October 31, 2011
This is an adeptly rendered drawing of the Hofbrauhaus in Munich by a young artist I wish I could describe as "little-known," but I can only do so when referring to him as an artist; as the instigator of the world's worst war, he is far more famous. Yes, it's an original Hitler. He turned these things out in industrial quantity in order to pay his rent, in his salad days in Vienna and (here) Munich. Then came WWI, and, even better, the national anomie at the end that beckoned him into the national discourse; art soon went by the wayside, and the rest (forgive me) is history, a.k.a. WWII. And horror.
Thing is, he could've made a perfectly decent living selling these daubs, and might even have met and married Eva Braun, a photgrapher's model in Munich,and settled down and been perfectly happy. Well, maybe not perfectly.... but his imperfect happiness would have contributed to the sum of the greater happiness of humanity. Who wouldn't have known about it, anyway. It's always better that way.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
October 24, 2011
Volume 2 of Samuel Beckett's Collected Letters is out, and only reinforces the admiration I have for the man's integrity. His character was genuine, forged in life's vicissitudes, and his indifference to glory and self-promotion was real. He lived through long lean years, writing original works everyone rejected, or ignored. “They go out into the usual void and I hear little more about them,” he said. But then came Godot. It made him famous in his 50s. Still, he was too old and experienced by then to yield to the temptations of puffery. “Beckett will not hear of being interviewed, whether orally or in writing," said his wife, Suzanne. "I
fear that on this he is not to be budged. He gives his work, his role stops
there. He cannot talk about it. That is his attitude. . . . One must take him as
he is.” And we did; we do. But it was a lucky chance that Suzanne did what he wouldn't do, or we'd probably never have heard of him. She was the one with the ambition and the Left Bank literary connections, and she was the one who parlayed a small production in an insignificant theatre into the classic Waiting for Godot. Beckett cared only about the work itself, and would tolerate no meddling. I, with my pathetic adherence to the social networks, and desperate hope for remuneration for my long years of labor, must derive consolation from the hard-earned wisdom of Samuel Beckett, who had the greatest admiration for that other Samuel, Dr. Johnson, who said, "Human life is everywhere a state in which much is to be
endured, and little to be enjoyed." Both Sams concur, more often than not. And teach the rest of us--if not how to live, how to endure.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
October 21, 2011
Franz Liszt, the handsome chap above, was born on October 22, 1811, in Sopron, Hungary. Wotta guy. Prodigious pianist, ladies' man par excellence, autodidact, father-in-law of Richard Wagner, millionaire, acolyte of the Church and a pretty good composer, too, what with the Hungarian Rhapsodies and the Years of Pilgrimage. Roald Dahl reincarnated him as a cat in his short story "Edward the Conqueror." A cat was a good choice, although perhaps not a domestic cat; I'd have chosen a wilder variety.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
October 13, 2011
This painting, Bright Light at Russell's Corners, dates from 1946. I find it haunting, chilly, and perfectly conceived. I'm there: the tiny crossroads in remote upstate New York, around me the burbling, soughing night, above me the stars, ahead of me the rest of the 20th century.
George Ault (1891-1948) is the artist. He was a painter of the self-destructive school, eventually alienating everyone so thoroughly with his misanthropy and drinking that he was forced into rural exile and financial dependence on his wife. One stormy night in '48 he took a drop too many on board and unwisely decided it would be a good time to have a swim in the raging river nearby. End of story. Fortunately, he left behind one or two near-perfect canvases, including the one above. All the sound and fury of his life matter little now.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
October 4, 2011
And here it is, after months of blethering and caterwauling and boring the shite out of everyone with one's own peerless insights: Brian O'Nolan's 100th birthday. Born October 5, 1911--a date known forever as "October 5, 1911"--he was reborn as Brother Barnabus, again as George Knowall, again as Myles na Gopaleen, and most gloriously as Flann O'Brien, before expiring at the too-young age of 54 in 1966. But of course he lives on in his work: At Swim-Two-Birds and The Third Policeman are two of the greatest comic masterpieces of all time. Yes, as the Bard might say, age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his infinite variety. Although, having attended a centenary Flann bash in the tunnel--sorry, I mean, in Vienna--I'm very afraid the academics are trying their hardest to get their hooks into him by revealing hitherto unsuspected depths of latent sexuality in O'Nolan and its opposite in Flann and the like. It's the fate of all great writers. And we'll not look upon his like again. No matter how hard I try.
Slán agus beannacht leat, Brian.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
September 28, 2011
I
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,--
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,--
''Tis the lady Jingly Jones!
'On that little heap of stones
'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
III
'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
'Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
'Will you come and be my wife?'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
'I am tired of living singly,--
'On this coast so wild and shingly,--
'I'm a-weary of my life:
'If you'll come and be my wife,
'Quite serene would be my life!'--
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
IV
'On this Coast of Coromandel,
'Shrimps and watercresses grow,
'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
'You shall have my chairs and candle,
'And my jug without a handle!--
'Gaze upon the rolling deep
('Fish is plentiful and cheap)
'As the sea, my love is deep!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,--
'Your proposal comes too late,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'I would be your wife most gladly!'
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
'But in England I've a mate!
'Yes! you've asked me far too late,
'For in England I've a mate,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'
VI
'Mr. Jones -- (his name is Handel,--
'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)
'Dorking fowls delights to send,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle,
'And your jug without a handle,--
'I can merely be your friend!
'-- Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
'I will give you three, my friend!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'
VII
'Though you've such a tiny body,
'And your head so large doth grow,--
'Though your hat may blow away,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy--
'Yet a wish that I could modi-
'fy the words I needs must say!
'Will you please to go away?
'That is all I have to say--
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'.
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle,--
'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me
'On your back beyond the sea,
'Turtle, you shall carry me!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
IX
Through the silent-roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
With a sad primæval motion
Towards the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well.
Holding fast upon his shell,
'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!'
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
X
From the Coast of Coromandel,
Did that Lady never go;
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On that little hep of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
September 23, 2011
According to scientists, neutrinos raced from a particle accelerator at CERN
outside Geneva,
where they were created, to a cavern underneath Gran Sasso in Italy, a distance
of about 450 miles, about 60 nanoseconds faster than it would take a light beam to make the same journey
That amounts to a speed greater than light by about 0.0025% (2.5 parts in a
hundred thousand). If this is a violation of the theory of relativity, it's a big fucking deal indeed, to paraphrase our esteemed Vice-President. Problem is, most of us are so utterly out of our depth we'll have to start looking up the meaning of things like neutrinos and electrons if we're to stand a chance of grasping this.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
September 14, 2011
Flush with victory after finishing a 2500-word article on Vienna (it remains to be seen if it's accepted), I felt sentimental for the dear old place and found this video of the Vienna Boys' Choir singing that gloriously schmaltzy old ballad Wien, Wien, Nur Du Allein (Vienna, Vienna, Only You Alone): Wien, Wien, nur du allein
Sollst stets die Stadt meiner Träume sein !
Dort, wo die alten Häuser stehn,
Dort, wo die lieblichen Mädchen gehn !
Wien, Wien, nur du allein
Sollst stets die Stadt meiner Träume sein!
Dort, wo ich glücklich und selig bin,
Ist Wien, ist Wien, mein Wien!
Pure kitsch. Excuse me while I sob quietly.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
September 12, 2011
"Ours is a useful trade. With all its lightness and
frivolity it has one serious purpose, one aim, one specialty, and it is constant
to it -- the deriding of shams, the exposure of pretentious falsities, the
laughing of stupid superstitions out of existence . . . Whoso is by instinct
engaged in this sort of warfare is the natural enemy of royalties, nobilities,
privileges and all kindred swindles, and the natural friend of human rights and
human liberties." Mark Twain
Posted by Roger Boylan.
September 11, 2011
Ten years gone, a world remade, a nation in decline. I'm inevitably reminded of the last century of the Roman Empire. Could we be at around, say, the middle of the 3rd century AD, when the Empire nearly collapsed under the combined pressures of civil unrest, war, and economic depression, only to be rescued by a strongman, Diocletian? Only to fall to the barbarian hordes a century or so after that?Idle speculation, for the most part. Nations fail and are redeemed, or not. This one will be. Remember and honor the fallen today.
Posted by Roger Boylan.
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