David Couldrey's Blog: Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow
October 21, 2013
In Praise of Long Novels
A month or two ago, I was lying on a Caribbean beach in Colombia, accompanied by David Foster Wallace’s mammoth Infinite Jest and after another twenty or thirty page bout with it I laid it beneath my head to rest and ruminate.
It serves well as a pillow – it elevates one’s head a good foot or two in the air and I began to think of other practical uses for it. You could use it effectively as a paperweight in a tornado or as a dining table. Or you could use it as a barricade to hide behind. You get the idea – at 1079 pages, it’s rather hefty. And this was just the paperback.
People, who saw me with it were physically intimidated and those who read the blurb or part of the introduction seemed terrified. When I finished it, some weeks later, those reactions struck me as a travesty. It was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done and I would recommend it to anyone. But there’s a problem. In the age of hyper-connectivity and hectic schedules, Proust’s days of reading have been exchanged for snatched seconds. Perhaps a 140 character tweet can be widely digested but even short articles on news websites are, judging by many of the comments below the line, skim read at best.
Last year’s Booker prize came up with a shortlist specifically designed to be ‘readable’. It certainly was. The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes’ winner, can be read in a few short hours. Not that it is a bad book. Nor are short stories or novellas inherently less valuable to literature’s broad cannon.
But these forms should not supersede the epic works of fiction. There is something different, more immersive, in spending a month of one’s life in a solitary book. It becomes not just another forgotten day, but a tangible period of time – an epoch, maybe, of your life.
An epic work of fiction has the time and space to create a whole world or a universe that you become a part of. And with the great long works, the achievements are incredible. The ambition and audacity of these authors is staggering. Likewise, the resilience, the determination and, of course, the skill is phenomenal.
These are writers who may well have learnt and honed their crafts in the shorter forms, but have achieved greatness precisely for being able to maintain these skills over eight hundred, nine hundred or a thousand pages. It seems a shame that very few people now have the time or concentration to read them and appreciate them in their entire extravagant splendor. Perhaps the time has come to start selling War and Peace with a free prescription of Ritalin.
*This was written circa June 2012.
It serves well as a pillow – it elevates one’s head a good foot or two in the air and I began to think of other practical uses for it. You could use it effectively as a paperweight in a tornado or as a dining table. Or you could use it as a barricade to hide behind. You get the idea – at 1079 pages, it’s rather hefty. And this was just the paperback.
People, who saw me with it were physically intimidated and those who read the blurb or part of the introduction seemed terrified. When I finished it, some weeks later, those reactions struck me as a travesty. It was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done and I would recommend it to anyone. But there’s a problem. In the age of hyper-connectivity and hectic schedules, Proust’s days of reading have been exchanged for snatched seconds. Perhaps a 140 character tweet can be widely digested but even short articles on news websites are, judging by many of the comments below the line, skim read at best.
Last year’s Booker prize came up with a shortlist specifically designed to be ‘readable’. It certainly was. The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes’ winner, can be read in a few short hours. Not that it is a bad book. Nor are short stories or novellas inherently less valuable to literature’s broad cannon.
But these forms should not supersede the epic works of fiction. There is something different, more immersive, in spending a month of one’s life in a solitary book. It becomes not just another forgotten day, but a tangible period of time – an epoch, maybe, of your life.
An epic work of fiction has the time and space to create a whole world or a universe that you become a part of. And with the great long works, the achievements are incredible. The ambition and audacity of these authors is staggering. Likewise, the resilience, the determination and, of course, the skill is phenomenal.
These are writers who may well have learnt and honed their crafts in the shorter forms, but have achieved greatness precisely for being able to maintain these skills over eight hundred, nine hundred or a thousand pages. It seems a shame that very few people now have the time or concentration to read them and appreciate them in their entire extravagant splendor. Perhaps the time has come to start selling War and Peace with a free prescription of Ritalin.
*This was written circa June 2012.
January 1, 2013
Brave New World
2012 went something like this: Brixton, Clapham, Heathrow, Bogota, Santa Marta, Cartagena, Ciudad Perdida, Cartagena, San Blas, Panama City, Hollywood, San Francisco, Yosemite, Las Vegas, Charlotte, Washington DC, New York, London, Suffolk, Blackpool, Leeds, Robin Hood’s Bay, Clapham, Kingston, City, The Priory and Clapham again.
I am excited to see where 2013 takes me…
I am excited to see where 2013 takes me…
December 22, 2012
Renaissance
Well that was an anti-climax. I was hoping to be blogging today about fire, brimstone and my own damnation but the spiciest thing that happened to me yesterday was a very fine curry with my cricket team.
Still, I may not have a genuine apocalypse to blog about but there is always Christmas. Being still pretty broke, my gift giving will be a carefully chosen novel for each person present for Christmas lunch. I am not expecting much in return but then that’s not really the point. And it’s not (for me) about baby Jesus either. It’s about spending quality time feasting with our loved ones.
As the Dalai Lama says, “Whether one believes in a religion or not, and whether one believes in rebirth or not, there isn't anyone who doesn't appreciate kindness and compassion.”
Still, I may not have a genuine apocalypse to blog about but there is always Christmas. Being still pretty broke, my gift giving will be a carefully chosen novel for each person present for Christmas lunch. I am not expecting much in return but then that’s not really the point. And it’s not (for me) about baby Jesus either. It’s about spending quality time feasting with our loved ones.
As the Dalai Lama says, “Whether one believes in a religion or not, and whether one believes in rebirth or not, there isn't anyone who doesn't appreciate kindness and compassion.”
December 20, 2012
Apocalypse Now
Firstly, a cracker from my mate Jonners off of Facebook:
“People are making Armageddon jokes like there's no tomorrow.”
Yes this is it ladies and gentlemen, it’s the end of the world. According to the Mayans we’re all up the creek without the paddle, which is why thousands are expected to descend upon a sacred mountain in France and Russians have been panic-buying candles. I look down upon these buffoons and instead spend my final hours blogging my idle thoughts.
I must apologise for my rather lengthy absence from blogging but what with Doomsday approaching and finding meaningful employment I admit to having succumbed once more to idleness. Still there’s nothing like the end of the world to give you a good kick up the backside.
However, I take a contrary view on this whole lark. Tomorrow is the winter solstice and thus the longest night of the year. From Saturday, we will be beginning the steady march through spring to summer. In the immortal words of George Harrison, “Here Comes The Sun.”
“People are making Armageddon jokes like there's no tomorrow.”
Yes this is it ladies and gentlemen, it’s the end of the world. According to the Mayans we’re all up the creek without the paddle, which is why thousands are expected to descend upon a sacred mountain in France and Russians have been panic-buying candles. I look down upon these buffoons and instead spend my final hours blogging my idle thoughts.
I must apologise for my rather lengthy absence from blogging but what with Doomsday approaching and finding meaningful employment I admit to having succumbed once more to idleness. Still there’s nothing like the end of the world to give you a good kick up the backside.
However, I take a contrary view on this whole lark. Tomorrow is the winter solstice and thus the longest night of the year. From Saturday, we will be beginning the steady march through spring to summer. In the immortal words of George Harrison, “Here Comes The Sun.”
November 26, 2012
A Scotch Egg...
So today I got some work from a very kind photographer and friend who needed some pictures wrapping up. Wrapping up pictures is by no means my most passionate interest but Roger very kindly took myself and two other Daves to the pub for lunch and a couple of pints and the world’s best scotch egg definitely made up for the nature of the labour.
Struggling to pick a quote to end the blog because there are so many to choose from that for simplicity’s sake I’m just gonna link the page and let you pick your favourite. I apologise but I am a very idle fellow...
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/key...
Struggling to pick a quote to end the blog because there are so many to choose from that for simplicity’s sake I’m just gonna link the page and let you pick your favourite. I apologise but I am a very idle fellow...
http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/key...
November 23, 2012
Skint
So I’m still broke but there is light on the horizon as I’ve got some work starting next week.
I also have a fool-proof plan. Annie and Emma went off to Ascot today and have kindly placed a two pound bet for me so fingers crossed…
I’ll leave you with a quote from Woody Allen: “Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.”
Have a lovely weekend!
PS. Updates about the comic can now be found here http://germinationcomic.tumblr.com/
I also have a fool-proof plan. Annie and Emma went off to Ascot today and have kindly placed a two pound bet for me so fingers crossed…
I’ll leave you with a quote from Woody Allen: “Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.”
Have a lovely weekend!
PS. Updates about the comic can now be found here http://germinationcomic.tumblr.com/
November 15, 2012
The Credit Crunch
I have learnt many lessons from the economic crisis but the most important is undoubtedly not to spend money that you don’t have. I guess this fact must have just momentarily slipped my mind when I applied for a Credit Card and now the credit is fast receding in a frenzied splurge on my various vices - books, booze and cigarettes for the most part.
And the time has come for me, with tail dutifully between legs, to ask my ever compassionate father for assistance. I am happy to discover that I am by no means the first to ask for parental help as Granta just tweeted this fantastic letter from a 15 year old Robert Louis Stevenson:
Respected Paternal Relative:
I write to make a request of the most moderate nature. Every year I have cost you an enormous—nay, elephantine—sum of money for drugs and physician's fees, and the most expensive time of the twelve months was March.
But this year the biting Oriental blasts, the howling tempests, and the general ailments of the human race have been successfully braved by yours truly.
Does not this deserve remuneration?
I appeal to your charity, I appeal to your generosity, I appeal to your justice, I appeal to your accounts, I appeal, in fine, to your purse.
My sense of generosity forbids the receipt of more—my sense of justice forbids the receipt of less—than half a crown.
Greeting from, Sir, your most affectionate and needy son,
R. STEVENSON
And the time has come for me, with tail dutifully between legs, to ask my ever compassionate father for assistance. I am happy to discover that I am by no means the first to ask for parental help as Granta just tweeted this fantastic letter from a 15 year old Robert Louis Stevenson:
Respected Paternal Relative:
I write to make a request of the most moderate nature. Every year I have cost you an enormous—nay, elephantine—sum of money for drugs and physician's fees, and the most expensive time of the twelve months was March.
But this year the biting Oriental blasts, the howling tempests, and the general ailments of the human race have been successfully braved by yours truly.
Does not this deserve remuneration?
I appeal to your charity, I appeal to your generosity, I appeal to your justice, I appeal to your accounts, I appeal, in fine, to your purse.
My sense of generosity forbids the receipt of more—my sense of justice forbids the receipt of less—than half a crown.
Greeting from, Sir, your most affectionate and needy son,
R. STEVENSON
November 11, 2012
An Adventure Story (Continued)
*** More words for the comic. Check out the new drawings at http://lewisandtemple.tumblr.com/***
The bucket of scummy water is tepid at best but Hal begins to shave. He washes his face and he combs his hair.
From his backpack he takes a 100 peso note and leaves it under the candle on the table. He looks around the room as if vaguely double-checking he’s left nothing behind. It’s as bare as it was when he arrived and he makes his way towards the door.
Sanchita is waiting for him in the bar. Her backpack is slightly bigger than his but still she travels light.
‘Ready?’
She nods and they open the door to the howling winds. Sanchita pulls the door shut behind her and hides a key in the hanging basket on the porch.
He has already mounted Rocinante and she clambers on behind him. They spend a moment or two arranging themselves comfortably and then Hal spins the bike around in the dust and hits the road that leads back to the people.
As they race into the roaring wind, he yells over his shoulder to her:
‘Won’t the old man mind us leaving like this?’
‘No, he’s a veteran - he knows what it’s like. Besides, we’ll most likely pass him on the road.’
He refocuses on the road and watches it swallowed up by the speed of Rocinante. After an hour, they are in town.
As they pass down the main drag with its bustling stalls they spot the old man’s pick-up but Sanchita says to keep going. Don’t stop. Onwards.
An hour passes. Another. And by this time they are on a pretty big road with plenty of traffic and the odd roadside diner. They stop. Hal is tired and Sanchita has long since fallen asleep against his back.
She wakes up as he cuts the engine and pockets the keys.
‘Come on, let’s get something to eat.’
They enter a room full of white plastic tables and Coca-Cola is written all over the walls. They’re back.
Two postmodern gauchos look up at them as they sit at the nearest table to the door. They order two burgers, two fries and two cokes.
Hal is sleepy as he waits for the food but Sanchita is alert and she keeps feeling in her pocket and looking over at the gauchos whose heads are huddled in conference.
Outside, dusk and snow are falling together and as Hal prepares to make conversation with this observation, the food is brought over. He is about to take the first bite of his burger when simultaneously there is the sound of a gunshot and Sanchita jumps on him and pushes him to the floor.
Instinct takes over and he upturns a table or two for cover. Sanchita now has a gun in her hand and she is returning fire. She clips one of the goons in the shoulder and another straight through the head.
They rush out the exit and Hal starts Rocinante first time and they are off into the night. Adrenaline has kicked in and he is no longer sleepy. He urges Rocinante forward, forward. They ride through the night and Sanchita once again falls asleep against his back. The hours pass over endless miles of asphalt and as the light of the day creaks in to action, Hal sees the outline of a big town yonder and it is both a comfort and a menace.
Sanchita is awake and she asks how long they’ve ridden for.
‘Through the night.’
‘You must be tired.’
‘I am. Let’s find somewhere to rest a while.’
They are no longer at the end of the world but it is still the back of beyond and the motels are cheap and dirty. They pick the first one that has a garage so as to keep Rocinante out of sight and they take a room for the night. It is drab and lightless and the manager takes ages to say nothing before finally leaving them in peace. Hal gratefully sinks in to one of the twin beds, whilst Sanchita goes straight into the bathroom. He falls asleep to the sound of running water.
His dream is a sequence of searing, flashing snapshots that come and go in a garbled whisper. The white cliffs of Dover, a mountain cave, a barren desert, a fierce storm on high seas and Abd el Daar, dead, with an expression on his face that Hal had never seen him wear in life, a journal, some final words, and a girl’s voice getting nearer all the time, urging him to wake up, wake up...
Sanchita is shaking him in the darkness of the night.
‘Vamos.’
‘Now?’
‘It is safer to travel by night.’
Soon enough they are on the road again.
They stop just once, at about three in the morning and get something to eat at a roadside diner. They are anxious at first but they are so far from the end of the world now that the restaurant, even at this late hour, is far too crowded for anyone to touch them there.
They both eat hungrily and talk little until their hunger is sated.
‘This must be quite a shock for you,’ Sanchita offers.
‘I’m out of practice but it will come back to me.’
‘How long have you been out of the game?’
’20 years.’ The answer surprises Hal himself. Has it really been that long?
Sanchita nods slowly. She has many things she wants to ask him but the transience of these moments forbids it. He is waiting for her to finish her Mate and when she does they head back to Rocinante and they keep on going.
As the sun comes up it sheds light on a sign that says ‘Buenos Aires – 200km’ and the proximity of arrival is sweet relief to both weary travellers.
The bucket of scummy water is tepid at best but Hal begins to shave. He washes his face and he combs his hair.
From his backpack he takes a 100 peso note and leaves it under the candle on the table. He looks around the room as if vaguely double-checking he’s left nothing behind. It’s as bare as it was when he arrived and he makes his way towards the door.
Sanchita is waiting for him in the bar. Her backpack is slightly bigger than his but still she travels light.
‘Ready?’
She nods and they open the door to the howling winds. Sanchita pulls the door shut behind her and hides a key in the hanging basket on the porch.
He has already mounted Rocinante and she clambers on behind him. They spend a moment or two arranging themselves comfortably and then Hal spins the bike around in the dust and hits the road that leads back to the people.
As they race into the roaring wind, he yells over his shoulder to her:
‘Won’t the old man mind us leaving like this?’
‘No, he’s a veteran - he knows what it’s like. Besides, we’ll most likely pass him on the road.’
He refocuses on the road and watches it swallowed up by the speed of Rocinante. After an hour, they are in town.
As they pass down the main drag with its bustling stalls they spot the old man’s pick-up but Sanchita says to keep going. Don’t stop. Onwards.
An hour passes. Another. And by this time they are on a pretty big road with plenty of traffic and the odd roadside diner. They stop. Hal is tired and Sanchita has long since fallen asleep against his back.
She wakes up as he cuts the engine and pockets the keys.
‘Come on, let’s get something to eat.’
They enter a room full of white plastic tables and Coca-Cola is written all over the walls. They’re back.
Two postmodern gauchos look up at them as they sit at the nearest table to the door. They order two burgers, two fries and two cokes.
Hal is sleepy as he waits for the food but Sanchita is alert and she keeps feeling in her pocket and looking over at the gauchos whose heads are huddled in conference.
Outside, dusk and snow are falling together and as Hal prepares to make conversation with this observation, the food is brought over. He is about to take the first bite of his burger when simultaneously there is the sound of a gunshot and Sanchita jumps on him and pushes him to the floor.
Instinct takes over and he upturns a table or two for cover. Sanchita now has a gun in her hand and she is returning fire. She clips one of the goons in the shoulder and another straight through the head.
They rush out the exit and Hal starts Rocinante first time and they are off into the night. Adrenaline has kicked in and he is no longer sleepy. He urges Rocinante forward, forward. They ride through the night and Sanchita once again falls asleep against his back. The hours pass over endless miles of asphalt and as the light of the day creaks in to action, Hal sees the outline of a big town yonder and it is both a comfort and a menace.
Sanchita is awake and she asks how long they’ve ridden for.
‘Through the night.’
‘You must be tired.’
‘I am. Let’s find somewhere to rest a while.’
They are no longer at the end of the world but it is still the back of beyond and the motels are cheap and dirty. They pick the first one that has a garage so as to keep Rocinante out of sight and they take a room for the night. It is drab and lightless and the manager takes ages to say nothing before finally leaving them in peace. Hal gratefully sinks in to one of the twin beds, whilst Sanchita goes straight into the bathroom. He falls asleep to the sound of running water.
His dream is a sequence of searing, flashing snapshots that come and go in a garbled whisper. The white cliffs of Dover, a mountain cave, a barren desert, a fierce storm on high seas and Abd el Daar, dead, with an expression on his face that Hal had never seen him wear in life, a journal, some final words, and a girl’s voice getting nearer all the time, urging him to wake up, wake up...
Sanchita is shaking him in the darkness of the night.
‘Vamos.’
‘Now?’
‘It is safer to travel by night.’
Soon enough they are on the road again.
They stop just once, at about three in the morning and get something to eat at a roadside diner. They are anxious at first but they are so far from the end of the world now that the restaurant, even at this late hour, is far too crowded for anyone to touch them there.
They both eat hungrily and talk little until their hunger is sated.
‘This must be quite a shock for you,’ Sanchita offers.
‘I’m out of practice but it will come back to me.’
‘How long have you been out of the game?’
’20 years.’ The answer surprises Hal himself. Has it really been that long?
Sanchita nods slowly. She has many things she wants to ask him but the transience of these moments forbids it. He is waiting for her to finish her Mate and when she does they head back to Rocinante and they keep on going.
As the sun comes up it sheds light on a sign that says ‘Buenos Aires – 200km’ and the proximity of arrival is sweet relief to both weary travellers.
November 3, 2012
Chasing Words
http://nanocountdown.com/
As you will see by clicking on the above link, the 300,000 crazy writers trying to churn out 50,000 words in November should be almost 10% through their novel by now.
I haven't officially entered NaNo but am using it as motivation to try and finish my current novel.
Some people dismiss NaNo, claiming you can't write well at such frenetic pace. But writers must write or how will they get to know their work? The great essayist William Hazlitt sums up the importance of experience thus: 'You know more of a road by having traveled it than by all the conjectures and descriptions in the world.'
As you will see by clicking on the above link, the 300,000 crazy writers trying to churn out 50,000 words in November should be almost 10% through their novel by now.
I haven't officially entered NaNo but am using it as motivation to try and finish my current novel.
Some people dismiss NaNo, claiming you can't write well at such frenetic pace. But writers must write or how will they get to know their work? The great essayist William Hazlitt sums up the importance of experience thus: 'You know more of a road by having traveled it than by all the conjectures and descriptions in the world.'
November 1, 2012
An Adventure Story (Continued)
Hal shuts the journal, lets his head sink in to the pillow and closes his eyes.
When he wakes it is daybreak and the sky begins to conjure light outside. He swings himself out of bed and there is a spring in the step that makes for the door. He feels recharged.
As he passes the kitchen he once more glimpses Sanchita. He enters the bar where the old man sitting at one of the tables, cups his gourd of Mate with both hands and looks up at him with an easy smile.
‘I trust you slept well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘I’m off to town now but Sanchita will make you breakfast.’
‘Thanks.’
Hal watches the old man pull on his scarf and head out in to the howling wind. He watches through the dusty window as the old pick-up truck speeds away to civilisation.
A noise behind him makes him turn around and he sees that Sanchita has entered and is openly staring at him.
‘He sent you here?’
‘Who?’
‘Abd el Daar.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I know him.’
Hal looks at her sadly and slowly shakes his head. ‘He’s dead.’
‘They found him.’
‘Who found him?’
Sanchita’s eyes drop to the floor and she turns her back to Hal as she speaks. ‘I think it has something to do with the Lion.’
‘The Lion? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘We all knew each other way back when. Abd was protecting something for him. For the Lion, it was entrusted to him after the Lion was slain.’
Hal approaches her and puts a hand on her shoulder. She reluctantly turns to face him. ‘What is it and where is it now?’
‘I think that’s what we have to find out.’
Hal nods and paces away from her. He needs a moment to take it all in – for words to establish their weight and convey their deeper meaning. He looks back at Sanchita.
‘What do we do?’
‘Let’s go to Buenos Aires. I have a hideout there which has everything we need.’
‘All right. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.’
Her eyes wander over him and there is a trace of a smile on her face. ‘No offence but you can’t go to BA looking like that. Go clean yourself up.’
To be continued...
When he wakes it is daybreak and the sky begins to conjure light outside. He swings himself out of bed and there is a spring in the step that makes for the door. He feels recharged.
As he passes the kitchen he once more glimpses Sanchita. He enters the bar where the old man sitting at one of the tables, cups his gourd of Mate with both hands and looks up at him with an easy smile.
‘I trust you slept well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘I’m off to town now but Sanchita will make you breakfast.’
‘Thanks.’
Hal watches the old man pull on his scarf and head out in to the howling wind. He watches through the dusty window as the old pick-up truck speeds away to civilisation.
A noise behind him makes him turn around and he sees that Sanchita has entered and is openly staring at him.
‘He sent you here?’
‘Who?’
‘Abd el Daar.’
‘You knew him?’
‘I know him.’
Hal looks at her sadly and slowly shakes his head. ‘He’s dead.’
‘They found him.’
‘Who found him?’
Sanchita’s eyes drop to the floor and she turns her back to Hal as she speaks. ‘I think it has something to do with the Lion.’
‘The Lion? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘We all knew each other way back when. Abd was protecting something for him. For the Lion, it was entrusted to him after the Lion was slain.’
Hal approaches her and puts a hand on her shoulder. She reluctantly turns to face him. ‘What is it and where is it now?’
‘I think that’s what we have to find out.’
Hal nods and paces away from her. He needs a moment to take it all in – for words to establish their weight and convey their deeper meaning. He looks back at Sanchita.
‘What do we do?’
‘Let’s go to Buenos Aires. I have a hideout there which has everything we need.’
‘All right. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.’
Her eyes wander over him and there is a trace of a smile on her face. ‘No offence but you can’t go to BA looking like that. Go clean yourself up.’
To be continued...
Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow
"One or two friends to whom I showed these papers in MS, having observed that they were not half bad, and some of my relations having promised to read the blog if it ever came out, I feel I have no ri
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