Saturday 31 July 2010

Alfred Duggan, Evelyn Waugh and Bohemond, and why I should, perhaps, keep my mouth shut: a meditation on wisdom and stupidity

I came across a claim today that in mid-life our brains undergo some kind of expansion and that is why we are, in our dotage, rather wiser than we were in our salad days. Well, I take that with a pinch of salt, and I advise you to do so, too. I’m not suggesting we are do not become ‘wiser’ — I suspect we do. But I rather feel 'wisdom' is overblown, that in a sense it is sailing under false clours and has done so for quite some time.

As far as I am concerned, ‘wisdom’ is nothing special and we should stop bowing and scraping and worshipping at its altar. ‘Wisdom’ vaguely implies a greater intelligence, better judgment, and to call someone wise is, in some way, to praise them. Well, might I piss on this particular parade and suggest that were we to call each other ‘rather less stupid’ than ‘rather wise’, we are getting a little closer to what wisdom is?

Let me offer some examples of ‘wise’ behaviour: not picking a fight with someone who is stronger than you and, if he — or even
she — were so inclined, could beat the living shit out of you. I’ll put that a little more genteelly for our ‘civilised’ age: not taking someone to court who would be able to hire better lawyers. It would be regarded as ‘wise’ not to spend more money than you actually have, or not to take out a loan you have no chance of paying off. (Pictured: man who has done just that.) It would be regarded as ‘wise’ not to start an affair with a neurotic woman who can’t keep her mouth shut.

But let me put all those another way, and you might see what I am getting at: it would be regarded as ‘downright stupid’ to pick a fight with someone stronger than you, to take to court someone who can afford far better lawyers, to spend money you don’t have and will never have, and to nob the local loudmouth lush. So if I think that, on balance, I am a little wiser at 60 than I was at 20, 30, 40 or even 50, please understand it to mean that I do consciously try to learn from my many mistakes and like to think I’m not quite as bloody stupid as all too often I proved myself to be. (Anyone who doesn’t learn from his or her mistakes deserves all the misery which will undoubtedly come his or her way.)

All that is a rather long-winded preamble to the point of this entry: when a writer is largely regarded as ‘good’, ‘wonderful’, ‘magnificent’, ‘magical’ or ‘inspired’ and is generally showered with any of the many luvvie phrases without which no self-respecting literary discussion can dare be without, it would seem ‘unwise’ — I use the term instead of its synonym ‘stupid’ — to disagree. Well, I am forced to disagree: there are quite a few writers who aren’t what they are cracked up to be. At this point, others are fully entitled to ask ‘and what makes you qualified to make that claim?’ Well, I do make that claim: I think D H Lawrence has his moments, but he eventually went off the boil. And the writer who sparked this particular entry is a chap called Alfred Duggan.

Duggan was a contemporary of Evelyn Waugh’s at Oxford and, like Waugh, was something of a waster. Unlike Waugh, his family had money and he could afford to be a waster. He is thought to be one of Waugh’s louche Oxford friends on whom Sebastian Flyte was based. Duggan did very little with his life except spend his wealthy stepfather’s money until there was none left. He then turned to writing and wrote a number of novels based in the medieval era for which he did a lot of background reading and which are thus said to be quite accurate.

I came across Duggan at school when his Knight With Armour about the Crusades was a set text. I remember enjoying it, but apart from remembering that its protagonist died a miserable death long before reaching the Holy Land, nothing at all remains with me. But while on holiday in France recently, I read The First Crusade by Thomas Asbridge. I can wholly recommend that book for its straightforward and clear prose and Asbridge’s gift for explaining complex motivation. Subsequently, I became more interested in the Crusades (of which, I was very surprised to find out, there were nine in total) and googled for more books on the subject. And that is how I came across Duggan’s Count Bohemond, the story of an Italian Norman warlord and a major player in the First Crusade who laid claim to the fortress of Antioch and whose descendants held if for almost another 200 years.

I bought the book and am now reading it. Before I started reading it, I was encouraged by the forward by no less than Evelyn Waugh himself, a hero of mine, an honour he shares with Ray Davies, of the Kinks, and Homer Simpson. Waugh is hugely taken by the book and wrote that it is ‘lucid and masterly, absolutely free of affectation or ostentation’. That, as far as it goes, is true, but unfortunately it doesn’t go very far. What Waugh doesn’t say is that the novel lacks atmosphere and excitement, and if writing is more than jostling together a series of words grammatically and elegantly — which it undoubtedly is — the novel is simply not very well written.

The reader, or rather this reader, gets absolutely no sense at all of the First Crusade — there were something like 200,000 or more knights, pilgrims, foot soldiers and on or more underway — or the life they led. What Duggan has produced is a series of rather stilted, though informative, conversations between two men, one of whom is always our eponymous hero. And the novel is nothing but a progression from one conversation to the next. Some writers can convey sight, smells and sounds. Duggan can’t. His novel is simply badly written.

So what does this have to do with being wise? That’s quite simple: I have written little and published nothing, and whatever I do write in the future could well turn out to be utter garbage. So wouldn’t is be wiser for me to keep quiet rather than shoot my mouth off? Answers, please, on a postcard or in an email.

Monday 26 July 2010

Hypochondriac*, nutter or neither? (*Wish someone had told me I'd spelled it wrong the first time round)

I have acquired my own digital blood pressure monitor, and the answer to the question in the title to this blog entry – hypochondriac, nutter or neither? – is ‘neither’. After my experience with statins, I am now trying to do something about avoiding the side effects of a blood-thinning, blood pressure lowering, all-singing and all-dancing drug called Ramipril.
Incidentally, after coming off – taking myself off – statins last September, my body recovered very quickly and quite dramatically. I no longer needed advance warning of having to bend down (and that is only a slight exaggeration), my limbs were no longer weak and I generally stopped feeling like some eightysomething on his death-bed. However, about six weeks ago, my GP (‘doctor’ for American readers) persuaded me that as there was ‘evidence for’ secondary benefits of taking statins, I should try again. I finally agreed only on condition I would be on the lowest possible dose. So he put me on one at 5mg. I later discovered it was a new version and regarded as a super-statin. And anyway, the same happened and my body reacted as it had done before. So I’ve come off them again – it’s been almost two weeks – and feel a lot better.
The purpose of getting a blood pressure monitor is to allow me, perhaps, to come off Ramipril, one of whose side-effects is eternal tiredness. The plan is to monitor my blood pressure for a few weeks by taking it every morning at the same time, then come off the drug and see whether my blood pressure goes up. If it doesn’t, I’ll stay off Ramipril. If it does, well . . . I’ll do the sensible thing and go back on and put up with this bloody tiredness.
The daft thing is, of course, that if I do have a second heart attack and it comes out that I stopped taking the ‘preventative medication’, it will be my fault. But were I to continue to take the medication but still suffer a second heart attack, it would be a case of ‘well, nothing's guaranteed’.

Wednesday 21 July 2010

Message to Kate

Hi Kate, I am on a different iBook and don't seem to have your email address with me. I have just got back from London and was trying out a cheap webcam I bought rather than use my camcorder. It works fine except that the software keeps crashing and I am now downloading an alternative. Send me your email address again. Patrick

Saturday 17 July 2010

Well, there's this for those bored enough to like this sort of thing (obviously me, for one), but the trouble is I stumble through the whole process and despite apparently succeeding, I don't have a clue as to how I managed it. I think the true measure, or rather and essential measure of real success is 'repeatability' - if you can't do it again, IT was a fluke and YOU are a bullshitter. NB You have to click the small arrow to get the picture to move. If you only see a still picture of a corner of my kitchen, you're as stupid as I am.

Watch live video from pfgpowell on Justin.tv

Friday 25 June 2010

Welcome to Cornwall, home of the gratuitous diatribe by disaffected sixtysomethings

The obscure website to which I subscribe which claims to ‘monitor’ traffic to this blog — and I don’t even begin to understand how it works or why it even exists — tells me that I had a recent visitor who arrived here after following up links to ‘Cornwall’. Well, Lord knows what he or she made of this blog. The most recent entry is merely and unshamed plug for my novel (should that be ‘novel’) which, I am sure, will have fallen on deaf ears, and the entry before that was a bad-tempered outburst about ‘hacks’ and quite how awful they are (for which I make no apology: two days ago, I bought Private Eye. The former Mail news editor who has recently been promoted to assistant editor and now sits on the features desk (and who is otherwise rather a good egg) borrowed it to read. When I got it back, I discovered he had come across a story he wanted the Mail to follow up and had simply ripped out a page. Now call me old-fashioned, but I find that quite a bizarre thing to do. To his credit he replaced my copy with the copy the news editor gets and apologised profusely. But it was a paradigm of the kind of thing which goes on among hacks.
But my visitor, in search of references to all things Cornish will surely have wondered what the bloody hell my diatribe against hacks has to do with Cornwall, Kernow, tin, tourism, obesity, teenage pregnancy, poor housing, retired diplomats, non-Cornish in twee pixie hats trying to flow you tat in the resorts on the south coast, scruffy ‘museums’ claiming to prove that King Arthur’s Camelot was just north of Camelford (motto: ‘never let a chance nominal resemblance go to waste and screw the public for all its worth’, though to be fair there are the remains of a castle — though admittedly not a lot — at Tintagel which is said to have been the home of Arthur’s father Uther Pendragon and where Arthur was born), and generally loads of Brummy, Lancshire and London immigrants trying to cobble together a living.
Cornwall is one of those places which sounds romantic from afar but which turns out to be something quite different once you get here. Newquay, for example, is a hole, full of drunken teens pissing away their welfare payments. Lord, this is turning into yet another diatribe. Must spend the rest of the day pretending I am not over 60.
PS For those who are interested, I am taking Pottery, my stepmother’s 19-year-old cat to the vet’s to have his bandage replaced. He recently had a cyst removed.
Have a nice day.