Wittgenstein, 2

 There's not a great deal of point reading a book one doesn't understand and my copy of the Tractatus is purely decorative but, as hoped, Ray Monk's biography does a fine job of explaining as much of Wittgenstein as I'm ever likely to grasp. 

It brings with it some big surprises, not least the Christianity. For someone devoted to logic and equations, coming from an interest in mathematics, God seems like an unlikely conclusion to arrive at. For all his deep, deep thought and austerity, it is disappointing to find him relying on mysticism and using certain words to mean specifically what he wants them to mean, rather what is more widely understood by them, seems like a big abdication of responsibility if not a letdown from someone who, I had thought, was better than that.

Wittgenstein was an Idealist, where ideas come before things. I simply can't see how that can be. Plato was an Idealist, Aristotle a Realist. It seems to me an Idealist is the more likely to get locked into their own thinking. If reading this book results in Wittgenstein going down in my estimation, as a philosopher, I'm glad to find that Derrida was only mistakenly seen as an Idealist but,

In reality, Derrida meant that our access to the world is always mediated by systems of signs, traces, and differences, making a pure, unmediated "view from nowhere" impossible. 

I am indebted to Google's AI summary for that and am grateful. While a small part of my paltry B.A. (Hons) was in Philosophy, I'm not up to it.

But I am glad to be making some trivial sense of it all and the biography has edged out The Anatomy of Melancholy in this heavyweight contest for my attentions. To think of Wittgenstein teaching in primary schools in rural Austria is remarkable. He meets his one and only known girlfriend in his mid-thirties. He could have had access to great family wealth but disdained it for reasons that Ray Monk suggests come from his difficult upbringing. Three of his brothers commit suicide and it is an idea that recurs to him at regular intervals. Whether one is interested in Philosophy or not, it is a remarkable life to read but, as with so many 'genius' types, not a happy one.

Roughly halfway through the book, I'm keen to press on towards the ending, knowing that he changed his mind, like so many of us do. That bleak, haunted look says much about the downside of the sort of intellect that makes almost everybody else struggle and so I'm wondering if any change of mind brought him back from the brink of madness because if you are that clever and yet still have to rely on mysticism, your own definitions of words and if you look mad, act mad and even the finest minds can't understand you, that could be what you are. I don't want to think that. I want him to escape the prison of his tautologies and dubious ways of escaping meaninglessness. As such, it is quite an exciting book. 

Wittgenstein

 122 pages, of nearly 600, and the life of Ludwig Wittgenstein is a thoroughly worthwhile read. That comes as a pleasant surprise when I had anticipated heavy going and impenetrable passages of epistemology. So far so good with how Ray Monk's account in narrating the life with a manageable level of detail supported by summaries of the ideas in which one can at least believe one has an idea what is involved in the ideas. 

The first point seems to be how well Wittgenstein did to avoid suicide with siblings and contemporaries making such a vogue of it. Being brilliant to the point of exhaustion and beyond the comprehension of almost all the rest of humanity can't be easy, taking oneself off to Norway to be alone to think incessantly about logic wouldn't usually be considered healthy. But he lives at an intensity that only such dedication can provide purpose and fulfilment and, while being well liked by some, he can be difficult and important relationships with Bertrand Russell and G.E. Moore suffer as a result. There is clearly more to logic than first year Philosophy where inductive arguments seemed straightforward. 

I had thought I was in sympathy with what I understood of his thinking but, at first at least, he rejects empiricism - the evidence of one's senses- in favour of the processes of logic to the extent that he denies it's possible to know there isn't a rhinoceros in the room when Bertie has looked under the table and everywhere else without finding one. But I know the Tractatus is eventually retracted so we will wait and see if he later concedes the rhinoceros-less condition of most domestic accommodation in England.

I'm also surprised how he suddenly accepts Christianity which I wouldn't have thought could be established by empiricism or logic. I'm not convinced by the example of rain in the proposition that 'it's either raining or it isn't', which sounds true because it must be one or the other, but one or two spots might fall on one person and not the person next to them on Southsea seafront and so they would disagree whether it was raining or not. And I'm not yet sure that Wittgenstein escapes from the language that he necessarily has to use to express his abstract ideas. It has long seemed that words in sentences are not sufficient and that their limitations are his.

Madness surely lies waiting for anybody bold enough to take on such enormous questions and no philosopher yet has provided a system that wasn't critiqued and found wanting by the next generation. With Derrida and post-Structuralism it appeared to collapse into meaninglessness and truth was elusive. However attractive one might find elements of Sartre, Barthes or Baudrillard, it could be that nobody really got much further than Socrates. 

As you can see, I haven't grasped it but maybe nobody else has either. To be a total adherent of any philosopher requires the sort of act of faith that Christianity depends on which puts it all down to God while omitting to explain where he came from. But if there was an answer, the game would be over and that would be that. In the meantime, Wittgenstein is a compelling figure with his towering genius ultimately taking him on an arduous journey to nowhere but, gladly, worshipping Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms so at least he got that right.  

Oh, Babe, What Would You Say

A pattern begins to emerge after the third Rose Tremain novel in short order. She does the raptures of love very well, time and again, this time in The Gustav Sonata, but also the counter-balancing pain and difficulties.

Central to The Gustav Sonata is the humanitarian offence of falsifying the dates of Jews escaping Nazism into 'neutral' Switzerland and the question of who betrayed who when the police chief who facilitates as many migrants as he can before the border is secured more tightly against them is betrayed by his wife.

It's a complicated web of relationships in which the widow is left trying to lure Gustav, the son, into a relationship in her old age. Meanwhile, Gustav's close childhood friend has a career as a concert pianist undermined by stage fright. It makes for a grim book, no less beautifully realized than The Housekeeper or Absolutely & Forever, but somehow more discomfiting as the unhappiness outweighs the rapture.

It is a good time to wait before overdoing the Tremain, for fear of the law of diminishing returns applying to Music & Silence. Thus The Anatomy of Melancholy might add intervals of relatively light relief during 600 pages of Wittgenstein's life. When the primary texts are hard going- and Wittgenstein is surely a paragon example of that- then a biography can be an easier point of access. It looks like even Ludwig himself didn't expect anybody to understand his Tractatus. 

--

The archive Middlemarch recently on BBC4 with Juliet Aubrey, Rufus Sewell, Robert Hardy et al was a masterpiece of both costume drama and seminal novel, a fine example of why the BBC is still worth all of its licence fee and would be even more so if showing more of what it has stored away and caught up with a few more recent good books.

I was once told that my preference for George Eliot over Dickens was somehow inevitable, I'm not now entirely sure why, but surely she is in a different class. Maybe Dickens is a bit more 'obvious' and Eliot is dealing with things more subtly but one can hardly accuse Dickens of creating lurid caricatures when Patrick Malahide's Casaubon, Aubrey's Dorothea, Hardy's Brooke and Sewell's Ladislaw were clearly delineated- to great effect- with minor parts tending towards cartoons, but all the better to make its points in a costume drama that, for the most part, resolves into a happy enough ending.

--

Meanwhile, Unearthed: The Mystery of the Shaman Woman arrived at phenomenal conclusions from the discovery of a Mesolithic- 9000 year old- burial site in Germany. It's not for me to say that they came to some very specific conclusions from a few old bones and what was found with them but to create a female shaman who could put herself into a trance by leaning her head back to cut off the blood supply to her head and becoming renowned as a healer is a huge step.

Most compelling was how the discovery, once taken up by the Nazis as an Aryan icon, all white, blond and blue-eyed, was re-made as dark-skinned and the news to me that Europeans were dark-skinned 9000 years ago and those of us who became 'white' only did so due to a change in diet, starchy foods apparently gradually making us paler.

I'd have thought that was an absolute godsend to all us liberal left, 'intellectual elite' who don't think that white is naturally superior. Alongside the documentary about the vast libraries of Timbuktu, it all begins to make Western white culture- all that Bach, Shakespeare, relativity and space exploration- look more like a recent aberration in the longer perspectives of history.

Given the prognostications about the 10% chance of AI finishing off humanity in the next ten years, it could just be that, quite beautifully, all that arrogance and cleverness brought with it its own downfall. It was already clear that if AI was asked to solve such problems as climate change it would realize that it was caused by human beings and, if asked to prevent it, would thus wipe out its cause. It would be a great shame if there was nobody left to appreciate the irony so I suggest we appreciate now, in advance, just in case.   

From the Heart

Tongues and Grooves, From the Heart, Square Tower, Old Portsmouth, Oct 1 

The long-established poetry series, Tongues & Grooves, nowadays mostly presents From the Heart where readers, whether poets or not, undertake to recite poems that are not their own from memory. I find it hard enough to read poems in front of an audience with the text right in front of me so it's unlikely I'd take on the challenge but one way for my good mate, Kev, to improve his status towards 'best mate', should he feel the need, was to choose one of my poems to learn. The very least I could do was turn up to support him.

Maybe about half of the performers get through without being prompted, which is impressive. Nobody attempted They flee from me by Thomas Wyatt but I'm sure that's what the words do under the pressure of performance. And it is the reader's performance rather than the poem one is appreciating. Shelley's not a huge favourite of mine but the recitation of Ozymandias was exemplary. Neither was the poem read by Cat Sawkins but she just about cleaned up in what became a family double when Maggie did Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow which I possibly could have done about fifty years ago but it's not a game that what can expect to improve at with age. Maggie's reading of The Rain Stick, from Seamus Heaney's brilliant book The Spirit Level, was usefully illustrated by the very thing and probably my favourite poem of the evening but it was strange to find oneself applauding a great reading of one's least favourite poet in English Literature - Kae Tempest- but that's how it works. Gareth Toms doing the nearby Armitage public poem, The Theatre of the Sea, revealed him as something of a showman.

It was impressive that a couple of those whose main job was to provide the interval barber shop choir extended their involvement by performing poems, too. And if Maggie is as thoughtfully gifted a presenter as she is a poet then in Janet Ayers she has an ideal co-host whose confidence and demeanour are always well-ahead of the potentially precarious situations of microphone malfunction, unremembered lines or anybody winning too many raffle prizes.

I had no idea what to expect. Poetry readings can, on occasions, be dire experiences. Anybody who fancies having a go at doing poetry 'live' could easily be a recipe for disaster. But many of them have done it before and there's more talent out there than one might think. Poetry isn't always the uplifting, therapeutic thing it is sometimes claimed to be. But at Tongues & Grooves, From the Heart took on all my doubts and cast them aside with the most gracious ease. Hugely enjoyable show in all its variety and good will.

 

 

 Kevin Rogers, once frontman of the Von Trap Family, finds himself performing Romanticism by David Green nearly fifty years later. That's progress for you.  

Anatomy and other stories

The last time I saw Jeff Turner, he said The Anatomy of Melancholy was his favourite book. It might have been prompted by me saying it looked forbidding and I'd done a dissertation on Andrew Marvell at university rather than have to read it as part of C17th Lit. Nonetheless, I took it as a recommendation, promoted it up my list of forthcoming reading and now it is underway. It will be a leisurely project, mindful of the advice that it can be read selectively rather than from cover to cover.

It's nowhere near as forbidding as its size and title might make one think. Burton portrays himself as Democritus Junior. Democritus was the philosopher who laughed at human folly and Burton finds the same attitude as an antidote to his melancholy. In a torrent of classical references, he comes across like Dr. Johnson or Montaigne as sane and reasonable in the mad world of human ambition and endeavour. The book would be much reduced in length if his quotations from the Latin and Greek were not followed by a translation but if we could only have one or the other, most of us would prefer the translation. 

Like Johnson and Montaigne, he is good company. Not necessarily what one would expect of someone who spent their whole C17th adult life at Oxford University. But his melancholy was real and the remedy, which was to write the book, seems to work. As Johnson also advises, keeping busy is good for you and lassitude a bad thing so the Anatomy very neatly provides the answer to its own question.

--

Meanwhile, now into The Gustav Sonata, Rose Tremain's books don't yet look like stalling on me like Henry James did. So far, three quite different novels have similar underlying themes. She does intense love very well, and then undermines it.

In Absolutely & Forever, it is clearly nothing of the sort as Marianne is so totally given to Simon until they marry other people less than happily but, as it turns out, wouldn't have been much more successful marrying each other in the circumstances.

Good novels can still be written after Ulysses and the Wake which had seemed to take the form and blow it up. If Adorno didn't actually say that no poetry could be written after Auschwitz, he might have implied that it shouldn't be but much good work followed on from re-adjustments after two World Wars. Pop music raced from Bill Haley to the overblown late 60's, prog and punk but still emerged to keep on producing for fifty more years to date. It might be hard to compare Rose Tremain and Julian Barnes, say, with Virginia Woolf as 'high art' but they are brilliant at what they do within their more limited ambitions.

It took me more than three books to come to a standstill with Henry James. Two more volumes look resentfully down at me from the stockpile on the top shelf. But Music & Silence, sure to be taken from there before they are, looks different again by being 'historical'. Now that I've found her I won't her go. I won't build my world around her. The biography of Wittgenstein will fit in somewhere. But it would have been a great pity if the du Maurier book hadn't led me to her.

How would we ever know what we had missed. We have to trust that in the time we had, we found as much as we could. 

--

The replacement of the headphones damaged beyond repair when some ceiling fell in last winter has resulted in me playing some long unplayed discs. I've not been playing 'pop' discs for years.

Garbage, the Jesus & Mary Chain, Matchbox Twenty, Joni Mitchell. Impressive things too good to be left lying around disused forever. Hejira is complicated stuff, Garbage Version 2.0 a little bit posturing but the interest is often in the texture of the sound the bands make more than the words.

I was reminded about when I was pointedly asked in the office 'if I still liked Matchbox Twenty' by one whose idea of 'cool' still included Pink Floyd. I most vibrantly replied that I did. Rob Thomas is a brilliant, passionate songwriter and singer who once said their ambition was to be Fleetwood Mac and that's a fine thing to want to be. I think the point my interrogator might have been trying to make was that they aren't regarded as quite as 'cool' as the Velvet Underground, the J&MC, Wyclef Jean, the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill and suchlike.

But now, DGBooks Radio presses on towards 1000 tracks. There's Cliff, the Osmonds, What Are You Doing Sunday? by Dawn and The Archies. Pop, pop, pop music. To be enjoyed, not rated on a 'cool meter' where, anyway, Floyd struggle to get 3/10, Queen hardly get off the mark and Zappa is less than zero.

Oh, Babe, What Would You Say

 There's a new usage abroad. 'Bad actors' are people who do bad things. It appears it comes from a novel. It is suddenly all over the place.

We have recently been inundated with people 'leaning into' things, before that every interviewer asked at least one 'good question' per interview and before that it was 'look' or 'listen' before any reply, somewhat abrasively, as if the questioner wasn't going to. These epidemics are contagious. They catch on quickly when they do and for a while can be heard every day.

This morning it was reported that the Fairford incident might have involved a 'foreign actor' so I e-mailed in to Stig and Kate at Times Radio Breakfast,

Are there any suggestions who the foreign actor involved at Fairford was?

Was it possibly Gerard Depardieu.

Were there also bad actors involved?

Could they have included Donald Sinden.

 

Perhaps too facetious even for their sometimes contrary attitude. They didn't read it out. I'll use it here instead.

--

This morning I found out that Google AI will set you a quiz on any given subject, if asked. I scored 8/10 on Lindisfarne island, 10/10 on Lindisfarne the band, 9/10 on Cliff Richard, 5/5 on Thom Gunn and 3/4 on Sean O'Brien. So I wondered what the chances were that it could set me a quiz on myself.

None. But in the process I found these kind words here,

Richard Williams Facebook  

That's entirely fair enough. He's a good lad.  

 

My ultra modest career continues to kick off in a few new directions as Kev Rogers prepares to recite Romanticism, the poem not the whole book, at an event in the Square Tower, Old Portsmouth, on Thursday evening. Then on Weds 21st, I'm helping out Portsmouth Poetry Society in their role as the local Stanza group in a joint reading with Chichester. I'd invite you to come and be there but numbers are limited and my guest allocation is spoken for.

All these small things make me wonder if I'd tried harder and put myself about more when I thought wider recognition was desirable I may or may not have been a contender. But I'm glad I didn't. I wouldn't have been much good at it. The poems, such as they are, have been allowed to be what they are and find what direction they found away from too much attention. Like Rick Nelson in Garden Party, if I couldn't please everyone I was better pleasing myself, as it were.

Jeffrey Turner

 Jeff Turner had been gathering together those poems of his I don't already have with a view to an essay surveying his work. We were due to meet soon but now won't be doing after his death on Saturday, after a short period of incapacity.

We were employed by the same civil service department in the 1990's and he turned out for the cricket team a number of times into his late 50's. 

He wasn't one to advertize his talents unduly. On one occasion, about some business in the office where he worked, I noticed a booklet on top of an open briefcase and, being inquisitive beyond my remit, found it to be a catalogue of rare and antiquarian books. Asking whose it was, Jeff owned up and said it was from Peter Scupham, a friend of his and a poet of some reputation. It transpired that Jeff attended weekends at Scupham's historic family pile in East Anglia with Anne Stevenson, Anthony Thwaite and more.

It wasn't until some years later that our conversations about poetry developed much further on walks. I gave him copies of my booklets as they appeared and he gave me his. Most memorably, asking him to sign one in the pub after a walk, he produced the box that contained his italic pen, assembled it and in due course proceeded to add his idiosyncratic signature.

He didn't do anything in haste but did everything he did thoughtfully, not least his poems. Whereas our poems were more or less from a similar area of the poetry map, mine are often written in short order once they are ready to be written but one couldn't imagine Jeff's coming without a more careful process.

They are characteristically deep meditations, often on nature or the place of humanity in it. I asked if he felt Edward Thomas was any sort of model for him but he thought not,

I've never consciously styled myself on Thomas. I think it's a matter of vaguely similar outlook and temperament. I'd like to write like Auden but that wouldn't be honest. Bishop, Wilbur and certain poems by Rimbaud have a style which I like to refer to when in doubt.  

Elizabeth Bishop I can see now, as in her Sandpiper perhaps. And that, like her, his published output amounts to relatively few poems which suggests that both either only wrote poems when something significant enough presented itself or that their quality control didn't allow through poems that they weren't entirely happy with.

Jeff published two booklets, The Angled Boat and The Other Parish, and there are a number of limited edition poems produced by the Chestnut Press, and Gruffyground, at their invitation, on handmade paper. I will hope to compile a bibliography and see if the essay his work deserves is possible but it might be limited to an appreciation more than anything definitive. 

I know that he was placed in the National Poetry Competition more than once. On one occasion,

'The Gecko' was an entry in the Arvon competiton when Paterson won it. It didn't earn a prize, only a commended which didn't worry me too much as Michael Donaghy got the same and he wasn't upset at all. 

There was also an appearance on Radio 3 alongside James Michie and an accompanying 'short-lived' magazine called 3.  

He had been 'chuffed' when I asked if he might be part of a reading I was looking into proposing to next year's Portsmouth BookFest. He need not have been concerned that he would 'lower the standard', his modest dignity would have enhanced the event. His last e-mail from a few weeks ago ends with a promise to write at more length 'tomorrow'.

At an early stage of making some notes on The Angled Boat, I wondered whether it would be appropriate to make some lateral comparison of Jeff's poems with those of John Donne. Any similarity is not immediately obvious but it could be that Donne's 'metaphysical' way, where his entreaties to girlfriends or meditations are a vehicle for his showy ingenuity, is not unlike Jeff's contemplation of tiny detail being a way into exercising his lines into quiet, sometimes extraordinary, performances. In Moss, for example, it takes him beyond,

This solanum, winter cherry, is dead.

But I keep it for the moss

that brims the pot and for the six 

muted orange fruits that hang like moons

above an unattempted planet.

 

in a way that is like Blake seeing a world in a grain of sand.  

 

I never came away from any discussion of poetry with Jeff feeling anything but the wiser for it. He was the 'less deceived', once saying that 90% of poems aren't much good; that Eliot's attitude in his critical essays was that, 'this is all a bit too hard for you', and that an obituary of Thom Gunn I did for another website was good 'in parts'. But the value of his discriminating approach was that one was allowed to feel that if and when he said kind things about your work he probably wasn't just being polite. Although he was always that, too.