Monday 31 July 2017

The Wonderful Serendipity of the Library Shelf

For one reason or another, I was browsing at one of our local libraries (I might have been working, or just filling in a few minutes) and, not for the first time, became the beneficiary of that wonderful serendipity that swirls about the shelves. After a couple of weeks of being busy with all sorts of work and family issues, a quick browse of the non-fiction shelves put me in temporary possession of a brace of books that carried within their covers both hope and inspiration.



One, small enough to fit in my coat pocket, was What W.H.Auden Can Do For You, by Alexander McCall Smith.  At 137 pages it seems a quick and easy read, but is worth taking time over - a chapter or two each day, followed by some thoughtfullness and gratitude, and perhaps a diversion into the whole poems from which the various excerpts contained in these chapters have been taken.

Gratitude is a theme addressed by so many poets, preachers, and philosphers, from Horace through Marcus Aurelius, and on to Auden himself;  gratitude that often arrives all unexpected, lighting up an  otherwise dark time.

In the final chapter of McCall Smith's book there is a quote from Horace that reminded me just how fortunate I am, and which took me at once out into the garden and wood which I so love, and within which I so often find peace and inspiration........

This is what I had prayed for: a small piece of land
With a garden, a fresh flowing spring of water at hand,
Near the house....
It's perfect.  I ask for nothing else, except to implore,
O Son of Maia, that you make these blessings my own,
For the rest of my life....



Auden wrote something similar only a couple of millenia later, in his "Thanksgiving for a Habitat"....

....I, a transplant.... at last am dominant
Over three acres and a blooming
Conurbation of country lives.......
.....................
What I dared not hope or fight for
is in my fifties, mine, a toft-and-croft
where I needn't, ever, be at home to
those I am not at home with...... 

 Each of us needs a spot we can claim as our own safe place, a place where we need not keep the company would not wish to keep.  We own it, or borrow it; we may be a caretaker, or squatter, or regular visitor - but we need that place we can feel grateful for, in which we can feel gratitude.



We won't be immune from unexpected visitors, but they are more likely, there, to be visitors whose company and conversation we can enjoy.....


Did I say that serendipity had granted me two fascinating tomes from the same shelves?  What of the other, you ask?  How much do you know about Paul Otlet?  No, me neither.  How can it be that none of my teachers or instructors or colleagues ever mentioned this man?  To be continued........

Friday 14 July 2017

Walkiing Away

An article on the front page of the SMH, 20170703, describes the evolving re-segregation and stratification of Australia's education system as being driven by a feedback loop based on the growing income and wealth inequality in our country.

Somehow, this took me away on this ramble, to mention an old book, and a newly published one.  One was buried for a while by social and legal dissaproval - the other would have been ridiculed, and even prosecuted, if published then, but seems so pertinent now that would be a shame not to read it.

The egalitarianism that served our society so well, that was begun by World War I and developed further by World War II, is being eroded.  In Australia, the two Wars, with their attendant slaughter of adult males, and the necessary breaking of class and gender stratification so that food and industrial production could be maintained and improved, helped break down the British style of class structure that had arrived here with the First Fleet.

The Great Depression that brought so many of the wealthy down into poverty, and forced so many families and individuals onto the road in search of work and sustenance, also helped to build the foundations of a genuinely egalitarian society.

The foundations, but not the whole edifice; even while the struggle to complete the structure continued, other forces - political, social, and religious - fought, and still fight (Tony Abbott being a good example) to thwart the progress made thus far, and to take us back to some mythical "Golden Age"

For some reason, I was put in mind of the enormous uproar amongst the "upper classes" when Lady Chatterley's Lover came to their notice.  Although it was several times and in a number of places the subject of bans and obscenity prosecutions, it seems more likely that the real fear was the breach it made in the walls the kept the "lower classes" in their place.

Obscene and erotic books, visual art, and poetry, were quite common, and rarely drew the ire of the establishment (who were often avid purchasers or collectors), but a book that transgressed class barriers in such a way drew immediate and ferocious condemnation.  There was plenty written, even at the time, that acknowledged the often quite promiscuous and decadant life-styles of the upper classes, even though that clashed directly with the morality that the long rule of Queen Victoria had worked deep into the grain of the middle and lower classes of British society - so it seems unlikely that the mere mention of bawdy goings on, or the use of explicit language was, of itself, the primary sin committed by the writer and the publishers.

Lawrence had touched a sore spot in the psyche of the nobility similar to the one that drove so many lynchings in the USA, where white men seemed to live in constant fear that the black men would be"too attractive" to white women.  Even today, in so many places and cultures, there can be found strong sanctions against what is considered, locally, to be miscegenation - it is not the exclusive prerogative of Anglo or Western European societies.  Similarly, at a family level, parents can often be found trying to impose a degree of class or cultural selectivity on the mating or marital choices of their progeny.

In both Britain and the USA, a part of the population was enjoying a great degree of power over another part, based on custom and often arbitrary distinctions.  In Britain, the clothing worn, the dialect or accent spoken, and a knowledge of complex and arcane rules of social behaviour, would mark a man or a woman as being of a certain class.

In the USA, skin colour seemed a more certain indicator of the treatment an individual would receive from society, the legal system, and the economic system, though the ruling classes still tried to enforce a societal structure that ran contrary to the widely held belief that unrestricted social mobility was available to any citizen willing to try and better himself.

Herself was a different matter, much of the time - much of the advice given in books and periodicals of the 19th and early 20th centuries suggested ways in which women could make themselves interesting enough to be able to hitch themselves to some upwardly mobile man's wagon.  There are still plenty of books, periodicals, and tv shows promoting that theme.

Australia had inherited the British class system, but promptly set about subverting it by promoting freed convicts to positions of wealth and power - of course, we had the Aboriginal Australians to look down upon, as well as immigrants of "non-white" background, so there was always a "lower class" above which the rest of society could complacently sit.

So, here we are, well through the second decade of the 21st century, over 7 decades on from the end of WW II, and half a century on from the hopeful blossoming of egalitarian movements that some called "the dawning of the age of Aquarius" - and the battle of the forces of hope and generosity versus the forces of greed and regressions continues as fiercely as ever.

For a long time, we told stories about the good guys winning, and setting the world on a course to becoming a better place for all its occupants, but while we were patting ourselves on the back and celebrating the inevitability of progress, the counter attack was already under way.  The Science Fiction shelves blossomed with futuristic hopes and utopian scenarios - though a darker under-current always lurked.  That current seems to have swirled to the surface - even the newest movies in the Star Wars franchise are so much grittier and darker than the first three.  You never saw an Imperial Trooper with dirt or blood on his uniform in those days.

Is that why so much of the storytelling of the late 20th and early 21st Centuries is dystopian?  The YA shelves in our libraries, once full of hopeful adventure and heroes journies, now drip with dark tales of dire worlds, fractured societies, and desperate quests for safety and survival.

Nowhere have I encountered writing that more thoroughly works through this whirlpool of hope and nihilism, greed and generosity, love and hatred, that fills our bookshelves, and our daily newsfeeds and tv screens, than Cory Doctorow's Walkaway.

It is a big read, and an intense one - every word carries meaning.  It is one book where the discussion of the politics and science of what the human race is doing to itself, the planet, and each other, is essential not only to the story but to the development of the characters.  The emotional ride is like a BMX heading off the top of Mount Kosciuszko with no brakes.  Give it a go - like any work of such intensity, the journey won't kill you, but you won't finish it unscathed.

Thursday 6 July 2017

Imaginary Worlds

Fantasy and the fantastic feature in quite different ways in two books that I have enjoyed recently. A book by Fredrik Backman - My Grandmother sends her regards and apologises - is a wonderful blend of whimsy and gritty reality.

At its core is the fantasy world woven by a loving grandmother for her very special, almost eight year old grand-daughter.  Elsa, who is 7 but about to turn 8, is precocious, perceptive, and pedantic, and not terribly popular with her schoolmates.  Her family life is complicated, and is about to become even more so.  The fantasies her grandmother created to help her cope will turn out to interact with the real world in ways that neither Elsa nor the reader can possibly predict.  This is one that I will be reading again.

(Speaking of Grandparenting matters, and recognising the brilliant efforts put in by Parents who write or otherwise create, how does anyone get anything done - such as a blog entry - while trying to keep an eye on the wellbeing of a small tribe of under tens)

Another book worth keeping close at hand - 15 short stories by some great writers - is Old Mars, and it is another of those wonderful compilations edited by George R R Martin and Gardner Dozois.  Do you miss the wonderful solar system our science fiction writers inhabited in the century or two before humanity launched its robot invasion of Mars?  Yes?  Does Barsoom call to you across the gulf of space?  Well, this one is a must read - many of the stories have twists that will take you completely by surprise, and the various versions of Mars that these writers have come up with are compelling and richly detailed, despite most of the stories being only thirty or so pages.

On the other hand, have you ever seen a glossy new cover, emblazoned with the name of one of your favourite authors, and raced home with it, only to discover that while the concept described in the blurb is new and interesting, and the execution leaves you flat?  One such shiny new item caught my eye a couple of days ago, on the SF and Fantasy shelves. It was the first book in Scalzi's new series "The Collapsing Empire".  As I was checking it out, one of my colleagues, also a fan of John Scalzi, asked me to hand it over so she could place a reservation on it for herself.

Well, if you are reading this blog, EJ, I am not sure what I can say to you - the style is so different to his usual intense, descriptive, clever writing.  In fact, it seemed rushed, and sometimes summarised rather than showed.  Was I disappointed because it is so different, or am I right to think it lacks a lot of the delicate touches I have come to associate with Scalzi?  I still read it through to the end, to see where he was taking the characters, but was able to skim across the pages, rather than having to take note of every word - as a good writer should make the reader do.

Sunday 2 July 2017

The Road Trip

A recent trip north was slowed to a crawl by the flashing lights of a number of police cars.  Traffic was funnelled into a single lane and allowed to crawl past the scene of an accident that had, it seemed, injured nothing except, perhaps, the pride of a driver.  A man and a woman - older, and well dressed, were standing with some police, while tow truck drivers began the task of righting and recovering a very nice four wheel drive, and an overturned caravan.  They seemed so calm and stoic, and I couldn't help wondering what they were thinking.

That wondering simmered and fermented for a few days before producing the following - if one of my readers should turn out to be the couple I observed, please accept my apologies if I have imputed thoughts or feelings that were not truly yours.  Otherwise, please enjoy.....




THE ROAD TRIP
Richard Slade
July, 2017


Liz stepped back a few paces when the young policewoman began questioning Neville.  He had his arms folded, his shoulders back, chin up, and back straight.  It was that look that she had mistaken, forty five years ago, for manly determination and courage.

Was it that long ago?  Forty five years of of wifely duties – of raising children, hosting dinner parties for his work colleagues, running the household (as best she could, given Neville's tight reign on all matters financial), and supporting him during his relentless climb up the various corporate ladders he had latched onto.

Somehow, the forty five years did not seem as long as the first six months of Neville's retirement.   

What would two years of travelling round Australia with him feel like – a century?  It would have to be two years, at the least.  That's how long a lease they had granted the new occupants of their lovely, tree-shaded, St Ives home.  Two years, minus the two long days since they had driven away from it.  She could still see the smiles on the faces of their tenants, as they directed the removalists and savoured the gardens.

Now, home was an eight metre long caravan,  The caravan was luxurious, as was the brand new Landcruiser that Neville had purchased to tow it with.

Had that policewoman noticed the way Liz's head had jerked up, and her raised eyebrows, as Neville wove a detailed description of the fast moving, non-descript, silver sedan that had cut in front of him, forcing the evasive manoeuvre that had caused their sudden departure from that tight bend in the highway?  A very badly made bend, in Neville's opinion; one that shared the blame equally, along with the miscreant driver – now long gone from the scene of his crime – for what had happened next.

Neville, she was sure, had not noticed anything.  Chin jutting, gazing into the distance, Neville, as ever, noticed nothing that Liz said or did.  The policewoman slipped a few more glances at Liz, even as she kept jotting Neville's utterances in her notebook.  Did she suspect?  What would Liz say if the constable decided to question her?

Liz rolled her eyes and looked at the caravan.  It was on its side in the long grass between the north and south-bound lanes of the highway.  The tow-truck driver had connected a steel cable somewhere under the front of the Cruiser, which was, miraculously, still upright, though pointing the wrong way.  He had shaken his head when Neville had declared that vehicle and van would be "right as rain in no time at all"

The driver had tried to explain just how badly damaged both vehicles were, but his words had fallen into the well of silence, while Neville droned on.

He thought she had been asleep when the crash had happened, but she had only closed her right eye.  Neville's confidence in his own driving skills was not shared by Liz, who had, for decades, done all the driving, whether of children to sport, school, or events, or of a tipsy Neville, coming home from another corporate function.  So Liz kept one eye open, hoping she would see the end coming and have time to offer up one final, brief prayer.  In this case, she had time for quite a bit of praying before the Cruiser and van finished sliding across the wet grass, but all the came out were a handful of expletives she had not realised she knew.  Neville chastised her for her language, several times, before the police arrived.

She smiled, just a little, and clutched her handbag tightly to her aching ribs.  It contained something that she had never before owned; a card that gave her access to their bank account – his account. 
Neville had agreed to provide her with one just before their departure, swayed by her vivid evocation of what might happen to him if he suffered a medical emergency in some far outback place, and she was unable to access the finances they might need for the provision of quality care.



She smiled again.  Taree would have the right brand of bank, and an airport, or a train station.  It might take days before Neville realised that she was gone, and weeks more for him to believe it.