Traitors, Werewolves and the KGB
Jan. 10th, 2025 09:56 amI finally started watching The Traitors last night - only two years after everyone else, as is my custom. I can definitely see the appeal of the format, cheesy and derivative as the setting and presentation are (the steam train to a Scottish castle, message-carrying owl, etc.). Anyway, the game-theory aspects are compelling. (Have you ever read
nightspore's Comeuppance, on the intersection of game theory and narrative? I recommend it.)
I knew that it was based on a format from the Netherlands, where the show is called De Verraders, but when I described it to Moe she said it reminded her of the card game 人狼ゲーム ("Werewolf Game"), where the battle is between villagers and the werewolves in their midst. That in turn seems to have come from an American game, "Are You a Werewolf?" (2001), perhaps via a French game, "Les Loups-garous de Thiercelieux" (2003), although the latter - which somehow won German game of the year - may have been a separate adaptation of the ultimate(?) source of all these games, "Mafia," invented in 1986 by Dimitry Davidoff of the Psychology Department of Moscow State University. In Davidoff's version, we have mafiosi rather than werewolves or traitors, but it's very tempting - given that we are now in the Soviet era - to see them as a transparent stand in for the secret police.
So, The Traitors has a very international history. Perhaps, given the current direction of political travel, rather than pure entertainment, we should think of it as useful training.
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I knew that it was based on a format from the Netherlands, where the show is called De Verraders, but when I described it to Moe she said it reminded her of the card game 人狼ゲーム ("Werewolf Game"), where the battle is between villagers and the werewolves in their midst. That in turn seems to have come from an American game, "Are You a Werewolf?" (2001), perhaps via a French game, "Les Loups-garous de Thiercelieux" (2003), although the latter - which somehow won German game of the year - may have been a separate adaptation of the ultimate(?) source of all these games, "Mafia," invented in 1986 by Dimitry Davidoff of the Psychology Department of Moscow State University. In Davidoff's version, we have mafiosi rather than werewolves or traitors, but it's very tempting - given that we are now in the Soviet era - to see them as a transparent stand in for the secret police.
So, The Traitors has a very international history. Perhaps, given the current direction of political travel, rather than pure entertainment, we should think of it as useful training.
Belief versus Expression
Oct. 5th, 2024 08:08 amThis is a question that has long bothered me, but not enough to research the answer.
Let's say you live in a country with strong libel or hate-speech laws. If you write, for example, "X is a racist", and X has the resources to take matters further, you may well find yourself on the wrong end of a libel suit.
But, there is no law against having particular beliefs or thoughts. You're still allowed to believe that X is a racist, even if you can't write "X is a racist" in a newspaper without getting sued.
So, what about writing the sentence "I believe that X is a racist"?
It's a factual statement, and the fact that it reports on is unactionable (because it's a belief, not a statement). So, why do I get the feeling that X might still sue, and win?
Or, if X wouldn't win, why don't people use the tactic of prepending "I believe" (or equivalent) to every otherwise-actionable statement all the time, like some legal version of Simon Says?
I assume this is a matter that has already been well trodden by lawyers, and maybe philosophers too (phrases like "use-mention distinction" and "performative language" are going through my head even now), but what conclusion have they come to?
Let's say you live in a country with strong libel or hate-speech laws. If you write, for example, "X is a racist", and X has the resources to take matters further, you may well find yourself on the wrong end of a libel suit.
But, there is no law against having particular beliefs or thoughts. You're still allowed to believe that X is a racist, even if you can't write "X is a racist" in a newspaper without getting sued.
So, what about writing the sentence "I believe that X is a racist"?
It's a factual statement, and the fact that it reports on is unactionable (because it's a belief, not a statement). So, why do I get the feeling that X might still sue, and win?
Or, if X wouldn't win, why don't people use the tactic of prepending "I believe" (or equivalent) to every otherwise-actionable statement all the time, like some legal version of Simon Says?
I assume this is a matter that has already been well trodden by lawyers, and maybe philosophers too (phrases like "use-mention distinction" and "performative language" are going through my head even now), but what conclusion have they come to?
Cross Cultures
Sep. 22nd, 2024 08:38 amI had a couple of days in London at the end of the week. First, to attend a book launch by my friend and colleague Chris Hood at the Daiwa Foundation. The book was the thoroughly reworked and updated second edition of his introduction to Japan for Routledge's "The Basics" series. It was a good event, and I bought the book, of course.
The next morning I was meant to be meeting up with Susan Cooper and her daughter Kate, who are over from the States for a friends-and-family visit. However, being jetlagged they overslept by an hour - which at least gave me a chance to read Chris's book in the lobby of the Hilton. Eventually we did meet, though, and had a very nice lunch (or rather an excellent talk and a rather forgettable lunch - which averages out as very nice overall). We then went to the Foundling Museum, which I'd wanted to see for a long time, especially the poignant tokens left by mothers (many illiterate) who gave up their young children in the hope that they would be able to claim them back in some hoped-for future time of better fortune:

They had an exhibition on Ukrainian refugees on in the basement, and I was very struck by an interview with a young woman, now living in Switzerland, who was explaining that it took her a while to get used to to Swiss schools. Language was an issue of course, but she focused particularly on History. In Ukraine, History was one of her favourite lessons, because it was so full of interesting events, battles, etc. In Switzerland, where only one or two things have ever happened, it was a much duller subject. This is the guerdon of neutrality.
On the subject of international relations, yesterday I impulse-bought some ready-made churros at Tesco, as a dessert for me and my lodgers. (I should point out that the first course was a very nice white wine ragu, cooked from scratch and seasoned with fresh herbs from the garden, etc.) Anyway, the moment they ate the churros, they had a simultaneous madeleine moment, and exclaimed "Disneyland!" Apparently they sell something similar in Tokyo.
So, I bought a British supermarket's attempt at an Iberian snack, which reminded my lodgers of the Japanese branch of an American company's take on its Latin-American version. And it still tasted much the same.
That's cinammon for you.
The next morning I was meant to be meeting up with Susan Cooper and her daughter Kate, who are over from the States for a friends-and-family visit. However, being jetlagged they overslept by an hour - which at least gave me a chance to read Chris's book in the lobby of the Hilton. Eventually we did meet, though, and had a very nice lunch (or rather an excellent talk and a rather forgettable lunch - which averages out as very nice overall). We then went to the Foundling Museum, which I'd wanted to see for a long time, especially the poignant tokens left by mothers (many illiterate) who gave up their young children in the hope that they would be able to claim them back in some hoped-for future time of better fortune:

They had an exhibition on Ukrainian refugees on in the basement, and I was very struck by an interview with a young woman, now living in Switzerland, who was explaining that it took her a while to get used to to Swiss schools. Language was an issue of course, but she focused particularly on History. In Ukraine, History was one of her favourite lessons, because it was so full of interesting events, battles, etc. In Switzerland, where only one or two things have ever happened, it was a much duller subject. This is the guerdon of neutrality.
On the subject of international relations, yesterday I impulse-bought some ready-made churros at Tesco, as a dessert for me and my lodgers. (I should point out that the first course was a very nice white wine ragu, cooked from scratch and seasoned with fresh herbs from the garden, etc.) Anyway, the moment they ate the churros, they had a simultaneous madeleine moment, and exclaimed "Disneyland!" Apparently they sell something similar in Tokyo.
So, I bought a British supermarket's attempt at an Iberian snack, which reminded my lodgers of the Japanese branch of an American company's take on its Latin-American version. And it still tasted much the same.
That's cinammon for you.
Uh oh, AI!
Mar. 13th, 2024 09:59 amI'm as worried about AI as the next person, if not on my behalf then on that of my children's generation - but the discussions I see on social media, particularly among writers, artists and other creative people, often miss a couple of things that I think important, so I'm writing them here.
First they came for the Luddites
One is fairly local to the discussions themselves rather than the general issue - they're drenched in classism. AI in the broadest sense has been taking people's jobs since punch-carded Jacquard looms stole jobs from individual craftsmen and drove them to become exploited employees in the mills of the industrial revolution, but somehow it only becomes a "problem" when it threatens the jobs of middle-class novelists? Please.
There was a good example of this on a programme I heard on Radio 4 the other day (which partly prompted this post), where the discussion turned to AI-generated film actors and whether they might make real actors redundant. As an example of ways in which AI could actually be helpful in that profession, someone cited the example of elaborate or prosthetic make-up, where the AI could be trained on the actor's face just once, making it unnecessary to apply the make-up every day of the shoot. Nice for the actor and for the studio's bank account - but no one stopped to mention that the saving comes out of the pockets of the make-up artists and technicians. I see this a lot.
The God of the Gaps Redux
Also evident in that programme (but also my Facebook page, etc.) is the trope of setting red lines, which then get crossed, only to be replaced with other red lines, ad infinitum. For example: 'A computer will never be able to master English grammar. Oh, now it can? Then a computer will never be able to invent a funny joke. Oh, now it can? Then a computer will never be able to writing a moving short story. Oh, now it can? Then a computer will never be able to, etc. etc."
This reminds me very strongly of the so-called God of the Gaps of the late nineteenth century, the rearguard action fought by some Christians to find something that could not be explained by science. The trouble is and was, of course, that science often found ways to explain the supposedly inexplicable - e.g. the evolution of eyes - resulting in the search for the ever-smaller gaps in explicability where God might possibly be found. Doesn't that sound like a lot of AI debates to you, too?
Of course, it's asking the wrong question. We should care, not about what computers can or can't create, but how we relate to their creations. If I showed you two poems, and told you that one was written by a human, the other by a computer, how would you read them? My guess is that many people would scour them for "clues" betraying their origin, lines or phrases of which they can declare: "No computer could have written that" or "No human would have written that."
Why? Is it because they're attempting to show the technical limits of AI? Not really - it's because they want to make a connection (intellectual, emotional) with another human consciousness. As I wrote in another place: "The idea of a text that lacks intentionality is troubling to them; a piece of music generated by a computer, however beautiful 'in itself', will be less satisfying than an identical piece of music written by a human composer" (Literary Studies Deconstructed, 114). In other words, it's not the music (or poem) itself that's important, but the consciousness assumed to lie (or not lie) behind it.
If computers achieved consciousness as humans understand it, and humans accepted that fact. then the problem I set with the two poems would lose much of its point. Then, however, we would have the much bigger problem of sharing the planet with a superior intelligence. Hopefully they'll find us cute, and keep us as pets.
First they came for the Luddites
One is fairly local to the discussions themselves rather than the general issue - they're drenched in classism. AI in the broadest sense has been taking people's jobs since punch-carded Jacquard looms stole jobs from individual craftsmen and drove them to become exploited employees in the mills of the industrial revolution, but somehow it only becomes a "problem" when it threatens the jobs of middle-class novelists? Please.
There was a good example of this on a programme I heard on Radio 4 the other day (which partly prompted this post), where the discussion turned to AI-generated film actors and whether they might make real actors redundant. As an example of ways in which AI could actually be helpful in that profession, someone cited the example of elaborate or prosthetic make-up, where the AI could be trained on the actor's face just once, making it unnecessary to apply the make-up every day of the shoot. Nice for the actor and for the studio's bank account - but no one stopped to mention that the saving comes out of the pockets of the make-up artists and technicians. I see this a lot.
The God of the Gaps Redux
Also evident in that programme (but also my Facebook page, etc.) is the trope of setting red lines, which then get crossed, only to be replaced with other red lines, ad infinitum. For example: 'A computer will never be able to master English grammar. Oh, now it can? Then a computer will never be able to invent a funny joke. Oh, now it can? Then a computer will never be able to writing a moving short story. Oh, now it can? Then a computer will never be able to, etc. etc."
This reminds me very strongly of the so-called God of the Gaps of the late nineteenth century, the rearguard action fought by some Christians to find something that could not be explained by science. The trouble is and was, of course, that science often found ways to explain the supposedly inexplicable - e.g. the evolution of eyes - resulting in the search for the ever-smaller gaps in explicability where God might possibly be found. Doesn't that sound like a lot of AI debates to you, too?
Of course, it's asking the wrong question. We should care, not about what computers can or can't create, but how we relate to their creations. If I showed you two poems, and told you that one was written by a human, the other by a computer, how would you read them? My guess is that many people would scour them for "clues" betraying their origin, lines or phrases of which they can declare: "No computer could have written that" or "No human would have written that."
Why? Is it because they're attempting to show the technical limits of AI? Not really - it's because they want to make a connection (intellectual, emotional) with another human consciousness. As I wrote in another place: "The idea of a text that lacks intentionality is troubling to them; a piece of music generated by a computer, however beautiful 'in itself', will be less satisfying than an identical piece of music written by a human composer" (Literary Studies Deconstructed, 114). In other words, it's not the music (or poem) itself that's important, but the consciousness assumed to lie (or not lie) behind it.
If computers achieved consciousness as humans understand it, and humans accepted that fact. then the problem I set with the two poems would lose much of its point. Then, however, we would have the much bigger problem of sharing the planet with a superior intelligence. Hopefully they'll find us cute, and keep us as pets.
School Signs International
Sep. 30th, 2023 07:35 pmToday I passed a sign near a primary school, warning drivers to watch out for children. It looked like this, as such signs have for as long as I can remember (perhaps with a couple of minor tweaks):

I suddenly realised that all my life I'd read this sign as showing a little brother being taken to school by his elder sister. Now, I was suddenly filled with doubt. Could the female figure be the mother? I suppose my instinctive reasoning was that she doesn't seem that much bigger than the child. If it's her son, he'd be a bit too big to need his hand held, perhaps. But how do you read it?
This of course got me looking at the international picture. My hasty Google search showed that the UK was an exception: in most countries, it's the male in charge - either leading or guiding a smaller female from behind in the general direction of learning, sometimes at pace, sometimes slowly, occasionally through the medium of jazz dance:



In a few countries, though, there are no females at all. Indeed, the person ar the school-adjacent crossing in France may not even be a child:


Feel free to add your own images to this little gallery - and, even more welcome, your sententious conclusions!

I suddenly realised that all my life I'd read this sign as showing a little brother being taken to school by his elder sister. Now, I was suddenly filled with doubt. Could the female figure be the mother? I suppose my instinctive reasoning was that she doesn't seem that much bigger than the child. If it's her son, he'd be a bit too big to need his hand held, perhaps. But how do you read it?
This of course got me looking at the international picture. My hasty Google search showed that the UK was an exception: in most countries, it's the male in charge - either leading or guiding a smaller female from behind in the general direction of learning, sometimes at pace, sometimes slowly, occasionally through the medium of jazz dance:



In a few countries, though, there are no females at all. Indeed, the person ar the school-adjacent crossing in France may not even be a child:


Feel free to add your own images to this little gallery - and, even more welcome, your sententious conclusions!
Why Sargasso Sea?
Sep. 11th, 2023 09:26 amIf you're like me, the only things you know about the Sargasso Sea are that it lends its name to a Jean Rhys novel and has something to do with the life-cycle of the eel. You may have wondered whether there was any connection between the two facts.
Almost certainly there isn't. However, I've never understood why the novel is called that (explanations I've read seem weak at best), so I was intrigued to learn that it was only in in 1959 that Denys Tucker discovered that European eels, having spent maybe a decade or two living it up in the sophisticated lakes and waterways of that debauched continent, all die without ever being able to make it back to the Sargasso Sea to spawn, leaving the work of creating the next generation to their American cousins. What an apt metaphor for the post-WWII view of intercontinental relations!
More to the point, what an apt metaphor for the sterility of Antoinette's life with Rochester, living as (in Tucker's description of the evolutionary position of European eels) a "useless waste product."
Now, I don't say that Rhys was abreast of developments in eel biology, but I do say that five years after Tucker's paper, she'd finished the first draft of WSS. Make of it what you will.


Almost certainly there isn't. However, I've never understood why the novel is called that (explanations I've read seem weak at best), so I was intrigued to learn that it was only in in 1959 that Denys Tucker discovered that European eels, having spent maybe a decade or two living it up in the sophisticated lakes and waterways of that debauched continent, all die without ever being able to make it back to the Sargasso Sea to spawn, leaving the work of creating the next generation to their American cousins. What an apt metaphor for the post-WWII view of intercontinental relations!
More to the point, what an apt metaphor for the sterility of Antoinette's life with Rochester, living as (in Tucker's description of the evolutionary position of European eels) a "useless waste product."
Now, I don't say that Rhys was abreast of developments in eel biology, but I do say that five years after Tucker's paper, she'd finished the first draft of WSS. Make of it what you will.


Dermatologists vs Dentists
Jul. 28th, 2023 08:07 amWhy are dermatologists so much more evil than dentists - at least in advertising?
Many's the advert where dermatologists are enraged that an ordinary housewife has discovered "one simple trick" to prevent wrinkles, blemishes or whatever, fearing (a la The Man in the White Suit) that they will be put out of business by her discovery.
On the other hand, dentists are often to be seen recommending this or that toothpaste for its power to prevent decay, reduce plaque, invigorate gums, and so on, and by implication we're to take this all at face value. Why are we expected to be so ready to believe in integrity of one group of medical professionals and to disbelieve in the other? Have we even got it the right way round?
I'm just saying - Sir Laurence Olivier never played a Nazi dermatologist.
Many's the advert where dermatologists are enraged that an ordinary housewife has discovered "one simple trick" to prevent wrinkles, blemishes or whatever, fearing (a la The Man in the White Suit) that they will be put out of business by her discovery.
On the other hand, dentists are often to be seen recommending this or that toothpaste for its power to prevent decay, reduce plaque, invigorate gums, and so on, and by implication we're to take this all at face value. Why are we expected to be so ready to believe in integrity of one group of medical professionals and to disbelieve in the other? Have we even got it the right way round?
I'm just saying - Sir Laurence Olivier never played a Nazi dermatologist.
Debatable Lands and Debatable Times
Sep. 21st, 2022 09:42 amLast night I realised that the time between now and the end of October sits in the same place in my brain as the Forest of Dean. Both are filed under 'A' for Anomaly.
You see, the River Severn isn't the border between Wales and England all along its length (as I feel instinctively that it ought to be), and I always seem to forget this fact. When I find large swathes of Gloucestershire on the western bank, it makes me uneasy, with a whiff of the Reek of Wrongness.
It's the same with the calendar. In March, the clocks go forward at the time of the equinox (well, within 5-10 days of it), a more-or-less simultaneous signal that we have eased from winter to summer. This, I feel, is as it should be. In autumn it's a very different story, and we have to wait about six weeks after the equinox before the clocks change. What am I to do with the resultant temporal liminality?
I don't say that either of these feelings is important, but I wonder if anyone else shares them?
You see, the River Severn isn't the border between Wales and England all along its length (as I feel instinctively that it ought to be), and I always seem to forget this fact. When I find large swathes of Gloucestershire on the western bank, it makes me uneasy, with a whiff of the Reek of Wrongness.
It's the same with the calendar. In March, the clocks go forward at the time of the equinox (well, within 5-10 days of it), a more-or-less simultaneous signal that we have eased from winter to summer. This, I feel, is as it should be. In autumn it's a very different story, and we have to wait about six weeks after the equinox before the clocks change. What am I to do with the resultant temporal liminality?
I don't say that either of these feelings is important, but I wonder if anyone else shares them?
The Beatles as Prophets
Sep. 13th, 2022 11:00 amThis is a question I asked on Facebook some while ago, but never got an answer to. It's only half-facetious.
Thoughts?
The Beatles were sometimes reviled by the punks in the 70s, but in 'Polythene Pam' they predicted with eerie accuracy the punk fashions of seven years later: bin liners, kilts, military boots. Coincidence? Did Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren just take their ideas from Beatles lyrics? Was there already some proto-punk scene in 1969 to which the Fab Four were referring? Or is something more supernatural going on? In short, is Abbey Road the Sortes Vergilianae of our time?
Thoughts?
Still dipping my way through great-great-aunt Annie's Glimpses of Maori Land. Interesting as it is on colonial New Zealand, the truth is of course that I'm more intent on finding biographical material, so my heart races a little when I encounter passages such as this one, describing a Wellington library:

So, her father, Thomas, used to knock off at 4pm? Were those the usual hours of work for nineteenth-century gentlemen? I've a feeling it may be so - some frail memory is whispering as much in my ear. I know he eventually became Assistant Secretary to the BM, but it seems unlikely he would have risen that high when Annie was a young child (he was born in 1809, she in 1841). Still these things are checkable, when I have the time. The idea of a private tour of any museum is of course highly appealing.
It's hard to justify the institution, of course, as James Acaster has pointed out very amusingly. If I were to make an inventory of items to be returned, I would put frankly looted things such as the Benin Bronzes at the top of my list, but no doubt the Parthenon marbles would have to go too.
On the other hand, it's often occurred to me that the space the marbles vacate could be used to house the Bayeaux tapestry - a work central to English history, made in England by Englishwomen - but still held by the former colonial power. What about a campaign to get that back?

So, her father, Thomas, used to knock off at 4pm? Were those the usual hours of work for nineteenth-century gentlemen? I've a feeling it may be so - some frail memory is whispering as much in my ear. I know he eventually became Assistant Secretary to the BM, but it seems unlikely he would have risen that high when Annie was a young child (he was born in 1809, she in 1841). Still these things are checkable, when I have the time. The idea of a private tour of any museum is of course highly appealing.
It's hard to justify the institution, of course, as James Acaster has pointed out very amusingly. If I were to make an inventory of items to be returned, I would put frankly looted things such as the Benin Bronzes at the top of my list, but no doubt the Parthenon marbles would have to go too.
On the other hand, it's often occurred to me that the space the marbles vacate could be used to house the Bayeaux tapestry - a work central to English history, made in England by Englishwomen - but still held by the former colonial power. What about a campaign to get that back?
Re-Awakened
Jul. 16th, 2021 08:12 amDriving through the Cambrian mountains the other day on the way to stay for a few nights with my brother, daughter and their respective partners, I got to listen to a whole album by The Chainsmokers, which Ayako happened to have on her phone. I've seldom taken so hard against a sound: it was song after song of thin techno-whining in which life's minor inconveniences and gripes were repetitively inflated into a bloated bouncy castle of self-pity - made worse somehow by slick production and redeemed only slightly by competent vocals.
I needed an antidote, and when we arrived in Borth I found myself downloading the Yes song 'Awaken' - which I hadn't listened to in perhaps 40 years.
In many ways it's not the opposite of The Chainsmokers. It's no less self-important, for example - this is prog rock, after all, at the height of its Rick-Wakeman-going-mad-on-a-church-organ flatulence. But boy, did I appreciate leaving the why-didn't-you-text-me-back navel gazing of The Chainsmokers' perpetually aggrieved songs for something that at least attempted to look to the horizon and beyond. Perhaps what had depressed me most about the former was its astounding lack of ambition, and the even more profound lack of imagination that underpinned it. Yes may be self-indulgent, but at least they have a self to indulge.
I used to listen to Going for the One, the album from which 'Awaken' is taken, quite a lot as a teenager. Here are my thoughts on hearing it again after all these decades.
Jon Anderson's voice: I actually like this more now than I did then. The slightly affectless alto invites comparison with Keane's Tom Chaplin, but Anderson is less chorister-like and breathier, with strong Accrington notes. (I always was a sucker for a Lancashire accent.)
The musicianship is spot on, and the song complex but beautifully constructed. There's more musical imagination in two minutes of 'Awaken' than in a whole album by The Chainsmokers. In terms of the sound palate, though, the spirit of '70s synthesizers is strong here.
The lyrics mostly consist of mystical hooey (no song that begins 'High vibration go on...' can entirely inspire confidence), and I rather wish that Anderson could have taken the effort to have them make more sense, but his method of throwing words against a musical wall and seeing what sticks was the prog-rock industry standard, and in moments of high excitement evokes a kind of speaking-in-tongues ecstasy that's actually effective. And I could forgive a lot for the moving simplicity of the coda: "Like the time I ran away - / Turned around and you were standing close to me."
Mostly, though, what this song does is recall the feeling it inspired in young me, that the world was a mysterious and exciting place, full of wonders to be discovered and revelations to be... er, revealed. Whereas The Chainsmokers left me feeling that earth had nothing to show more fair than one's name in slightly bigger letters than those of one's ex on the cover of a magazine.
I know which I prefer.
I needed an antidote, and when we arrived in Borth I found myself downloading the Yes song 'Awaken' - which I hadn't listened to in perhaps 40 years.
In many ways it's not the opposite of The Chainsmokers. It's no less self-important, for example - this is prog rock, after all, at the height of its Rick-Wakeman-going-mad-on-a-church-organ flatulence. But boy, did I appreciate leaving the why-didn't-you-text-me-back navel gazing of The Chainsmokers' perpetually aggrieved songs for something that at least attempted to look to the horizon and beyond. Perhaps what had depressed me most about the former was its astounding lack of ambition, and the even more profound lack of imagination that underpinned it. Yes may be self-indulgent, but at least they have a self to indulge.
I used to listen to Going for the One, the album from which 'Awaken' is taken, quite a lot as a teenager. Here are my thoughts on hearing it again after all these decades.
Jon Anderson's voice: I actually like this more now than I did then. The slightly affectless alto invites comparison with Keane's Tom Chaplin, but Anderson is less chorister-like and breathier, with strong Accrington notes. (I always was a sucker for a Lancashire accent.)
The musicianship is spot on, and the song complex but beautifully constructed. There's more musical imagination in two minutes of 'Awaken' than in a whole album by The Chainsmokers. In terms of the sound palate, though, the spirit of '70s synthesizers is strong here.
The lyrics mostly consist of mystical hooey (no song that begins 'High vibration go on...' can entirely inspire confidence), and I rather wish that Anderson could have taken the effort to have them make more sense, but his method of throwing words against a musical wall and seeing what sticks was the prog-rock industry standard, and in moments of high excitement evokes a kind of speaking-in-tongues ecstasy that's actually effective. And I could forgive a lot for the moving simplicity of the coda: "Like the time I ran away - / Turned around and you were standing close to me."
Mostly, though, what this song does is recall the feeling it inspired in young me, that the world was a mysterious and exciting place, full of wonders to be discovered and revelations to be... er, revealed. Whereas The Chainsmokers left me feeling that earth had nothing to show more fair than one's name in slightly bigger letters than those of one's ex on the cover of a magazine.
I know which I prefer.
A Belgian Bagatelle
Dec. 13th, 2020 10:07 am"The UK is a vital wintering ground for flocks of curlews, from as far away as Belgium and Russia," said the chap on Tweet of the Day this morning. I did a slight double take, because Belgium doesn't strike me as a great example of "somewhere that's far away." However distant Russia might be, Belgium's inclusion leant the sentence a slightly bathetic air.
But maybe I was also picking up on a sense of Belgium in British (English?) culture generally, as a slightly unserious place? Not for nothing is Private Eye's stock name for a boring British war film They Flew to Bruges. Even in WWI, Belgium was seldom mentioned without the patronising prefix, "plucky little," while Hercules Poirot's repeated insistence that he was Belgian, not French, always seemed to be presented as an aspect of his fastidious vanity. If It's Tuesday, This Must be Belgium (admittedly an American rather than a UK film, though with many a British cameo) would not have been a "funny" title had the country mentioned been France or Germany, the other continental destinations on its itinerary.
I wonder whether something of this attitude has leaked into British diplomacy, given that "Brussels" is habitually used as a synecdoche for the EU? Of course, Johnson's arrogance and incompetence are pretty universal and need no further explanation but, given that his mind is a sponge for lazy journalistic stereotypes, might a sense of Belgium as inherently risible have been a specific component in his latest pratfalls on the world stage?
It's not the most important question of our times, but it's the one on my mind at this moment.
But maybe I was also picking up on a sense of Belgium in British (English?) culture generally, as a slightly unserious place? Not for nothing is Private Eye's stock name for a boring British war film They Flew to Bruges. Even in WWI, Belgium was seldom mentioned without the patronising prefix, "plucky little," while Hercules Poirot's repeated insistence that he was Belgian, not French, always seemed to be presented as an aspect of his fastidious vanity. If It's Tuesday, This Must be Belgium (admittedly an American rather than a UK film, though with many a British cameo) would not have been a "funny" title had the country mentioned been France or Germany, the other continental destinations on its itinerary.
I wonder whether something of this attitude has leaked into British diplomacy, given that "Brussels" is habitually used as a synecdoche for the EU? Of course, Johnson's arrogance and incompetence are pretty universal and need no further explanation but, given that his mind is a sponge for lazy journalistic stereotypes, might a sense of Belgium as inherently risible have been a specific component in his latest pratfalls on the world stage?
It's not the most important question of our times, but it's the one on my mind at this moment.
A Nest of Pythons
Nov. 20th, 2020 09:31 pmI switched on the radio this afternoon to hear someone paying a very nice tribute to Jan Morris, who has just died, aged 94. (A good age - the same as my mother - but still.) It turned out to be Michael Palin.
It got me to thinking about the Pythons. I can't pretend to any great expertise on their personalities, but of course they've been part of my life for more than 50 years, so I have mental images of each of them, somewhat informed by occasional evidence.
Palin has always seemed the most straightforwardly nice of the bunch. Chapman I have little idea about - except that he drank too much. Was that because he had demons, or did he just like alcohol? Terry Jones is equally a cipher: I can only judge his character from the regard in which he was held by many others, although I suppose a little bubble reading "don manqué" always floated above his head. Gilliam always struck me as a dick; nothing I've seen of him has changed that impression. Cleese, once my favourite, has become an entitled bore. Idle I've never quite been able to divorce from the George Cole-ish Flash Harry persona he used in some of the sketches, and his ability to monetise the brand in Spamalot reinforced that association. Not that I mind him doing it - not at all.
How far does that roll call line up with your mental image, or - better yet - your actual knowledge?
It got me to thinking about the Pythons. I can't pretend to any great expertise on their personalities, but of course they've been part of my life for more than 50 years, so I have mental images of each of them, somewhat informed by occasional evidence.
Palin has always seemed the most straightforwardly nice of the bunch. Chapman I have little idea about - except that he drank too much. Was that because he had demons, or did he just like alcohol? Terry Jones is equally a cipher: I can only judge his character from the regard in which he was held by many others, although I suppose a little bubble reading "don manqué" always floated above his head. Gilliam always struck me as a dick; nothing I've seen of him has changed that impression. Cleese, once my favourite, has become an entitled bore. Idle I've never quite been able to divorce from the George Cole-ish Flash Harry persona he used in some of the sketches, and his ability to monetise the brand in Spamalot reinforced that association. Not that I mind him doing it - not at all.
How far does that roll call line up with your mental image, or - better yet - your actual knowledge?
Neither Here Nor There
Aug. 24th, 2020 07:43 amI've been looking at this review of a book on Shakespeare's sonnets. The writers have come up with what they seem to consider a startling conclusion: “Some of these sonnets are addressed to a female and others to a male. To reclaim the term bisexual seems to be quite an original thing to be doing.”
Is it, though? Really? Isn't it actually the most obvious conclusion? Other readings are possible, but all require a degree of wrenching. Why would anyone find it implausible that a man who wrote poems of love and sexual desire to both men and women (or to at least one of each) was romantically and sexually attracted to both men and women?
Occasionally I'm reminded that resistance to the idea of bisexuality still exists. I have to be reminded, because it seems such an absurd thing to be sceptical of that I have difficulty retaining the fact. Women and men are pretty similar in many ways, after all - much more like each other than either is like, say, shoes, yet apparently no one has any trouble believing in heterosexual shoe fetishists.
Perhaps it reflects a more fundamental preference for binary choices. I dare say I could come up with many examples, but here's one that's fresh in my mind. A few months ago I was in a research seminar on an article about George Herbert's The Temple. According to the article, the scholarly orthodoxy had been that the architectural structure of the book (which is divided into sections such as 'The Porch', 'The Altar', and so on) was purely metaphorical; but our author argued that, as a rural vicar, Herbert was very concerned with the literal fabric of his church, too. The answer to the question, 'Is the temple in The Temple metaphorical or literal?' turns out to be, 'A bit of both.'
It's convincing, but frankly I didn't need to be convinced. My immediate reaction was one of surprise that everybody didn't already take that for granted. Flattering as it would be to conclude that all this makes me a particularly subtle and clever thinker, I don't buy it, because these thoughts aren't subtle at all - on the contrary, they take (what seems to me) the path of least resistance through the texts. It's all a bit of mystery.
Is it, though? Really? Isn't it actually the most obvious conclusion? Other readings are possible, but all require a degree of wrenching. Why would anyone find it implausible that a man who wrote poems of love and sexual desire to both men and women (or to at least one of each) was romantically and sexually attracted to both men and women?
Occasionally I'm reminded that resistance to the idea of bisexuality still exists. I have to be reminded, because it seems such an absurd thing to be sceptical of that I have difficulty retaining the fact. Women and men are pretty similar in many ways, after all - much more like each other than either is like, say, shoes, yet apparently no one has any trouble believing in heterosexual shoe fetishists.
Perhaps it reflects a more fundamental preference for binary choices. I dare say I could come up with many examples, but here's one that's fresh in my mind. A few months ago I was in a research seminar on an article about George Herbert's The Temple. According to the article, the scholarly orthodoxy had been that the architectural structure of the book (which is divided into sections such as 'The Porch', 'The Altar', and so on) was purely metaphorical; but our author argued that, as a rural vicar, Herbert was very concerned with the literal fabric of his church, too. The answer to the question, 'Is the temple in The Temple metaphorical or literal?' turns out to be, 'A bit of both.'
It's convincing, but frankly I didn't need to be convinced. My immediate reaction was one of surprise that everybody didn't already take that for granted. Flattering as it would be to conclude that all this makes me a particularly subtle and clever thinker, I don't buy it, because these thoughts aren't subtle at all - on the contrary, they take (what seems to me) the path of least resistance through the texts. It's all a bit of mystery.
Coronavirus Mysteries
Jul. 22nd, 2020 10:42 amOne of the regular topics of conversation with my Japanese friends over the last few months has been the relative scarcity of COVID-19 in Japan, compared to the West in general and the UK in particular. I've had similar conversations with Haawa in Uganda, where the death rate is precisely zero. Of course this could all change, and there have been recent spikes in Tokyo in particular, but so far they seem tame by UK standards. I thought it might be interesting to list some of the factors that have been suggested, lest I forget in the future.
A culture of mask wearing. Japanese people (like many in east Asia) have long worn masks at the drop of a hat, so were early adopters in the case of COVID.
A culture of not touching. Bowing is much more the thing than handshakes and hugs, so less chance for transmission.
An early and strong emphasis on the importance of good ventilation and good hygiene. Seems very plausible to me, though perhaps not a sufficient explanation. The necessity of not living in crowded conditions would probably fall under this heading.
Body shape. Japanese people tend to be thin, and problems such as high blood pressure (a risk factor for COVID) are less prevalent.
Diet. Could it be something in the food that gives resistance to some but not others?
Genetic differences. Could there be some form of genetic resistance shared by east Asians and Africans but not Europeans? I discussed this with Haawa, but it seems unlikely, given that black people in Britain seem to be more vulnerable to the disease, not less.
Climactic differences. Given the diversity of the regions in which the virus has spread, and also of those in which it has not, this early contender has recently lost favour.
The Japanese have a higher "mindo". This suggestion, which I include for the sake of completeness, was recently thrown out by a Japanese politician, Taro Aso, who has a habit of saying embarrassingly semi-racist things. Mindo (民度) essentially means "class of person."
I think I've probably left a few out, so may add to this list as other things occur to me.
Meanwhile, here's another big mystery: why is the UK's death rate so large? According to official statistics, in this country about 15% of people who test positive for COVID go on to die of it. This is far higher than, say, the USA, which has the most cases and the most deaths but where the death rate figure is more like 3 or 4% (something Trump was boasting about the other day, although of course there are many countries with better rates than that).
Possible reasons:
a) the UK is just really really bad at keeping COVID patients alive. This seems unlikely, when the medical care here is on a par with that of most Western nations.
b) the UK is home to a particularly deadly strain of the virus. Odd that no one has mentioned it, if so.
c) far more people are catching the virus than appear in the figures, and the real death rate is thus artificially depressed. This seems plausible at first glance. Testing in the UK is now at a very respectable level, but it may be that the lack of it in the early days of the pandemic is still skewing the total figures. However, even if you just take deaths vs. new cases for the last seven reported days, you still get a death rate of over 11%.
If you have other suggestions, I'd be very interested to know them.
A culture of mask wearing. Japanese people (like many in east Asia) have long worn masks at the drop of a hat, so were early adopters in the case of COVID.
A culture of not touching. Bowing is much more the thing than handshakes and hugs, so less chance for transmission.
An early and strong emphasis on the importance of good ventilation and good hygiene. Seems very plausible to me, though perhaps not a sufficient explanation. The necessity of not living in crowded conditions would probably fall under this heading.
Body shape. Japanese people tend to be thin, and problems such as high blood pressure (a risk factor for COVID) are less prevalent.
Diet. Could it be something in the food that gives resistance to some but not others?
Genetic differences. Could there be some form of genetic resistance shared by east Asians and Africans but not Europeans? I discussed this with Haawa, but it seems unlikely, given that black people in Britain seem to be more vulnerable to the disease, not less.
Climactic differences. Given the diversity of the regions in which the virus has spread, and also of those in which it has not, this early contender has recently lost favour.
The Japanese have a higher "mindo". This suggestion, which I include for the sake of completeness, was recently thrown out by a Japanese politician, Taro Aso, who has a habit of saying embarrassingly semi-racist things. Mindo (民度) essentially means "class of person."
I think I've probably left a few out, so may add to this list as other things occur to me.
Meanwhile, here's another big mystery: why is the UK's death rate so large? According to official statistics, in this country about 15% of people who test positive for COVID go on to die of it. This is far higher than, say, the USA, which has the most cases and the most deaths but where the death rate figure is more like 3 or 4% (something Trump was boasting about the other day, although of course there are many countries with better rates than that).
Possible reasons:
a) the UK is just really really bad at keeping COVID patients alive. This seems unlikely, when the medical care here is on a par with that of most Western nations.
b) the UK is home to a particularly deadly strain of the virus. Odd that no one has mentioned it, if so.
c) far more people are catching the virus than appear in the figures, and the real death rate is thus artificially depressed. This seems plausible at first glance. Testing in the UK is now at a very respectable level, but it may be that the lack of it in the early days of the pandemic is still skewing the total figures. However, even if you just take deaths vs. new cases for the last seven reported days, you still get a death rate of over 11%.
If you have other suggestions, I'd be very interested to know them.
Blue is a Colour, Chelsea is a Name
Jul. 7th, 2020 08:05 pmLongterm readers of this journal (and, let's face it, I don't have many recent ones) may remember that Suzanne Moore - author of some trenchant feminist articles that I unreservedly applaud - is, nevertheless, pretty TERFy.
Her recent article in The Guardian deploring so-called 'cancel culture' is typical of its kind. If I had infinite time I could spend a fair bit of it dissecting Moore's article. Why does she cite the recent Rowling, row, for example, without making any reference at all to JKR's views about trans women, which is what made her essay controversial? Anyone reading Moore would think that she was called out for daring to speak about her physical abuse by a cis man, rather than for her transphobia.
Again, if she really wanted to argue against cancel culture, why didn't she mention the most topical example of that phenomenon - i.e. the sacking of David Starkey from various posts (rightly in my view) for his views on slavery and his reference to 'damn blacks'? It's easy to inveigh against cancel culture when those being cancelled are advancing views you agree with. The real test of principle comes when you are forced to do a Voltaire-face, as it were, and defend the expression of views you personally find offensive. That Moore chose not to do so is telling. (Of course, there are right-wingers who are defending Starkey on the internet, using arguments very much like Moore's; however, they are groups with whom Moore would probably hate to recognise her affinity.)
I seem to have spent some time on those matters despite my best intentions. Oh well. What I really wanted to talk about was a certain phrase that Moore used:
You may be puzzled by this phrase, because - well, hardly anybody denies that biological sex exists, do they? Of course, some of us might say that sex is neither binary nor simple, and that chromosonal, hormonal and phenotypical varations make for a complex biological picture; but that's not to say that it doesn't exist - on the contrary. "Biological sex exists" is such a "Duh" statement that it passes almost unnoticed.
Nevertheless, it's become quite a catchphrase. When J. K. Rowling defended Maya Forstater, for example, she wrote incredulously: "Force women out of their jobs for stating that sex is real? @ istandwithmaya."
The reality was, of course, nothing so fatuous. This NBC News article summarises the situation, as described by the judge in the case:
I think it's clear at this point that "biological sex is real" has become a kind of shorthand for "I'm a TERF." Although crude, it is quite powerful, inasmuch as anyone coming across it without much knowledge of or interest in the subject will find it commonsensical. For example, I encountered Moore's article via a Facebook post by a friend (whom I respect) who had commented, simply, "Excellent article". Anyone objecting will, unless they can persuade people to commit the time and emotional energy to following the arguments, sound pretty unreasonable and/or pettifogging.
I suppose the racists got there first, as ever. "I'm proud of my country" sounds pretty unobjectionable, shorn of the intolerance that often attends it.
Still, I wonder whether a leaf might not be usefully taken from this book? Is there some similarly "Duh" phrase that might stand for the other side of the debate?
I believe there is, and I propose: "Blue is a colour." From now on, I intend to insert sentences such as, "People want to silence me just because I assert that blue is a colour," into everything I write on this subject. It makes at least as much sense as "biological sex is real," after all. Nobody actually denies either statement, but beyond that, while "biological sex is real" makes an appeal to "objective fact", "blue is a colour" makes an appeal to the power of culture. Blueness is deeply cultural: one language's blue doesn't match another (the "blue" of Japanese includes much that English speakers might call "green", for example). In that sense, we might say that blueness is "nothing but a cultural construct", much as TERFs say about gender. On the other hand, blueness has a real connection to physics, and can be defined in terms of certain light frequencies. More importantly, who is going to argue seriously against the proposition that "Blue is a colour?" Anyone who did so would look at least as silly as someone accused of arguing that biological sex isn't real.
To proclaim, loud and proud, that "Blue is a colour" is to highlight the ambiguous nature of the truth-claim being advanced; it is to testify to the authenticity of lived personal experience; and it is, most importantly, to state the bleeding obvious.
"Blue is a colour." It ticks all the boxes.
Her recent article in The Guardian deploring so-called 'cancel culture' is typical of its kind. If I had infinite time I could spend a fair bit of it dissecting Moore's article. Why does she cite the recent Rowling, row, for example, without making any reference at all to JKR's views about trans women, which is what made her essay controversial? Anyone reading Moore would think that she was called out for daring to speak about her physical abuse by a cis man, rather than for her transphobia.
Again, if she really wanted to argue against cancel culture, why didn't she mention the most topical example of that phenomenon - i.e. the sacking of David Starkey from various posts (rightly in my view) for his views on slavery and his reference to 'damn blacks'? It's easy to inveigh against cancel culture when those being cancelled are advancing views you agree with. The real test of principle comes when you are forced to do a Voltaire-face, as it were, and defend the expression of views you personally find offensive. That Moore chose not to do so is telling. (Of course, there are right-wingers who are defending Starkey on the internet, using arguments very much like Moore's; however, they are groups with whom Moore would probably hate to recognise her affinity.)
I seem to have spent some time on those matters despite my best intentions. Oh well. What I really wanted to talk about was a certain phrase that Moore used:
I write this as someone who I know some would like cancelled because I continue to think biological sex exists.
You may be puzzled by this phrase, because - well, hardly anybody denies that biological sex exists, do they? Of course, some of us might say that sex is neither binary nor simple, and that chromosonal, hormonal and phenotypical varations make for a complex biological picture; but that's not to say that it doesn't exist - on the contrary. "Biological sex exists" is such a "Duh" statement that it passes almost unnoticed.
Nevertheless, it's become quite a catchphrase. When J. K. Rowling defended Maya Forstater, for example, she wrote incredulously: "Force women out of their jobs for stating that sex is real? @ istandwithmaya."
The reality was, of course, nothing so fatuous. This NBC News article summarises the situation, as described by the judge in the case:
[Forstater's] contract expired in December and was not renewed; she sued in March and waited for a ruling — while continuing to make transphobic statements, including (but not limited to) a link to a piece comparing the use of proper pronouns to the date rape drug rohypnol and her commentary in defense of not using people's preferred pronouns, a defense of using transgender people's prior names in public settings, another series of statements misgendering another gender nonbinary person and another defense of her right to refuse to use the correct pronouns and to openly misgender people.
I think it's clear at this point that "biological sex is real" has become a kind of shorthand for "I'm a TERF." Although crude, it is quite powerful, inasmuch as anyone coming across it without much knowledge of or interest in the subject will find it commonsensical. For example, I encountered Moore's article via a Facebook post by a friend (whom I respect) who had commented, simply, "Excellent article". Anyone objecting will, unless they can persuade people to commit the time and emotional energy to following the arguments, sound pretty unreasonable and/or pettifogging.
I suppose the racists got there first, as ever. "I'm proud of my country" sounds pretty unobjectionable, shorn of the intolerance that often attends it.
Still, I wonder whether a leaf might not be usefully taken from this book? Is there some similarly "Duh" phrase that might stand for the other side of the debate?
I believe there is, and I propose: "Blue is a colour." From now on, I intend to insert sentences such as, "People want to silence me just because I assert that blue is a colour," into everything I write on this subject. It makes at least as much sense as "biological sex is real," after all. Nobody actually denies either statement, but beyond that, while "biological sex is real" makes an appeal to "objective fact", "blue is a colour" makes an appeal to the power of culture. Blueness is deeply cultural: one language's blue doesn't match another (the "blue" of Japanese includes much that English speakers might call "green", for example). In that sense, we might say that blueness is "nothing but a cultural construct", much as TERFs say about gender. On the other hand, blueness has a real connection to physics, and can be defined in terms of certain light frequencies. More importantly, who is going to argue seriously against the proposition that "Blue is a colour?" Anyone who did so would look at least as silly as someone accused of arguing that biological sex isn't real.
To proclaim, loud and proud, that "Blue is a colour" is to highlight the ambiguous nature of the truth-claim being advanced; it is to testify to the authenticity of lived personal experience; and it is, most importantly, to state the bleeding obvious.
"Blue is a colour." It ticks all the boxes.
Colstonic Irrigation
Jun. 10th, 2020 05:05 pm"History is ghastly. Nothing but misery and war and brutality. One should be glad it’s over."
Thus Clare Paling, the protagonist of Penelope Lively's Judgement Day. She is being sarcastic, and Lively ironic - for both are historians, and know better.
But I thought of that line when I heard some of the protestations against the removal of Colston's statue on the grounds that it was "erasing history." First, since we're in ironic mode, there's the rich irony that most of the bewailers had never heard of Edward Colston four days ago, despite his statue having stood in brazen pomp for 125 years; but in the few days since there has been no statue they have learned all about him. It's as if human beings invest such objects with meaning by their actions and passions - as if the removal of statuary can be more educational than statues themselves! Who knew?
The second irony is that erasing history, at least in this way, turns out to be synonymous with making it - for Sunday's events are now indelibly part of Bristol's history, to the extent that Banksy has suggested erecting a statue of the protestors pulling Colston's statue down.
History isn't a done deal. That's the lesson people are learning, along with the statistics of enslaved, the drowned, the murdered. If you don't like the history you've got, you can always make some more.
Thus Clare Paling, the protagonist of Penelope Lively's Judgement Day. She is being sarcastic, and Lively ironic - for both are historians, and know better.
But I thought of that line when I heard some of the protestations against the removal of Colston's statue on the grounds that it was "erasing history." First, since we're in ironic mode, there's the rich irony that most of the bewailers had never heard of Edward Colston four days ago, despite his statue having stood in brazen pomp for 125 years; but in the few days since there has been no statue they have learned all about him. It's as if human beings invest such objects with meaning by their actions and passions - as if the removal of statuary can be more educational than statues themselves! Who knew?
The second irony is that erasing history, at least in this way, turns out to be synonymous with making it - for Sunday's events are now indelibly part of Bristol's history, to the extent that Banksy has suggested erecting a statue of the protestors pulling Colston's statue down.
History isn't a done deal. That's the lesson people are learning, along with the statistics of enslaved, the drowned, the murdered. If you don't like the history you've got, you can always make some more.
My Big Hairy Friend
May. 31st, 2020 10:16 amMinamoto no Yoshitsune really existed (he was a major figure in the 12th-century Genpei War), but he has at least as vigorous a life in the semi-legendary realm, as a hero in the Heike Monogatari and subsequently in Noh and kabuki plays. In these, his bosom pal is the large and formidable Buddhist warrior-monk, Benkei, with whom Yoshitsune spends time on the run from his far less lovable (but ultimately triumphant) brother, Yoritomo. Their exploits are characterised by strength, courage and fighting prowess, but also by cunning and general coolness. The two are said to have become friends after fighting each other on a bridge.
The last detail naturally reminded me of another semi-historical (or perhaps we should say demi-semi-historical) pair of outlaws from my own country's past, Robin Hood and Little John - who also met and became besties after fighting on a bridge. (Given Benkei's being a monk, we might also fold Friar Tuck into the mix.)
Is it possible that there was some mutual influence involved in the two sets of legends? I'd love to think so, but busy as the silk road no doubt was, there must be a limit to how much cultural transmission it could reasonably bear. And anyway, it soon occurred to me that these two pairs weren't unique. The grandaddies of Yoshitsune/Robin Hood and Benkei/Little John are surely Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the Sumerian odd couple who also began their friendship by fighting. Like Yoshitsune, Gilgamesh appears to have been a historical figure before he had a second career as an epic hero.
I wonder if there are other examples out there who fit the bill?
The last detail naturally reminded me of another semi-historical (or perhaps we should say demi-semi-historical) pair of outlaws from my own country's past, Robin Hood and Little John - who also met and became besties after fighting on a bridge. (Given Benkei's being a monk, we might also fold Friar Tuck into the mix.)
Is it possible that there was some mutual influence involved in the two sets of legends? I'd love to think so, but busy as the silk road no doubt was, there must be a limit to how much cultural transmission it could reasonably bear. And anyway, it soon occurred to me that these two pairs weren't unique. The grandaddies of Yoshitsune/Robin Hood and Benkei/Little John are surely Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the Sumerian odd couple who also began their friendship by fighting. Like Yoshitsune, Gilgamesh appears to have been a historical figure before he had a second career as an epic hero.
I wonder if there are other examples out there who fit the bill?
Today I happened to learn the Japanese word for frame story (it’s 枠物語), and it got me thinking about what counts as a frame story in the first place.
My first attempt at a definition was this: a story containing one or more internal narratives. The internal narrative(s) may involve multiple narrators, as in The Decameron, or just one, as in Heart of Darkness.
Thinking about it, though, I realised that there are plenty of stories involving internal narratives where I wouldn’t be happy to call the context in which those narratives appear a frame story. For example: in Oedipus Rex a messenger narrates Oedipus’s self-blinding. It would be strange to refer to the rest of the play as a frame story for that narrative. Is it just because that narrative comprises such a small portion of the play? On the other hand, in the Odyssey Odysseus’s account to the Phaeacians of his travels takes up a substantial portion of the poem (books 7-12), but I still wouldn’t want to call the rest of the Odyssey a frame story for that narrative. If there is a minimum proportion that must be taken up by the internal narrative(s) for the remainder to be considered a frame story, then what is that proportion?
Or is it also to do the with the relationship of the internal narrative to the outer narrative – i.e. it must have a certain independence from it? The Wife of Bath’s tale doesn’t have much to do with making a pilgrimage to Canterbury, for example, but the account of Oedipus’s blinding is intimately related to what happens in the rest of the play - which must surely be an additional factor in helping to disqualify their relationship as one of story to frame?
Does the identity of the internal narrator have a bearing on all this? In The Canterbury Tales the tales are told by characters, but in, say, Louis Sachar’s Holes, the lengthy backstories of the various characters are (iirc) all told by the third-person narrator. Does that continuity of voice make the rest of the book less framelike?
Finally, does it matter whether we return to the frame story at the end of the internal narrative (as in Conrad), or neglect to, as in The Turn of the Screw? If you are still inclined to say that James’s story has a frame, does it matter that the frame is “missing” a piece? If it doesn’t, what about an example such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which is just a chain of stories linked together, sometimes segueing in apparently “framey” ways, but in which there is little nesting, and few or no pushes gets popped (to use the language of computer stacks). You might then think of the Metamorphoses as one big frame story, and/or one big internal narrative at the same time – a kind of narrative Möbius strip where the inside and outside are the same.
My first attempt at a definition was this: a story containing one or more internal narratives. The internal narrative(s) may involve multiple narrators, as in The Decameron, or just one, as in Heart of Darkness.
Thinking about it, though, I realised that there are plenty of stories involving internal narratives where I wouldn’t be happy to call the context in which those narratives appear a frame story. For example: in Oedipus Rex a messenger narrates Oedipus’s self-blinding. It would be strange to refer to the rest of the play as a frame story for that narrative. Is it just because that narrative comprises such a small portion of the play? On the other hand, in the Odyssey Odysseus’s account to the Phaeacians of his travels takes up a substantial portion of the poem (books 7-12), but I still wouldn’t want to call the rest of the Odyssey a frame story for that narrative. If there is a minimum proportion that must be taken up by the internal narrative(s) for the remainder to be considered a frame story, then what is that proportion?
Or is it also to do the with the relationship of the internal narrative to the outer narrative – i.e. it must have a certain independence from it? The Wife of Bath’s tale doesn’t have much to do with making a pilgrimage to Canterbury, for example, but the account of Oedipus’s blinding is intimately related to what happens in the rest of the play - which must surely be an additional factor in helping to disqualify their relationship as one of story to frame?
Does the identity of the internal narrator have a bearing on all this? In The Canterbury Tales the tales are told by characters, but in, say, Louis Sachar’s Holes, the lengthy backstories of the various characters are (iirc) all told by the third-person narrator. Does that continuity of voice make the rest of the book less framelike?
Finally, does it matter whether we return to the frame story at the end of the internal narrative (as in Conrad), or neglect to, as in The Turn of the Screw? If you are still inclined to say that James’s story has a frame, does it matter that the frame is “missing” a piece? If it doesn’t, what about an example such as Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which is just a chain of stories linked together, sometimes segueing in apparently “framey” ways, but in which there is little nesting, and few or no pushes gets popped (to use the language of computer stacks). You might then think of the Metamorphoses as one big frame story, and/or one big internal narrative at the same time – a kind of narrative Möbius strip where the inside and outside are the same.