The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

Dec 6, 2014

A Parisian Put-Down

Enrique Vila-Matas wrote a fictionalised biography of his younger (somewhat exaggerated) self in Paris, Never Any End to Paris, in which he tried hard to emulate his hero Ernest Hemingway, to be poor and happy, to learn to write, to see the world in the light of his master. Instead, he was poor, desperately unhappy, and the paucity of his achievement was laid bare when he met Javier Grandes at a bar, who merrily said he was slow off the mark becoming a writer.
What I mean is you're slow compared to Boris Vian. At your age, he was already nearly dead, but he'd written about five hundred songs, three hundred poems, I don't know how many novels, fifty stage plays, eight operas, one and a half thousand music reviews. And that's not all, he used and abused the trumpet. And he was a great nighthawk, who used to flit from the Bar Vert to La Rhumerie Martiniquaise, from Tabou to Petit Saint-Benoit, from Trois Canettes to Vieux Colombier daily. Two marriages, I don't know how many kids, an engineering degree, thousands of conversations with the waiters at the Balzar, a thousand transgressions, he wore out the needles on the record players at the local rich kids' bashes, and well, anyway, I don't need to tell you.
Who could handle such frankness? Enrique was crushed, "practically destroyed, as if I'd lost a thousand games of pinball."


Cave Tabou, Paris
The Cave Tabou that Grandes mentioned was jazz club frequented by Boris Vian's circle as well a bunch of journalists and existentialists in St Germain-des-Prés. As Vian said, "Very quickly, the Tabou has become a center of organized madness. Let's be frank, none of the clubs that followed could recreate that incredible atmosphere, and Tabou itself, alas! could not retain it for very long... it was impossible." It was here that a reporter overheard Juliette Greco say, "We are all existentialists" and the expressive coinage was born. Juliette Greco was a brunette, but the poet Anne-Marie Cazalis was a redhead, and the two of them were frequently in the club, listening to Vian's jazz.

Greco and Cazalis


La Rhumerie Martiniquaise was another existentialist and jazz haunt in St Germain-des-Prés. Besides Vian, the likes of Georges Bataille, Henri Salvador, Antonin Artaud, Marcel Aymé, Man Ray, Aimé Césaire were to be found here. If high intellectualism was not your thing, you could splurge on the finest Antillean rums here.

La Rhumerie Martiniquaise in 1955.

Dec 3, 2014

Chinese Takeout

Old Chen had a few mouthfuls and thought each dish tasted pretty good. 'What part of China are these dishes from?' he asked Fang Caodi. 
'Chop suey vegetables,' said Old Fang. 'Look closely, I'm using Sichuan peppers, Hunan black bean sauce, Guangdong shrimp sauce, Thai lemon grass, and our own coriander, sweet basil, lemon leaf and leeks. They're all organic. We just pick 'em and eat 'em. And we fertilize them with our own and the cats' and dogs' poo.'

From Chan Koonchung, The Fat Years.

Nov 27, 2014


We woke up at 6:15.

We were out of the house by 7:15.

We arrived at the Docklands at 8:30.

We registered for the competition at 8:35.

We were told that the bouts would start at 9:00.

At 9:30, they still hadn't started.

We asked an official what was going on.

They were expecting a contingent of kids, they said.

You wouldn't want to disappoint a bunch of kids, would you? they said.

The kids arrived at 10:00.

The bouts began at 10:05.

The boy was eliminated in the first round at 10:15.

We left.


The boy has been going for judo classes for a few years now, but this was his first competition outside his club.

He was the only representative of his club at the competition.

The other kids came from Hackney and Kent and south-east London. They came in groups, teams, with their coaches, all of them gung-ho.

The boy felt a bit left out when the other kids started warming up and practice sparring with each other.

I'm bored, he said. I've got nobody to practice with.

Just join one of those groups, I said.

Before long, he was running around and practising throws with his new friends.


The boy was in tears after his elimination.

You did really well, said a girl. I saw you, you were pretty good.

The boy was disconsolate.

I only had two fights, he said.

These kids have been taught throws that I don't know, he said.

They cheated, he said.

They didn't bow before the fight, he said. That's cheating.

We explained that this was his first competition and that he didn't roll onto his tummy as soon as he fell.

You'll do better next time, we said. Don't feel too bad.

I'm embarrassed, he said.

I'm never going to the Docklands again.

On the train the other day it was crowded as ever and I didn't have space to read my book so I looked about and I saw a smartly dressed woman sitting with a large stack of papers with dense writing on them. I realised then that I was not bad at all at reading upside down. That is to say, I wasn't upside down, but the writing on the woman's papers was upside down. To me, that is. What I read was her to-do list.
Wash my hair 
Sort out clothes in my bedroom 
Leave out Italian hw and dictionary 
Set alarm for early departure 
Hang out washing and fold aired clothes 
Get room ready for M______ 
Leave out L___ kick boxing gear and my singing stuff 
Don't set house alarm 
Fill in parent day for L___ ice skating trip 
Book annual leave for Christmas 
Speak to mum re: dates 
Check out kami sparling blog post 
Locate video of dancing priests

Impressive stuff, eh? Now I need to find that dancing priests video. Oh, and figure out who kami sparling is.

After reading Andrej Longo's masterful collection of short stories, Ten (translated by Howard Curtis and long-listed for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize 2014), I was moved to create a Wikipedia page for the author. A bit of digging around revealed coverage of the man's talent - in German and French and Italian - but little in English, so here are excerpts from a quick and dirty translation of Maike Albath's review of the book from the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, 22 September 2010.

These are tough, brutal short stories that take place in the streets of Naples between piles of garbage and the carcasses of feral dogs, in drab apartment blocks and sleazy nightclubs. They are framed within the Ten Commandments, but with the commandments turned on their heads, sometimes leading to absurd and tragic conclusions. The first commandment, for instance, 'I am the Lord your God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me', refers to the local Camorra boss, Giggino Mezzanote, from whom the narrator Papilù, a tough seventeen year-old, has always striven to stay away. But when a tough type bumps into him and his girlfriend and incites a fight, Mezzanote arrives as a saviour. Papilù has no choice: despite wanting to lead a life different from his criminal father's, he has no alternative but to seek Mezzanote's protection. It is this inevitability that makes Longo's stories so upsetting.

In another tale, a man goes with his seven year-old boy to the fair, fully knowing that he is on the verge of execution by a rival clan. 'Thou shalt not kill' is the title of this story. In yet another story, a Camorra bride has managed a social advancement yet as her wedding approaches she is seized with panic. Longo's heroes, however, never succeed in turning the tables: they are victims of the crude Darwinism of Naples, always forced to endure their downfall with stoicism.

Longo's fast and sober narrative is suffused with spare dialogue, sprinkled with dialect and an expressive language invented by himself. Ten is reminiscent of a black-and-white photograph: all outline and sharp contrast. It's a minor masterpiece of hardboiled realism.

Nov 6, 2014

Djinn Food

The man looked surprised. He led Marish into a building that looked like a blur of spinning triangles, through a dark room lit by candles, to a table piled with capon and custard and razor-thin slices of ham and lamb's foot jelly and candied apricots and goatsmilk yogurt and hard cheese and yams and turnips and olives and fish cured in strange spices; and those were just the things Marish recognised. 
"I don't reckon I ought to eat fairy food," said Marish, though he could hardly speak from all the spit that was suddenly in his mouth. 
"That is true, but from the food of the djinn you have nothing to fear..."

From Benjamin Rosenbaum, "A Siege of Cranes", in Sean Wallace (ed), The Mammoth Book Of Warriors and Wizardry.

Nov 2, 2014


Now Bangalore will be called Bengaluru, Mangalore (Mangaluru), Mysore (Mysuru), Bellary (Ballari), Belgaum (Belagavi), Hubli (Hubballi), Tumkur (Tumakuru), Bijapur (Vijayapura), Chikmagalur (Chikkamagaluru), Gulbarga (Kalaburagi), Hospet (Hosapete) and Shimoga (Shivamogga).
From Outlook magazine

Robin Gibb found out that one of his ancestors had been a soldier in India, who, after winning several good conduct commendations, had ended up demoted and cashiered for drunkenness and disorderliness.  The reason for the moral fall appears to have been boredom. Other than daily drills, there were few opportunities for British military types in India to expend their masculine energies. The ennui and monotony drove many of them to drink and gambling, and many more to prostitutes.

A similar trajectory can be found in one of Billy Connolly's ancestors. A gunner with the Royal Horse Artillery, based in south India during and after the revolt of 1857, Daniel Doyle had started with commendations and good conduct. In the 1860s however he was censured sixteen times and later hospitalised - for alcoholism, dysentery, diarrhoea, and syphilis.

Again, the descent into indiscipline stemmed from lack of constructive activity. In particular, the southern garrisons Doyle was based with didn't see any action at all during 1857, no doubt to the utter frustration of the men.

It turned out that the British Army in India understood that the soldiers would need some release, and while its morality didn't exactly encourage licentiousness, it was happy enough to provide prostitutes for its men. Invariably it would be local indigent women who would service the men, and a typical garrison of a thousand men would be served by about 20 women. Indeed, these women were for the exclusive use of the garrison.

Naturally sexually transmitted disease was rampant - there were some estimates that one in three British soldiers caught the infection. Daniel Doyle had primary syphilis, which presents itself with genital sores. Connolly read out an extract from a contemporary British Medical Journal (given to him by historian Mridula Raman) describing how the military surgeons had to inspect the men.
The health inspection is differently performed in different regiments, according to the custom in the corps, or the views or convenience of the surgeon. In some regiments the men are marched in a body to the hospital, and passed into or through a room, one by one, for individual examination. This is the surest and least offensive mode of performing it; but it necessarily occupies a great deal of time, is wearisome to all parties, and often inconvenient in keeping the men long from their other duties. The more usual plan is to inspect them in their several barrack rooms, the men being drawn up in line, and called to 'attention' as the medical officer enters the room. In some cases, they stand in their ordinary fatigue dress, each man unbuttoning the front of his trousers, and parading his genitals for the inspecting surgeon; this operation generally giving rise to suppressed manifestations of mirth, shame, or indignation, according to the character and temper of individuals; but at all times, to say the least of it, humiliating and disgusting to the surgeon. Sometimes the soldiers are partially or even entirely undressed, or with the shirt on only, the front tail of which is lifted up as the surgeon passes down the line. [1]
The situation for the women was worse, because inevitably they were considered to be the cause of the infection. The Army, keen to contain its spread, would put any of the women found to carry the disease in 'lock hospitals' for examination and quarantine. The women would be locked up for up to three months, and if they were then found to be clean, they'd be brought back to the military brothels to continue their trade.

Lock Hospitals in India were created following the Contagious Diseases Acts of 1864 and 1868. There is little information on the actual treatment of venereal disease; at most, the hospitals aimed to provide hygiene and cleanliness. The soldiers were absolved of any responsibility in spreading the disease. Instead, the women continued to be blamed, and fined or imprisoned if they didn't present themselves for examination or, driven by starvation or poverty, if they plied their trade without registering with the authorities. [2]


[1] Inspector-General Dartnell, British Medical Journal, April 28, 1860.
[2] Medical History of British India, National Library of Scotland.
[3] William Acton, Prostitution Considered, Routledge, 2012.
[4] Who Do You Think You Are? Billy Connolly, BBC, Series 11, Episode 9.

Oct 14, 2014

On Friendship

The boy's had a love-hate relationship with his best friend. A year or so ago, the two of them would walk around the school playground, cheek-to-cheek, pretending to be Siamese twin babies. They were inseparable. Other boys in their class noticed this. 

"It's like you're married," they said.

Then the boy started wilting under his pal's overbearing attitude. The pal was jealous of his friendships with other kids.

"He's bossy, amma," said the boy.

Towards the end of the school year, he was trying various tricks to avoid his pal. 

"Don't call him my pal," he said. "We are not pals."

He took up games sessions he knew his friend wouldn't attend. When his friend heard about them, he signed up as well. The boy was nonplussed.

"He's sticking to me all the time, amma," said the boy. "He won't let me play with anyone else."

"Why don't you tell him you will play with him and with the others as well?" said his amma.

"He pulls me away when I'm playing with the other boys," said the boy.

"So what are you going to do?" said his amma.

"I'm going to break his heart. But not just yet," said the boy.

This new school year has found him in sarcastic mood. He snaps at the pal more often than he ever did before. He is impatient with the other fellow. The pal is beginning to realise that his hold over the boy has lessened drastically.

Yesterday the boy was playing with another boy.

"Why aren't you playing with your best friend?" said the other boy.

"He's not my friend," said the boy.

"Hey, Freddie," said the other boy. "He says he's not your friend!"

The pal was indignant.

"Of course he's my friend," he said. "Look, I've written it down on my hand."

Oct 8, 2014

Gandhian Food

A few months before the outbreak of the first world war, the campaigner [Mahatma Gandhi] and his family sailed back to India to pursue his destiny. He had meetings with Gujarati merchants, indentured Indian labourers and white officials. Addresses were presented to him by Muslims and Parsis, by the Cantonese Club and the Tamil Benefit Society. He attended a dinner hosted by the Hon HA Wyndham, at which aubergine cutlets, asparagus à la vinaigrette and plum tart were served (but no wine). 
Patrick French, 'Gandhi Before India by Ramachandra Guha - review', The Guardian.

Oct 3, 2014

Pem Nem

This is a painting of the Bijapuri sultan Adil Shah dated to between 1590-1605, complete with inscription by Jahangir, the Mughal emperor, that attests to the likeness: shabihi surat Adilkhan. The painter himself is nameless, but he is considered among the finest artists from the Deccan, and it has been established that he was responsible for nearly half the illustrations in the Pem Nem manuscript, one of the loveliest (and surely the only complete) books of Sufi couplets extant from the medieval period.

Adil Shah had been forced to marry off his daughter to a son of Akbar, following the Mughal conquest of the neighbouring sultanate of Ahmadnagar, and along with the marriage train went hundreds of manuscripts, the Pem Nem among them. Expectedly, you won't find the Pem Nem in India - rather, it's in the British Library.

There are thirty-four illustrations in the Pem Nem, mostly of ink and watercolour and gold and silver, made by three different artists. These paintings had been done on pieces of paper that were then pasted onto the sheets of the manuscript. It's not entirely clear if these artworks were made at the same time as the manuscript was written.

The author of the book was Hasan Manju Khalji. Interestingly, no other books by him are known. The calligraphy is lovely and clear, but as he wrote masnavi couplets in a Deccani Urdu that contains admixtures from Marathi and local dialect, it is difficult to understand today. The text is a narrative poem in rhyme, describing the Sufi's love of and quest for God.

There is frequent wordplay - shah jal bal bal pal tal mal - monosyllabic words that don't make sense. While these interjections remain obscure, the story is well-understood. A prince named Shah Ji seeks a beloved named Mah Ji; the two had fallen in love with each other when a tortoise shows each of them the other's portrait. It then appears that Mah Ji takes on a yogini's guise to seek her lover, while Shah Ji travels around looking for her. He ends up across the oceans on an island called Sangaldip, which, coincidentally, is ruled by his uncle. He finds Mah Ji as well, but rejects her because for him the real Mah Ji is the image in the portrait, while she is only a reflection. He then takes off to seek the truth. So Mah Ji goes through a period of enduring the agony of love (here the masnavi is combined with the Indian baramasa, songs describing a year of love and pain).

Neither the mysterious tortoise nor the trip across the ocean is illustrated, but Shah Ji's arrival and Mah Ji's baramasa are. There are symbols too - Mah Ji's image appears on Shah Ji's chest, and Mah Ji herself is shown burning up in her love despite an attendant dousing the fires of her passion with water. According to [1], such visual metaphors of longing are exceptional and do not often occur in Indian art.

Eventually Shah Ji returns, the couple get married, and the most lavish illustrations in the book depict the nuptial celebrations.

The overwhelming number of female figures in the illustrations seem to imply that the audience for the book was mainly female as well. The use of the dialect and Deccani Urdu may reinforce this viewpoint as that may have been the vernacular in the Sultan's harem. On the other hand, there was a general emphasis of the feminine in Deccani culture at the time. It is therefore not entirely clear for whom the book was meant.


1. Deborah Hutton, "The Pem Nem: A Sixteenth Century Illustrated Romance from Bijapur" in Sultans of the South: Arts of India's Deccan Courts, 1323-1687, (ed.) Navina Najat Haidar, Marika Sardar.

Sep 27, 2014

A Bit of Hindi

When I was in school, Hindi was my Achilles heel - I could barely make head or tail of it, and the insistence on the Sanskritised variety confused me even further. We covered quite a bit of poetry those days, poetry that was occasionally melodic, occasionally ancient, and occasionally a bit moral. Here's one that suddenly came back to me recently, and the only reason it came back to me (because, to be sure, I've put all matters of Hindi education to a dark and undusted corner of my mind) is that Dusted Off mentioned it during her coverage of little-known ruins in Delhi.

बुरा जो देखन मैं चला
बुरा ना मिलिया कोय
जो दिल खोजा आपना
मुझसा बुरा ना कोय

By Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan (1556-1626), general and poet, a Navratan of Akbar.

"When I set out to look for evil, I found no-one wicked. When I searched my own heart, I found there was none as evil as I."

Sep 23, 2014

The Kingdom

Just the other day, two million residents of Scotland decided to stick with the union. For a bit there it appeared that secession was on the cards. It was a briefly thrilling moment - how many people can say they've lived through that? Independence is a stirring word. But the dissolution of centuries of union felt like a manifest tragedy. As a more-or-less unbiased bystander, I had mixed feelings about the referendum.

The idealogical contradictions on both sides were apparent to me, as I'm sure they were to many others. On the conservative side, for the people who believe in nationalism and pride in one's country, in self-rule and distance from that other union, the EU, the idea of Scotland removing itself from the UK was horrifying. How dare they, went the cry. For the leftists who clamoured for Scottish independence it was no less a contradiction: for them nationalism is anathema and the universal brotherhood of peoples is a more unifying force than political division, and yet they wanted liberal Scotland to overthrow the 'establishment' politics of Westminster. In the end, neither of them have received quite what they wanted - no independence but a further federalism of the UK, and who knows how many more fissiparous tendencies engendered.

There's talk now of London and the other big cities getting more control of revenues and spending. The Cornish would no doubt love a bit of a parliament of their own. The Welsh, for so long a forgotten appendage to the English, perhaps would want to govern themselves. As for the English - do they want yet another burdensome government and bureaucracy on which to spend their taxes?

The journalist Mark Grigorian used the Scottish referendum as a touchpoint of civility and political sophistication. He pointed out that the ruling government did not try to use the media to stamp out secessionary talk, or send the police to suppress the dissidents, or snatch the ballot, or indeed indulge in any of the actions that scared governments across the rest of the world indulge in when faced with a popular uprising. He pondered how the secessionary movement in Nagorno-Karabakh might have played out had the Azerbaijani and Armenian nations stuck to a civilised modus operandi. But while for the rest of the world the Scottish referendum may appear as a high mark in politics, for those who went through it, the psychological wounds would perhaps take longer to heal.

Sep 20, 2014


The boy has been building up his vocabulary. The other day he came up with the following ditty, which he kept repeating throughout dinner.

It's good to feed your metabolism
And pray you don't get an embolism

Sep 17, 2014

Dreck and Not-Dreck

One needs a break from obsession once in a while, and I thought I might read a bit of sci-fi to clear my mind of the seriousness of Arabic and other translated fiction. My attention was grabbed by the pulpy cover of Sarah A. Hoyt's Darkship Thieves, and I picked it up, expecting some golden-age-of-science-fiction sort of space opera. It started fairly promisingly - a young woman finds herself attacked by her father's guards. She escapes in a pod and from then on, it's all downhill - she encounters a total he-man, the kind who is surly and has a miserable past and is incredibly fascinating and whom she intensely dislikes at first, and - well, you get the drift. The book rapidly becomes a pulpy Mills-and-Boon-set-in-space. Athena Hera Sinistra could have been a proper female superhero - she is blazingly fast, a superb mechanic, she will not be patronised, she has a sense of justice. But she believes all men are genetically predisposed to pontificate (the expression 'mansplain' was unavailable in 2006?) and, anyway, were there a Bechdel test for books, this one would spectacularly fail it - she more or less only talks to men, and the few times she has a chat with a woman, it's about her he-man. As soon as I decently could, I put this dreck aside and picked up another book.

This one, Anna Kavan's Ice, has restored my faith in fiction. In a broken future, the world is slowly being consumed by ice, and the narrator searches obsessively for a broken woman he once loved and hoped to marry. The viewpoint constantly shifts in time; there are hallucinative episodes that superimpose on reality; the characters have no names, only descriptions; the weight of the cold engulfing the world produces an uneasy discontent in the mind of the reader; it is a harsh, tough book. Kavan herself was a troubled soul, a depressive and a drug addict, and one may speculate that the ice of the novel stands either for the tensions of the cold war (the book came out in 1967) or heroin. In this novel, however, she managed to momentarily bind her demons and squeeze out their essence into a bleak beauty.

Sep 14, 2014

Exam Notes

The boy cleared his first grade flute exam. The examiner wrote down some notes which we received the other day. 
This was a sprightly account with good articulation, fine rhythm and a nice tonal projection. More tonal refinement in the upper range would have heightened the mood further... This was a lively, spirited rendition. What was lacking in rhythmical clarity and tonal warmth you compensated for by an obvious sense of musical involvement... There was a nice rocking momentum here. A smoother approach with more centred intonation at ends of phrases was required, but the overall mood was conveyed nonetheless.
Sounds awfully technical. I had no idea how complex the testing procedure was...

Sep 9, 2014

Cloudy in Cornwall

Recently the wife and I spent a long weekend in Cornwall to celebrate our fourteenth wedding anniversary. Imagine our surprise when one of the staff in the hotel's restaurant turned out to be a Malayali girl. Born in Vienna to parents from Kottayam, she was spending the summer waitressing on an internship for her high school diploma in tourism. I didn't know there were any Malayalis in Vienna, said the wife. No, no, said the girl. There are lots.

She told us she spoke Malayalam reasonably well, albeit mixed up with German, in which language she was most fluent. She did not say 'albeit.' She pronounced the word Malayalam with a rather exaggerated roll of the Ls. Her English was decent, even if with a noticeable accent. In her school, she said, English was obligatory, while French and Spanish were the other two languages she learned. Wowza, we said, five languages! She smiled modestly. Her Spanish was not good, she confessed.

We asked her how she spent her time off work. There was little in that Cornish village to excite a teenager. She said she would go for hikes. We said we went on hikes. She said she took boat trips to the local big town. We also took boats, we said, but had to admit we hadn't been to that particular town. She said she was looking forward to finishing her stint so she could visit London. We live in London, we said.


Remarkably, we had decent weather for three out of the four days we stayed. Long walks along the river brought us to medieval churches, each prettier than a picture. There were stately homes belonging to sundry ancient families. There were beaches. We were told we might see dolphins or basking sharks in the tidal estuary. We didn't. We trudged up headlands of peninsulas and down emblazoned paths. We also had some fine ice cream.

The food was mighty fine, I'm glad to report. Even the vegetarian couldn't complain. I had every variety of fish. Brill. Sole. Bass. Cod. Herring. I might even have had a pilchard or two. A crab gave up its existence to feed me. I salute you, crab, even if I'm no fan of crustaceans.


At one steep descent to a beach there was a sign saying that winter storms had eroded the path, which was no longer safe to use. A boy and a girl jumped over a gate and sped down to the beach. Their father was curiously unbothered. When I pointed out the sign, he said in posh tones, Ah, that notice is just a suggestion. 


A little fellow, not more than three years old, came scarpering out and said to me, do you want to see something? He set off at high speed down a path and disappeared into the distance. I went after him and saw him climbing up onto a bench at a look-out. There was a gap between the bench and the roof of the look-out. He put one leg into it. Had he gone through it, he would have fallen a few hundred feet onto the rocks below. I would not have reached him in time. He changed his mind and came back down.

I'm still shaken, a week later.


The boy, staying back in London with his grandparents, said he missed us dreadfully, and called us twice a day. He asked if he could join us on our next trip to Cornwall, and insisted that we stay in the same hotel, so he could also enjoy the ice cream, the chatter with the Malayali girl, the hikes, and the dolphins. He was not pleased to be left behind, he said, when his parents were having fun by themselves. We are a family, he said, and should enjoy ourselves together.


On our way back to London our train developed a fault with its brakes. So in addition to the inexpressible tedium of any return journey was added a wholly frustrating half an hour delay. To boot, I ran out of books to read. So I spent some time typing out this post on our decrepit iPad. It is no fun typing on an iPad, I can tell you that much.

Sep 3, 2014

Strangest Man's Food

It was only when he was in his 80s that Paul Dirac's digestive ailment was finally diagnosed. Eating, for him, was a chore and a burden. 
Dirac always felt out of place at fancy college dinners. Rich food, vintage wine, antiquated formalities, florid speeches, the fetid smoke of after-dinner cigars - all were anathema to him. So he was probably not looking forward to the evening of Wednesday, 9 November 1927, when he was to be one of the toasts of a dinner to celebrate the election of three new fellows to St John's College. He was now certifiably a 'first-rate man', with a permanent seat at the college's high table. [...] Dirac celebrated his election to the fellowship in the traditional way, by consuming an eight course meal that included oysters, a consommé, cream of chicken soup, sole, veal escalope and spinach, pheasant with five vegetables and side salad, and three desserts. For him, the meal was not so much a celebration as a penance.

Aug 25, 2014

Reading Arabic

Owing to Shoe Lane library, I've suddenly increased my knowledge of Arabic fiction by leaps and bounds. I'd go so far as to say a quantum jump, except of course a quantum is a fairly small packet of energy, and I have expended a few centillion quanta at least. And still the well doth not dry! There are more books in the pipeline, and will help me in effort to read outside of the Eurocentric translation world that kept me occupied for the most of last year.

The plethora is all down to Arabia Books, an imprint which has been instrumental in translating Arabic fiction for six years. It has been incredibly generous as well - on its fifth anniversary last year, it gave away a complete set of its books to every library that signed up to the offer - for free! No wonder Shoe Lane library is a treasure-trove!

The coverage of the books is varied - not just in the countries but also in styles and genres. I've gone through books from Algeria, Libya, Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt (of course), Lebanon, Syria, Iraq. I've seen nothing as yet from Yemen or Saudi or Oman or Kuwait or the UAE, but while I can expect some intellectual development in Yemen and Oman, not so from the others mentioned, stultifyingly rich and stupendously prodigal.

The variety in styles and approaches is eye-opening, too. All the countries above have suffered or continue to suffer under repression - political, social, sexual. You'd expect to find, therefore, novels of protest, and you do, but you also find remarkable works of commentary and character and inventiveness. There are memoirs, epic histories, small and taut tales of suffocation and sexual liberation. There are feisty women and brave girls as often as there are subtle men and layabout boys.

I guess one of the questions of anyone approaching Arabic fiction is - is there really an Arabic fiction? After all, there is so much variation in the language across the Arab world that for all intents and purposes Maghrebi Arabic is quite distinct from, say, Lebanese. I learn that much of the writing is in classical Arabic, which owing to the Qu'ran, is understood all across the region. No surprise then that authors choose to write in the high style, rather than in the vernacular, as that opens up their readership. However, Egyptian and Lebanese Arabic is fairly well-understood, I think, because of the soft power wielded by these countries - their pop and film industry is extremely popular. But it's not entirely clear to me which of the books I've read were originally written in the local Arabic.

Over a few posts, I'll try to summarise some of the highlights of my months of reading Arabic literature. For the impatient among you, I'd recommend a visit to the blog Arabic Literature (in English), which contains way way more coverage and suggestions for reading and interviews than I could ever manage.

Aug 21, 2014

Hrabal Pub Crawl

The Circle Line Pub Crawl is one of the most famous antics in the binge-drinking business. You have a pint of beer, choose a station on London Underground's Circle Line, choose a direction in which to take the train, get off at the next station, find a pub, have a pint, get back on the Circle Line, repeat - till all 27 stations are complete and 28 pints have been downed. 

The Circle Line, of course, is a misnomer these days. A little while ago, instead of the circular loop it had been running on for decades, it became a yo-yo. Still, the pub crawl remains an important rite of passage for Antipodeans with more bravado than sense. I'm looking at you, Andy.

Now, were you to find yourself in Prague - another great city for beer - you can try to repeat  Haňťa's drinking escapade. Bohumil Hrabal's hero from Too Loud A Solitude starts the Grand Slalom, a course he and his friend had attempted many times before but successfully only once.
It was so long ago I had forgotten most of the course, so my friend, whose name I had also forgotten, launched into an impassioned description of it to win me over: we'd start off at the Vlachovska and move on to the Little Horn, then down to Paradise Lost and then to Myler's and the Coat of Arms, and at each place we'd order only a large beer, because we had to have time to make it to Jarolímek and Ládá's and round the bend to the Charles IV and, after a detour down to the World Cafeteria, we'd go over to Hausmann's and the Brewery, and then across the tracks to the Good King Wenceslas and on to Pudil's or Krofta's, and finally Douda's or the Mercury before coming into the home stretch at the Palmovka or Scholler's Cafeteria, and if it wasn't too late, we'd cross the finish line at either Horký's or the Town of Rokycany. Running through the course, he clung to me drunkenly, but I finally shook him off and left Čížek's, crossing the luxuriant periwinkle patches of Charles Square, where the sun worshipers had moved from benches that were now in the shade to benches that were now in the setting sun. On my way back to the Black Brewery I had a glass of rum and then a beer and then another rum. Not until we are totally crushed do we show what we are made of.
Vlachovka restaurant, pub, winery