Classical Music, Poetry and stuff

[Stavros]

This week Philip Roth was awarded the Man International Booker prize, but one of the judges, Carmen Calil, resigned in frustration or anger for a writer she has no time for.

I have no time for Roth either, I recall the enthusiasm for Portnoy's Complaint in the 70s but wonder if it was just people who hadn't read widely thinking it was cool that a man would write 'sympathetically' about masturbation. I also tend to prefer writers who experiment with language, form and meaning and Roth just doesnt challenge me, but perhaps that is why he and simple writers like Ian McEwan are popular. I don't know if it matters if one is not American, or knows New York well, it just doesn't excite me.

By contrast, I can't forget the shock and excitement of reading The Naked Lunch, and Last Exit to Brooklyn, as I was in my late teens and new to that sort of thing.

Finally, I can't get into Thomas Pynchon either -not sure how other BMs feel about these writers.

[Prospero]

Stavros - if you base your judgment of Roth on Portnoy I'm not surprised you have no time for him. It was a book designed to shock and is badly dated.. I suggest you might want to try "American Pastoral" which offers - for me - an eloquent refutation of both Carmen Calil's objections and yours. I don't think "American Pastoral" is simple except on the surface in that it adheres to conventional narrative form.

And yes - those two books you single out were certainly "shocking _ - Burroughs in stepping entirely out of the narrative stream with a fantasia on sexual violence and drugs and Selby in examining a very dark underside previously scarcely looked at in contemporary American writing (City of Night - John Rechy perhaps being an exception).

Yep Pynchon is difficult. Never managed to get through any of his books, (But not that I dislike post modernism in writing. Plenty og just great French writers who are even more daringly experiemental than him.

[iamdrgonzo]

I have not read any of Roth or Selby although American Pastoral and Last Exit to Brooklyn seem very interesting. The The Queen Is Dead chapter from Selby's Last Exit to Brooklyn where Georgette, a transvestite hooker, is thrown out of the family home by her brother and tries to attract the attention of a hoodlum named Vinnie at a benzedrin-driven party (Wikipedia) really gets my attention.

I have read and can highly recommend Jack Kerouac's Dharma Bums and On the Road.
Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diary, Hell's Angels and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

When I read these books and I held them in my hands, it seemed as if an electric current was flowing within the pages where the authors and I connected and stayed connected throughout.

I'm also very fond of Vonnegut.

[Stavros]

Last Exit to Brooklyn marks the moment when the censorship of books in the UK all but collapsed. A private prosecution in 1967 declared it to be officially obscene, but in 1968 the publishers won on appeal and with it books that had either been banned or heavily censored were published. George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London had its 'naughy words', previously blanked out, restored, even though they were words like 'bugger' which is a measure of how attitudes to language have changed. In Exit, Georgette re-appears in the Strike episode where the union organiser, Harry has an affair with a friend of hers called Alberta whom he meets at a gay/ts bar called Mary's -the judge in the first trial claimed that the pernicious effect of the book might be to persuade men whose marriages were not working that they might find happiness in being homosexual, in spite of the fact that Harry gets a beating at the end of the chapter.

The Lord Chancellor, one of the UK's senior Law Lords, used to scrutinise plays before they were given a licence for performance in the UK. In 1965 John Osborne wrote a play called A Patriot for Me about a gay army officer in Vienna during the empire, which included a drag ball and which Osborne knew would be banned. The Royal Court theatre in Chelsea could only put it on by re-classifying itself as a private club -Osborne exposed the stupidity of the 'blue line' rule, but its not much of a play although I don't like Osborne so don't take my word for it.

The changes that took place in the 1960s are seen by most people as an adjustment to reality, along with the repeal of the legislation that had made homosexuality illegal, the new laws on divorce, and the legalisation of abortion -but tend to be seen by conservatives as the sins of the 'permissive sixties' which have led to a decline in national morals.

Incidentally, I am trying to recall any sex in On the Road or Kerouac's other books but I can't remember any -I knew someone years ago who had met JK and thought he was an obnoxious shit with bad breath, I also read somewhere he was a repressed homosexual -??? and so on.

[iamdrgonzo]

the judge in the first trial claimed that the pernicious effect of the book might be to persuade men whose marriages were not working that they might find happiness in being homosexual,

Who do these "men" seeking happiness think they are?!

There shall be no happiness unless it has been validated by the state as an accepted form of expression otherwise you shall be classified a deviant by the moral busybodies (thank you CS Lewis).

Incidentally, I am trying to recall any sex in On the Road or Kerouac's other books but I can't remember any -I knew someone years ago who had met JK and thought he was an obnoxious shit with bad breath, I also read somewhere he was a repressed homosexual -??? and so on.

Mexican brothels with young prostitutes, overt homosexual behaviour ring a bell?

Aren't we all obnoxious shits with a bit of halitosis from time to time.

[Prospero]

Speak for yourself re Halitosis Dr Gonzo - so keep ya distance!

[Stavros]

Mexican brothels with young prostitutes, overt homosexual behaviour ring a bell?

Sorry DrGonzo it doesnt but I realise now it must be 30 years since I read it, its in a box on the stairs I think...

[Mariselle]

Anyone else here go into absolute waves of emotional spasms when listening to Sibelius?

[Helvis2012]

My favorite wordsmith:


Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

First published in 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Poe was a drunken, poor, degenerate racist, obsessed with the decay of America due to the influx of immigrants and idea of free blacks. Those are the main ideas he masks in his Gothic fiction: the decay of a society dominated by whites. His work is OK but pretty ugly if you look into in the deeper meanings.
In reality, he was a angry fellow. A poor white who saw himself as some kind of an aristocrat regardless of his poverty and addictions....but I suppose that's the kind of mind of that it takes to cobble together elaborate tales to promote hate.

[Stavros]

Anyone else here go into absolute waves of emotional spasms when listening to Sibelius?

In a word, yes! Especially Symphony No 2, and Finlandia, one of the most arousing pieces of orchestral showing off I can think of.