sometimes) hundreds of drafts.

The point is that through incrementalism, the story adjusts and the characters are allowed to develop, rather than writing to a strict plan. The essay includes a quaint anecdote from Gerald Stern about writing and producing a story to a plan. It refers to a story of two dogs.

But the respect for the reader is paramount. One has to give the reader what is expected. Not in terms of a predictable plot. That would be silly. But in terms of the process:

A work of fiction can be understood as a three-beat movement: a juggler gathers bowling pins; throws them in the air; catches them.

Saunders uses the example of Romeo pursuing Juliet, rather than deciding it's all too hard and skiving off to Spain (or wherever). Why throw pins in the air if they aren't going to land?

And then when the writer runs into an obstacle, rather than seeing these as a roadblock, see them as an opportunity. Remember to keep the audience in mind as you go through this process:

The reader will sense the impending problem at about the same moment the writer does, and part of what we call artistic satisfaction is the reader’s feeling that just the right cavalry has arrived, at just the right moment.

I have read works (or bits of works) on writing to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stephen King, Virginia Woolf, George Orwell, Somerset Maugham, George Bernard Shaw, and Cormac McCarthy, and this piece by George Saunders adds another string to the bow.

A key lesson is that letting the process take you where it goes is a good thing. I know this, having experienced it with my PhD thesis. Others just wanted it done. Write a plan, stick to the plan, produce the planned thesis. But is this a product of passion, art, and labour? Not at all. Letting the process happen is key.

Saunders sums this one up best:

Why do I feel this to be a hopeful thing? The way this pattern thrillingly completed itself? It may just be – almost surely is – a feature of the brain, the byproduct of any rigorous, iterative engagement in a thought system.

Creation of an abstract mural. Photo by LaurMG [CC BY-SA 3.0]

Derrida versus the rationalists, and why I might be more postmodern than I thought

Jackson Pollock's Autumn Rhythm (Number 30). Photograph by Matthew Mendoza/CC-BY-SA 2.0

When Jackson Pollock adopted his "action painting" technique, he challenged the dominance of the easel and the brush in Western art. When I was searching for a picture for this post, I found an article by Carl Raschke that linked the ideas of Derrida to Pollock and I liked it. Given that Blue Poles, the most famous (and notorious) piece at the National Gallery of Australia, was, according to the conservative minority who tend to dominate public opinion here, "painted by barefoot drunks", the Raschke's connection between Derrida and Pollock is rather clever.

When looking into the ideas of critical theory recently, I stumbled upon an essay in the New Humanist by Peter Salmon. Tonight I read it for the second time and, as is now my practice, I decided to write up my "essay notes". The main concept is that of deconstruction.

The essay, entitled "Derrida versus the rationalists", tells the story of Derrida's rise from relative obscurity after giving the lecture "Structure, Sign, and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences" at Johns Hopkins University in 1966. Salmon says Derrida wanted to "bury" structuralism, and, apparently, it worked. When asked where he was going with this, Derrida replied:

I was wondering myself where I am going. So I would answer you by saying, first, that I am trying, precisely, to put myself at a point where I do not know any longer where I am going.

If I go back to my notes from a recent seminar on ontology and epistemology, and rather than try to explain deconstruction (which I grasp only incompletely), what strikes me is that Derrida argues that we may not be able to know everything. 

The advance of science suggests that as we improve our methods over time, we, as in humans, can know everything. Sure, this might be an eternal quest, like counting the grains of sand on a beach. But if we were to suspend the sand content of a beach at a particular point in time, then, we could, plausibly at least, count all of the grains of sand.

But Derrida asks, in effect, what if we cannot know everything? The essay cites Derrida using terms such as "the structurality of structure" to point out that a structure is "contradictorily coherent" because it "rests on the notion that there is a centre or an organising principle behind it", such as "essence, being, transcendentality, consciousness, God, man" - in effect, some remnant of intelligent design whether we call it God or some such "metaphor".

Now I am intrigued. So to learn a bit more about Derrida, I turn to Alain de Botton's "School of Life":

As I read and write, I like to listen to my favourite composer, John Adams. I learned of Adams from the soundtrack of the game Civilization III. I have since watched Adams conduct the Sydney Symphony Orchestra at the Sydney Opera House for the 2013 premiere of his Saxophone Concerto, and I listen to his works most days.

But in the spirit of new discoveries, I deferred to a colleague's recommendation of Ryuichi Sakamoto. As I perused my music streaming service, I discovered that Sakamoto had written the score for the documentary Derrida. This puzzled me, as there is not meant to be a God (or metaphor or organising principle)! I promptly bought the DVD.

As with Pollock, Sakamoto's work is regarded as deconstructionist. This prompted me to look at Derrida's influence on art, and introduced me to yet another rabbit hole. Drawing on Paul Cézanne's claim to tell Emile Bernard the truth about painting, Derrida wrote The Truth in Painting. Marvellous. 

On the way past the rabbit hole, I noticed Art History Unstuffed, a website created by Jeanne Willette. There is an interesting article about Derrida and The Truth in Painting on the site. I shall return!

Before I decided to buy the DVD of the Derrida documentary, I started to watch a bit of it on Youtube.  In the introduction, Derrida makes the following distinction between "the future" and "l'avenir":

In general, I try and distinguish between what one calls the Future and “l’avenir” [the ‘to come]. The future is that which – tomorrow, later, next century – will be. There is a future which is predictable, programmed, scheduled, foreseeable. But there is a future, l’avenir (to come) which refers to someone who comes whose arrival is totally unexpected. For me, that is the real future. That which is totally unpredictable. The Other who comes without my being able to anticipate their arrival. So if there is a real future, beyond the other known future, it is l’avenir in that it is the coming of the Other when I am completely unable to foresee their arrival.

I realise I know nothing. And I don't mean entirely in the sense of a Socratic paradox. I mean I really feel the inadequacy. I have so many books and have read so many but it means nothing. 

It's counting all those newly-discovered parts of atoms in grains of sand in an ever-expanding universe of beaches. It is implausible that I could ever have the time or ability to know.

It is a personalised experience of Derrida - not only can I not know everything, which is no shock at all, but I cannot even know everything I want to know in the time I have left (even if that happened to be until 2070). This has consequences for so many things.

For instance, my research philosophy or my reading program. What is it I want to know, and how do I prioritise such things? The young Benjamin Franklin was able to devise a plan for his own conduct. Indeed, I am now well into his 13 week program devised in the eighteenth century. But how do we create our own individual plan and purpose? 

I thought I knew, but I most often seem to go against my nature. But wait - what if Derrida is right? What if we cannot ever know, regardless of time or ability? What if my nature is simply my contradictorily coherent organising principle that stops me from seeing the truth?

Whoa. This is getting a bit Stoic. Cato the Elder guides me: What if I embraced fate? The concept of "my fate" is difficult to define. It cannot be true that my fate will happen regardless of what I do. But if by fate I mean all of the external events and things that I cannot control? 

If... God is time, and if my fate is what God wills, then... if I love God I must also love my fate. Or [insert metaphor here] as Derrida might have suggested.

An approach that I keep deferring to is to go where things lead. Today, the whole Derrida train has gone from Jackson Pollock to Ryuichi Sakamoto and back to a documentary on Derrida, and back to Stoicism (where it started this morning). This morning, I wrote:

I need to put more thought into my day.

Yet if I had planned this journey, today's felicity would have escaped me. But did I not put more thought into my day, today? And how can I know?

The New Humanist article closes with a quote from Derrida that sums up today's journey:

For not only am I not sure, as I never am, of being right in taking this step, I am not sure in all clarity what led me to do so. Perhaps because I was beginning to know all too well not indeed where I was going, but where I had not so much arrived as simply stopped.

I might be more postmodern than I thought.