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Archive for the ‘Biographies’ Category

Beloved and God: The Story of Hadrian and Antinoüs, Royston Lambert (Weidenfeld & Nicolson 1984)

Antinoüs was the Bithynian catamite of the Emperor Hadrian and was discovered dead in the river Nile, apparently drowned, in 130 AD. He was about 19 years old. But why did he die? How did he die? That’s been a mystery ever since. This book is a discussion of the possible solutions and of the way Antinoüs’s life and death have influenced Western art and culture right to the present day.

Unfortunately, although Beloved and God has a good crisp title, with a subtle double entendre, its title isn’t matched by its prose. This book is dense and sometimes difficult to read, with some spectacularly crass metaphors. But it’s still rewarding, if partly as an illustration of how biography is more a disguised (and sometimes not-so-disguised) way of talking about oneself than it is of talking about one’s subject. Royston Lambert was presumably a paederast in the classical sense, and when he talks about the complexity of Hadrian’s personality or the beauty of body and soul of Antinoüs, he’s really writing disguised autobiography or sexual fantasy. But as Lambert talks about himself, he also packs in a lot of classical history and tells the fascinating story of how the cult of Antinoüs was created by Hadrian and spread throughout the empire.

I don’t like Antinoüs’ looks or the cult that surrounded him: there’s something bloated and sickly about both of them. But nihil humanum and all that: there were plenty of boy-bandits in the ancient world and there are plenty today, which is why this book has had several editions. And it does have an interesting story to tell. Among other fascinating sidelights was the story of the Paedogogium in Rome (Trajan’s and, to a lesser extent, Hadrian’s boy brothel) and the grafitti scratched there, which seems to record an early Christian pupil being mocked by his peers: there’s a crude donkey-headed Christ crucified, with the subscription ALEXAMENOS WORSHIPS HIS GOD. Elsewhere, Alexamenos seems to have struck back by proclaiming himself ALEXAMENOS THE FAITHFUL, which even I found touching. More importantly, there’s a good overview of the representation of Antinoüs in sculpture and coinage. And Lambert manages to convey the power of Antinoüs’ death in the Nile very well, describing the ancient worship of the river and the only occasionally successful attempts to placate its ferocity and caprice. Anyone drowned in the river, however humble their origin, automatically became a god and had shrines erected to them, but Antinoüs was special to someone very important and his cult became the biggest of all.

So what are the possible solutions to the mystery of his death? Lambert lists them: a boating accident; a murder by jealous rivals; a botched castration meant to preserve his youth; suicide prompted by the disappearance of youth and hence, inevitably, of Hadrian’s affections; a sacrifice to reverse successive failures of the very important Egyptian grain-harvest, which would soon have triggered trouble throughout the Empire. Traditionally the way to appease the Nile was to sacrifice to it and perhaps Antinoüs chose to die for the sake of his lover. Royston Lambert sacrificed in another way, because he was at the end of his life when he wrote this book and it was published posthumously. He could have been doing other things in the time he had left, but he wanted to leave a legacy and guide more people around the Antinoüm. But although this book is a memorial to Hadrian and Antinoüs, it’s also a memorial to Lambert himself. We can’t escape death and very few of us manage to escape ego.

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Highway to Hell: The Life and Times of AC/DC Legend Bon Scott, Clinton Walker (Pan Books 1996, 2006)

AC/DC were never experimental or avant-garde. No, they were authentic and unpretentious. They sounded like Australia: hard-drinking, hard-living, home-spun and humorous. Or so outsiders liked to think. But there was an intelligence and subtlety to them all the same. Even a sensitivity. At least, there was while Bon Scott wrote the lyrics and sang the songs. Then Scott died, Brian Johnson came in, and AC/DC lost the magic, becoming crude and witless heavy metal instead.

I used to regret Bon Scott’s early death. After reading this book, I’m not sure if I regret it any more. It seems as though his passing was inevitable. He wanted to die and he did. The only question was how he’d do it. Drink? Drugs? Dangerous driving? In the end, he did his ancestors proud and killed himself with drink, getting blind drunk one night in London and choking to death in his sleep (in his death-certificate, reproduced here, it says “Acute Alcohol Poisoning”). That was in 1980 and he was only thirty-three. But he’d packed a lot into those years. That might have been the problem. He’d seen and experienced everything, except truly big success as a musician. Big success was beckoning for AC/DC in 1980 and Scott must have known it, but the prospect didn’t attract him. And anyway, Clinton Walker suggests here that Scott wasn’t necessarily a fixture in AC/DC. He might have been on his way out at the time of his death. After all, he didn’t have the burning ambition or the fraternal bond of Angus and Malcolm Young, the two Scottish-Australian brothers who founded and kept an iron grip on AC/DC.

Instead, Bon Scott had charm, wit and intelligence. And those things had already taken him everywhere he wanted to go, it seems. This book is good at putting his career into context. It quotes extensively from his friends and fellow musicians (with the notable exceptions of Angus and Malcolm). Those people know his backstory and saw his early struggles. The vast majority of Bon Scott’s fans, on the other hand, will have first come across him in AC/DC. But he was a veteran of Australian heavy rock by the time he joined the Youngs’ battle for world-domination. He was the “old man” in the band (Angus literally called him that) and “he was always sort of separate from the rest”, as Richard Griffiths puts it here. Griffiths was AC/DC’s “booking agent” on their first British tour. He goes on:

[The drummer] Phil [Rudd], he was off on his own, he was actually pretty obnoxious. Angus and Malcolm, they were thick, obviously. And then [bassist] Mark [Evans], you knew he wasn’t going to last, he was too much of a nice guy. I mean, these were tough guys, they were pretty tough on each other. (ch. 11, “England”, pp. 199-200)

Mark Evans himself backs this up:

They [the Youngs] would dispute this, but I think they viewed Bon to be ultimately disposable. In hindsight, it seems to be preposterous, but at the time he was always in the firing line. And there was a lot of pressure, mainly from George [Young, Angus and Malcolm’s older brother and AC/DC’s producer], and record companies. I think within that camp, there’s been a certain rewriting of history, about how they felt about the guy – no, that’s wrong, how they felt about the guy professionally. Because there was no way you could spend more than 30 seconds in a room with Bon and not be completely and utterly charmed. The guy was captivating; he was gentlemanly, but he had the rough side to him, and he was funny. (Ibid., pg. 200)

Is it true that Scott was “separate” and “ultimately disposable” or are Griffiths and Evans working off grudges against the Youngs, who are not known for their charm and clubbability? Maybe. Both Angus and Malcolm “refused to interviewed for this book”, but I don’t think they come out of it badly. Walker doesn’t “tip the bucket”, as the Australian idiom goes. There isn’t anything to tip, because Angus and Malcolm aren’t monsters, just hard-working, hard-headed musicians who found a successful formula and stuck to it. Or they weren’t monsters, because Malcolm is dead now. But he wasn’t when Walker paid tribute to his band at the end of this book:

[…] like a vintage bluesman, AC/DC deserve the respect and success they enjoy. The energy and commitment AC/DC have is the least the punters should expect from any rock’n’roll band. But AC/DC have always been distinguished by their lack of pretension and their sense of humour, and these are the qualities they cling to. (“Epilogue”, pg. 310)

But did they cling to those qualities after Bon Scott died? Angus kept wearing his uniform and Malcolm kept wearing his T-shirts, but Brian Johnson was now writing and singing lyrics like these:

What do you do for money, honey?
How do you get your kicks?
What do you do for money, honey?
How do you get your licks? – “What Do You Know for Money, Honey?

Compare this by Scott:

It’s another lonely evenin’
In another lonely town.
But I ain’t too young to worry
And I ain’t too old to cry
When a woman gets me down.

Got another empty bottle
And another empty bed.
Ain’t too young to admit it
And I’m not too old to lie:
I’m just another empty head. – “Ride On

And this by Scott:

And I got patches on the patches
On my old blue jeans –
Well, they used to be blue,
When they used to be new,
When they used to be clean.

But I’ve got a Mumma who’s a hummer,
Just keeping me alive.
While I’m in the band doing drinking with the boys,
She’s working nine to five
(Knows her place that woman). – “(Ain’t No Fun) Waitin’ ’Round to Be a Millionaire

Bon Scott wasn’t a feminist, but he wasn’t a crude misogynist either. And where Johnson shouted or shrieked his lyrics, Scott used to act them and bring them to life. His phrasing and timing were excellent and he could enliven an ordinary line with irony or innuendo, ribaldry or resignation. Like Chuck Berry, he had the ability to turn songs into stories. Unlike Chuck Berry, he was more than the narrator of the story: he was the one who had lived it.

For all these reasons and more, Bon Scott is one of my two favourite singers in rock’n’roll. The other is Sean Harris, once of Diamond Head. But if Harris is always pleasant on the ear, he always sounds the same too. Scott doesn’t. And Scott had an intelligence that’s rare in rock’n’roll. If you want to know a lot more about him, from his birth in Forfar to his death in London and his time in Australia in-between, this is a good book to read. But reading it may stop you regretting his death, because it looks as though death was exactly what he was looking for.

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George Orwell: English Rebel, Robert Colls (Oxford University Press 2013)

I didn’t find this a very well-written or coherent book, but I thought it had one big thing in its favour: it doesn’t treat Orwell like a saint. The world-famous author of Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) and Animal Farm (1945) was not an infallible prophet nor a flawless logician. He contradicted himself. He criticized people for saying things that he would later say himself. He often got things wrong.

But who didn’t, particularly before and during the Second World War? And the irreverence shown by Robert Colls towards his subject seemed to me to deepen into hostility at times. Does the South Shields lad Colls have a chip on his shoulder about the Old Etonian Orwell? I don’t know, but all biographies are also autobiographies. If an anti-hagiography is the opposite of a hagiography, then Colls seems at times to be writing one. That’s definitely what John Baxter was doing in his biography of J.G. Ballard, but English Rebel is a better and more interesting book than that.

It’s also much more eclectic. I like books that can quote from the Jacobin Committee of Public Safety at one moment (pg. 224) and from Richmal Crompton at another:

There’s four sorts of people tryin’ to get to be rulers. They all want to make things better, but they want to make ’em better in different ways. There’s Conservatives an’ they want to make things better by keepin’ ’em jus’ like what they are now. An’ there’s Lib’rals an’ they want to make things better by alterin’ ’em jus’ a bit, but not so anyone’d notice, and there’s Socialists, an’ they want to make things better by takin’ everyone’s money off ’em, an’ there’s Communists an’ they want to make things better by killin’ everyone but themselves. (ch. 3, “Eye Witness in Barcelona”, pg. 95, quoting “William’s friend Henry” in Crompton’s William the Bad, 1930)

As a summary of politics in the 1930s, that isn’t so far off the mark. It certainly captures the spirit of Communism at a time when many intelligent and educated people thought that Communism was the only and ethical hope for the human race. Orwell agreed with Crompton, not with the intellectuals. As Colls points out, he disliked and distrusted intellectuals while being one himself and moving in intellectual circles.

But there’s another connection between Orwell and Crompton: they were both very good writers, still delighting and diverting readers long after their deaths. Orwell was the greater and more serious of the two, but literary criticism can’t explain either of them. It can’t say why they were such good writers and such pleasures to read. All it can do is discuss their ideas, their influences, their culture and their life-histories. That’s not enough and although Colls is a cultural historian rather than a literary critic or (worse) a literary theorist, English Rebel fails to explain Orwell’s greatness just as surely as every previous biography and literary analysis.

And “Englishness” is not a very interesting topic. England and the English can be, but that’s partly because they’re so varied. You might also that Englishness is unconsciousness. The people who want to analyse it or feel the need to go in search of it are outsiders in some way. Orwell was born in British India, which made him an outsider in one way. He went to Eton on a scholarship, which made him an outsider in another. And he had French ancestry, which made him an outsider in yet another.

But I’ve never seen any critics or biographers of Orwell make much of his Frenchness. It’s there in his features and must have been there in his brain and psychology too, because genetics influences both of those. And that’s where Englishness can get interesting: at the genetic and biological level. You won’t find any of that here and bio-criticism isn’t a big subject anywhere yet. It will be, sooner or later, and that’s when Orwell will be better understood. In the meantime, books like this are here to speculate and make suggestions. And despite his irreverence and hostility, Colls does seem to appreciate the greatness and the moral stature of his subject: “Orwell spent his life fighting those who wanted to ‘control life’ and ‘entirely refashion people’ ‘with an absolute authority which penetrates into a man’s innermost being’.” (ch. , “Life after Death”, pg. 224)

That final quote is from the Jacobins and the Jacobins are still with us, using ever more advanced technology to satisfy some very primitive urges for power and domination. Orwell understood the urges and prophesied the technology. This book isn’t worthy of Orwell, but I’m not sure any biography or critique could be. It’s eclectic and interesting all the same. And it’s got a good index and some photos I’d never seen before.

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Paul McCartney: The Biography, Philip Norman (W&N 2016)

If you look in the dictionary under “rock’n’roll”, you’ll find a picture of Paul McCartney. Yup. With a big black line through it. Macca is possibly the least rock’n’roll person on the Planet, man. Rock’n’roll should be down’n’dirty. Macca deals in light-and-frothy. Rock’n’rollers should be mean and menacing. Macca is music-hall. His ideal instrument would be the banjo, not the bass.

But he remains fascinating for in terms of issues around certain core components of his life-journey. For the size and longevity of his fame. That’s one component. For the rumours of his several illegitimate offspring. That’s another. Philip Norman engages issues around this toxically tantalizing topic in terms of chapter five:

“Boys will be boys!” Brian [Epstein] would say with a camp, self-satirizing sigh when news came to him that another girl was claiming that one of the Beatles was the father of her infant child. Sometimes Brian could quickly prove that the girl was mistaken or lying, but sometimes he would have to write a cheque or find some other way of keeping the girl’s family quiet and his beloved boys out of the headlines. […] Most of the claims were directed at Paul, who cut a swathe through the young female fans of the Beatles with his good looks and easy charm. “Paul would have the fun, then Brian would have to clean up the mess,” as an anonymous member of Beatles’ circle would later put it. Perhaps the worst mess of all was that of the Bootle girl, said to be of gipsy heritage, who turned up at Brian’s office with her young son and claimed that Paul was his father.

As the same anonymous informant told me: “Brian took one look at the child and realized that she must be telling the truth, because he was an angelic-looking kid who must have been the dead spit of Paul at the same age.” But the girl wasn’t after money or marriage, like so many of those who had preceded her and would follow: as a fanatical Beatles fan, what she wanted more than anything else in the world was for Paul to write a song just for her. Not only that: she wanted to be the only one to ever hear it. As the price of her silence, she demanded that a song be written and recorded by Paul entirely in secret, then passed to her as a unique single — the only one of its kind in existence anywhere. Brian was forced to agree and persuaded a reluctant Paul that he had to comply with the girl’s wishes.

Or so the story goes. If it is true, then a lost McCartney classic may still be out there, unheard by all the world except for a single gypsy girl and perhaps her family. What would that rumoured single be worth if it were put up for auction today? Even a song of average quality might fetch hundreds of thousands of pounds; if it matched the quality of “Yesterday” or “Michelle”, the sky would be the limit. But of course there would be a legal minefield to tread, because Paul himself would certainly lay claim to the song and any profits to be made from it. For all we can say at the moment, however, the rumours of the Lost Single are either untrue or the gipsy girl prefers to keep the song just for herself.

Is the song out there? Does the Gipsy girl still listen to it? Has she ever let her son in on the secret? Does he know that he has a Moppa-Toppa Poppa? Esoteric questions for feral folk.

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Risingtidefallingstar, Philip Hoare (Fourth Estate 2017)

The best thing about this book is, I was disappointed to learn, the photo by Mary Martin on the front cover. The black clothes, the scarlet cap, the bursting wave in the distance and the blurred, jumping feet: it’s intense, instantaneous art. If the text had lived up to it, this would have been a very good book. But it doesn’t live up to it and I’d call it good only in patches. Robert Macfarlane, who’s included in the “Thanks” at the end, is better at turning his encounters with earth and sea into digressive, rambling, allusive and anecdotal literature.

That’s what I’ve found, anyway. Hoare’s prose seems a bit stiff and constrained. I don’t find it easy to read and I wish I did, because he has some interesting ideas and writes about some interesting people, all the way from Wilfred Owen and Stephen Tennant to Sylvia Plath and David Bowie. And there are interesting black-and-white images to accompany everything. That’s why the lack of an index is such a serious flaw: when a book is full of information, it should have sign-posts.

But the lack of one sign-post is a good thing. Hoare is homosexual, but doesn’t write about being so here. He isn’t self-obsessed: he’s sea-obsessed. He describes swimming in the sea again and again in this book and he tries hard to make his writing into a swirling, surging sea of sounds, sights and symbolism. For me, he fails, but the effort was worthwhile.

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The Magic of Uri Geller, as revealed by the Amazing Randi (1982)

Uri Geller is a luftmensch with chutzpah. It’s no coincidence that two Yiddish words sum him up, because Jews have been as disproportionately successful at fraud as they have been in other professions requiring high intelligence and quick wits. Chutzpah, or brazen arrogance, probably won’t need defining, but a luftmensch, for those who haven’t come across the word before, is literally an “air-man”: someone who makes a living from nothing. Geller has achieved world-wide fame and made large sums of money principally by bending spoons and keys and starting “stopped” watches. Compared to the atom bomb or the moon-landings, it’s hardly the stuff of legend, but the difference is that the men behind the atom bomb and the moon-landings didn’t put a dishonest label on what they did. Geller does and that’s why he’s been successful.

Shakespeare wrote in Romeo and Juliet: “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” In fact, it wouldn’t: it’s well-established in psychology that labels can affect emotion and sensation. The label doesn’t even have to be verbal:

The direct relationship between the quality of a product and the colour of its container is again demonstrated by an American test in which 200 women were invited to judge the flavour of a coffee served from brown, red, blue and yellow coffee pots. Although the same coffee was served in each case, almost three quarters of those tested found the coffee from the brown pot to be too strong, whereas nearly half of the women found the coffee from the red pot to be rich and full-bodied. The coffee from the blue pot was regarded as having a milder aroma, while that from the yellow pot was judged to be made from the weaker blend of bean. (The Colour Eye, Robert Cumming and Tom Porter, BBC Books, London, 1990, “Colour and Quality”, pg. 147)

Geller attributes his trivial tricks to mysterious powers, helped by a simple equation that has been at work for many thousands of years: ignorance + emotion = the supernatural. When human beings can’t understand something and are excited by it, they have always been prone to seek a supernatural explanation (or rather, non-explanation: the supernatural explains nothing, merely allows us to conceal an epistemological gap in a psychologically satisfying way). When Geller, a master of psychological manipulation, creates emotion by bending a thick key in a way his audience can’t understand, it’s easy for him to convince the gullible that he has special powers. And we are much gullible than we’d like to believe. The Amazing Randi, the author of this debunking book, reproduced Geller’s feats before an audience of scientists, having explicitly stated he was using trickery. Maurice Wilkins, who won a Nobel prize for his part in the discovery of the structure of DNA, then told him: “Mr. Randi, you’ve told us that what you did was accomplished by trickery. But I don’t know whether to believe you or believe in you!”

After all, one of the most important points this book makes is that scientists, for all their priestly prestige and status, are not the right people to investigate Geller’s claims:

Certain prominent American scientists have said, concerning the criticisms of their acceptance of Geller, that their detractors are calling them either liars or fools. (ch. 16, “Geller in England”, pg. 256)

And since prominent American scientists are obviously neither liars nor fools, Geller must be genuine. Randi points out the false logic:

Neither is correct, so far as I am personally concerned. I call them simply “unqualified” – in this particular field – to pass judgment on such matters. (pg. 256)

A clever magician can fool a clever scientist, because deception is a magician’s stock-in-trade. Geller and Randi are both masters of deception, but Randi is honest about what he is, Geller isn’t. Randi is also a master of readable prose: I enjoyed this book a great deal, and not just because it remains highly relevant, even thirty years after Geller’s heyday. Luftmenschen with chutzpah are still with us and Geller reminds me a lot of Tony Blair. Blair isn’t Jewish, isn’t as intelligent, and hasn’t lasted as long, but the mass psychology behind both men’s success seems similar. Randi quotes the Latin saying Homo vult decipi; decipiatur: “Man wishes to be deceived; let him be deceived.”

Like Blair, Geller didn’t have to do much to convince large numbers of people that he was special, but then another important point the book makes, in Geller’s case, is that failure can even be helpful. If Geller were successful all the time, he’d look more like a fraudster who uses trickery. Occasional failure not only makes him look honest but heightens the effect of his successes too, and Randi describes how magicians sometimes exploit this aspect of human psychology by deliberately failing on something small before succeeding on something big.

And not all of Geller’s genuine failures are reported. In one of the funniest anecdotes in the book, Randi describes how, on his triumphant tour of England in the mid-1970s, Geller told a pregnant journalist that she would have a girl in three days’ time:

She had the baby, all right – a boy, a month later. Determining that the lady was expectant was all that Uri had done. And just about anyone could do that, at that stage! But what if he’d been right? The press would have trumpeted it to the world. As it was, no attention was directed to the prediction. (ch. 16, “Geller in England”, pg. 253)

Yes, it would have been trumpeted to the world, even though predicting the sex of a baby, at least, is no more difficult than predicting the fall of a coin: a 50% chance of success is hardly unfavorable. But the general public’s ignorance of probability was another factor in Geller’s success. When he appeared on a television or radio show with a large audience and predicted strange happenings among his viewers or listeners, he got a a lot of people ringing in to report exactly that: strange happenings. According to Randi, so did a “psychic” called Jim Pyczynski when he appeared on a radio show in New York: lights flickered or went out; a container of milk burst; mirrors “cracked”; pictures fell off walls; cats became agitated; and a clock that had been stopped for years started working again (ch. 12, “The Old Broken Watch Trick Revealed”, pp. 191-4).

But in fact Jim Pyczynski was Randi’s “full-time assistant” and was merely proving a statistical point: “strange happenings” are inevitable when enough people look out for them, and large audiences will also contain liars and fantasists, as well as honest people who, when prompted to do so, will notice what they had previously overlooked. Did the mirrors crack during Pyczynski’s broadcast or sometime before and without being noticed?

And again, the supernatural label helps create emotion that reinforces the appearance of the supernatural. Geller’s tricks are trivial, but we can be taken in by trivial things. Part of Randi’s animus against Geller is perhaps explained by jealousy, but then Randi does seem to be a better magician who, with less honesty, could easily have achieved what Geller has achieved. It’s easy to be a psychic, because people don’t understand how easily they can be manipulated or how predictable human psychology can be. This book or Randi’s website will tell you more about how fraudsters like Geller manipulate and exploit us. For the other side of the story, see Geller’s website, where you’ll find his chutzpah as strong as ever.

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The Voyeur’s Motel, Gay Talese (2016)

(This is a guest-review by Headpress CEO Dr David Kerekes)

Wow. I was simultaneously fascinated and sickened by this toxic tale of septic scopophilia. Yup – you could done say I was fascickened. American social historian Gay Talese tells the sizzlingly sleazy slime-story of this guy called Gerald Foos, right, who sets up a motel business specifically so that he could spy on his own guests – I mean, like actually watch them having sex and stuff through observation vents (wow) he had installed in the ceilings of certain rooms of the motel.

And he seriously got off on his secret spying, trust me. Yup – you could done say it was Foos’ Gold. Said spying stretched over an extended time-period from the 1960s to the 1990s, generating copious notes made by Foos to enhance his enjoyment and permanentalize his pleasure. So, the $23,000 question: Was he a voyeur? Are you kidding me?! You’re damn right he was a voyeur. And for me (Headpress CEO Dr David Kerekes) voyeurism is an absolute no-no under any and all circumstances. There are three core reasons for these strict anti-voyeurism principles of mine:

  1. My Mom was a refugee from the 24/7 surveillance state of communist Romania and instilled in me from my earliest days a deep abhorrence of spying and scopophilia (in short – voyeurism).
  1. I am (thanks, Mom!) a proud and passionate member of the Gypsy Community. I am (thanks again, Mom!) all too well aware of the centuries-long history of police surveillance and harassment directed against My People. This awareness has reinforced my deep abhorrence of spying and scopophilia (like I said – voyeurism).
  1. So I need a third reason, already?

But in fact, I do have a third reason to abhor voyeurism root and branch on a permanent, non-negotiable basis. Beside being the son of a communist refugee and a proud Gypsy (thanks, Mom!), I am also (as you may be already aware) a keyly committed core component of the counter-cultural community. Voyeurism is totally – but totally – against core counter-cultural principles of individual autonomy and non-interference in the lives of others.

This, then, explains why I was so sickened by The Voyeur’s Motel. But fascinated, also (don’t get me wrong). I could see putrid parallels between my Mom’s experiences in Romania and the behavior of Gerald Foos in America. As a government, communist Romania was rejecting core moral principles and trampling on individual autonomy at the exact time-periods during which, as an individual, Gerald Foos of the Voyeur’s Motel was also rejecting those core moral principles and trampling on individual autonomy. Reading this book, I could see those temporal and behavioral parallels very clearly, thus adding to the fascickening impact of the book on my core sensibilities.

And today? Well, is not clear that we see voyeurism on a massive scale at both governmental and individual levels? But not from me (no sir!) or from anyone else in the world-wide Headpress Community (no sir neither!). If you belong to the Headpress Community or any affiliated grouping, The Voyeur’s Motel will not be an easy read in the moral sense. It will disturb and distress all who have an ounce of esoteric ethicality in them, buddy. But it will also inspire them to fight on against the scourge of scopophilia and the virus of voyeurism. So, yeah, if you spot a copy, grab a read. It coulda done with more corpses, mind you.


• Headpress CEO Dr David Kerekes is the author of Killing for Culture: Death on Film and the Sizzle of Snuff (Visceral Visions 2012), Mezzogiallo: Ferality. Fetidity. Eastern Europe. (Visceral Visions 2014) and Nekro-Vile: Kandid Konfessions of a Korpse-Kontemplator (TransVisceral Books 2016), among other key transgressive texts.

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Æsthete’s Foot — Quennell, Acton and Powell on Waugh, Oxford and Crowley

Coo’ on Wu — extracts about Evelyn Waugh from Diana Cooper’s letters to her son John Julius Norwich.

Pinal Chap — Max Beerbohm’s memoir of Swinburne

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The Fallen: Life In and Out of Britain’s Most Insane Group, Dave Simpson (Canongate paperback 2009)

I enjoyed this book a lot when I first read it a few years ago. This time it was less fun. It didn’t seem as well-written and there was an occasional nasty edge that I didn’t remember from the first read. But I can still recommend it as an entertaining guide to a very strange band.

I’m not a fan of The Fall myself, though I think I can see why so many people are. And why they tend to be so devoted. Mark E. Smith, the “non-musician” who has led the band through decades of line-up changes, is himself a fan of both H.P. Lovecraft and Captain Beefheart. And it shows. Some of his song-titles could stand by themselves without any lyrics or music: “Rowche Rumble”, “How I Wrote Elastic Man”, “Mr Pharmacist”, “Why Are People Grudgeful?”.

The album titles are good too. Live at the Witch Trials was the first Fall album (it wasn’t live). Then there are Hex Enduction Hour, Code: Selfish, Imperial Wax Solvent, Sub-Lingual Tablet. A strange and interesting mind chose or came up with those. Dave Simpson encounters that mind at the beginning of the book, when he spends hours drinking in a Manchester pub with “Mad Mark”, as Mark E. Smith is known in his home-town of Prestwich. Why has Smith fired so many musicians? “It’s like football. Every so often you’ve got to change the centre-forward.”

But there’s more to it than that, as Simpson discovers in the rest of the book. He set out to track down all of The Fall’s many ex-members, from the most famous and long-lasting to the most fleeting and obscure. Even as he’s ticking names off his list, Smith is lengthening it. As the cover of this paperback says: “NOW with Added Ex-Members!” But everything Simpson writes about the Fallen is also telling you something about the Feller (in both senses of the word). Mark E. Smith is at the centre of everything, hiring, firing, drinking, prodding – something he likes to do to musicians on-stage.

It unsettles them, destroys routine and monotony, encourages the spontaneity that Smith thinks is essential to musical creativity and performance. And his unpredictability seems to work: although The Fall have often fallen fallow and released weak albums, they’ve always burst back to life with new members and new material. Or so Simpson says. He’s been a fan for a long time. So was his girlfriend when he started writing the book. They’d broken up before he finished it, which was appropriate.

Was it the Curse of Smith at work? Mad Mark certainly didn’t like being analysed or having light shed on his work and the many misfortunes that have dogged his group. Some of them seem to be have been deliberately engineered. Smith doesn’t want superstardom or great wealth. He wants to remain an Outsider. Lovecraft wrote about one of those and so did Camus. The Fall were named from Camus’s novel La Chute (1956) and perhaps Smith thought he’d die young just as Camus did.

He didn’t. The Fall have always been one of England’s strangest groups; now they’re one of the longest-lasting too. And the only ever-present is Smith. If you’re a fan, you’ve probably already read this book. If you aren’t, you may become one by doing so. It’s sometimes very funny and, like a biography of AC/DC I’ve reviewed, has a lot of sociological interest in it. You can’t understand Smith without understanding north-west England and Manchester in particular. And like a biography of Iron Maiden I’ve also reviewed, it teaches you a lot about historiography, or the process of writing and researching history. The Fall were formed in a rich country in peaceful times. But no-one can be sure what exactly happened to who, why, when and how. Some stories come in many different versions. Some stories may reverse the truth. And according to Marc Riley: “There are a lot of skeletons in The Fall cupboard and stories that haven’t been told.”

If Mark E. Smith has his way, they never will be. But I can foresee this book being updated again. And perhaps even again.

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Les Hommes Volants, Valerie Moolman, trans. Madeleine Astorkia (Time-Life Books 1981)

This is one of the best books I’ve ever owned. And also one of the most enjoyable to read. But if it had been the original edition in English, I’m not sure I would have bothered reading it. It might not have seemed worth the effort, because the effort would have been so slight.

It would have been like walking downhill. Reading French, on the other hand, is like walking uphill on difficult ground. It’s much better mental exercise and much more interesting. The scenery is stranger, the flora and fauna more exotic. And the appeal of reading in a foreign language is summed up in this book:

« Toutes furent unanimes, écrivit Chanute, « à affirmer que voler dans les airs procurait un monde de sensations extraordinaires. » (« L’apprentissage du vol », p. 92)

“Everyone was united,” Chanute wrote, “in agreeing that flying through the air produced a world of extraordinary sensations.”

The extraordinary nature of language isn’t apparent when you’re in your mother-tongue. You have to enter another language, because each language is a world of its own. That quote is by Octave Chanute (1932-1910), one of the pioneers of aviation, but he didn’t make it in French or in France. Although he was born in Paris, he emigrated with his parents to America and grew up to become a civil engineer.

He then got interested in aviation and was one of the inspirations for the Wright Brothers. But this book goes back well before Chanute and the Wrights. Men have been dreaming of flight, and dying in the attempt, for millennia. It looks so easy for birds, but it took a long time to master. Like mountaineering, it was a Faustian quest and white European men proved to have the necessary combination of intelligence and daring. Those who challenged the air, like the German Otto Lilienthal (1848-96), often paid with their lives.

Lilienthal was another inspiration for the Wrights, but they had to correct some of his aerodynamic findings before they could finally achieve powered flight. Their success ends the book, which begins with the experiments of Persian kings and medieval monks, and the story of aviation presumably continues in La Conquête du Ciel, or Conquest of the Sky, which is listed with other Time-Life editions at the beginning.

The Time-Life books are well-designed and full of interesting pictures and photographs. Seeing is good for saying: as I point out in my review of a monolingual French dictionary, if you’re learning another language, it’s good to see words and images combined, because each reinforces the other. And translations into the second language are a good place to start too, because you’re often already familiar with the story and translations are usually simpler than texts composed directly in the second language.

The flood of the original has to be channelled and controlled to irrigate the minds of new readers, because French can’t do everything that English can, and vice versa. But Les Hommes Volants seems to be a good, idiomatic translation: it’s rarely obvious what the original English would have been, though I think the book must have been well-written and interesting in English too. And the font goes perfectly with French: it’s an elegant yet precise serif.

The intricacy and complexity of French also go well with the intricacy and complexity of the mechanical task that the pioneers of aviation were confronted with. English is intricate and complex too, of course, but I wouldn’t have noticed if I’d read this book in English. The translation into German would have been too difficult: French is in a kind of linguistic sweet spot for me. Difficult enough to be challenging, not so difficult as to be exhausting or frustrating. I glide effortlessly in English; I have to flap my wings hard to stay up in French; I can barely get off the ground in German or Georgian. The second kind of flight is often the most satisfying.

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