darkly wise, rudely great

Brawling priests: why piety can cause vice

2012-02-02T11:34:00.003+11:00

I've my regular ABC column up today: 'The Ultimate Fighter, priest-style: piety and religious vice'.

The column's complemented by a 'rant' on ABC1's 'The Drum' program, 6pm. (Video to follow later.)

Prompted by brawling Holy Land priests, I'm arguing that piety can actually encourage vice, as the means (incantations, clothes, genuflections) are mistaken for the ends (a cultivated psyche). A sample:

what begins as a quest for reverence becomes dogmatism and vice. The good Christian becomes less like Christ, and more like the priests who judged him: more interested in institutional codes than virtue. "Those who set up piety as their ultimate aim and goal," wrote Goethe, "mostly end up becoming hypocrites." Habits harden, and the psyche is left unimproved.

(Photo: Byztex)

On unconditional love (and happy birthday)

2012-01-31T08:59:00.004+11:00

I've a column in the Canberra Times today, 'Navigating the conditions of unconditional love'.

After a Twitter conversation with Karen Pickering and Ben Pobjie, I'm suggesting that so-called 'unconditional love', at least for couples, is a dubious ideal.

What we have, and what we need to cultivate well, is conditional love. A sample:

conditions are precisely why we love someone: that they have certain qualities, and not others. It is the specifics - of their life and psyche - that make the love what it is. We need, not unconditional love, but judicious, honest, hard-working love - love that creates and appreciates conditions, instead of purporting to dismiss them.

Speaking of lasting love, and its labours: it's Ruth's birthday today. Huzzah!

It began with a cup of tea in bed, followed by gifts and hand-drawn cards from the kids (hopping madly). Then more gifts from yours truly, and a small poem. (Doggerel: the gift that keeps on giving... laughter.)

After breakfast (which may've included hundreds 'n' thousands on toast), Ruth meandered off to a café with her pen, notebook and new Noodler's Black Swan on Australian Rose ink, while I cleaned and washed up.

Now for a romantic lunch, with only the two of us... and two children still hopping and chattering about Ewoks.

Happy birthday, my love, and thank you for our full catastrophe.

Modern Dilemmas: teenage sex and friends' muddled careers

2012-01-30T13:26:00.003+11:00

Today I spoke on Radio National's 'Life Matters', with new host Natasha Mitchell, and author/commentator Nina Funnell.

We were launching a new regular segment, 'Modern Dilemmas', tackling contemporary quandaries (big and small).

Today's dilemmas were teenage sex in the home, and friends with muddled career ambitions. You can listen and leave a comment here.

God, and other friends in high places

2012-01-27T08:04:00.000+11:00

I've my regular ABC column up today, 'Friends in high places'.

I'm discussing exceptionalism, particularly of the religious kind: the idea that one's tribe, nation or faith is special, because god cares. Out of all the cosmos, and all its planets, and all our planet's species, and all the humans, we are the favoured. A sample:

It is not a logical failure, but a failure of virtue. It is this belief that god cares; that there is a sentient creator who is not only benevolent and loyal, but also genuinely concerned with the day-to-day labours and longings of ordinary human beings. Christianity, Judaism and Islam share this view, and it is founded on a vice: the craven unwillingness to face an indifferent cosmos.

Tragic intimacy: the arts of disaster

2012-01-25T16:22:00.003+11:00

I've an essay in the new Griffith Review, 'Tragic Intimacy'.

The new Review has a disaster theme, and I'm looking at the arts of disaster: How can disaster be beautiful? A sample:

We might explain away disaster as a simple narrative device: an artistic trope, like titillating flesh. Certainly, drama is vital for narrative, and disasters do provide drama. Even in sculptures, like Dying Gaul, there is an unspoken story - suffering provides the emotional lure, which pulls us into it. And, as David Hume once noted, simply being in the middle of something - story, craft, scientific investigation - can pique our curiosity.

But why disaster in particular, rather than romantic passion, existential bafflement, or some other human drama? The technical solution sidesteps the real question: What, in disaster, asks for beauty's visceral magic?

One answer comes from French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. In his magnum opus Being and Nothingness (1956), he argued that human existence is basically unfinished. Whereas things in the world just are, we are not; our consciousness stands outside itself as time and space, and is always able to be otherwise. With each new moment, we can say ‘no' to the last moment and all that we are. This is Sartre's doctrine of freedom: mankind is continual becoming, liberated from the simple ‘being' of fountain pens, teaspoons and café tables.

And this is at the root of what he called our ‘unhappy consciousness': we're haunted by this pure being. It's what we are, but we can never recover it, because our consciousness grows against it. In other words, we long to shrug off our freedom and simply be. But this is impossible: this longing is itself part of our free consciousness. There is no way out of liberty. We are always incomplete, unfinished.

For Sartre, art can provide a brief remedy for this. He wrote of the ‘noble suffering' of the statue or tragic mask, which is like a dream of our own pure being. We see in it ourselves - our own restless world. But it is suddenly solid, stable. ‘It is presented to us as a compact, objective whole,' wrote Sartre, ‘it is there in the midst of the world, like this tree or this stone.' This is only a brief reprieve from bittersweet freedom, but it has an extraordinary hold on us. It's a glimpse of perfection, a promise of eternal rest.

In this light, disasters become beautiful in art, not because they deny suffering, but because they make our own suffering palpable, tactile. We can point to Picasso's Guernica (1937) and say: ‘There, that is what I am.' They give us pain, without life's unsettling squirm and sprint.

School holidays and coffee

2012-01-23T07:44:00.001+11:00

I've two columns with Fairfax today - one in The Age, another in the Sydney Morning Herald.

In The Age, 'Embracing spontaneity helps make holidays child's play' looks at the ambivalence of parenthood, particularly in the school holidays.

I discuss how play - real play, not just watching from a bench or couch - can be healthy for kids and parents alike. A sample:

Much of adult life is implicit: ideas, impressions, values. When playing, children often ask us to explain ourselves. Fudging regularly fails because of the child's Excalibur of truth: ''But why?'' The colour of the sky, the meaning of irony, the importance of fighting etiquette - putting these into simple, clear language is helpful for my children, and me.

Play also promotes innovative impulsivity. Lego, for example, is best off-the-plan: taking the basic bricks and making something new. Working with my son and daughter, the constructions change as we work: a palace for Odysseus, planetarium, ninja trap. Likewise for the sandpit, cardboard-and-sticky-tape or woodwork building: a play of artful whims.

Meanwhile, in Herald, 'Caffeine less vital than conviviality of a cuppa' explores the caffeine hit, and asks: Is the chemical stimulation really the chief point? A sample:

Obviously, most Australians do not have health in mind as they sip their ristretto. Caffeine is a stimulant - the silent partner in many workdays. But because it is addictive, its contribution is dubious. Once we are habituated, the miracle cup often does little but get us to ''normal''. What seems like a vital buzz is actually what regular ''up'' folks feel every morning.

A more likely answer for caffeine's popularity is that it provides respite from boredom or harassment; some change of pace, scene or mood. Like the ''smoko'', the regular coffee break can offer a moment for peace or friendly talk.

In other words, it is not simply the caffeine that is paramount; instead, coffee provides a focal point for some deeper psychological or social need. Likewise for energy drinks: they are more a ritual of excess and abandon than a necessary lift.

Thanks for the father who failed him

2012-01-21T07:59:00.001+11:00

I've a review in today's Australian, 'Caged author Cameron Conaway gives thanks to memory of a father who failed him'.

In Caged, mixed martial artist and poet Cameron Conaway portrays his development from abused, angry kid to confident, Renaissance-man adult.

In no small measure, what helped Conaway forgive his father and forge his own adulthood was violence - of the formalised, disciplined, respectful kind: martial arts. A sample:

Conaway tells some sordid stories.

Over the years, he is mocked, beaten and ignored. This drives the youth to be what his father never was for him: physically and intellectually refined. Conaway's Oedipal rage and insecurity are educative pathologies. Conaway quotes Nietzsche, and Caged has Nietzschean undertones: the visceral origins of higher ideals, the replacement of an absent father, the value of pain and the importance of gratitude. Often Conaway takes no credit for his balance. His need for physical exertion was "instinctual", he writes, but it enhanced his studies: knowledge was the effect, not the cause.

When the author was a teenager, his father was replaced by healthier role models in martial artists such as Ken Shamrock and Bruce Lee. But Conaway recognises what his father gave him: opportunities to become stronger. In a moving passage, he echoes Nietzsche in Ecce Homo by thanking his estranged father. "I do not know what I'd be without the pain you caused, but I know I wouldn't be nearly as happy as I am right now. I'm as confident and strong as I've ever been. I hope that brings you happiness."

Astrology: an odd mix of humility and arrogance

2012-01-19T10:42:00.000+11:00

I've my regular ABC column up today, 'Astrology: an odd mix of humility and arrogance'.

I'm exploring why folks gravitate (haw haw) to astrology, and why this is a mistake. A sample:

Astrology fails as science and existential commitment. It cannot predict or control the physical world – except perhaps providing an income for astrologers. It cannot encourage liberty of consciousness, since it gives responsibility for character to distant cosmic bodies: I am Leo, forever fixed by the stars. Meow. This is classic bad faith.

(Photo: French engraving of an Egyptian depiction of the sky and divinities, courtesy of the US Library of Congress)

My Month of Reading @ Writers Victoria

2012-01-18T20:20:00.000+11:00

Next month I'm teaching 'Year of the Essay' at Writers Victoria, starting on February 19th.

It's a series of day-long courses on the essay form, covering the nature of the essay, its chief genres, and the art of pitching and publishing.

There's an 'Early Bird' discount if you get in... um... early.

To coincide with this, I've a short piece in January-February's The Victorian Writer, 'Month of Reading'.

It looks at a few of my reading pleasures for the past month: Margaret Atwood's The Penelopiad, Emily Dickinson's Poems, Alfred Habegger's All My Wars are Laid Away in Books: A Life of Emily Dickinson, Seamus Heaney's Human Chain, Will Self's 'Diary' in the London Review of Books and W. Somerset Maugham's 'The Art of Fiction'.

Here's what I had to say about Margaret Atwood's The Penelopiad:

Atwood is brave. Not because she has dared to retell the myth of Odysseus – all myths are retelling. She is brave because she makes Penelope an ambivalent, ambiguous psyche – makes her real, in other words. Atwood’s prose is adaptable: from conversational storytelling, to choral chants, to scholarly declamation. What marks this novel is her combination of exquisitely expressed sympathy and lightly worn scholarship. She has researched Odysseus, Penelope and their genealogy; she has read over the Odyssey, Iliad and Graves’ mythic smorgasbord. She takes this putty, and thumbs it with feeling: for skeptical, canny Penelope; for her braggart, restless husband; for the ill-fated serving girls Odysseus strings up. These girls are Atwood’s chorus: “twelve accusations, toes skimming the ground, hands tied behind our backs, tongues sticking out, eyes bulging, songs choked in our throats.”

There are no banshees in Mexico

2012-01-17T06:00:00.046+11:00

I finally have a copy of El Lado B de la Distracción, the Spanish translation of Distraction. Three years since Distraction's debut, it's nice to see it young again.

It is also a curious pleasure to read myself in another language - well, 'myself', interpreted by the translator Iván Viñas Arrambide. And 'read' deserves scare quotes too.

I don't speak Spanish, but it's fascinating to see what doesn't translate. 'Banshee', for example, has no equivalent - it remains untranslated, and explained with a footnote. ("Las banshees son espíritus femeninos que según la tradición irlandesa al aparecerse anuncian con sus gemidos la muerte cercana de algún pariente.") Likewise for 'Doctor Who', 'grassroots' and 'hipster'.

Writing books is an alienating job sometimes: from one's family, but also from one's own words. In the process of writing, editing, laying out, illustrating and publicising a book, it becomes collaborative - the intimacy between oneself and words is lost. And, as in all writing, sometimes one looks back on one's own prose: Did I write that?

But translation adds another dimension: I recognise my own sentences but they are no longer mine. It's less like authorship, and more like posing for a portrait: I'm certainly there, but painted by another hand. Odd.

As a work of design, Distracción is striking. The cover picture is cute, and the teal, orange and white work very well together (to my surprise). The cover photo is a nice touch.

Inside, the font is a generous size (for those with less-than-perfect eyesight), and each chapter begins with a white quill on grey, then a little ink bottle above the text. Again: cute.

May it grow old in Mexico.

"You wrote about X, so you don't care about Y"

2012-01-16T13:37:00.001+11:00

I've a column in the Canberra Times today, 'Impossible vanity of caring for everything at once'.

I'm criticising what I've called the Fallacy of Inferred Insensitivity, which often looks like this: "You wrote about X, so you don't care about Y." A sample:

In some cases, those who charge authors or speakers with indifference are correct. They accurately identify some moral blind spot, which is relevant to the case at hand but has been ignored or forgotten. In other words, they rightly recognise some bias. But in most cases, the critics are in no position to make this charge reasonably: even if they are right, they lack the evidence to establish this reasonably. They do not know the mercurial substance of another's mind. At best, they are guessing well. At worst, they are simply rehashing their own biases.

Why is this important? Because in a shattered, painful world, genuine care and thoughtful criticism are in short supply. And life is short. To respond with the Fallacy of Inferred Insensitivity is to squander yet another opportunity to think, feel and perceive with sincerity and care. Better to properly address one thing at a time, than to lambast another for not vainly trying to address everything at once.

This does not mean we cannot be systematic; cannot try to develop a ''big picture'' approach to the world. This is crucial to understanding and overcoming global problems. Rather, it means we must recognise human limits: others' and our own. And that this recognition is itself a way to promote something sadly lacking in political and moral debate: goodwill.

(Photo: Marshall McLuhan by Louis Forsdale, courtesy of the Library and Archives Canada)

Changing fashion gears

2012-01-14T11:20:00.000+11:00

Dr. Ruth Quibell (my multi-talented other half) has a column in today's Age, 'Maybe it's time for a change of gear in fashion's fast lane'.

She's discussing the rise of 'fast fashion', and the need to replace frantic consumerism with slow style.

(Photo: news.com.au/James Croucher)

Pious victimhood

2012-01-12T08:36:00.003+11:00

I've my regular ABC column up today, 'The symbolism and rage of victimhood'. I'm discussing the recent protests by ultra-Orthodox Israeli Jews, which featured children in concentration camp uniforms, wearing yellow stars.

I also spoke about the issue on ABC1's 'The Drum', which runs 6pm-7pm weeknights - you can watch the video above. (The final line, "I'm not buying it," has been cut out. You'll get the idea.)

The ultra-Orthodox see themselves as persecuted, yet they are deeply discriminatory. Their cries of victimhood actually intensify and justify their own need for control over others. A sample:

this is not simply about protection against secular persecution; not about self-defence and self-definition. The militant faithful want control. They have, they believe, a divine mandate, which gives them the right to rule. In moments of candour, they are honest about this. "We didn't come to demonstrate," one haredi woman told the Jerusalem Post, "we came to show our power, and that our power is forever."

This is why the Haredim can call Doron Matalon a 'slut'. It is why they can spit on eight-year-old girl Naama Margolese, for her 'immodest' dress as she walks to school. In their eyes, they are right, good and true, and their god loves them for their pious violence. And false victimhood plays a powerful role in this. Ideas of persecution might feel real, but they are also useful political tools, as the Nazi propagandists well knew: paranoia inspires and justifies force.

As Leslie Cannold rightly noted in The Age recently, this is more than a theological debate, and more than a Jewish problem, however holy spirits are used to justify rule in Israel. It is an international conflict over political control, which features an "unavoidable clash between the sexist edicts of religious extremists and the state's guarantee of full human rights to all its female citizens."

For secular liberals, the question is not simply whether any of the many gods are true; whether their perfect morals and laws really are written in perfect circular planetary orbits. It is whether the state's citizens may be given equal opportunities for human flourishing, without undermining the opportunities of others. This is the modern, democratic promise, however vague and conflicted.

Fanatics of all stripes – religion has no monopoly on fundamentalism – are antithetical to this promise. They want to purchase their own freedom at the cost of others', and this trade often begins with shrill claims of persecution.

(Photo: The Star/Baz Ratner/Reuters)

The awesomeness of Norse myth

2012-01-11T14:59:00.002+11:00

I've a column in today's Canberra Times, 'Norse lessons from across the rainbow bridge'.

I'm looking into the virtues of old Norse literature, and what they say about the relationship between faith and morality. A sample:

Today, atheists are sometimes condemned for their faithlessness - as if religion were a simple cure for violence and vice. But for the Vikings, piety and worship went hand-in-hand with invasion, slaughter, pillage.

The difference between the Norsemen and the Crusaders was simple: the pagans were not hypocrites. Like all fiction, religion records and recommends varied values.

Of course, we moderns can enjoy these tales with suspended disbelief: we need not invest in them, morally or cosmologically. But, like Thor's hammer, they certainly make a striking alternative to the cross.

(Illustration: Thor and the World Serpent, by Gjellerup)

Copyright and the value of literature

2012-01-06T08:55:00.003+11:00

I've a column in today's Canberra Times, 'As copyright ends, we can take the literary plunge'.

On January 1st this year, the works of James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and others moved into the public domain. I discuss the importance of copyright law and the public domain, and the artistic value of literature. A sample:

Copyright arose because of demand for literature. With the rise of the printing press and a more literate society, there was a sudden clamour for books, pamphlets, magazines. Among the more educated classes, the novel slowly began to increase in respectability in the 18th century.

The result was a boom in pirated texts, with publishers printing works they had not paid for. Hence the need for a ''right to copy'': it gave authors some control over the printing and distribution of their words. The legal dimension is complex in practice but fairly straightforward in principle.

Less obvious is the demand itself: the need for copyright arose because readers recognised the artistic value of literature, and were happy to pay for it, however it came. This was partly fashion, as it is now. But it was also because creative writing by authors like Joyce and Woolf offers a unique reward: a subtle, vivid distillation of the human condition.

(Image: Lupo)

More than medicine: health and society

2012-01-04T07:40:00.001+11:00

I had a column in yesterday's Canberra Times, 'Nurturing a healthy lifestyle is food for thought'.

I'm looking into new UK NHS recommendations for health professionals to be more involved in disease prevention: asking patients about their lifestyles, and not just patching them up.

I agree in principle, as long as they're given the chance to use their professional judgement - a one-sized-fits-all interrogation policy would be a disaster.

But doctors cannot remedy so-called 'lifestyle' illnesses alone. It also requires a more egalitarian society. A sample:

the continuation of socioeconomic ill-health points to the problem with any purely medical answer to obesity, heart disease, and other ''lifestyle'' disease: lifestyle is as economic and social as medical. My doctor's advice helped, in part, because my parents ate well, exercised regularly, could afford to pay for sporting lessons. All I needed was a kick in the backside to get started: my class provided the conditions.

In other words, health cannot simply be handpassed to medical professionals - we cannot reasonably expect them to do it alone. To cultivate a healthier Australia, we need everyone to get a greater slice of the pie - metaphorically speaking

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Do scientists really have faith?

2012-01-03T07:59:00.000+11:00

I've my regular ABC column up today: 'Do scientists have faith?'

It's a common charge against scientists, particularly physicists. I argue that scientists certainly have assumptions and presumptions, but religious faith has a different moral character. A sample:

[F]aith is not simply assumption without evidence, but proud assumption in spite of it: one knows one believes without proof, and one is glad of it. While some religious minds are more comfortable with doubt, it remains a hallmark of the Judaeo-Christian religions that faith goes hand-in-hand with a certain pleased conviction: if not in one's own salvation, then certainly in the existence of a transcendent deity.

This is not generally true of science. Scientists may become accustomed to their assumptions - resting on their cosmological laurels, so to speak. Hence Davies' bold criticism. But working scientists usually have good reasons for believing that 'the way things are' is a necessary part of reality: it works. The success of science in predicting and controlling the world gives many scientists rightful confidence in the truth of their belief. This might not be accurate, but it is a reasonable assumption. And given good evidence that the cosmos might be otherwise, most scientists may respond with bias, haste or anger, but not with happy denial of evidence in general.

(Illustration: Michelangelo)

The night in which all minds are black

2011-12-31T07:13:00.000+11:00

I've a column in today's Age, 'Revelling without a cause can leave you low in spirit'.

One of this season's discoveries has been Stilton cheese and shiraz. How did that take me thirty-six years to discover?

But alcohol is not necessary for good celebration. In fact, it's often proof that our parties are dull, pointless and just a little desperate.

On New Year's Eve, I argue that we might plan for a sober night, even if we enjoy it with a tipple. A sample:

Many end-of-year revels are a process of double deferral. First, deferral to the crowd: the ''where it's happening'', which will provide the joy missing for most of the year.

Second, and because this frequently fails, deferral to the bottle: a quick way to veil the worst, and embroider the best. Either way, it is a refusal to trust oneself to provide the conditions for happiness, and to cope when these are lacking.

(Photo: Daily Mail)

Tweaking 'Christmas' and ditching soft drinks

2011-12-26T11:41:00.000+11:00

Lego Santa Yoda

I've a column on the ABC today, 'Symbols of Christmas', which looks into Christmas consumption and creativity. A sample:

One way to make the season more widely rewarding is volunteering, or other kinds of altruism: actual 'goodwill to men' rather than its simulation in advertisements. Community trumps covetousness.

But a more humble, domestic remedy is another of Lego Santa Yoda's possibilities: creativity. While some kids just copy the instructions, the best Lego innovations happen off-plan, so to speak. They are incorporated into the raw materials of bags or tubs, and used for unpredictable games, imaginative flights, cooperative play. This is ordinary creativity, and it is for adults as well as children.

Because of Romantic myths, creativity has a mysterious tone to it, but it need not be otherworldly. It can simply be labour, in the best sense of the word: the process of objectifying ourselves in the world. We see ourselves anew, and can reflect, meditate, criticise. It is also a particularly intimate way of giving: instead of simply handing over a credit card, we share our sensibility and sensitivity.

Many of the older rituals of Christmas are classic domestic creativity: baking cakes and biscuits, cutting and decorating trees, making paper chains, baubles, stars. They seem hackneyed and dull, but each can reflect the subtleties of the psyche and hands behind it.

Vending machines in a hospital

Another (timely) column is in the Canberra Times, 'It's time to let the fizz out of this sickening habit'. Killjoy that I clearly am, I'm taking aim at soft drinks, and their dubious daily ubiquity. A sample:

It is difficult to believe that Australians drink so many soft drinks, which are the most popular water-based beverages in the country. They encourage us, in simple terms, to be sick, fat and wheezing. Yet they are now perfectly mainstream: sickly sweet has become the new norm. So much so that the soft drinks of previous generations – whether home made or mass produced – would now be considered bitter by comparison.

This is partly familiarity: generations have grown up with these products. But it is also canny business. As Humphrey McQueen reported in The Essence of Capitalism, by slowly ramping up the sweetener in their products, soft drink companies – alongside many other confectionary businesses – have cultivated a false need: for products with unnatural sweetness, unavailable in fresh food or water. They have tinkered with our palate, in other words.

Alongside the new demand is ubiquitous supply: soft drink dispensers in every café, train platform, mall and shopping centre. It costs companies like Coca-Cola to install, supply and maintain fridges all over the country. But it is simultaneously marketing and delivery: money well spent. Despite pledges not to advertise to children, Crikey reports that Coca-Cola has regularly sponsored children’s sports teams complete with the Coke logo at events. According to the Crikey report, the South Australian Berri Warriors baseball team was also given free drinks of Powerade, a Coca-Cola brand, alongside the company banners.

This is all about keeping soft drinks mainstream: having them popular, available, and identified with healthy, fun pursuits. They are also cheap, which means parents struggling for necessities need not think twice about picking up a slab of bubbly sugar.

The problem, of course, is that soft drinks are not part of a moderate diet. They are overloaded with sugar or its substitutes, and have little if any nutritional value. They are, in other words, more like a dessert: the cloying treat at the end of a special meal, or as a celebration. That they have become part of daily snacks and rehydration is a testament to excellent marketing and wayward appetites: businesses and their consumers collaborating to produce poor health.

(Photo: PCHS-NJROTC)

Conversation as Celebration

2011-12-24T19:48:00.005+11:00

However you're celebrating the season - traditional dinner, orgies and single malt, or crawling under a rock with the complete Battlestar Galactica - my very best wishes.

In the spirit of the season, here are two men doing something rare and wonderful: having a patient, informed, profound conversation -- on television, no less.

There are many ways to commemorate what's valuable in the year: decorations, meals, toasts, to name the usual rites. Good conversation is another, perhaps rarer, pursuit - and one you can do in company. Preferably sober (enough).

See you soon, folks, with some reflections on Christmas (and soft drinks).

Hitchens and infuriating faith

2011-12-22T16:50:00.000+11:00

I've a column with the ABC today, 'Hitchens and infuriating faith'.

The late Christopher Hitchens became incredibly popular with his anti-theist message. What is it about religion that's annoying so many? A sample:

perhaps what most boils the blood of atheists is that, in the Judaeo-Christian traditions, error is often baptised as a virtue. Scientists certainly make mistakes of procedure, assumption and logic. But in general they see errors as mistakes, not as proof of moral goodness. They do not have 'faith', strictly speaking. For the Abrahamic religions, faith is the euphemism given to needful metaphysical belief without good evidence. It is not provisional or contingent, as are scientific hypotheses - it will not be revised or discarded with new evidence. It is belief in an un-testable, often unknowable something, and pride in this belief.

I suspect it is this pride that angers so many secular minds: a curious pleasure in oneself, which takes what is normally a trivial failing and makes it a profound blessing. Despite the lack of physical evidence, and the statistical improbability that one's particular deity, holy books and creed are The Real Thing, one has faith. And one loves oneself for it - just as the holy books proclaim.

(Photo: ensceptico)

'The Write Tools' #36 - George Szirtes

2011-12-21T06:00:00.008+11:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is Hungarian-born, UK-based poet and translator George Szirtes. George is the author of nineteen books of poetry, including his most recent The Burning of the Books and Other Poems, which was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize. He won the T.S. Eliot Prize in 2005 for Reel. George has translated numerous works of poetry, written regular criticism for The Times Literary Supplement, Literary Review and New Statesman, amongst others, and written for radio and the stage.

I didn’t think I had any particular fetish until I realised my desk-light was on. It is always on when I am at the desk, whatever the light conditions. Let me describe it.

It is an old anglepoise. It’s clamped to the windowsill in front of me and whenever I look the clamp seems to have slipped a little further off the sill so the lamp’s hold on it appears precarious. I tighten the clamp a little and push the lamp back again

I once thought I wanted a more atmospheric lamp, not one of those giggly Tiffany things, but something more austere and altogether more classy, a banker’s lamp with a green shade, such as my friend has in Budapest. I think of his desk swimming with papers, books and notes. It seems unworkable, close-to-chaotic, but the banker’s lamp somehow authorises the mess, lending it a genuine gravitas. My desk isn’t as dignified, and the lamp is the reason.

Perhaps the banker’s lamp is just too much the thing for me. Perhaps its invitation is too Edwardian, too stylish. Perhaps the old anglepoise, always on the edge of calamity, is more my style, both as a man and as a writer. Who are the ideal banker’s-lamp men? (I think they are more likely to be men than women). Sigmund Freud, Henry James, Anthony Hecht, Julian Barnes: that imagined range.

But then there is something ramshackle about my whole desk, in fact about the entire room. Common apocryphal objects, like misplaced footnotes, have been adapted to different purposes. It’s not chaotic, just scrappy. It is not the room of a man of letters, not a meditative room. It’s an in-a-hurry, strike-now kind of room.

And the light is on, as it always is. The first thing I do on entering the room is switch on the anglepoise. The light is a focus that partly, but not entirely, shuts the room out. I don’t want to get fancy about this – you wouldn’t want me to – but it is, now I come to think of it, a kind of drama. The finest performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream I have ever seen was in a tin hut where the lighting board was in view at the back and creaked every time a light was brought up or down. The consciousness of the circumstances somehow made the performance in the lit circle all the more autumnal, more powerful. I wondered afterwards whether this wasn’t a perversity on my part, like listening to old scratchy records of O parigi O cara sung by John McCormack and Lucrezia Bori, or Fats Waller performing Cinders. The scratches were mortality clearing its throat in the background, I grandly thought.

I hate fluorescent lighting, I hate any light too general and bright. Bright focus, dark corner with some not-too-arty clutter suits me better. It isn’t classy and it can’t afford to get carried away with itself. It reminds me of a sweet joke.

- Help me doctor, I think I am a moth!
- I am a doctor of medicine, the psychiatrist is next door.
- I know, but your light was on.

The Bluestone of St. Patrick's Cathedral

2011-12-20T07:37:00.000+11:00

I've a feature in the new December (inside) interior design magazine, 'Design, Philosophy and Freedom'. The writing was commissioned after the State of Design festival, earlier this year.

I'm looking into the materials and design of St. Patrick's Cathedral, and works from the recent NGV exhibition Vienna: Art and Design. A sample:

As an atheist, I am often uplifted and rejuvenated by cathedrals. For example, St Patrick’s cathedral in Melbourne gives me a powerful impression of human freedom. Importantly, this is not because of its metaphysical symbolism – that is, its suggestion of some other reality, beyond the here and now. Today, churches do not mean what they once did: they cannot point to a divine maker, invisible but above or alongside us. ‘What… are all these churches now,’ wrote Nietzsche in The Gay Science, ‘if not the tombs and sepulchers of God?’ And no doubt, St Patrick’s was designed by Wardell, consciously or unconsciously, to inspire good Christian submission. The spires dwarfing us, angels hovering overhead in high ribbed vaults, pews for kneeling, the raised marble sanctuary: all reminders that we are small, physically and cosmically. But as an atheist today, none of this bothers me – I have no struggle with the designs of faith. I render unto Christians their own profound faith. By my experience of St Patrick’s is quite different: I’m overcome by a vision of my own humanity, as a free labour. In this, I’m engaged and inspired by the building itself – its form and substance, rather than its strictly religious significance.

This begins with the materials. The stone, for example. Much of St Patrick’s is built with local bluestone, and the effect is striking. Most obviously, the cathedral looks like it was designed to withstand the centuries – as, indeed, it was. There is no hint of plasterboard and staples – these stones have lasted millennia, and they will continue to endure. In other words, there is a primordiality to stone, which gives the building an air of ancient stability. For the designer and Melbourne’s laity, this was a consequence of faith: in the continuous and coming kingdom of God. But for me, it is simply a work of boldness and hope: belief in the future, and its value. It liberates the imagination from the here and now, and allows us to envisage ourselves, and our descendants, flourishing in years to come. It says: this building matters.

The stone also gives the impression of immense effort – of gravity defied. Obviously concrete and steel skyscrapers give a similar effect, but they are constructed from artificial materials: substances that yield to moulding and shaping. In other words, their existence, as materials, is to suit high-rise structures. Whereas the ridged, undulating bluestone in St Patrick’s has simply been cut from the ground and left in rough blocks. These suggest, not flexibility and fitness for purpose, but weight, solidity, resistance. And yet they tower above us, decorated with botanical shapes and gargoyles, illuminated by amber glass. There is a Promethean aspect to this: a sense of the intense effort and determination required to cut, transport, lift and mortar tonnes of rock. In other words, even if the cathedral were simpler and easier to build than Eureka Tower, as a design, it still evokes immense drive and ambition: an unwillingness to accede to gravity and inertia, and the passion to replace bare earth with grand edifices. These are the connotations of stone.

The Virtues of Martial Arts

2011-12-16T18:55:00.000+11:00

Today in my regular ABC column I'm discussing the martial arts. In 'Martial Arts and the Mind', I explore what virtues can be developed in the fighting arts, in the right conditions, and with the right approach. A sample:

There are good sociological and historical reasons for dismissing the myth that philosophers are unphysical, and uninterested in combat. But nay-sayers may focus on ethics: fighting, goes the argument, is for vicious thugs, not virtuous sages. And philosophers are supposed to uphold ethical standards, lest their theories seem like empty verbiage. It is therefore a contradiction, as a philosopher, for me to enrol my children in Karate or Judo.

There is certainly evidence that some martial arts schools have vicious outcomes. In a longitudinal study for the Journal of Child Psychiatry and Psychology, for example, Endresen and Olweus concluded that arts like boxing and wrestling often increased violent and non-violent antisocial behaviour amongst young men. While this contradicts many notable anecdotal examples - boxers rescued from poverty and violence by the sweet science, for example - it is clear that some fight schools promote a macho outlook, which glorifies egoistic confrontation.

Nonetheless, other studies show exactly the opposite: the more years training in martial arts, the less aggression. In particular, those arts considered 'traditional' - a dubious label, given the older traditions of Muay Thai and Western boxing - are often morally educative. In Perceptual and Motor Skills, for example, Lamarre and Nosanchuk demonstrated that Judo lessons consistently left students less antisocial, and similar results have been given for Karate-do and its Korean kick-happy cousin, Tae Kwon Do. Certainly, this matches my own youth: despite all the lessons learning how to punch folks in the face, I was considerably less likely to do so after Karate than before.

(Photo: Courtesy of Wikipedia Commons)

20 Aphorisms - December 2011

2011-12-14T18:01:00.000+11:00

Aphorist Friedrich Nietzsche
noticing his four-litre
supply of moustache wax
is almost empty

20 new aphorisms on writing, celebrity, pedantry, conversation and more, fresh from my Twitter feed:

One can be a 'big reader' without being a good reader - like a chatterbox who likes talk, but does not listen.
The ambiguity of silence: for some, a chance to think; for others, a chance to keep on talking. Sometimes the two are mutually exclusive.
One can loathe parties precisely because of one's sociability: because they impede good conversation.
Dear dogmatists: certainty is not truth. Truth often requires hesitation and doubt.
Some invent rules for good reasons, but keep following the rules after the reasons have gone. A longing for certainty above all else.
Good writing is sometimes the achievement of alienation from one's own prose. "Did I write this?"
The hierarchy of dissatisfaction: 'criticism' from above, 'complaint' from below.
The distinctive beauty of an athletic body derives partly from what it suggests about character: discipline, restraint, passion, endurance.
Some friends are for nodding company, not bleak honesty, and vice versa - it can be a tragedy to confuse the two.
Instead of reading horoscopes every day, read a novel. It's a more truthful fiction.
Everyday eternity: the seemingly timeless pause between uncapping one's pen and putting nib to paper.
One unnoticed success of the 20th century: recognising the craft of acting. One unnoticed failure: ignoring this in favour of celebrity.
People who describe their disembodied souls often use embodied metaphors. Life without this flesh is literally unimaginable.
In the future, everybody will have 15 minutes of silence. But not consecutively.
Some conversations merit awkwardness. Deceit only replaces public with private discomfort.
New Age spirituality is often the worst of both worlds: philosophical abstraction without clarity, religious faith without morality.
Sometimes we are drawn to a friend because of their possibility, not their actuality. From then on, they are our bolstering disappointment.
Prudence is the difference between fictional ideals and ordinary virtue.
We lack a word for the odd pleasure that petty individuals enjoy when chastising strangers for trivial errors.
Some are furious when actors or comedians are smart, well-informed - as if one may have a few good qualities, but not too many.

Happy Third Birthday Sophia

2011-12-13T18:51:00.002+11:00

Sophia was born with an intense, interrogative gaze.

And now that mucky, bloody baby is three: a red-cheeked, mule-willed delight.

Nietzsche wrote that the secret of his happiness was a Yes, a No, a straight line and a goal.

Sophia has plenty of Yes (fairies, fish 'n' chips, armed violence, strawberry milkshakes, alphabet songs) and No ("green stuff", the skinny barista at one local café, Things Her Parents Ask, the letter 'J'). There are straight lines, accompanied by the stomp of tiny feet (in silver fairy shoes).

The goal is nascent, but may include dessert and Dora.

Happy birthday my lovely, and thank you for all the wrestles and lessons.

Fox News: the Muppets is "class warfare"

2011-12-12T12:28:00.002+11:00

I've a column in today's Canberra Times, 'Children's stories need a moral side'.

A Fox anchor recently argued that the new Muppets movie is "liberal" propaganda. His colleague wished that Hollywood's liberals would "leave little kids alone."

I'm arguing that the best kids' stories always have a moral dimension, and that it is absurd to want otherwise. I'm also arguing that Fox News is more deceptive than most children's literature. A sample:

At their simplest, children’s narratives are often battles between good and evil. Daleks and Cybermen versus the Doctor; Luke Skywalker versus the Emperor; Spiderman verses the Green Goblin. At their most nuanced and honest, kids’ stories give us characters that are not perfect saints and demons, but marbled swirls of vice and virtue: scared, sometimes-weak Frodo, and schizoid, covetous Gollum from Lord of the Rings, for example. Even Grendel from Beowulf is a figure of sympathy – she must be killed, but not without evoking pity in the reader.

In each case, the authors have not shied away from identifying moral traits. The villains are cursed by unbridled, unfeeling aggression or overweening lust for power. The heroes display courage, wisdom or temperance. The point is not the specific virtues and vices, but the fact that these are a necessary part of the story. Authors must decide what kind of ethical universe they stand for, and commit to it.

A Readable Feast

2011-12-11T11:35:00.005+11:00

It was a shame to read of the closing of Reader's Feast, the Melbourne city bookshop run for two decades by Mary Dalmau.

I spent many an hour - some might say 'idled', but readers know better - in Reader's Feast on Swanston Street, and spoken at literary festivals sponsored and run by the bookshop (e.g. Writers at the Convent).

So it was a real pleasure to visit Mary's new Reader's Feast, recently launched in Georges on Collins Street. Ruth and I dropped in late, but still had a chance to take in the swanky new premises, and good selection of books. The staff were, as always, helpful but unpretentious.

The stone floors, chandeliers and columns give the shop a grander tone. I particularly liked the feature bookcases, like the 'In Translation' shelf (see photo, top left): a way to focus attention. The whole shop gives the impression that books are something to be celebrated, not simply sold.

Logistically, the new space is important. For example, many shelves had their covers facing outwards, which is a boon for authors. (I confess my interests here: I found Distraction in the Philosophy bookcase, with its pink title facing me.)

My eye was caught by some new (ancient) Norse sagas, and Penguin classics for the family. But we only got started, really - the entree of the feast, so to speak.

Good appetite, Melbourne readers.

Jews, asians and climate scientists

2011-12-09T11:13:00.000+11:00

"One can do anything to those Goyim.
Our people crucified their Christ
on the cross, and we do a great
business on his birthday...."

I've my regular column with the ABC today, 'Out with the caricatures!'

I'm looking into a common stereotype: of conspiratorial, weak, canny manipulators, preying on simple, hard-working folk.

It's a caricature that appears regularly in public and private conflict, and stems partly from a desperate need for certainty. A sample:

In public debate and private conversation, they are a simple psychological defence mechanism, which takes the place of thought and sympathetic imagination. Our purported enemies are not wise or thoughtful – they must be selfish calculators, hopelessly out-of-touch, or using scholarship to climb some dubious ladder of opportunity. They do not struggle valiantly to live well – they must be a comfortable, perhaps effete elite. It cannot be that they are creatures of ambivalent feeling and ambiguous thought – they must be straightforwardly malicious, devious, obsessive.

Why the 'must'? Because it is, above all, a desperate longing for certainty: certain values, certain ideals, and certain enemies. This is a worldview of those uncomfortable with doubt, who prefer false sureness to true insecurity. Hence the trope of the noble, practical, muscular hero, relying on 'know how' instead of cerebral abstractions; this is someone who just 'knows'. This is someone with simple answers, and few questions; the myth of one's own, spontaneous rectitude. It is no coincidence that this often goes hand-in-hand with dogmatic religion.

Of course we all have moments of delusion, particularly when we have invested – psychologically or monetarily – in some institution or labour: political parties, careers, academic theories, for example. But some individuals and communities transform this mechanism into a modus operandi, and make themselves more, not less, vulnerable as they do. Nothing invites coercion like the scent of bad faith.

(Cartoon: German Propaganda Archive)

'The Write Tools' #35 - Alison Croggon

2011-12-05T06:00:00.005+11:00

Portrait of the artist swearing
at her video game, by her
son Josh (then aged 14)

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is poet, novelist, playwright and critic Alison Croggon. Alison is the author of seven books of poetry, and a novella, Navigatio. She is also the author of the Books of Pellinor fantasy series, and had nine theatrical works staged. Alison is a former reviewer for The Australian, and keeps an acclaimed blog, Theatre Notes. The latter garnered her the Pascall Prize for criticism in 2009.

Some time ago, I decided that writing is about managing two incompatible necessities. The first is being ever more conscious of everything you do, from tiny decisions about syntax to how your metaphorical superstructure informs meaning. The second is concealing from yourself what you’re doing, so you are able to do it. Writing can take you to places from which your conscious mind is very anxious to protect you, and it will do everything to stop you.

Writing, it seems to me, is a process of a writer tricking herself: of simultaneously knowing and not knowing. In order to be an honest writer (and I believe all the best writers are scrupulously honest) one must be adept at self-deception. The via media is no help here: it’s no use being semi-conscious. In order to write, you have to be in at least two incompatible states of being. It’s a mental suspension that can be very difficult to sustain.

A dose of negative capability helps. So, I have found, do video games.

People are often surprised that I play videogames, although a middle aged woman who likes gaming isn’t that unusual, no matter what the gaming industry thinks. I can’t pretend to skill: I am the world’s worst videogamer. However, what I lack in manual dexterity and directional intuition, I make up for in persistence.

When I’m writing novels, I hammer the consoles. I write until I have run out of words, and then I play my favourite games until I know every corner by heart and can get from one end to another with some degree of apparent competence. When my youngest son played Zelda: Ocarina of Time recently, he said I was more useful than a walkthrough.

Aside from giving me instant cred with 11 year old boys, gaming is an excellent means of shutting myself up. I have a facile mind, which is both good and bad: it means I read and write quickly, can absorb information efficiently, and can make connections between disparate things. The drawback is that my inner selves are so busy chatting about shiny things that sometimes I can’t hear the quiet voices underneath that are most important for my work.

For me, video games are the perfect answer. They require a certain amount of problem solving, so they occupy the upper bits of my mind. They are entertaining, but also relaxingly repetitive, especially as my incompetence means that I often have to do things over and over until I accomplish my goal. The important thing is that I have to think, but not too much or too deeply: they occupy all the distracted bits of my upper brain.

After an hour or so of attempting to assassinate ancient kings or blasting hostile monsters on an alien planet, the next sentence blossoms quietly in my mind. And then can I go and write it down, as accurately and consciously as I am able. If I am lucky, that action will spark a few more sentences. And if I am very lucky, eventually I finish a book.

And the winner is...

2011-12-03T20:20:00.001+11:00

Not long ago, I announced the 'win a signed copy of Distraction' competition.

It was a tough competition, with many nods and sniggers. But in the immortal words of Connor McLeod, 'Rrraaaaaaaaaagh.' And also: 'There can be only one.'

The winner is Suzie Cardwell (@suziecardwell), with her eerily familiar sentiment: Three year old yelling 'Mummy', five year old screaming 'Muuuum', husband shouting 'Darling...'. Greatest distraction? The mixed blessing of being needed.

Suzie will now receive a schmick, signed copy of the UK edition of Distraction.

Honourable mentions go to: Denis Wright, Malyn, Keir, Lou Pollard and Diane Simonelli.

Thanks for entering folks, and see you (undistracted) on the interwebzorz...

Loyalty: virtue or vice?

2011-12-02T19:40:00.000+11:00

I've my regular column with the ABC today, 'Politics and loyalty: to the party or the person?'

I'm exploring loyalty in politics, and why it's not always as 'olde worlde' charming as it sounds. A sample:

...loyalty indicates one's deference to the institution. It is not a virtue above and beyond party membership, particularly for leaders. On the contrary, it is the very precondition of success within the party; it is exactly what is required to be chosen as a leader. Using the word in speeches and commentary suggests a traditional faith and constancy that is endearing. Yet loyalty to a political party is as much a vice as a virtue.

(Photo: courtesy Ray Strange/The Australian)

Dear Pedants of the World...

2011-11-29T06:00:00.001+11:00

Joseph Addison on the pedant:
"one that does not know how to
think out of his Profession and
way of Life."

I had a column in yesterday's Canberra Times, 'At times, pedants are just revolting'.

I'm exploring pedantry in the public sphere: why it's problematic, and how to overcome it. A sample:

There is no one-size-fits-all solution for pedantry. Partly because it is overcome with practice, not with rules. And partly because there are interests at stake: some folks need their pedantry to distract and console them. But the most obvious remedy is a combination of humility and courage.

Humility is necessary to remember that one’s hard-won expertise is not always relevant. It also helps to recognise that others, too, have their technical knowledge: only they have learned how and when to deploy it diplomatically. Our rambling is only possible because of their restraint.

Courage is required to confront one’s own imperfection: to heed opposing arguments, and consider the possibility of their truth. We have to be brave enough to confront our own ignorance or insufficient reason; to see that improvement is nothing to be ashamed of.

Try it, dear pedants, before you write to say I have ended that last sentence on a preposition.

In Praise of Rap Music

2011-11-28T07:28:00.001+11:00

I've a column in today's Sydney Morning Herald, 'Listen up: this rapper's the Dylan of his day'.

I'm highlighting the value of rap music, particularly its combination of artistic expression and disciplined identity. A sample:

Do today's youth have their own Bob Dylan or John Lennon, someone who inspires an interest in the English language and its potency? The answer, for the Nobel laureate poet Seamus Heaney, is Eminem, who'll perform in Australia this week.

“He has created a sense,” Heaney told a journalist in 2003, “of what is possible.” Arguably the English-speaking world's finest living poet praising the “verbal energy” of a rapper: how things have changed.

When rap first hit the charts in the '80s, it was censured almost universally by conservative critics. They objected to violent or sexual lyrics and profanity, arguing that rap's gritty portrayal of "ghetto" life led, among other things, to crime, misogyny and the demise of family values.

But over the past 20 years, rap music has become more mainstream.

(Photo: WhiteBoyzCantRun)

My Dream Job (and ice cream)

2011-11-27T16:55:00.003+11:00

Living the dream: philosopher and
ice-cream during a recent trip to
Brisbane's GoMA

I've a profile in this Weekend Australian's 'Professional' lift-out, 'The challenge of spreading ideas'.

In a 'Dream Job' conversation with Julia Stirling, I talk about the quirks, challenges and rewards of my career in philosophy, and how they fit with parenthood.

It's only published in print, but here's a grab.

Socrates and Columnist Andrew Bolt

2011-11-25T08:36:00.000+11:00

I've my regular ABC column up today, 'What was Socrates the radical philosopher doing in Bolt's blog?'.

In his popular blog, Andrew Bolt used the example of Socrates in defence of free speech. He was not claiming to be Socrates, but citing the philosopher as his champion. My column examines the important differences between the columnist and the philosopher. A sample:

None of this means that Bolt, or any other professional or amateur commentator, necessarily deserves to be silenced by regulatory authorities. Andrew Bolt is the articulate, ardent voice of many frustrated Australians, and is popular for a reason: he says what many are thinking.

My point is this: by invoking the spirit of Socrates, Bolt invites a comparison that is not flattering. He highlights his own membership of Australia's elite, his overbearing over-confidence, and his failure to question popular prejudice. It weakens his case, rather than strengthening it. The best defence of free speech is not simply to cite Socrates' fate, but to emulate his emancipated mind.

Much 'I Do' About Nothing

2011-11-18T18:17:00.000+11:00

I've a column on the ABC today, 'For better, for worse, for satin, for cufflinks'.

I'm looking at modern weddings, caught between the irrelevancies of Church symbolism and empty spectacle. A sample:

My point is not to stigmatise traditional gender roles, in their religious or secular guises. For some couples, these work brilliantly, even when based on metaphysical or genetic shibboleths. Rather, my point is that marriage is an ongoing labour, which is insufficiently cultivated and celebrated by contemporary nuptials. The cult of weddings distracts many from the culture of good relationships: a chance to reflect and revise is lost.

For secular Australians and the progressive faithful, the waning of traditional religion is an excellent chance for new, ceremonies, symbolism and customs. These represent the vicissitudes of actual partnerships, rather than off-the-shelf identities and ideals. They commemorate the conditions and virtues of real human flourishing, not fiction disguised as fact.

Whether or not God is absent on the wedding day, perhaps the bride and groom can be more fully present.

(Photo: Luca Volpi)

Win a Signed Copy of Distraction

2011-11-16T18:32:00.000+11:00

As I announced on Twitter, 500 followers means a giveaway of the UK/US edition of Distraction.

To enter the competition, leave a comment of 25 words or less, detailing your worst distraction. Then sign it with your Twitter name.

I'll choose my favourite comment, based on some vague criteria of sniggering and nodding.

The giveaway closes on 6am, Thursday 1st December, Melbourne time.

I'll announce the winner soon afterwards, and brand new, signed copy of Distraction will be on its way to the lucky someone.

The Melee in the Sky: Tarsem Singh's 'Immortals'

2011-11-13T20:03:00.001+11:00

I recently saw 'Immortals', the new film by Tarsem Singh. It is very loosely based on Greek myth: the stories of the Titanomachy and Theseus, in particular.

For a more intelligent, discriminating review, I'll point you to Gerard Wood at Science Fiction World.

But let me say a few things.

'Immortals' is badly-scripted, and often clumsily acted. The actors do their best, but this is not a film for demonstrating a thespian's nuance. The characters' motives are dubious, and the use of Greek myth fairly shallow.

But anyone looking for a history or acting lesson from this action film is an idiot. Forget the script and plot. Seriously.

More importantly, the film is visually superb. Singh spoke of starting with a vision of Caravaggio, and his painterly eye is obvious. It is a stunning piece of cinematic art, which uses contemporary technology to achieve a striking palette and exquisite scenes.

But most impressively, 'Immortals' has beautiful fights. The gore is gratuitous, but the actors' movements, camerawork and post-production are peerless. As Gerard Wood notes, the fights of the gods are transfixing dances of spears, chains, fists.

In this respect, 'Immortals' is similar to Zack Snyder's 300'. Both films fail as myth, history, and profound film-making. Yet both have a visceral message. '300' was, as I've written in Meanjin, chiefly a paean to esprit de corps.

'Immortals', while similarly up to its helmets in oiled pectorals, is more a celebration of muscular martial beauty: the aesthetics of combat. One of Singh's final scenes, a melee in the sky, is a bold piece of moving Baroque art, which surprised the hell out of this film-goer.

'Immortals' is all about semblance, not reality. It is a mark of a civilised mind, as Schiller noted, to enjoy both, without confusing them.

The world is not enough for supernaturalists

2011-11-10T12:42:00.000+11:00

A 'murmuration' of starlings

I've a piece on the ABC today, 'The world is not enough for supernaturalists'.

I'm discussing the irreverence at the heart of the supernatural: the move from this world to another, and what this says about the 'spiritual' psyche. A sample:

My point is not that the faithful are themselves irreverent. I have no interest in belittling their personal piety or worship. What concerns me is that their basic worldview is lacking. For me, a casual read of New Scientist is an exercise in awe or wonder: dormant suns that reignite with stolen gas; the delicate balance of quantum forces that keep water stable; the possibility that Earth's own water was delivered by a comet's chance impact. Watching a murmuration of starlings is spellbinding; the sweep and curl of a thousand birds, looping in fluttering clusters of silhouetted black.

We speak of the 'miracle' of birth, as if it were contrary to nature. But this is precisely what our bodies do, and it is all the more wonderful for this. New life is exhausting, harrying and sometimes dangerous. But, like stars, water, comets and birds, it is mundane, in the original sense of the word: of this world.

What surprises me about supernatural beliefs is that they need another. I am often astonished at the fact of existence; plain old 'becoming', as some philosophers call it. For me, this is a sublime world, all the more precious for its flux and fragilities. But for supernaturalists, the world is not enough.

(Photo: Fayez Nureldine/AFP/Getty Images)

Sugar, and other festivals...

2011-11-08T15:27:00.000+11:00

I've a column in today's Canberra Times, 'Substituting the festival victuals for more of those rituals'.

I'm discussing the sugar overload of Halloween, and suggesting that we might do better next year. A sample:

Traditionally, festivals have various contributions to life: fun, psychological catharsis, building and maintaining community, reaffirming philosophical or religious beliefs, and dealing with difficult psychological and existential issues.

Nowadays, our mass festivals have the first three to varying degrees, but few of the last two. The absence of religious beliefs is not necessarily a problem, though it makes for an odd fit with the remaining religious seasons, like Christmas and Easter – we have the names and symbols, but none of the faith. In fact, the absence of religious community is an opportunity: for innovations. We might have our own secular festivals, which better fit with our lifestyles, philosophies and – particularly in Australia – our own seasons.

This is why festivals like Halloween, Easter and Christmas can be a let down – and why my family has tried to creatively revise the ‘big days’. With the slow erosion of religious faith, they remain largely shallow or anticlimactic affairs. With God removed, contemporary secularists might have created their own celebrations, rites, symbols. Instead, we often have booze-addled or sugar-hyped get-togethers, which do little to recognise the vicissitudes and mysteries of life: birth, death, ageing, love, loss, and so on. Plenty of victuals, none of the rituals.

Next year, I will work even harder at this spring festival: to make it our own.

(Photo: KTK 895)

'The Write Tools' #34 - Jean Hannah Edelstein

2011-11-07T06:00:00.002+11:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is UK author, journalist and editor Jean Hannah Edelstein. American-born Jean is the author of Himglish and Femalese, and contributor to publications including The Guardian, The Independent, The Australian, Conde Nast Traveller and Glamour. She has also published short fiction.

My Jean Book came from Mexico City, a gift from my then-flatmate Ben on return from a work trip. Ben handed it to me with a flourish upon his return (our other flatmate got a terrifying leather wrestling mask) and I beamed and declared: this notebook will be for my most important thoughts.

It’s a modest notebook. Adolescent, too. It reminds me of the ones I’d buy when I was in high school in an attempt to inject a little sparkle into the drudgery of math class (no coincidence that there’s a space in the front to write down my name and colegio), albeit with a special eponymous touch. The Jean Book has a thick cardboard cover that could withstand abuse in a knapsack and paper crosshatched with blue lines, essential for giving some order to what one friend at uni called (while cribbing from my lecture notes) ‘your goddamn loopy handwriting’.

It’s now been about two years that my Jean Book has lived on my bedside table, waiting with the utmost patience for my important thoughts, ageing with the grace of a favourite pair of Levis. My stamina for writing longhand has decreased precipitously since I got top marks for penmanship in the late 1980s, and as such the Jean Book serves more as a launch pad than a volume for real drafts. I start writing in it when the blink cursor on the screen is too daunting, scrawling out a few paragraphs until I feel confident that I’ve got something worth taking further, or when my brain starts thinking faster than my hand can move -- the surest sign that I’ve broken through to the other side of writers’ block.

The Jean Book is thus a collection of unformed thoughts, a launch pad rather than a proper home for first drafts. It feels like a bit of a dirty secret: I spy the orderly Moleskines of other writers who I know and admire and imagine how they’d shudder to glimpse the chaos of my notebook. And alongside ideas that did launch, when I flip through the pages of my Jean Book it’s impossible not to notice all of the ones that failed to thrive. I’d no doubt delete them if I’d started them on my laptop, but in the Jean Book they are committed, painful little reminders that my most important thoughts are not always my best ideas.

Half a dozen times a year, I swear that I will be more disciplined: start projects long before their deadlines, make outlines, write proper drafts. In longhand. I never do. When I’m honest with myself I admit that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be as prolific or diligent or successful as my heroes. But on the days when it feels like I will never write anything of merit again, I can flip back through the gridded pages of my Jean Book and see a sentence that blossomed into a newspaper article or a scrap of description that became a short story. Plotting the course of two of the most important years of my writing career, my Jean Book always provides the reminder that I do have the ability, at least once in awhile, to turn my most important thoughts into things that other people might like to read. Which is why I know that I'll keep it forever.

15 Aphorisms - November 2011

2011-11-05T12:05:00.000+11:00

Friedrich Nietzsche, whose aphoristic
economy did not apply to
his moustache

More fresh aphorisms for this month, courtesy of my Twitter feed.

The worst arguments involve at least six: you and I, and the caricatures we make of ourselves and each other.
The cliche: a verbal uniform, which helps us blend in with the crowd.
Doubt is an ongoing struggle: making sure skepticism doesn't become cynicism or stubborn myopia.
What people call 'spirituality' is often hatred of matter disguised as love.
Sometimes we fail to anthropomorphise other humans. The result: bad fiction and stereotypes.
'Having it all' can be an unfortunate euphemism for 'expanding one's repertoire of obedience'.
One of the cardinal virtues of the novel: meeting minds normally concealed by etiquette, shyness or obscurity. For example: Elinor Dashwood.
What's most saddening about many supernatural beliefs is the contempt they have for the 'merely' natural.
The problem with nationalism: its most vocal defenders often fail to exemplify the best in their country.
T.S. Eliot once said of poetry: 'It takes up less space.' Yes, but only on the page. In the mind it grows exponentially.
Religion's metaphysical thievery: robbing nature to pay the supernatural.
Vocal self-hatred: fans who denigrate unfashionable celebrities for being 'unknown'.
Jean-Paul Sartre: a novelist who mistook his autobiography for philosophy.
Advertisers selling anti-bacterial soaps: opportunistic parasites.
For some, philosophy is about justice - trying to recover what they were robbed of: the Great Whole of childhood, womb or...

Paranormal success is a psychic's only power

2011-11-03T13:17:00.001+11:00

I've a column on the ABC today, 'Paranormal success is a psychic's only power'.

I'm discussing the strange world of psychics, and the failure of philosophy to attract those interested in novel or different ideas. A sample:

Audiences... suspend their disbelief for the performance, as with a film. And then they never stop suspending it. This is often because of grief, illness, family loss, anxiety – physical or psychological pain, for which psychics provide succour. The danger in this, as Randi argues, is that audiences and customers are misled about genuinely important problems. They ignore medical treatments, for example, in favour of faith healing or other dubious remedies. They avoid psychological counselling, in favour of temporarily comforting messages of eternal life. They spend money – 1.53 pounds a minute, for example, for Sally Morgan's "live readings" by phone – which might go towards goods like education, healthy food, debt repayment. The magical thinking is understandable given our common human frailty, but often unhelpful.

Who is responsible for this saddening industry? On CNN, Randi described professional psychics as "vultures", who "sit in a tree and… wait for the grieving to come by". Informed by his own stage magician talents, and various debunking studies, Randi portrays most professional paranormalists as rapacious frauds. It is difficult to disagree, though Randi notes that many genuinely believe they have "powers".

Many in the media encourage this. The popularity of astrology in the newspapers and glossy magazines, for example, relies on editors willing to put aside journalistic scrutiny in favour of folk mythology. In 2009 Channel 9 aired advertisements by former "faith healer" and "Miracle Spring Water" spruiker, Peter Popoff, who was earlier debunked embarrassingly on camera by James Randi. There is a buck in bunkum.

In Praise of Elinor: Sense & Sensibility

2011-10-31T06:00:00.001+11:00

Two hundred years ago, a little novel was published by Thomas Egerton. Its title was the rather dry (but fashionable) Sense & Sensibility.

It has enjoyed some success since then.

Yesterday, I spoke at a symposium celebrating the bicentenary of Austen's first published novel: Sense & Sensibility at 200.

As the programme suggests, it was packed with varying ideas and impressions: we were late, but still enjoyed talks on duelling in Austen (Susannah Fullerton), the importance of distance and transport (Will Christie), and the ambivalence of 'sensibility' (Claire Knowles).

My talk was on 'sense', or the classical character. A book of essays is planned by the convenor, Laura Carroll. In the meantime, here's a sample from my talk:

Jane Austen was a moralist, but rarely in a dogmatic or clumsy way. Her characters were not divided into perfect heroes and evil villains. As Gibert Ryle has argued, Austen avoided neat Protestant souls, in favour of messier psyches, each a struggle between excess and deficiency. ‘A person is not black or white, but iridescent,’ writes Ryle. ‘Not a flat plane, but a highly irregular solid.’ Willoughby, for example, is vain and inconstant, but genuine, and capable of insight and regret – he is no simple demon, for all his tortures of Marianne.

In this, Austen’s moral philosophy was Aristotelian. She was a devotee of the poet Alexander Pope – the ‘one infallible Pope,’ she called him. Pope, in turn, was influenced by the Earl of Shaftesbury, a notable Aristotelian. The author of Sense and Sensibility may not have studied philosophy at university, but she had, to borrow Ryle’s metaphor, sniffed Aristotelian air through Shaftsbury’s green window. What all three had in common with Aristotle was a recognition of human passions and instincts, and the need to guide and transform them reasonably. They were less interested in simple good and evil, and more interested in healthy mental and physical habits. Pope, whom Marianne and Willoughby didn’t care for, summed this up with his usual economy in his ‘Essay on Man’:

Love, hope, and joy, fair pleasure’s smiling train,
Hate, fear, and grief, the family of pain,
These mixed with art, and to due bounds confined,
Make and maintain the balance of the mind.

In short, the classical gaze ran deep in Miss Austen, as I believe it does in Elinor Dashwood – which is why I find her so alluring. She exemplifies balance in a world, not of original sin or divine redemption, but of ordinary humans struggling with their impulses and routines. Put more simply, Elinor is a young woman of sense.

Happy Sixth Birthday Nikos

2011-10-29T15:48:00.000+11:00

Today our boy's six years old. Perhaps we should've named him 'Faber', the maker.

This morning he put together the Arc de Triomphe, out of cardboard. Right now he's building an Egyptian tomb.

Sitting on his bed are a Roman sundial (to be excavated and glued), do-it-yourself hand-powered torch and robot, cardboard Medieval castle and more Lego.

Watching him cut, sort, glue, snap together and fold is a potent reminder of the pleasures of craft: how it rewards concentration and increasing skill, leading to the 'flow' Csikszentmihalyi describes.

As he moves from school to high school, to university and career, may he keep hanging onto this common (but sadly rare) contentment. Happy birthday, my maker.

Atheists, creationists and the pitfalls of public debate

2011-10-27T12:42:00.000+11:00

"WTF?" Richard Dawkins in
conversation with a New Age
spiritualist

I've a piece on the ABC today, 'Atheists, creationists and the pitfalls of public debate'.

I'm sympathising with Richard Dawkins, but pointing out the pointlessness of many public debates. A sample:

If their purpose is to persuade, they usually fail: there is no common ground. If their purpose is merely to inform the audience, this is often stymied by conflicting ideas of what the important information is, and what to do with it. This is worsened, for spectators, by the adversarial mood. If their purpose is to entertain, perhaps they achieve this – though sometimes at a high cost to the dignity of the debaters. Arguing against the brick wall of incommensurability can be damned frustrating. Perhaps the best outcome is a morale boost for one camp or another – the joy of seeing one's vague ideas in a more bold, crisp or witty form. But even this is a vicarious pleasure, which can sometimes replace independent thought with spectacle.

As with pugilism, many of the more illuminating confrontations are away from the limelight: in cafés, pubs, seminar rooms, offices. They occur because of incommensurability, not in spite of it. And they are ongoing struggles, not one-off bouts. They are attempts to comprehend, rather than simply to persuade, inform or entertain. This requires, not simply more scientific facts or apologetic logic, but a greater interest in the minds involved.

In defence of civility

2011-10-25T06:00:00.000+11:00

I had a column in yesterday's Canberra Times, 'Practical, proud paths of civility'.

I'm making the case for a little public courtesy. A sample:

The more selfishly we behave, the more likely others are to withdraw from us: because we are threatening, rude or just stinky. Selfishness often encourages selfishness. When a good proportion of society are all retreating into themselves, the filaments of mutual aid fray.

The point is not that Western civilisation must become a single cult, united in flower-chains and patchouli. It is that public life will only grow more crowded in years to come, and will be increasingly draining without a little civility. The energy we save with privative individualism will often be lost in a petty struggle with strangers as indifferent as ourselves. In short, more parts of life cafés – buses, lifts, escalators, cafés – will be like peak hour traffic.

(Photo: Kalan)

'The Write Tools' #33 - Claire Corbett

2011-10-24T06:00:00.005+11:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is novelist and writer Claire Corbett. Claire's first novel, When We Have Wings, was published in 2011. She has also written journalism, essays and shorts stories for outlets including Rolling Stone and The Sydney Morning Herald. Claire is now working on her second novel.

Writers don’t get to choose what they write about. Unless some aspect of the unconscious has been at work, your writing will lie dead on the page. This is the real meaning of the mysterious fairytale of the Elves and the Shoemaker; the shoemaker is a good craftsman, he works hard but he and his wife are starving.

One night elves appear in the shoemaker’s workshop after he’s gone to bed in despair. All night the elves cut and hammer and sew exquisite shoes with perfect tiny stitches. The shoemaker sells them, buys more leather and on it goes until one night the shoemaker leaves the elves a gift of handmade clothes to show his gratitude.

Delighted, the elves vanish with the clothes. The shoemaker’s success continues; whatever magic the elves used is now absorbed into the shoemaker’s craft. The elves, like the creative unconscious, cannot be commanded. They may appear when the workshop is swept, gleaming and stocked with tools, when the years of apprenticeship in the craft have been completed and when the shoemaker, or writer, has gone to bed exhausted.

So, how to clear the way for these elves to appear, what to do to welcome them?

A craftperson’s tools are certainly important. They help create the grooves the brain settles in to work. What tool to write about? My computer is undoubtedly the most important external tool. Though I wrote my first novel at age twelve in longhand, I’d be lost without the various Macs I’ve had over the years. I briefly considered writing about the dishwasher which would lead into the practicalities of freeing up domestic space and time.

What I want to write about is a tool that helps manage the connection between body and mind: massage.

Once a month our masseur does the rounds of his clients; it feels like an unaffordable luxury, which is one of the best things about it, but in fact it’s necessary. Most writers feel all too keenly the toll sitting at the computer takes, the niggling back, neck and arm pains. Massage relieves the pain and more importantly helps prevent it from becoming chronic and debilitating. Massage aids the flow of lymphatic fluid around the body, as does exercise, and this strengthens the immune system.

A barrier to the focused and pleasurable state termed flow, when we do our best creative work, is the stress hormone cortisol. Cortisol helps us get up in the morning and feel alert but too much makes us feel scattered and stressed. It interferes with memory, planning and other higher brain functions needed for sustained work because it is preparing us for ‘fight or flight’.

Massage turns off the stress response, switching the nervous system from the sympathetic to the parasympathetic system. This is when all the repair happens in the body.

This is all wonderful but over the years I’ve found massage leading to even more profound benefits, creative insights and ideas that came whole and unbidden. This goes beyond the kind of problem-solving that every writer is familiar with; the scene that isn’t working, the plot hole that needs resolving.

Most writers are practised at redirecting their attention into something disciplined, monotonous and relaxing – the walk or the yoga class – to solve problems they’ve been wrestling with for hours. You can’t avoid the hours of effort but you can’t solve the problem solely by that effort either. The elves don’t respond to orders but only to the most graceful invitation; either that or sometimes complete despair will do.

Tapping into the creative unconscious requires something deeper than the problem-solving walk and it has happened quite a few times for me during a massage. The first time I was lying in an airy opensided pavilion on a forested hillside in Thailand.

As I drifted deeper into relaxation but not towards sleep, my whole mind seemed to open out in a most unusual way. The entire story and setting for my second novel came to me. This was so exciting I almost wanted to jump up and make notes but as I drifted, more and more ideas came, whole chapters and subplots.

I rewrote, in my mind, some chapters of When We Have Wings while in a similar mind state of falling deeper into relaxation: the shoemaker has to go to bed before the elves appear. When I got up I would sit down and rewrite the chapter pretty much the way it had unfurled in my mind.

Of course when I sit down to write this second novel, the one that appeared to me during the massage on the hillside, a lot of that inspiration will transform into something else but the ideas, the settings, the feelings remain. It felt as if the altered state I entered during the massage allowed many different areas of my mind to work together, presenting me with images and ideas that were complete, not fragmented like ordinary thought.

This kind of inspiration is a gift but it is just the beginning; it does not take one bit of the difficulty or hard work out of writing. It is simply the spark that brings all that material you’ve created to life.

The Obedient Wives Club

2011-10-20T14:07:00.000+11:00

I've a piece on the ABC today, 'God, Man and the Obedient Wives Club'.

I'm exploring the dangers of smuggling very human impulses and ideas into an untouchable 'God'. A sample:

humour me for a moment, and imagine this: there is no God. There is no great ontological referee of your sex sessions, no divine carnal umpire. If this is true, the Islamic Sex manual is not about obeying God, but about obeying men. This is not worship of divinity, but biological and psychological satisfaction (for one partner at least): human, all too human lust, in other words. And it is even more human for its familiar combination of selfishness and self-righteousness: craving sexual subservience, but dressing it up as a religious crusade. This seems depressingly plausible: very worldly desire is given the unlikely euphemism, "God".

(Photo: Putra Mosque, by o b s k u r a)

Thoughts on the Kindle

2011-10-18T06:00:00.001+11:00

I had a short essay on the Meanjin blog yesterday, 'What I'm Reading (and reading on'.

Prompted by a gift from a friend, I'm thinking about my new Kindle, and what it adds to my reading and writing. Emily Dickinson cameos. A sample:

The Kindle has an odd purity to it. Dickinson has the same charcoal plastic frame as Aristotle or Young. eBooks have unique covers, of course, but they are not really ‘covers’ — they are just one screen amongst others, which do not physically wrap the text. In fact, most of the physical features of paper books are removed: uncut pages, embossed ex libris stamps, tooled leather bindings. Gone are different smells: pencil shavings, spilt coffee, and generic old-library funk. What remains is black text on a light grey background.

To me, there is an intimacy to this: I am in a more immediate relationship with Dickinson, and her words. Her poetry’s curt lines — ‘A word is dead/ When it is said,/ Some say./ I say it just begins to live/ That day.’ — are even more direct. Of course I can ignore the decorations of a colourful paperback or gilt leather tome — but the Kindle makes this easier. It has a simplicity to it, which holds consciousness.

'The Write Tools' #32 - Charlotte Wood

2011-10-17T06:00:00.033+11:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is novelist, essayist and editor Charlotte Wood. Charlotte is the author of four novels, and the editor of the sibling anthology Brothers & Sisters. Her most recent novel is Animal People, and her non-fiction book about cooking, Love & Hunger, will be published in April 2012.

There is nothing very unusual in my writing room - I don’t have talismans or lucky charms or special pens or particular notebooks; just a computer, printer, books, the usual mess.

But at a certain point in the process of writing a novel I do begin to take photographs, and they start to creep up the walls around me.

Places seem to be the major focus of these photographs, although sometimes there might also be a photo torn from a magazine of a person who might physically resemble someone in the book; or a certain object or creature that represents something important in the developing novel – such as the photos of the Indian mynah bird still stuck to the windowsill from way back when I was writing my third book, The Children.

As I wrote The Children, which is almost entirely set in an Australian country town, my walls began to fill with photos of various highways, town entrances, landscapes, main streets and shopping strips from towns I had visited around Australia. A while after The Children was finished, I took them down, and they were gradually replaced by photographs I took for my new novel Animal People. These I took at different zoos. Not of the animals, but of what you might call the ‘zooscape’: the buildings, the signs, the pathways, the toilet blocks, the kiosks and shops and gateways. And the people.

I happen to use a camera, but it’s really just a way of recording detail. I have realised that this for me is a really crucial tool of writing fiction – detail. In her Making Stories interview from many years ago, Helen Garner says: “I don’t invent a book out of thin air. I need … a bed of detail for the thing to be based on before I can start to make something up.”

I know what she means. For me, even with a non-realist novel such as the one I am starting now, it is these notes and observations and details which start to create the soil in which the seeds of character and scene and event can germinate, and from there begin to form a novel.

I have often gone observing without a camera, but in that case always with a notebook. Sitting in food courts with a notebook, for example, is how I began to build my imaginary shopping plaza for Animal People.

What I have found, particularly with places, is that if I simply imagine a place I only manage to notice big things. At a zoo, those would be monkeys on climbing frames, for example, or an elephant behind bars. When I actually take notes (or photographs) I am forced to look at everything in the frame. And what I might see then is the chimpanzees on climbing frames, but also some yellow rope, and a crumpled chip packet, and a battered orange bucket filled with limp celery sticks, and a small girl wearing a hot pink t-shirt that says WTF! on the front, and a forklift, and a sandwich board advertising a café, chained to a light pole.

In the shopping centre of my imagination I might see shiny windows, Sale! signs, and a line of people standing in front of McDonalds. But when I record the detail, I notice a veiled Muslim woman carrying a rake; a security guard talking into a walkie talkie with his bright white short-sleeved shirt tucked in too tight around his belly; a young shaven-headed dude with a t-shirt that says HARDEN THE FUCK UP; a middle-aged butcher shunting trays of sludgy marinated meats down into a glass counter, straightening the rows of plastic parsley between the trays; and a takeaway joint whose Special of the Day is Madras Curry Pizza.

I guess what I’m saying is that my most treasured writing tool is not so much the camera or the notebook, but the capacity for close and careful observation. So far I’ve mentioned visual details, but the same goes for the other senses. I try to notice smells and counter-smells, the feel of surfaces, the temperature of the air, the pitch of sounds, the counter-rhythms of other sounds - like the competing of birdcalls and truck reverse-parking beeps - and other sensations too, like the feel in my character’s belly when he realises he has hit a pedestrian in his car, the rising pressure you feel behind your eyes when you try to stop yourself crying. This kind of detail only comes from watching, very carefully, and making sure you look at and listen to and touch and taste everything in the frame of what you are observing.

The details can also include objects. Again, Garner has spoken convincingly about the power of objects in narrative. On RN’s 'The Book Show' in 2009 she said,

“I always like to work with the material world a lot. I've never been much good at thinking or arguing abstractly. I don't feel comfortable unless I've got a lot of objects on the page, and they seem to do an awful lot of work if you can arrange them into the right configuration. They carry a huge amount of energy and meaning, and it's just a matter of respecting them really.”

I know exactly what she means by ‘respecting them’ – that careful watching will reveal the motifs that can rise up for you in a book and work as sort of shimmery symbols, sending out waves of meaning that will resonate slightly differently with every different reader.

The strange thing is that I forget these things all the time, and have to re-remember them every time I sit down to write.

Iris Murdoch said that paying attention is in itself a moral act. I think this is true – it is hard to dismiss someone if you listen very carefully and watch them, and enter into what they truly believe. I think this is what my photographs and notebooks are telling me: remember not to skate over the surface of an imagined thing or person or act, but really sit, and go quiet, and listen. Pay attention to everything there in the frame, and then also perhaps wonder about what is not there, and why. I think a commitment to paying attention is perhaps as good a way as any to try to understand the world. And trying to understand the world is why I read, and why I write.

The Book of Jobs

2011-10-11T08:38:00.001+11:00

I've a piece on the ABC today, 'Book of Jobs: electronic Eden not paradise for everyone'.

In light of Jobs' death, I'm assessing Apple's ambivalent achievements. A sample:

Apple and Steve Jobs are not gods of visionary progress on one hand, or demons of evil capitalism on the other. They did not change the world – but they symbolise it nicely. They are, like much of life, profoundly ambivalent. It takes a certain maturity to recognise this horrible duality, without giving in to righteous worship or vilification. Not knowing Jobs, I'll not mourn him like an intimate, or pray at his urban temples. I simply recognise his worldly achievements, and the labour – his and others', creative and exploitative, sincere and cynical – that led to them.

(Photo: ABC)

On 'selfish' older mothers

2011-10-11T06:00:00.002+11:00

I had a column in yesterday's Canberra Times, 'Not easy to be an older parent, but it's not selfish'.

Prompted by a doctor's suggestion that older mothers are 'selfish', I'm exploring why we should support older parents. A sample:

For most of these couples, late parenthood is not a blithe lifestyle choice - they are doing their best in less-than-ideal circumstances. Perhaps a new generation will navigate this terrain of intimacy with a more accurate compass. Others might give up their career earlier, seeking a different balance. And medical science may stop the tragedy of many early miscarriages. But in the meantime, we have loving, well-meaning couples, who are ready to conceive and raise children. While parenting is always a roller-coaster, these parents are often more mature and secure, and prepared to nurture new life.

Despite the ambivalence and ambiguities of ageing parents, most children in Australia will be grateful for this opportunity: to exist. They might curse the effects of age, but most will deal maturely with the medical and financial consequences. And as a taxpayer, I am happy for the state to offer support and succour in this.

Yes, older parenthood is nothing to take lightly. But neither are missed opportunities for new life.

(Photo: Ernest F)

'The Write Tools' #31 - Kylie Ladd

2011-10-10T06:00:00.006+11:00

Kylie's plastic brain, PFC in green

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is author Kylie Ladd. Kylie is the author of two novels, After The Fall and Last Summer, and two works of non-fiction. She has also been published in Griffith Review, Good Weekend, Etchings and O magazine, amongst others, and holds a PhD in neuropsychology. Her third novel is currently being read by her publisher.

Writer’s tools are all very well, but how many of them are reliable and always at hand? Pens leak or run out. Notebooks get lost. Laptops blow up, become infected or suddenly shut down the only time (I swear to God) you’ve written two thousand words without backing up along the way.

I still use all these things, of course, but over the dozen or so years of my writing life I’ve found that I’ve come to depend far more on another tool. It’s grey and squishy and completely custom made. It’s always on, and recharges automatically when I’m asleep. It’s my prefrontal cortex.*

The prefrontal cortex is the bit of the brain immediately behind your forehead, right - as the name suggests - at the front of the organ, lying ahead of the motor areas. I first became acquainted with it at the age of 21, when I took a neuroanatomy course as part of my Masters degree in psychology. One minute my classmates and I were loitering in the hallway of the medical building, wondering why we’d all been instructed to bring a waterproof smock, and the next we were being ushered into a lab to find a brain in a bucket on each of our desks. The prefrontal cortex was the first area we dissected. “Look at this!” our instructor exclaimed as he hauled his own bucket-bound brain onto a chopping board, made a few incisions and lifted up something that resembled a dripping, quivering mound of paté. “It doesn’t seem like much, does it? But that’s you. That’s who you are.”

He was right. As I was later to learn, damage to the prefrontal cortex (an unfortunately all-too common sequelae of car accidents) almost always results in personality change, with the afflicted individual becoming impatient, irritable, impulsive, facile... “not himself”, as I’ve heard so many families report. The area is responsible for judgement, insight and reason, the so-called higher-level or executive functions that distinguish us from animals. Even more importantly for a writer, it’s the prefrontal cortex that allows us to think abstractly, to consider and integrate different points of view, to evaluate whether what we’ve produced is any good or not.

But that’s not just why I’m so dependent on mine. The other vital - and fascinating - aspect of the prefrontal cortex is what happens when its influence is moderated, or, like a volume knob, turned down. In the words of neuroscientist Earl Miller, the prefrontal cortex can be compared to “the conductor of an orchestra waving [his] baton and directing the players.” If the conductor wanders off, the result can be a mess - and schizophrenia has indeed been linked with structural damage and/or decreased neurotransmitter levels in the prefrontal cortex. But it can also give the orchestra the opportunity to come up with some whole new tunes of its own.

Three mornings ago I went for a run. I’d spent the previous day struggling with the plotting of a new novel...there was a particular theme I wanted to work in, but I couldn’t for the life of me think how. After an afternoon of deliberation, I’d given up in disgust and gone to cook dinner. Fourteen hours later, as I plodded along, simultaneously listening to a podcast and enjoying the sight of mist rising off the early-morning Yarra, the plot resolution suddenly came to me. It was nothing to do with the mist or the podcast; it had arrived, fully-formed, when the thinking parts of my brain were turned down.

Scientists have in fact found that creativity is enhanced during vigorous - but monotonous - exercise, such as running on a treadmill. This may be due to the brain selectively directing limited neural resources to the motor and sensory cortices, and away from other areas. The result, researchers argue, is a state of “transient hypofrontality” or defocused attention, where the inhibitory control of the prefrontal cortex is reduced (though not ablated) and new ideas and associations can flourish.

A similar state can be achieved via hypnosis, drugs, meditation and falling asleep or day dreaming. The epic poem Kubla Khan supposedly came to Coleridge in an opium-induced doze; Kekule was woolgathering on a London bus when he suddenly realised he had hit upon the chemical structure of carbon. In her wonderful book Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott visualises the unconscious, which a number of studies have linked with the prefrontal cortex, as “a Dr Seuss creature in the cellar, arranging and stitching things together. When this being is ready to hand things up to you, to give you a paragraph or a sudden move one character makes that will change the whole course of your novel, you will be entrusted with it.”

Sometimes, though, the Dr Seuss creature gets in early. In my third novel I called one of the leads Ben. No real reason; I just liked the name. Ben is the son of deeply devout Catholic parents who have used IVF to conceive him - a procedure forbidden by their church. Justifying the decision, Ben’s mother Mary turns to scripture and the lament of Rachel, wife of Jacob, who is also infertile: Give me children, or I die. I remembered that line from my church-schooled youth, but as I wrote Mary’s scene, which occurs in a flashback midway through the book, I found myself wondering what had happened to Rachel. Taking a break, I hunted out a bible, flicked to Genesis - and broke out in goosebumps. Rachel had eventually conceived in old age, bearing a son named Benjamin.

I can’t believe that that was coincidence. Decades ago, I knew my bible stories. I am convinced that as soon as I started thinking about my third novel, about religion and the ache of empty arms, that my prefrontal cortex diligently began sewing the pieces together. Months later, when the work was half-completed and my attention defocused, it quietly showed me what it had done, much as it had presented me with that plotting answer as I stopped and watched mist rise from a river. Try getting your laptop to do that.

*A few lines in this post are taken from Kylie's earlier essay in the Griffith Review, 'The Unexpected Idea'.

Why do we need philosophy nowadays?

2011-10-08T08:07:00.006+11:00

Portrait of the philosopher
as a young man

Why the hell do we need philosophy today? Isn't it archaic, irrelevant, and very dull?

I've defended philosophy in today's Sydney Morning Herald, in 'Not idle, just thinking big'.

And do check out John Shakespeare's caricature of yours truly, in jeans and t-shirt, complete with shaven skull...

My essay looks at philosophy's value in modern life, and suggests how philosophers and everyone else might be more intellectually intimate. A sample:

Healthy or ailing, philosophy will continue for another two millennia – if homo sapiens survives. This is partly because of professional associations, formal education. But it is also because the desire to ask and answer life’s basic questions can be waylaid or suppressed, but not denied. The challenge for philosophers is to gratify this instinct – not with shallow truisms or anaesthetised prose, but by sharing what they desire: bold ideas, rich impressions, subtle emotions. The challenge for lay folk is to overcome distraction, intimidation or intellectual sloth, in favour of this, philosophy’s unusual beauty.

(Illustration: John Shakespeare/SMH)

Twits Are as Twits Do

2011-10-05T07:33:00.000+11:00

Steven Fry and tweep

I've a piece in today's Sydney Morning Herald, 'Holding thoughts to the minimum'.

Twitter-n00b that I am, I'm investigating the rewards and dangers of tweeting - its contributions to wit and sharp prose, for example, and the threat of distraction. A sample:

Like all technologies, Twitter is no simple cause. It can be used to sharpen blunt prose or bolster one's vulgar opinions. It can promote new friendships or aid intercontinental bullying. Most pressingly, it can distil experience into fine phrases, or it can dilute experience with distraction.

The vital thing is recognising its value and using it judiciously - to enhance consciousness rather than weaken it. Twits are as twits do.

(Photo: Anorak News)

'Memory lane is a learning curve'

2011-10-04T06:00:00.002+11:00

I had a column in yesterday's Canberra Times, 'Memory lane is a learning curve'.

I was looking into memory - memories of my son's infancy, in particular. What facts are remembered, and how are they warped and recoloured? A sample:

What I remember keenly is the edge-of-sanity moments when midnight crying seemed to last for hours, and the grey malaise of the next day: struggling to feed, change, clean up, cook and then pluck polished adjectives from thick air.

Yet these memories are not perfect snapshots. First, because I simply cannot recall much of it – it is a distant blur. Teething dates, amounts of milk imbibed, names of toys have vanished, perhaps precisely because of the domestic havoc.

It is also because I remember events, but no longer endure them. I recall the stifling madness, but its sharp points have dulled in the years since. ‘Time heals all wounds’ is an old saying – and a sometimes inaccurate one. But clearly memories do lose their bite. We recognise what was felt, but we do not feel it so intensely.

Yet the looseness of memory is more than simple forgetfulness or blunted feeling. Memory also turns feelings into ideas of feelings – they become meaningful. And this meaning can change over the years – unwritten autobiography is revised as we go.

'The Write Tools' #30 - Ben Pobjie

2011-10-03T15:05:00.005+11:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is Ben Pobjie, writer, comedian and poet. Ben is the author of Superchef and Surveying the Wreckage, and has written regularly for The Age, the ABC and New Matilda.

Many writers, I have found, enjoy total solitude when they write. I know of more than one who considers the ideal writing environment to be a remote country house, with no phone, no internet, and no company, nothing whatsoever to divert their mind from the pressing task of getting the words down on paper – or on the screen, if you’re not one of those weirdoes who still writes on paper.

This is the way some writers find they do their best work – in peace and tranquillity. Personally, cut me off like that and within half an hour I’ll be bouncing off the walls and going all Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It sounds ridiculous, but I need distraction. I need something else to direct my attention to. Let us be frank: I need Twitter.

I just can’t write if writing is the only thing going on. I can’t just sit in front of the black and white on the screen for hour upon hour, typing typing typing, never deviating from my course, single-mindedly slogging relentlessly on like a husky-sled through the Yukon with a steadfast refusal to look either left or right until the job in front of me is done. When I do that, I freeze up. I go into literary paralysis. I end up staring blankly at the screen, chewing my lip, completely lost as to what to do next.

Because no matter what I tell my mind it should do, it is going to wander. When I come to a point where I don’t know what the next sentence is, my mind will skip off to pastures new, getting some relief from the strain of creation and hopeful that in those fresh mental fields will be found rare and exotic flowers that I can bring back with me when I return to the job at hand. And strangely enough, it works. When I get stuck, I turn my attention to something else, and when I come back to the piece I’m writing, I’ve more often than not found the answer. Sometimes it might take half an hour, sometimes it might take three seconds, but what I’ve discovered is that distracting myself is a far better – and more enjoyable – way of riding over the bumps in the road than simply boggling at the screen waiting for inspiration to strike. Or just writing any old rubbish and hoping I can fix it in the next draft. My brain just doesn’t work that way. This doesn’t mean there aren’t times when I’ll write solidly for long stretches – when the words are flowing it’s a desperate rush to get them down before they slip away, and those times are precious and must be savoured when they come along.

In addition, not all distractions are equal. I need to be able to distract myself, but it’s no good if others are distracting me. Having the TV there, or a news site to switch to, is fine; I’m in control of whether I look away from my work. Having my children flocking about asking for snacks and drinks and fighting and striking up conversations about Superman and falling over and squawking and asking to play with my iPhone is quite different – they’re prone to distract at the wrong time, those moments when my concentration is on high-beam. Unwanted distractions, from kids or phone calls or door-to-door salesmen, break focus, rather than massage it as controlled distractions do.

And that’s why Twitter is my ultimate writing tool. Every time I find my focus flagging, my will to write drooping, or my inspiration sputtering, I can flick to Twitter, say hi to a friend, catch up on the news, and perhaps most importantly, toss out some gags. Twitter is not only a distraction, but a stimulant: when writing energy levels are low, I can start cracking jokes or crafting observations in 140 characters or less, and give a jolt to the system – the ability to fire off spur-of-the-moment tweets adrenalises, sparks the creative glands into action, and frequently helps the process of plunging back into the real work I’m trying to do. And most importantly, it’s in MY hands – Twitter can’t tear me away from my work without my consent.

Not everyone can work this way – I am probably in a tiny paradoxical minority in needing distractions to stay focused. But it works for me, and I can honestly say, when I sit down to embark on another flight of literary fancy, Twitter is my co-pilot.

20 Aphorisms - October 2011

2011-10-01T15:12:00.002+10:00

Here are another twenty aphorisms on technology, parenthood, distraction, martial arts and more.

As philosophy, they are obviously unsophisticated - they lack the sustained argument of a book or essay.

But they are not replacements for scholarly work. They're attempts to put an idea crisply and boldly - to 'seduce and elevate,' as Friedrich Nietzsche (left, with saber) put it.

In this, aphorisms have educational ambition: to jog memory, pique curiosity and drive action.

The internet has brought many people closer apart.
Parents and teachers praising children for quiet docility: raising adults who will 'just follow orders'.
The soul: one of the oldest and most beautiful of intellectual errors.
'The universe rewards positive thinking': this is the emperor's new age clothes.
Drivers often feel sympathy when they see me walking. The feeling is mutual.
The artist's false consolation: talking about one's 'potential' as if it were real.
Waiting for inspiration is like waiting for someone to love you - a triumph of hope over honesty.
Kitsch is the back door into the mansion of style.
Power at its most familiar: making others wait. Examples: the dawdling child, the late specialist, the lover.
Being distracted is the anti-Blake: having the world, but seeing only a grain of sand.
The great crime of contemporary journalism: not redeeming its shallowness with beautiful prose.
'Consumer': a word that mistakes necessity for identity.
'Management reserves the right to...' is often another way of saying: 'We are legally allowed the following mistakes....'
It is healthier to redirect than repress violent urges: the case for martial arts.
On violence: physical confrontation is not the problem - the problem is a mix of malice, vanity and lack of restraint.
A balanced life would be easier if there weren't so much profit in imbalance. Health often requires frugality.
Free speech is an achievement, not just a right. Our words can be liberated well before our minds.
Romantics are sometimes the worst misogynists: they hate women for not living up to their false ideals.
For many postmodernists, the only sin is sincerity.
Because it is public, many recognise the craft of writing. Reading is more private, and more overlooked as a talent.

Pink Wars

2011-09-29T06:00:00.019+10:00

This post is part of the Good Men Project's international news/blog event, 'The End of Gender'.

From all over the US and here in Australia, authors are tackling gender and its transformations. Have a look about, and have your say.

This is my contribution, on the so-called 'Pink Wars', first published on the ABC.

***

I saw the advertisement in a glossy home magazine: a young boy, grimacing in horror and shame. His once-white karate uniform is now pink – someone put red in with the wash. An older boy in a pristine white uniform towers over him, threateningly. But the advertisement reassures us: with their product, we can throw together red socks and a white karate uniform in the machine ‘with gay abandon.’ Get it? Gay, because the uniform’s pink? Tee hee.

While fashion-conscious celebrities like David Beckham can wear salmon shirts with a swagger, pink is still a no-go for many boys and men. To the understandable frustration of feminist columnists, little girls like my daughter are bombarded with pink clothes and toys from the get-go, just in case their gender’s in doubt. Recently, a waitress at a café even reversed her and her brother’s marshmellows – she had to have the pink one.

Like women, men are still expected to abide by certain unwritten rules, including those of colour. For many, pink smacks of effeminacy, hence gayness. The logic’s twisted, but it’s common. Pink’s not for martial artists, and other ‘manly men’.

Or is it? Wrestler Gene Lebell, often called ‘the toughest man alive’, is known for his pink Judo uniform, or gi in Japanese. Well over a generation ago, competing in conservative Japan, Lebell’s uniform was washed with something red. His gi was pinkified. But he still competed, and won his division. Since then, it’s become a hallmark: toughman in pink cotton pyjamas. ‘It was something different,’ he told an interviewer, ‘and when people teased me about it, it was a good excuse to get them on the mat and stretch their bodies a bit.’

While a seemingly trivial anecdote, Lebell’s wardrobe malfunction makes some straightforward points about colour and gender.

First, we do live in a colour-coded world, and this is particularly true of gender. Lebell’s story is remembered, not only for its upset of Japanese tradition, but also because it juxtaposed tough, physical masculinity with ‘feminine’ pink. As Cordelia Fine puts it in her excellent book, Delusions of Gender, ‘children are born into a world in which gender is continually emphasized through conventions of dress, appearance, language, color, segregation, and symbols.’ If more men are wearing pink nowadays, this hasn’t changed the ‘pink equals girly’ logic in the minds of many. The associations are unconscious, immediate and widespread.

Second, Lebell demonstrates how arbitrary these associations are: pink has no genie’s wand to turn men into women, wrestlers into winged fairies. It connotes, it does not control. As Cordelia Fine points out, pink was once thought a strong, masculine colour, then fashion changed. Neither is ‘natural’ in any way, and blind deference to custom is closer to magical thinking than independent thought.

Third, Lebell’s victory suggests what’s necessary to recognise and reject arbitrary custom: confidence, bloody-mindedness, courage. Gene Lebell could depart from the white orthodoxy because his character wasn’t in doubt – the ‘toughest man alive’ was no less so in white, fuchsia or cerulean.

The point is not that macho masculinity is always something to be lauded – at its most shallow and narrow, it can be a destructive thing. And perhaps it’s easier for a brawny black-belt to play with pink than for an awkward primary-schooler.

The point is this: colour is meaningful, but this meaning is derivative, flexible. By all means, discover colour’s aesthetic qualities. We might accept pink because it shows off dusky skin, highlights hazel eyes. We might reject it because it makes skin pasty, clashes with ginger hair. Either way, its significance is up for grabs. Earnestly condemning pink is as misguided as earnestly giving it. The point of equality is not knee-jerk colour correctness, for or against. It’s the cultivation of liberated people, who help to shape and reshape meaning, often by struggling for what they value.

Which brings us back to the boy in the pink gi. It might not be a fashion triumph. His teacher, if traditional, might not approve. But like cricketers on pink day, he needn’t be embarrassed. He’s there to cultivate strength, restraint, trust, not to bow to fashion orthodoxy. Better to fight on in fuchsia pyjamas than to surrender in white.

Work and Life: Getting it Right

2011-09-26T18:14:00.001+10:00

I've a piece in today's Canberra Times, 'The work/life divide: time to think about getting it right'.

I'm exploring the dangers of imbalance, and the need to start early: teaching kids that career, marriage and parenthoods are negotiated, not divinely decreed. A sample:

Work/life balance is not only an issue for early middle-age and older. On the contrary, it starts young, in upbringing and schooling. Kids deserve to be taught, as early as possible, that these choices are choices – and not predetermined stages of life. The path from schooling to career, for example, can be swift and simple. But there is no shame in a little dawdling, idling or vocational recalcitrance. Blithely loafing from one abortive career to another is one thing, but mindful curiosity is another. Ethics and philosophy classes might help – a little less indoctrination, a little more critical thinking. But most importantly, children will also learn by example: parents who demonstrate their willingness to do things differently. Swapping chores, forgoing absurd mortgages, turning off the television and work mobile, engaging in genuine, open debate about finances or employment – each is a small education in value. We might fail, but our failure may be avoided for the next generation. Work/life juggling is best developed by learning to balance early.

(Photo: Darjac)

Martial Arts, Children and Virtue

2011-09-23T13:23:00.007+10:00

'Cage fighting' children, minus the cage.
Also known as 'Judo'.

Yesterday I spoke on ABC Brisbane 612 to novelist, author and broadcaster John Birmingham about children and martial arts.

What skills and lessons can the children come away with, and what can parents look out for?

And why are folks surprised that I, as a philosopher, studied Karate? As I wrote in The Australian, the martial arts can be intensely philosophical.

You can listen to the interview here.

Meanwhile, in today's news, a kids' bout has been described as 'barbaric' - chiefly because it was held in a cage.

Parents, politicians and the media: it's not 'cage fighting', it's not gladiatorial savagery. It's wrestling - exactly what countless boys and girls do all over the world, every day. It involves patience, restraint and skill - and, I suspect, has a lower injury rate than football.

Relax, folks: as I've argued elsewhere, it's virtuous. The boys will probably be less violent for it, not more.

(Photo: Marjon)

How to Communicate Online

2011-09-22T16:53:00.000+10:00

I've a piece on the ABC today, 'Communication: it's always better when we're together'.

I'm arguing that arts and letters can help us to avoid nasty spats online - the costs of a disembodied relationship. (So the headline's not quite accurate, but never mind.) A sample:

One of the great achievements of the modern novel... is its depiction of consciousness: the inner life usually lost to us. This is why I keep re-reading Virginia Woolf's brilliant Mrs Dalloway: good fiction can help us realise how much of another human being is left out, exaggerated, diminished or just faked. It is a lesson in the precariousness of understanding, and a spur to greater artistry with words.

Ultimately, words cannot replace palpable proximity. Hence the lament of so many letter-writers over the ages: "If only we could be together." We cannot write ourselves out of separation. Nonetheless, with mindfulness and practice, we can certainly diminish its dangers.

(Photo: Llewi034)

'Teach the Boys to Fight' - Good Men Project

2011-09-20T07:12:00.000+10:00

My earlier column for Fairfax, 'Channel the Rage', has been republished on the Good Men Project.

If you're interested in strategies for reducing violence, do take a look, and have your say.

(Photo: superwebdeveloper/Flickr)

20 Aphorisms - September 2011

2011-09-19T17:04:00.005+10:00

I've been trying Twitter, and I'm enjoying the economy of language. There is also an irreverent mood to Twitter, which encourages quips.

These combine in the aphorism, which tries to encapsulate truths in crisp, striking statements.

In my books and newspaper columns, I try to include this combination of brevity and punch every now and then. (Usually clumsily.) Twitter is amplifying this urge.

Here are a collection of twenty aphorisms on life, writing, philosophy and Lady Gaga. Do any take your fancy?

Addiction: when distractions from life become life itself.
'Nature': often a fashionable bag for smuggling our prejudices in.
The curse of Twitter: mistaking haste for decisiveness, brevity for wit.
Writing, like running, requires daily discipline, competition with oneself, and moments of thoughtless effort.
Hospitals: where injury meets the insult of daytime television.
Lady Gaga: a cult of impersonality.
Sunny day: infinity in a blue dress.
'Living in the moment' is amnesia rephrased as philosophy.
The word 'god' is obviously well travelled - just check its semantic baggage.
To be a writer, one needs more than skill and passion. One needs a taste for austerity.
Self-belief is often easier than self-mastery. Put another way: it's easier to be confident than free.
Talented people fail regularly - but by their own measures, not others'.
The best way to 'free your mind' is to train it well, and use it bravely.
It can be quietly embarrassing to think. We see our old ideals, awkward like old fashions.
Gossip is often about ourselves, not about others: we ease the pain of existence with the anaesthesia of chatter.
Folks ask philosophy students: "What will you do with that?" We reply with a similar question: "What will you do with that, your life?"
Those who believe in the 'Death of the Author' still receive royalties. Clearly there are some 'limits' they recognise.
Many a narcissist has a shadow as well as a mirror - someone he needs to hate, mock or wilfully ignore. Elections are won with this...
One of the most important lessons of school: how to disobey. Start early, and do it artfully.
Intellectual gentrification: the fashionable take possession of ideas built, at great cost, by artists and thinkers they once reviled.

(Illustration: Toni DAgonstinho)

Emily Dickinson: In Praise of Reverie

2011-09-17T06:17:00.001+10:00

I'm considering a chapter, in my book-in-progress, on Emily Dickinson.

She was a keen gardener, and her poetry was informed by her horticultural and botanical eye. Robins, fir-trees, mushrooms - the landscape provided her with an animated symbolic universe.

But this was not simply bland naturalism. The landscape had to be transformed by an engaged, enriching consciousness - what she called 'revery'. I'll leave the final word to Ms. Dickinson, with her customary economy:

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,—
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few.

(Photo: courtesy of David Gunter)

The Glamour of Writing

2011-09-15T13:07:00.002+10:00

This is my part-time office: a small table at a café.

Why? The cafe means I'm away from the domestic din. The small table means I'm not taking seats from families or the elderly.

I've deliberately avoided conversation at this café, because gregariousness brings distraction. I only have a few hours, so I use them judiciously.

Nonetheless, patrons are still curious. 'Are you a writer?' they ask. 'Writing the great Australian novel?' 'Do you write books?' 'What's your next book about?' 'Have you almost finished?' (Clearly they've been talking to my publisher.)

They don't ask this of the nurse, the businessman, the delivery man. Partly because their jobs are obvious. But not entirely. If they only wanted to discover my profession, their questions would stop with my 'Yes, I'm a writer.'

But they don't. Strangers are very curious about the writing life. Their response is both passionate and personal - as if they had a stake in my labour. (I'm glad that they do, to be honest - particularly if it translates into support for the arts.)

Part of this is a certain glamour.

Of course, there's nothing glamourous about an espresso, paper and pens, in a suburban café. There is nothing glamourous about my Kindle, which provides me with Aristotle and Plato's collected works, in less than three hundred grams. (A little exciting, but the novelty becomes practicality very quickly.) Just tools.

But these tools suggest a well-known product: sexy or punchy words on paper, in shiny covers. They suggest launches, interviews, tours, festivals - the very public face of text, however much two young kids keep this homebody from evening gigs.

The tools also suggest that private, precarious universe that springs up between author and reader. As with actors, there is an intimacy to this, which gives writers a certain cachet: the aura of mass companionship.

And there is a romance to writing, as with most arts: the impression that the works go beyond utility. They are ends in themselves, not mere means to an end. In this, they are a break from the ordinary grind. A little holiday reality. (But not always for the author.)

In other words, this is the pleasure of seeing the secret labour behind the glamour. Walking into the mansion of literature through the tradesmen's entrance, so to speak.

This tradesman stiffens at the interruptions, but welcomes the sentiment behind them.

Damon @ Brio Daily & Twitter & Meanjin

2011-09-14T06:00:00.006+10:00

I've been interviewed on Brio Daily, a hub for creative news and views. Lani Pauli, a website media strategist from Brio Group, saw me at GoMA, read Distraction, and wanted to have a chat.

You can read the interview with Lani here.

Speaking of media strategies, I'm now trying Twitter. You can follow me here, or just click the button down the bottom of this post, or to the right in the sidebar.

Also, check out Jessica Au's awesome 'Write Tools' post, now at the Meanjin blog.

Are Lines Distracting Your Writing?

2011-09-13T11:50:00.002+10:00

Fountain pen tragic that I am, I write on spiralbound, lined, Clairfontaine paper. I don't find the lines distracting.

But clearly some folks do. So Swedish designer Olof Hansson invented the Whitelines notebooks, which have - surprise, surprise - white lines on light grey paper.

Notebooks and distraction? Two of my favourite topics. Clearly, I had to investigate this.

The good people at Notemaker, the Australian premium stationery retailer, sent me a hardbound A5 Whitelines notebook to try.

It's a nicely-bound black book, with a bright orange line on the cover, and bookmark ribbon. The paper is robustly stitched. It lies flat with creasing, but not like a spiralbound notebook.

The paper is not bad, given it's not designed for fountain pens. With my extra-fine Pelikan M215, there was no feathering of the ink, and a little bleeding to the back of the page.

My Pelikan 140, with a wet, vintage nib was a different story. Quite a bit of bleeding - it looked like I'd written on both sides of the page. But, again: it's not designed for fountain pens, and would be hunky-dory for rollerballs.

Now, do the white lines make any difference? Yes, a little. But not the difference Olaffson claims.

I'm no more or less distracted with Whitelines than with my Clairefontaine. But the white lines do ramp up the contrast - the ink really jumps out at you.

This is surprising, given the paper is grey, rather than bright white. But the combination of dark and light does something to the eye. Strange, but true.

I imagine this'd be useful for illustrators and designers, combining sketches with text. And certainly helpful for anyone scanning or photocopying.

All in all, the Whitelines notebook is good but not great. Well-built, attractive, with an innovative feature - it gets some important ticks. It's also environmentally thoughtful.

But the paper is too rough and thin to compete with Clairefontaine, and other French notebooks like Rhodia and the Quo Vadis Habana (which I've reviewed here).

'The Write Tools' #29 - Kate Holden

2011-09-12T06:00:00.002+10:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is author and columnist Kate Holden. Kate is the author of memoirs In My Skin and The Romantic, and she writes regularly for The Age. Kate is now working on a supernatural historical novel.

Writing: one of the most portable careers around. You need nothing but paper and pen, or screen and keyboard; the vanishing space between skull and page; and an idea. You can do it in a park, in the car, at a desk or in your head. It’s simplicity itself, until you begin to put the words down.

But one thing I always need in order to write is music. Doubtless I could get by without it. I can write without coffee, or a cigarette, or any idea of what the hell I’m going to say. But music helps. It’s helpful to have someone else’s creativity floating around you. It’s helpful to take the edge off the silence of your mind.

What I listen to depends on what I’m writing: I have certain favourites for certain types of writing, particular projects, specific genres. If I’m writing one of my Age columns, generally I put on something classical, unworded, sweet and rich and full of continuo and ground bass which will feel like a solid foundation for my thoughts to float above. Most often it’s Purcell, especially ’15 Fantasias and Chacony’. It flows on and on, its formality comforting, its elaborations inspiring. At the moment I’m obsessed with 17th century English baroque music: it’s all grave and sublime, candlelit and illuminating. Music like this expands time, it relaxes my thoughts, and its beauty is that of a perfect still life.

For one novel I’m writing, a supernatural story set in the English countryside, again I go to the 17th century: now, it conjures meadows, Civil War cavaliers, cornfields. Or Arvo Pärt, for the bleak eeriness, the exquisite sorrow, the sense of mystery. Hans Zimmer’s music for the last couple of ‘Batman’ films is menacing and fragmented, perfect for evoking an atmosphere of fear; I adore a strange album called ‘Crow Autumn’ by an artist called Broken Consort: violins in vibrato in an extended loops, something rich and solemn, somehow disturbing, the countryside dissolving in twilight.

Another novel (a kind of New Weird one) requires more strangeness: I play Melbourne band Because of Ghosts, or Les Voix Bulgares, Mogwai, or the soundtrack to ‘The Fountain’ by Clint Mansell. Soundtracks are especially good for writing to: they surge and subside, lyricless, they tell stories. My collection includes a lot of Zimmer and everything by Mansell (‘Moon’, ‘Requiem for a Dream’, ‘Pi’); also Lisa Gerrard’s work on soundtracks, such as ‘The Insider’ and ‘Gladiator’. Props also to Nyman and Glass, whose relentless mathematical compositions osmotically put my words in precise position, whose endless variations encourage revision, and whose sweetness in the midst of such clinical ferocity endows my thoughts with emotion even as I’m searching a thesaurus for the correct verb.

I intend to mention my playlists in the acknowledgements page of my novels if they ever get published: I hear that writers are already beginning to supply downloadable soundtracks to their works. And why not? Acknowledgement is due: my books would be much more drab without sound echoing word, inspiration passing from ear to mind and out again onto the page.

The Author at Work #3

2011-09-10T14:15:00.005+10:00

Another day at the office...

Sophia had a rare day-sleep yesterday.

Normally, she starts at about 5.30am and keeps going - chattering, climbing, cutting-and-pasting, chattering, playing Lego/dolls/cars/farmyard/shops, drawing, dressing-up, chattering - until 6.30pm.

But yesterday, the whirlwind stopped spinning for an hour.

So I wrote an outline for the introduction of my next book.

It's a good example of what I've argued elsewhere: parenthood can be wonderfully disciplining. No romantic anguish. No indulgent idleness. You grab the minutes when and where you can. (Thanks, Sophia.)

And three cheers for the pram in the hall.

The Talented Mr Keating

2011-09-09T13:54:00.005+10:00

This is one of the illustrations from the Australian edition of my book Distraction, by artist and designer Dan Keating.

I'm happy to say Dan's now illustrating my next book, essays on gardens. (See an early sketch here.)

Dan's also a proficient martial artist, currently training in mixed martial arts (MMA). You can watch him competing in amateur Pankration here.

If you'd like to take a peek at some of Dan's works, they are at his website, also available in the 'Blogs I Read' section, to the right.

Kilojoules That Kill You

2011-09-08T06:00:00.003+10:00

The 'Windows 7' promotional Whopper
- what ~~operating systems~~ operations
is it promoting?

I had a piece in yesterday's Canberra Times, 'Education, equality for better nutrition'.

The ACT, following NSW, is introducing new food labelling laws, requiring many restaurants to show the kilojoules/calories in their foods.

I'm discussing why this is a good first step, but by no means an end to dangerous diets. A sample:

The mechanisms are complicated, but we know this: despite years of nutritional information, people with a low socio-economic status still have worse diets and poorer health. They are more likely to be obese. They are more likely to be sedentary, and to smoke. Increased health and fitness are, unfortunately, still correlated with higher education, professional status, income. They also require better work/life balance, so employees have the time and energy to cook; and better-planned cities which encourage exercise, not driving. Australia needs more equality, not just more nutritional stickers.

Ultimately, the ideal is gastronomic education - not just how to cook, but what to savour. One of the hallmarks of better nutrition is a refined, restrained appetite. This is not a sackcloth diet, unhappily gumming on cardboard ''health food'' and swallowing vitamin tablets. Craving food can be a good thing, but it needs to be civilised.

(Photo: Phillipe.charles9)

The Price of Freedom

2011-09-07T07:18:00.001+10:00

I've an essay in the latest Australian Literary Review (in today's Australian), 'The Price of Freedom'.

It's an edited version of my talk to the Design Research Institute's recent forum on challenges for design in the 21st century.

The essay explores the relationship between design, technology and freedom. A sample:

Perhaps the most maddening threat to freedom is success. Freedom need not make golems or ghosts of us; it is not monstrous or other-worldly. But free individuals may be foreign to us, foreign in values, beliefs and tastes, and stubbornly so. Designers who meet the challenge of freedom may well find themselves unsettled, insulted or simply baffled by it. Freedom is a challenge not simply because it is hard to realise but because it is hard to recognise. And, even for the best of us, perhaps even harder to love.

(Photo: The Australian/Jane Dempster)

'The Write Tools' #28 - Jessica Au

2011-09-05T06:00:00.002+10:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is novelist and short fiction writer Jessica Au, former Deputy Editor of Meanjin Quarterly literary journal. Jessica's debut novel Cargo was published in 2011 by Pan Macmillan.

A few years ago, whilst trawling the internet on one of those pre-writing, procrastination benders, I came across this photographic record of Will Self’s writing room.

There were 71 photos in total, shot in no particular order by Phil Grey and uploaded as a digital slideshow. For any other writer, the project itself might have been unremarkable – a minute or two of empty time – yet here the end result was, effectively, a 360 degree panorama of chaos and wonder, because almost every inch of the room was covered in tiny yellow post-it notes. They were everywhere – on the walls, the desk, the lip of the bookshelf, the lamp, and their positioning was both haphazard and ordered. Self had stuck them wherever there was space, yet the notes were always grouped together, in set columns or rows, sometimes as tightly overlapped as fish scales. There were occasional gradients of pink and orange amongst the yellow, making the walls appear almost pixellated.

At the time, I was in the very early stages of writing my first novel. And while I had always been interested in literary paraphernalia, I was pretty dismissive of such things when it came to myself. I’ve never been able to keep a writer’s notebook, for example – for one, my handwriting is atrocious, and for another, I always forget to jot down my thoughts at the right moment. Anything else I used was purely functional – laptop, internet, desk, pot of tea. I was quite fond of the bright blue pen, with its pouring liquid ink, that I used for editing, but even that I could have done without. Anyway, I filed away the link to Self’s room away for a blog post, and then went on with the day.

A year and a bit later, I found myself right in the thick of editing, trapped, it seemed, in a hell of my own making. In trying to stretch and mould three short stories into a longer work, I’d created a structural nightmare. The novel was a giant Rubik’s cube of scenes and chronology that never seemed to match up. I had no idea how solve it.

I can’t remember exactly when or how Self’s erstwhile writing room came into my head, but eventually I started to write out each scene on some post-its of my own in cryptic, slightly cringe-worthy fragments. I colour coded them by character (orange for Frankie, blue for Gillian, and green for Jacob), and stuck small markers on problematic scenes that needed reworking (practically all of them). There were further notes for dates, sub-scenes, and ideas.

The wall was of course a much more modest and boring version of Self’s artistic chaos, but somehow it seemed to work. I could get a bird’s eye view of everything. It was easier to compartmentalise, to cut and reshuffle. For the next year or so my wall reflected the shape of each draft – growing and contracting with the chapters, gradually becoming cleaner as I reworked each scene. I marked my progress with a yellow stationary tab, awaiting the moment when I could finally paste it to the end.

The novel’s wrapped up now, and yet I still haven’t managed to take the wall down. The paper is curling, and their backs are becoming unstuck. Soon they’ll end up in the recycling, but not this week. Maybe it’s laziness, or maybe I am a little sentimental about these things after all.

'A Weevil in a Biscuit'

2011-08-31T19:21:00.001+10:00

We do not travel much. It's partly having little children, partly having little money.

I'd like to see more. Antiquities, museums, beaches, foods, gardens, ruins - every now and then they whisper: "Come here, fool. You're dying every day. Do you want another minute at that suburban cafe?"

I reply that I can write anywhere - even here, in the 'burbs. And that travel will not write for me. But still...

Ruth, who does not hear these sirens, discovered this for me in Virginia Woolf's diary, Tuesday 17th February, 1931:

I feel us, compared with Aldous & Maria [Huxley], unsuccessful. They're off today to do mines, factories... black country; did the docks when they were here; must see England. They are going to the Sex Congress in Moscow, have been in India, will go to America, speak French, visit celebrities,--while here I live like a weevil in a biscuit. ... Lord, how little I've seen, done, lived, felt, thought compared with the Huxleys--compared with anyone. Here we toil, reading & writing, year in year out. No adventure, no travel; darker grows the fog. Here, by some invisible rope, we are bound.

(Image: Virginia Woolf, by Roger Fry, c.1917)

On Corruption in Australia

2011-08-29T11:04:00.000+10:00

I've a column in today's Canberra Times, 'Why Australia is one of the least corrupt nations'.

In light of India's ongoing anti-corruption protests, I'm exploring some of the reasons for Australia's relatively uncorrupt professions. A sample:

We call this ‘dispassionate’ or ‘disinterested’ service, but this is psychologically inaccurate. These officials retain their passion, but it is divided. There are their feelings for particular individuals, groups, institutions, laws. These are put to one side – not suppressed entirely, but uncoupled from judgement. This is possible because of another passion, which drives central decisions: for the vocation itself.

In university and training, these individuals are often taught to put loyalty to certain institutions first: medicine, law, education, the commonwealth. As the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu argues, there is still passion involved: but it is for the professional field.

They value themselves, and are valued, by virtue of their status in this field. In this light, they are not genuinely disinterested at all: but professional interests replace others like family, ethnicity, class, gender and so on. And if their field is healthy – as I believe it is for many of Australia’s professions, particularly medicine and the judiciary – they can maintain their vocational standards against corrupting forces, inside and out.

(Photo: Martin Kingsley)

How to Philosophise with a... Jigsaw

2011-08-28T06:00:00.095+10:00

Spring is here early - if only for a few days.

As I rambled last year for The Age, it's an invitation to get outside.

So we have. Yesterday, before the grandmothers arrived for morning tea, Nikos and I made a car.

I cut and built the car (to Nikos' specifications), and Nikos painted it.

On Friday, Sophia and I also made a jigsaw puzzle. (Yes, with a jigsaw.) She painted red soil, blue sky and orange sun, and I cut the shapes.

Obviously, I'm better with words than with wood. But the kids won't know that for a few years. In the meantime, I've orders for another puzzle, and a spy watch with a laser.

It takes me back to craft classes in high school. Only I'm actually making something, rather than talking non-stop or throwing things. (Both of which Sophia does admirably.)

Happy spring, folks.

The most human human

2011-08-27T07:54:00.001+10:00

I've a review of two books in The Australian today, 'Open the pod bay doors, HAL'.

As the 2001-inspired title suggests, both books concern the relationship between humans and technology: Brian Christian's Most Human Human, and Moonwalking with Einstein, by Joshua Foer.

Christian and Foer are both comfortable with technology - neither is a doomsayer or hypester. But they are rightly concerned about what we can give up to machines: creativity, control, memory. And both are illuminating on the hallmarks of humanity, like guessing (instead of calculation) and idiosyncratic symbolism (instead of formal grammar).

Appropriately, there's an error in the text - a 'was' left behind by someone editing. A sample:

How do we know it is a human typing or texting? Put more philosophically: In a machine age, what are the hallmarks of this bluebird, human consciousness?

Philosophy has a long history of answering this question with "reason". For example, numbers were sovereign for Plato: mathematical calculations "lead the mind towards truth" and allowed philosopher-kings to see the cosmic blueprint. But my MacBook can compute more quickly and correctly than the most gifted savant. And no one but Steve Jobs's disciples believes Apple's products are celestial.

As American science writer and poet Brian Christian argues in The Most Human Human, computers challenge our basic ideas of humankind. Importantly, he interprets this challenge with subtlety: less a duel to the death, more a friendly rivalry.

(Photo: NASA)

Philosophy versus everyone else?

2011-08-23T13:26:00.005+10:00

One of the worst caricatures of philosophy (which some philosophers live up to) is that it's the hobby of out-of-touch idlers, or failures with nothing but contempt for the business of ordinary labour.

Writing something for the Sydney Morning Herald, I came across a corker of a quote from John Dewey on this.

In the passage from Reconstruction in Philosophy, Dewey's arguing against the false division between philosophy and workaday life; between 'higher' ends in themselves, and everything else as means. Dewey writes:

[T]he doctrine of 'higher' ends gives aid, comfort and support to every socially isolated and socially irresponsible scholar, specialist, esthete and religionist. It protects the vanity and irresponsibility of his calling from observation by others and himself. The moral deficiency of the calling is transformed into a cause of admiration and gratulation.

The problem is not philosophers who work in exile, or outside the academy - Nietzsche and Spinoza, for example. In fact, neither saw his work solely as 'philosophy for philosophy's sake'. The problem is the impoverishment of life that occurs: philosophy becomes an idle ornament or contemptuous mutter, and practical pursuits are robbed of critical thought or speculative beauty.

(Image: detail from Raphael's 'School of Athens', courtesy of the Vatican)

Happy Birthday Lovecraft

2011-08-22T07:55:00.001+10:00

Saturday was the 121st birthday of H.P. Lovecraft: a man able to stare down the unthinkable horror of the cosmos, but unable to choose a fountain pen in less than forty-five minutes.

Happy birthday, from the forces of ineffable evil.

(Via Truculent Sheep. Photo: Henning Ludvigsen.)

What Makes Creative Minds Tick?

2011-08-19T20:01:00.007+10:00

Yesterday I spoke at the Gallery of Modern Art (GoMA), in Brisbane, in a panel called 'What makes creative minds tick?'

Together with neuroscientist Jason Gallate, artists Fiona Hall and Phillip Brophy, and moderator Amanda Smith from Radio National's 'Artworks', I chatted about distraction, talent (and its lack), the labels 'artist' and 'creativity', overcoming 'artist's block', and bucketloads more.

One of my hobbyhorses was the romantic myth of the 'genius', drunk on absinthe in a garrett, divining epiphanies from on high. Artistry is far more prosaic than this: more about honing skills than some ineffable black magic.

I also criticised the myth of one's 'great destiny': the idea that each of us has some untapped power within, even if this power is never cultivated; never put to work. This is more a consoling fantasy than anything else: a beautiful dream, which eases the sting of its own sharp unreality. As I've suggested elsewhere, the mortgage and television (and other distractions) have a hand in this.

The conversation will soon be broadcast on Radio National, on Amanda's 'Artworks' program.

While in Brisbane, I also visited the fantastic Surrealism: The Poetry of Dreams exhibition. A disorienting, exhausting exhibition - far too much for my short stay.

But highlights included:

Miro's 'Painting' (1927), with its cheery bright blue canvas, animated by lines of force and a bluer bird-thing.
Giacometti's 'The Surrealist Table' (1933), a creepy assemblage of bits, which manages to work as a single sculpture. The fortune teller is simultaneously an inanimate chess head and a vulnerable young woman. Weird, but very compelling in the flesh. (Well, bronze.)
André Masson's works in general, with their beautiful, sometimes delicate, violence - unsurprisingly, Masson was something of a Nietzschean.
Salvador Dali's 'Partial hallucination: six images of Lenin on the piano' (1931), because I stood in front of it for what felt like ten minutes, enjoying my own stimulated bafflement. The vascular chap is waiting for something - perhaps the ants on the musical score to discover the Lenins are dipped in honey?
Picasso's 'Woman reclining' (1932) (above), which has the artist's trademark ease. Many Surrealists have highly worked, finished paintings - Dali, for example. But they are rarely beautiful, and often a little too finished. Picasso, for all his violent symbolism, offers striking harmonies of line and colour - but makes it look natural. It's as if his unconscious were more relaxed than its Surrealist ambassadors...

If you get the chance, do drop in to the GoMA. Well worth getting a pass-out stamp, and coming back after a bite to eat, coffee and some psychoanalysis.

(Image: Picasso's 'Woman Reclining (1932), courtesy of the Centre Pompidou, Paris)

10 Life-Changing Books

2011-08-18T06:00:00.001+10:00

I was invited by author and publisher Karen Andrews to contribute to her '10 Life-changing Books' post.

I chose the Golden Bowl, which I wrote about in Distraction. For me, it wasn't just fodder for philosophical explanations - it was a game-changer for my consciousness. In fact, this might be said of Henry James in general.

Have any books changed your life in some way? Do drop in to Karen's blog and leave a comment.

(Image: Penguin)

Children of Albion

2011-08-17T06:00:00.001+10:00

Following on from my recent column on the UK riots, here's poet and translator George Szirtes' poignant, punchy 'Children of Albion':

Children of Albion, the future is yours,
It’s safe now to wander and gambol outdoors,
The streets are all empty, the shops are all bare,
There’s nothing to take but a breath of fresh air,
Nothing is broken that time won’t repair,
Children of Albion
Sleep easy.

Children of Albion, the future is bright,
There’s plenty of fire to light up the night,
The goods are all free, the watches, the shoes,
The TVs, the iPhones, the music, the booze,
There’s plenty to gain when there’s nothing to lose,
Children of Albion
Sleep easy.

Children of Albion, your life is your own,
You’ve nothing to do with the lives you have blown,
You can blame it on God, the Tories, the state,
On parents, on culture, on school, or your mate,
On coppers, on joblessness, weather, and fate,
Children of Albion
Sleep easy.

Children of Albion, you can take off that hood,
The world is your oyster, you’re out of the wood,
Directors and bankers have run off with more,
They’ve been there before you, they’ve cleaned out the store,
They’ve lit their own fires on the trading room floor,
Children of Albion
Sleep easy.

Children of Albion, sleep well in your beds,
There’s nothing to fear, no price on your heads,
No price and no buyer, you’ve romped and you’ve played
And there in your hands is the loot you can trade,
Let none be deceived, let none be afraid,
Children of Albion
Sleep easy.

(Photo: Guardian)

I Have Cake...

2011-08-16T07:48:00.001+10:00

...for breakfast.

Because today I'm thirty-six.

And every thirty-six-year-old philosopher needs a cake with sprinkle ninjas on it.

Powder Kegs

2011-08-15T12:19:00.000+10:00

I had a piece in the weekend Canberra Times, 'Violence runs deep within young men'.

Prompted by the UK riots, I was discussing what Nietzsche called 'powder kegs': young men, and the violence within them.

Many of Britain’s politicians, press and citizens believed that everything was under control. They believed that Britain’s rising inequality and insecurity had no serious consequences; that the poor were contained, if not docile. But the threat of violence never left – it just gained in ferocity, with every day of boredom, indignity, hopelessness and contempt.

In these circumstances, powder kegs are looking for a flame. They want to feel their own power, for good or evil. If they are Muslim, they might find it in Islamicist radicalism. If they are ‘chavs’, in looting and torching cars. If they are ‘Aussies’, in attacking ‘Lebs’, and vice versa. The point is this: without any outlet for their energies, they will eventually explode. ‘What attracts them is the sight of the zeal that surrounds a cause,’ wrote Nietzsche, ‘not the cause itself.’ The shooting of Mark Duggan was enough of a cause. And until they have something better to do, days like this will come again, in the United Kingdom, United States and here in Australia.

Importantly, this is not an excuse. I have nothing but contempt for unrestrained violence; for selfish theft and thuggery. What I am offering is a reason: young men without wherewithal, dignity and purpose will turn violent. This violence might be against family, friends, teachers, strangers or themselves. It might be drugs, assault or property damage. And in many cases, the majority will pay for a minority’s rage: for healthcare, extra policing, prisons, lost income, and the many subsidiary losses of a disintegrated, unstable state.

(Photo: Guardian)

Venus in Her Grotto

2011-08-14T18:05:00.003+10:00

I ambled back to the National Gallery of Victoria today, to rethink the outstanding Vienna: Art & Design exhibition.

I'm writing something for the (inside) interior design review, which took me back to the exhibition: poring over the works of Wagner, Loos and Hoffmann. More of this in the weeks to come, along with some thoughts on St. Patrick's cathedral.

In the meantime, I'm seriously impressed with Koloman Moser. First off, his 'enchanted princesses' corner cabinet: a stunning combination of austere lines and organic curves; of flat wood and gleaming inlays. It floats above its legs, an invitation to stare.

Moser was quite the artistic polymath: painting, ceramics, jewellery, tableware, and more. What caught my eye afterwards was Moser's painting. In particular, his 'Venus in her Grotto' (1914).

Despite the sickly greens and yellows, there's a lean, tough health to Moser's Venus. She's not all flesh and curves - she looks more like an athlete. But then there are her fingers and wrist - poised delicately at the end of her firm arms. And then that light smile, playing against the strong eyes, high chin.

A great mix of strength and elegance, which seems particularly modern to me. (Well, it reminds me of my wife after jogging.) Brilliant.

Fountain of the imagination, joy in the hand

2011-08-08T11:10:00.000+10:00

The joy of three pelikans

I've a piece in today's Canberra Times, 'Fountain of the imagination and joy in the hand'.

No, dear Freudians - it's about fountain pens.

Building on my earlier piece for the ABC, I'm trying to be more specific about the pen's merits in a digital age. A sample:

Most obviously, it mitigates distraction. My laptop is an efficient word-processing machine. But it’s also a portal to infinite amusement: inbox, web browsing, social media. I’m not on Facebook, but I receive my fair share of emails. And then there are the blogs, forums, news sites, and so on. The fountain pen leaves me alone with my thoughts, and the paper I inscribe them on. It’s not only wireless, but wireless-less. And in this, it is focusing, rather than dissipating.

It is also literally less painful to use. It delivers ink smoothly onto the page, without the cramping pressure of the rollerball, or the hunched pecking of the laptop. It sacrifices speed for comfort and ease-of-use, allowing for sustained writing without the tell-tale aches of the Biro or MacBook.

The fountain pen is also slow because I form each letter, whereas the computer or typewriter does this automatically. I also form the font and format. This requires several parts of the brain to work at once: visual, cognitive, motor. We have to know where our hand is on the page, how to write each letter, while simultaneously referring letters to words, and words to what’s on our mind. Constant feedback from the paper, nib and hand keep the brain adjusting its angle, pressure and speed.

Because of this, researchers have concluded that handwriting helps children’s cognitive development and letter recognition. But it is also important for adults. It exercises a little more of our brain, and impresses our unique style upon the page. It is not Steve Jobs’ proprietary font – it is my unique scrawl. That I can choose my own nib width and ink adds to this distinctiveness.

There is also a meditative character to this. Offline concentration combines with comfort and slowness to promote reverie, analysis or speculation. Rather than bashing out phrases onto the keyboard, the fountain pen’s hovering nib encourages a certain patient consideration.

Design and Liberty

2011-08-05T18:59:00.003+10:00

I recently spoke at the State of Design festival, in a panel called 'Mobilise Design Thinking to Solve Today’s Big Challenges'.

I spoke alongside futurist Richard Slaughter, Grattan Institute Program Director Jane-Frances Kelly and architect Mel Dodd.

We were asked to give designers a challenge - previous challenges included fire, crime and homelessness. We then had to discuss the threats to designers meeting this challenge.

My challenge was freedom, understood as self-mastery, self-awareness, self-cultivation. Here's a sample:

At first blush, a free psyche can be incomprehensible. Designers who meet the challenge of freedom might well find themselves unsettled, insulted or simply baffled by it. And they might decide, like many intelligent folk have over the past two thousand years, that their compatriots aren’t really free yet. “They don’t know what their true self is,” wrote Isaiah Berlin, summing up Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “whereas I, who am wise, who am rational, who am the great benevolent legislator – I know this.” Freedom is a challenge – not simply because it is hard to realise, but because it is hard to recognise. And, even for the best of us, perhaps even harder to love.

'The Write Tools' #27 - Amy Espeseth

2011-08-01T19:03:00.001+10:00

Welcome to another edition of ‘The Write Tools’: a blog series featuring authors, artists and their favourite tools.

Today's guest is author, publisher and scholar Amy Espeseth. In 2009, Amy won the Felix Meyer Award, Victorian Premier's Prize for an unpublished manuscript. Her winning novel Sufficient Grace will be published by Scribe in 2012. Amy is also a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Melbourne, and publisher at Vignette Press.

To write, I need to get low: down deep inside and close to the ground, back to where I come from. Gospel bluegrass takes me part of the way: When the shadows of this life have gone, I’ll fly away. Like a bird from prison bars has flown, I’ll fly away. My collection of dead things carries me home.

My birds perch throughout the house: a dusty pheasant judges the living room and a songbird guards a speckled egg near the bathroom. But the bookshelf near my writing desk holds most of my taxidermy collection. Beetles, spiders, snails and a stingray sit side-by-side with religious artefacts from my history and travels around the world. These natural things—a bat skeleton encased in Perspex, a complete tiny turtle, a found woven nest—remind me of my childhood in the Wisconsin woods and somehow connect that time to my life today. The departed are a bit jumbled up with ephemera, family heirlooms, and junk. An America’s Dairyland license plate is shelved with a painting from a friend and my high-school graduation cap. Gum nuts, seed pods and a hodgepodge of cicada shells are mixed in with my grandmother’s embroidered handkerchiefs and blue-glass canning jars. Conceivably verification of evolution—an Aipichthys fossil fish—leans on a faux-ancient Ichthys symbol from the Parisian catacombs.

Are you washed in the blood, In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb? Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow? Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? He’s the newest: my coyote pelt lies across the top of the bookshelf. The coyote obscures a degree, some beautiful butterflies, Our Lady, an old glass cross, and several iridescent insects. My partner, the source of most of my taxidermy collection, gave me the coyote as an anniversary gift. He does not adore my hobby but nonetheless encourages it; I saw him hurt when I unwrapped the very dog-like pelt. He loves animals, but not exactly like I do.

As the deer panteth for the water, So my soul longeth after Thee. You alone are my heart’s desire, And I long to worship thee.

Perhaps that is what these talismans, both natural and personal, truly are: love sacrifices. They are my path to hurts I remember and try to trace on the page. The deer antlers and bull horns—the tails, feathers and skins—are evidence of pain and suffering. And that is the only proof of life.

Beauty as Distraction

2011-07-30T11:45:00.000+10:00

Adele Horin has a nice piece in Fairfax today: 'The true face of artistic beauty'.

She's not suggesting beauty isn't important. Instead, inspired by Margaret Olley's example, she's arguing that the narrow pursuit of a 'youthful' facade is a distraction from more worthwhile enterprises.

I might also add: allure and charm, like happiness, are real - but they're often gained in pursuit of other goods. As ends in themselves they're frequently self-defeating - vanity can be an ugly vice.

(Image: 'Margaret Olley', by Ben Quilty, courtesy of the Art Gallery of New South Wales)

Remembrance of Lost Bananas

2011-07-26T12:08:00.000+10:00

I've a piece in today's Canberra Times, 'Tastes that narrate our lives'.

Inspired by my longing for (expensive) bananas, I'm discussing what the absence of fruits & vegetables can teach, and celebrating their symbolism. A sample:

The French author Colette, in her seventies, described her wartime longing for absent fruit. In an essay, ‘Flora and Pomona’, published in Nazi-Occupied Paris, she wrote of drooling at the idea of an orange. ‘Many a one who doesn’t bat an eye at the sight of a bar of chocolate,’ said the famous scribe, ‘weakens at the mere thought of a fresh orange still wearing a little leaf on its stem.’ It was suddenly rare, precious, exotic.

Obviously, this is a reminder: we too often take our foods for granted. There is nothing straightforward about fresh oranges in wartime Paris, or bananas in suburban Melbourne. Our fruits and vegetables are often imported from interstate or overseas, for a number of reasons: climate, soil, labour costs, weather. We moderns are now used to all-year-round ingredients – kept in cold-storage by supermarkets, or flown in from China, Vietnam, Spain, Portugal, Italy. Tens of thousands of food miles, and a cast of thousands, bring fruits to our shelves, ready and waiting. Everything’s just ‘there’.

But this logic, what the philosopher Martin Heidegger called ‘pure availability’, comes at a cost. We can easily forget the delicate balance of botany, horticulture, meteorology and dumb luck that gives us these goods; forget the continual labour, from man and nature, that gives us a single bunch of ripe Cavendish bananas. Absence can be an education in appreciation.

(Photo: Shinealight)

Gender, Genders and Transgender

2011-07-24T17:21:00.002+10:00

Today I had my usual chinwag with Alan Brough on ABC 774, and I was joined by Leslie Cannold and transgender woman Kate Doak.

Following on from my columns in the The Age, and on the ABC (here and here), we were talking about gender: nads, VJJs and what they mean for identity.

You can have a listen here. And while you're at it, check out the 'Mentally Sexy Dads' competition: a celebration of broader masculinity.

(Photo: Howard Hollem)

Smokers: at liberty, but not free

2011-07-22T11:58:00.001+10:00

I've a piece in today's Canberra Times, 'Smokers: 'liberated', but not free'.

I'm arguing that some smokers' insistence on freedom is a narrow one: there's nothing 'free' about being driven by cravings, and the companies that encourage and exploit them. A sample:

It is now well-documented that the nicotine in cigarettes is addictive. Many cigarettes also contain chemicals such as ammonia, which enhances nicotine delivery. And for generations, cigarettes were deliberately targeted to minors, who would get the habit young. Addicted consumers are loyal consumers.

In short, there is nothing ''free'' about tobacco - it is harvested, processed, packaged and advertised to be addictive. That is the business. Which is why smoking is a poor choice for emancipation. No one is denying the rights of Australians over their own bodies. No one will stop smokers from harming themselves, if they can keep their smoke away from others. But being enslaved to tobacco companies is a dubious freedom. Yes, Australia, you are at liberty to smoke - but you're less free when you do.

So connected, so lonely

2011-07-20T07:34:00.003+10:00

Today Michelle Griffin has a story in The Age, 'Generation Y so connected, oh so lonely'.

According to a study by Relationships Australia, those aged 25 to 34 reported the highest rates of loneliness.

No doubt there are many causes for this, including the simple fact of being alone: thirty-somethings unable to find partners or friends, while others settle down.

But I also suspect that many have never learned how to be alone; how to enjoy their own company. Here's what I told Michelle:

''People who are constantly connected electronically find being alone very difficult, so it's not that these people are necessarily more alone,'' he says, ''it's that they feel it more keenly. I would guess that older people who haven't been continually saturated with information are actually able to stand their own company.''

On the same Age page, you can also listen to a snippet from my 3AW interview this morning, with Ross Stevenson and John Burns.

(Photo: Tim Parkinson)

An open letter to Australia's newspaper readers

2011-07-16T09:18:00.003+10:00

Dear newspaper readers,

Some of you are being cruelly deceived. And I feel it's my duty to set the record straight - as unpleasant as this duty might be.

There is one fact that has been kept from you; a fact of utmost importance to the daily business of opinion.

Some of you will not like this information; some will feel frustrated or embarrassed at being hoodwinked for so long. But, in the interests of a healthy civil society, you must recognise this fundamental truth:

OPINION AUTHORS DON'T WRITE THEIR OWN HEADLINES.

I know, I know. This is a stunning bit of news, which profoundly changes your impression of newspaper columns and columnists.

But it is true. They are written by subeditors, who try for something catchy - often a pun, or riff on a well-known phrase. Sometimes they have little to do with the actual content of the column. Sometimes they are misleading.

Which brings me he next question: What to do? Dear readers, I can only counsel perseverance, diligence. Some of you who have not tried this previously will actually have to read the whole column. Yes, from beginning to end, including some of the more boring passages. And you might try this before posting comments on the website, or writing letters to the editor.

I realise this might feel foreign to you; that it goes against the spirit of the opinion pages. But I know how you value the truth.

My very best wishes,

Damon

(Photo: Derek Wernher's 'Len Ganeway', by Pollinator)

Why so slothful, Australia?

2011-07-13T07:59:00.000+10:00

I've a piece in today's Sydney Morning Herald, 'Exercise your mind and your body will follow - don't become a statistic'.

The majority of adult Australians don't do regular exercise (where regular means at least twice a week). I'm asking why, and suggesting a few remedies. A sample:

This is partly an issue of class. As much as it pains devotees of Australia's ''classless society'' to recognise this, fitness and health are divided along socio-economic lines. As the ABS recognises, higher income and education levels go hand-in-hand with higher participation in sports and physical recreation. Income helps us pay for club or gym memberships, and buy costly equipment. Education can make it easier to find health information and to weigh up the options. And the richer suburbs have better facilities: places to run, play and work out. It's more difficult to take long walks if your neighbourhood's filthy or dangerous, or every shopping trip requires driving.

As with many markers of class, fitness levels are often inherited. A quarter of Australian children are overweight or obese, and children in low socio-economic areas are more likely to be so.

But it is not all class. Australian kids, rich and poor, still spend an average of two hours in front of the idiot box a day - far more than on a bike or in a pair of running shoes. Many adults are similarly preoccupied with television, computers and sedentary leisure.

Overwork also contributes to this. According to figures released by The Australia Institute, almost half of respondents had missed exercise because of employment. More than a third admitted poor eating habits for the same reason. Work can literally make us sick.

So the rugged, rippled Australian is an endangered species. And this is not simply an individual predicament. Geography, education, income, ethnicity, gender - these compete and collude to encourage inactivity and ill health. There is no simple solution.

(Photo: United States Navy)

In Praise of Movie Theatres

2011-07-11T15:28:00.000+10:00

I've a piece in today's Canberra Times, 'Cinema puts us all on the same stage'.

Doomsayers often foretell the end of cinemas - killed by video tapes, DVDs, Blu-Ray, iTunes, and the like. But it's still one of Australia's favourite pastimes.

So I'm celebrating the humble movie theatre. A sample:

Despite all the annoyances of loud chewing, nattering or body odour, the cinema offers a communion of sorts. Television gives millions of viewers simultaneous new and stories (and advertisements). But they do so privately – each in their home, disconnected. At the flicks, we have hundreds of bodies, all sharing the same story, in the same time and place. We laugh and cry together. We ‘tsk, tsk’ or cheer together.

If this lacks the political, moral and existential sophistication of Athenian tragedy – which was subsidised by the state – it is still a public performance. Even in the dark, we are on display, alongside the actors. At its best, this is more than vapid amusement – it is training in common humanity: learning how and when to feel, and doing it where others can witness us. At the cinema, we own up to our emotions.

(Photo: Fernando de Sousa)

Take it like a man (Or: what I learned from Bob Ellis)

2011-07-09T21:25:00.002+10:00

I'm allowed to punch you in the face. Don't contact the police. Why?

Well, for starters, because it's very common. And it's been happening at bars, and in parties, for years. Why stop now?

Also, it's just a bit of fun (for me, anyway). You take yourself way too seriously. What's a few bruises, a broken jaw, some screaming and eyeballing? Boys will be boys.

And who are you, anyway? Some stranger at a nightclub, or on the street. I'm a Young Man of Promise. If you contact the police, you'll be jeopardising my career.

Don't be such a bloody wowser. Take it like a man.

Sound fair now? Then you're in good company.