Stanley Kubrick’s Boxes (2008)

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In 1998, film director Jon Ronson was asked to provide a copy of a documentary he had made about the holocaust. He later discovered that the request had come from Stanley Kubrick who was planning a holocaust movie, until Spielberg pipped him to the post with Schindler’s List. Ronson planned to interview the director, but Kubrick died after editing Eyes Wide Shut.
 
Ronson was surprised to be invited to Kubrick’s house near St Albans in England at a later date  by Kubrick’s widow and was shown about a thousand large boxes that contained huge quantities of memorabilia related to Kubrick’s filmmaking – collated and classified by Kubrick himself and supplied by an army of faithful researchers and photographers who worked for him, including dozens of readers (most of whom did not know who they were working for) who would write reports on new novels, as part of  the increasingly impossible task of finding a true coup de coeur story for the next Kubrick masterpiece.
 
One somewhat bemused regular collaborator was asked to photograph the whole of the Commercial Road in London from a twelve-foot stepladder at twelve-foot intervals – it is a very long street – to avoid the leaning effect on buildings of photographing from street level and tape the photographs together into a huge chain for Kubrick’s perusal. Another assistant was charged with implementing a stream of highly detailed memos, which go from stipulating how many melons should be in the house at any one time to requests for information concerning barometric pressure readings in London at a precise hour on a precise day.
 
There are boxes of demo films sent by people who wanted to work with him, which Kubrick watched with interest, and thousands of fan letters categorised as F-P (positive), F-N (negative) or Crank, and filed according to the home town of the writer so that the person could be used as a “field agent” in that locality at a later date. They also include meticulous research for all of his films, from the kind of stately home gateway that should appear in Eyes Wide Shut to the hats Alex and his droogs should wear in Clockwork Orange.
 
It is common knowledge that Kubrick paid a fanatical attention to detail, and Ronson’s four-year rummage through these methodically organised boxes produces ample concrete and anecdotal evidence of this. The attention to detail also includes the boxes themselves, which were custom-made to his precise specifications. Touchingly, Kubrick had a passion for stationery and was a regular visitor to Ryman’s in St Albans, ever on the look-out for new notebooks or files.
 
One of the pleasures of this film is hearing what his closest associates, his wife and daughter thought of him – the intensity of their admiration and their amusement at his quirks and caprices. 
 
A book-end companion piece for Stanley Kubrick’s Boxes is the documentary Room 237 (2012) which looks at Kubrick’s meticulous detailing from the movie-goer’s perspective, with multiple interpretations of the movie The Shining that range from the ingenious to the downright insane. 
 
It is also interesting to compare it with the 1997 documentary Pretty As a Picture – The Art of David Lynch in that both documentaries grapple with what goes into making outstanding movies.  In other words, passion, vision, rigour, artistic vision, obsessiveness and sheer hard graft. Though very different directors, Kubrick and Lynch are both remarkable for their visual sense.
 
When will Nicolas Roeg, the consummate visual artist of British cinema, get the documentary he deserves? In the meantime, he’s about to get a remake of Don’t Look Now (a film of such total artistic integrity that it simply cannot be improved on) by none other than the makers of Scary Movie 3 – Yea verily, fools rush in where angels fear to tread…
 
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Franz Kafka – The Blue Octavo Notebooks

 

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“Among other things in Kafka’s posthumous papers there were eight little blue octavo notebooks of the kind we used to call ‘vocabulary notebooks’ at school … made up almost entirely of literary ideas, fragments and aphorisms.” Max Brod

The Blue Octavo Notebooks date from 1917 to 1919. The diversity and singularity of the entries lead us through the inner corridors and antechambers of this prodigious man’s mind. Here is a personal selection.

A little boy had a cat that was all he had inherited from his father and through it became Lord Mayor of London. What shall I become through my animal, my inheritance? Where does the huge city lie?
 
I digress.
The true way is along a rope that is not spanned high in the air, but only just above the ground. It seems intended more to cause stumbling than to be walked along.
 
How pathetically scanty my self-knowledge is compared with, say. my knowledge of my room. (Evening.) Why? There is no such thing as observation of the inner world, as there is of the outer world…. The inner world can only be experienced, not described. 
 
Don Quixote’s misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.
 
Beyond a certain point there is no return. This point has to be reached. 
 
From outside one will always triumphantly impress theories upon the world and then fall straight into the ditch one has dug, but only from inside will one keep oneself and the world quiet and true.
 
Differences in the view one can have of things, for instance of an apple: the view of a little boy who has to crane his neck in order even to glimpse the apple on the table, and the view of the master of the house, who takes the apple and freely hands it to the person sitting at table with him.
 
This is a place where I never was before: here breathing is different, and more dazzling than the sun is the radiance of a star beside it.
 
Evil is whatever distracts.
 
The crows maintain that a single crow could destroy the heavens. There is no doubt of that, but it proves nothing against the heavens, for heaven simply means the impossibility of crows.
 
Vanity makes ugly, ought therefore really to kill, instead however it merely injures itself, becoming “injured vanity”.
 
Idleness is the beginning of all vice, the crown of all virtues.
 
Man cannot live without a permanent trust in something indestructible in himself, though both the indestructible element and the trust may remain permanently hidden from him. One of the ways in which the hiddenness can express itself is through faith in a personal god.
 
Of his own volition, like a fist he turned and shunned the world.
 
The fact that our task is exactly commensurate with out life gives it the appearance of being infinite.
 
Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.
 
The suicide is the prisoner who sees a gallows being erected in the prison yard, mistakenly thinks it is the one intended for him, breaks out of his cell in the night, and goes down and hangs himself.
 
Many people assume that besides the great primal deception there is also in every individual case a little special deception provided for their benefit, in other words that when a drama of love is performed on the stage, the actress has, apart from the hypocritical smile for her lover, also an especially insidious smile for the quite particular spectator in the top balcony. This is going too far.
 
Living means being in the midst of life, seeing life with the gaze in which I have created it.
 
The moonlight dazzled us. Birds shrieked from tree to tree. There was a buzzing and whizzing in the fields. We crawled through the dust, a pair of snakes.
 
After a person’s death, for a short span of time, even on earth, a special beneficial silence sets in with regard to the dead person; a terrestrial fever has ceased, a dying is no longer seen to be continuing, an errors seems to have been remedied; even for the living there is an opportunity to breathe freely, for which reason, too, the windows are opened in the room where the death took place – until then everything turns out to have been, after all, only a semblance, and the sorrow and the lamentations begin.
 
You raven, I said, you old bird of ill omen, what are you always doing on my path? Wherever I go, you perch there, ruffling your scanty plumage. Nuisance! Yes, it said, and paced up and down before me with its head lowered, like a schoolmaster talking to the class, that is true; it is becoming almost distressing, even to me.
 
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Last Orders

IMG_0662Photo: the once much-loved Railway Tavern in Mortlake, now a ghost, transformed into a private residence.

WIKIPEDIA ENTRY, SOMETIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE. A pub /pʌb/, formally public house (a house “open to the public”, as opposed to a private house), was a drinking establishment, principally in the culture of Britain and Ireland.  In many places, especially in villages, a pub used to be the focal point of the community.  The history of pubs can be traced back to Roman taverns, through the Anglo-Saxon alehouse to the development of the tied house system in the 19th century. The last pub closed its doors this year.

I was brought up in South West London, in Sheen and Mortlake. The following pubs, that I knew as a teenager, no longer exist: The Queens Arms, The Derby Arms, The Bull, The Railway Tavern, The Jolly Milkman, The Charlie Butler, The Lord Napier, The Spur, The Market Gardener. They have not been replaced. I remember with particular affection The Queens Arms, a real street pub with a unique local atmosphere, The Bull, a big, spacious pub where great music could be heard in the 1970s, and The Railway Tavern (see photo above, as it is today, now a private residence), a pleasant local beside Mortlake Green.

Of the remaining pubs,  the legendary Hare and Hounds – haunted by the spectres of yesteryear – is now scarred by the curse of poncey interior decor and gentrified and gastro-pubbed beyond recognition, its wonderful billiard room a thing of the past. I recently dropped into the Jolly Gardeners near the Thames, the last pub in Mortlake to have retained its fogeyish and unashamedly lugubrious character over the decades – in my family, we call it The Jolly Funeral Directors. I reminisced with the landlady about the old days when fishmongers would swing by with wicker baskets round their necks selling cockles, mussels, shrimp and jellied eels to eat with your beer. Most of the clientele are now in their 80s and 90s and the place is comparable to nothing so much as the Tardis. It also has the particularity of being a Youngs tied house (which possibly accounts for the longevity of its customers, Youngs beer being the closest London gets to an elixir of eternal youth) with the former Watneys brewery literally built around it but failing to convert it – a brewery that now seems to be devoted entirely to producing Budweiser, that lacklustre American pastiche of Budvar, the great Czech beer.

It’s not just the pubs. For anyone returning to England after a period of expatriate absence, it simply doesn’t feel – well, English… Samuel Pepys described the pub as the heart of England, and this is dying fast – with 31 pubs closing every week nationwide. But other vital organs are expiring too. Even the charity shops, one of the last bastions of English dottiness – though flourishing in number – are now manned by Poles, Russians and Latvians. And the bar staff in the pubs are French, Portuguese, or one of a dozen other nationalities. “English Broken Here….”

London has famously been described as France’s sixth city, with over a quarter of a million French people living in the capital – a total reversal of the flow of immigration not so long ago. Whatever you think of that, the English face in the English crowd is now a rarity, and the Google Maps app a boon, since asking directions in the street is almost invariably a total waste of time. There was once a Private Eye cartoon of two rats lost in a laboratory maze. One says to the other, “Sorry, I’m a stranger here myself.”

But back to pubs…

What explains this situation? The Tory Peer Lord Hodgson says that it is because traditional working class areas have become homes to Muslim immigrants – true enough in many urban areas, but this is not the whole story. Pubs are victims of taxation, over-regulation, the decline in beer consumption, the availability of low-cost alcohol in supermarkets, large pub conglomerates selling off unprofitable venues, rising rent and falling trade. These days, a couple of pints will set you back in the region of £10, for which price you can buy 8 large cans of beer to drink at home. In short, they are pricing themselves out of existence.

CAMRA has launched a campaign to safeguard hundreds of pubs listed as community assets, Tory Baroness Cumberledge has pleaded for pubs to be kept open because “Single men who are lonely and depressed are very often welcomed into pubs.” And The Lost Pubs Projects on the Internet is the online pub cemetery, archiving the decline of the English pub.

When I look at the situation in rural France where I live most of the time, it is not very different. Virtually every village has a defunct little bar with its fading sign – Le Cheval Blanc in my village – the expired heart of the spirit of community.  National identity and a sense of belonging are fragile things, and those iconic hubs on which they once depended are being extinguished before our eyes.

Only occasionally, a positive item makes the news, like the Maida Vale Carlton Tavern – a 1920s building, replacing a far more ancient hostelry, that was the only edifice standing in its street after Nazi bombing. It was recently demolished by developers without planning permission and to the dismay of its customers. For once, the culprits got their comeuppance: they were ordered to rebuild the pub brick by brick…

But far too often the knell is heard. In the words of T. S. Eliot in “The Waste Land”:

HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
 
Good night, England, good night sweet England, good night, good night…
 
The Queens Head, East Sheen, once a thriving street pub, dating back to 1757, now someone's living room

The Queens Head, East Sheen, once a thriving street pub, dating back to 1757, now someone’s living room

Moore Close, Less Close…

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Ordering a taxi with the London Taxicard Scheme from their Scottish call centre,  a verbatim exchange:

Operator: Where would you like a taxi to, sir?
Customer: Moore Close – that’s M-O-O-R-E – South West 14.
Operator: Very good. More Close, West 14.
Customer: No – Moore Close, SOUTH West 14. I had this same problem yesterday. I did the same trip and your operator gave the taxi the address in West 14. By the time I noticed we were going in completely the wrong direction, the ride ended up costing me three times more than it should have.
Operator: I’m afraid there is no More Close in South West 14, sir.
Customer: As I said before, it’s MOORE – M-O-O-R-E, not M-O-R-E. Two “Os”.
Operator: In that case, sir, it’s pronounced Mooo-er
Customer: You are Scottish, I think, and this is a call centre in Scotland?
Operator: Yes.
Customer: Perhaps in Scotland Moore is pronounced Mooo-er but in England it is pronounced the same as More, M-O-R-E. Thomas More, Brian Moore – same pronunciation.
Operator: No, it isn’t.
Customer: Yes, it is. 
Operator: Anyway, there is no Moore Close in South West London. The address doesn’t exist.
Customer: It certainly does exist. I was there this morning. A relative of mine has lived there for the past 15 years. It is a real address in a real city. Admittedly in England rather than Scotland. In London, in fact.
Operator: It doesn’t come up on my computer screen.
Customer: Well it does come up in my life on a daily basis. The next line of the address is Little Saint Leonards and the postal code is SW14 7LU.
Operator: OK, I’ve got it. You should have given “Little Saint Leonards” as the address.
Customer: No, Moore Close comes BEFORE Little Saint Leonards. It is the first part of the address, as it appears on post delivered to that address and as it appears on the street sign.
Operator: No, you should have said it the other way round.
Customer: Nevertheless, do we now agree that there are TWO Mo(o)re Close addresses in London, one written M-O-O-R-E?
Operator: (reluctantly). Yes. When do you want the taxi?
Customer: Now.
Operator: Any special requirements?
Customer: None whatsoever, thank you. Just a taxi. How long will it take?
Operator: I don’t know.
Customer: Thank you and goodbye.

Feelgood Movies

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 I have to admit to a certain addiction to American feelgood movies. Recently, Love is Strange left me ambivalent, because too formulaic. But Chef was a delight – written, produced and starring the great Jon Favreau (reminiscent of the much missed James Gandolfini) – a film about a restaurant chef who, on getting sacked, works from a food truck donated by his ex-wife’s new lover. Through this work, he re-c0nnects with his son. The film is witty, exhilarating and endless fun, not least because it stars two dangerously live wires among American actresses – Scarlett Johannson and Sofia Vegara (of Modern Family fame). I loved this film, because everything works – and you can feel that all the actors are having a whale of a time. It also testifies to the fact that watching people making food is compulsive viewing!

Nostalgia for the Light

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 Yes, here I am recommending a documentary again!

The beautiful 2010 film Nostalgia for the Light is a profound meditation on the past and memory.

The Atacama desert in Chile is entirely without moisture, like the surface of Mars. Hence its use as the location for sophisticated optical and radio telescopes. From here, astronomers peer into the origins of the universe and the calcium signals from distant stars. Meanwhile, roaming the desert, women who lost loved ones in the Pinochet regime scour the earth for signs of burial of human remains, with occasional success, and the calcium from their bones provides some evidence of who they were.

The documentary explores the refusal of these women to forget the thousands of “disappeared” and draws fascinating parallels with the work of the astronomers and archaeologists who also peer into the past in this desolate place. The film explores what the past is – according to one astronomer, and rightly, everything that we observe reaches us from the past, even milliseconds away (we literally live in the past) – and creates a sense of cosmic continuity that transcends the evils of particular societies and their attempts to hide the atrocities that they have committed. In other words, this documentary goes way beyond being a critique of the Pinochet regime and invests life – and loss of life – with meaning in extraordinary ways. It is also a supreme recommendation of the pursuit of astronomy as a means of putting our sublunary concerns into total perspective.

If ever a documentary can be at once aesthetically, intellectually, philosophically and politically stunning, this is it.

Astronomy was my childhood passion and I held a lengthy correspondence with dear old Patrick Moore when I was eleven years old, who answered all my questions on his old typewriter with sticky keys, and invited me down to his personal observatory at Lizard Point in Cornwall – a meeting that sadly never happened because at the last moment he was called away by the BBC to meet the Apollo 8 astronauts at Cape Canaveral.  

In May 2015 I shall be attending a four-day astronomical extravaganza at my local rural observatory, of which more anon.

 

The Talented Mr Landis

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From Grey Gardens (1975) or Marwencol (2010) to Finding Vivian Meier (2013), America has a strong portfolio of documentaries about eccentric and often highly gifted people. The truly wonderful  Art and Crafts (2014)  is up there with the best. 

It tells the story of Mark Landis, an art forger whose fake paintings and drawings ended up in dozens of art museums across the USA. Landis tried his hand at everything, from Picasso to Russian icons, from the French artist Signac to Charles Schulz and Dr Seuss. A slight, stooped, balding figure with gentle eyes, poorly shaven cheeks and chin, and sticky-out ears, he would use one of four different aliases to approach the museums with his fakes. Yet no legal action has ever been taken against him because he never sought to make money out of his venture. In his own words “I decided to be a philanthropist” and, as the film proceeds, it becomes clear that this action was a curious posthumous offering to his idolised father and mother. At the age of 17, when his father died, he had a nervous breakdown and one of the many droll moments in the film is his humour on reading his psychological report from this period when the psychologists ticked the boxes for nearly all psychoses known to man (“Got that… Got that… Got that…”).

Aside from his painterly talents, Landis is a born actor. One of his aliases was a Jesuit priest, Father Arthur Scott. Landis clearly loves TV, and this character was inspired by the Father Brown series: “You can learn everything you need about how to be a priest from the Father Brown Kenneth Moore series,” he says. Another is that of a man from a family with old money, with an imaginary sister called Emily who lives in Paris and wants to disband her art collection, asking her sibling to take care of it for her. 

The art materials used by Landis were bought at Wal-Mart and other cheap retail stores, the wooden backboards for some paintings being age-stained with instant coffee. The frames were cheap supermarket frames, aged with everyday household products. Yet despite his crass amateurism for decades he got away with it. His Nemesis was a lacklustre individual called Matt Meininger at the Cincinnati Art Museum who noticed on the Internet that almost identical works had been bought by sister museums around the country. This is really the tale of two obsessives, because Meininger launched a vendetta against Landis that became so excessive that it resulted in his own redundancy, and the end of this documentary – when the two men meet, post-revelation, when a special exhibition of Landis’s art is launched in Cincinnati – is one of the hilarious high points of this engaging, astonishing and touching tale. “Anything I can do for you, you just let me know,” says Landis, who can’t recall even having met Meininger before, even though he has. Pathetically, Meininger imagines that Landis must also be obsessed with him, though in fact he couldn’t give a damn.

With his quiet, slightly creepy voice, Landis is a non-stop talker, with a sense of irony that often goes right over the heads of the social workers and art curators who interrogate him. A few quotes to whet your appetite, or test your powers of sourcing:

“I’m worried that I’m going to be looked at as a crook and a drinker and a smoker, which is all pretty negative.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention, and sometimes the stepmother of deception. That pretty much takes care of things.” 

“We all like to feel useful whatever ability we happen to have.”

“People would be better off if they could be real Vulcans, and not have emotions, then you wouldn’t get so upset by things.”

“So everyone’s different, and everyone’s the same, and there are three million stories in the naked city, and this has been one of them, and that’s kind of the best way I can put it.”

The best quote, which gives the documentary its title, is “I’m not really an artist. I just like to do Art and Crafts when I’m watching TV”. The odd thing is that this is true. By the end of the film, one feels sad that Landis can’t continue with his “philanthropy”, following his exposure to the press and the art world. But then comes the surprise revelation that he has found a whole new way of channelling his extraordinary talent. 

Ultimately, this film is about eccentricity and the puzzled failure of the unimaginative to wrap their minds around a way of being that they cannot comprehend. Orson Welles would have loved it. So would my father, who was also an eccentric and a painter who, like Landis, lived modestly and worked in his bedroom using whatever materials came to hand.

By hook or by crook, make sure you see this documentary! Click here for the trailer.

Documenting Rural Touraine: Yvette and Caroline

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 What follows is an unashamed plug…

In 2005, my friend the French documentary filmmaker Sylvestre Chatenay suggested I visit his neighbour’s farm to buy some goat’s cheese and to meet Yvette. Dropping in on Yvette was like entering a time capsule from another era. In her 70s, she had lived all her life with her elderly mother and two brothers on this smallholding with crops, livestock and dairy farming – the father was long dead. None of the children had married, in accordance with their mother’s orders. Yvette had wanted to in her youth. She obeyed her mother’s unreasonable demand but, as a sign of protest, announced that she would not cut her hair for the rest of her life, a promise she has kept to this day. Their way of life seemed and seems the last glimmer of a dying flame, an eccentric vision of rural France that is on the cusp of extinction.

With the family’s somewhat puzzled permission, Sylvestre spent a year filming life on the farm and capturing this waning world through four seasons and the death of the mother. It is an intensely parochial, self-contained world, but not without surprises. Chatting to one of Yvette’s brothers, I discovered that he had been to England to study pig farming techniques on a local cooperative grant. It turned out that, on similar grants, he had travelled the world and was a mine of agricultural information. 

Today, when the garage collection truck arrives on their rural road, it roars past the farm because there is nothing to collect. Everything is used, or recycled. The end-of-the-line family is almost entirely self-sufficient. And above all, this is a world that centres on the lively, alert, informed and ever-active personality of Yvette. On the first day of snow, she emerges into her courtyard exclaiming “Ah, the snow has fallen! And it’s white this year!”

Sylvestre’s film, Yvette, bon dieu !, is a little masterpiece of documentary making that combines sensitivity, humour, hardship, visual beauty, pathos and poetry. It has appeared in several French film festivals to great acclaim, and deserves an airing elsewhere (any film festival organisers listening?). The trailer can be viewed here

Following a TV film about the socialist minister Marisol Touraine, Sylvestre’s most recent documentary is Un costume de maire pour Caroline. Remaining in the quiet pastoral world of southern Touraine, he documents the day-to-day life of Caroline, a woman mayor in the village of Sennevières who, in common with Yvette, is larger than life. Whether preparing the village play or discussing how and when potholes in a country road are going to be plugged, once again we are drawn into an affectionately detailed world which, without the slightest sentimentalism, captures another facet of what may one day be the stuff of memories. The trailer for this film can be seen here.

 Sylvestre Chatenay has a special gift for finding the richest subject matter right under his nose.

Everybody Wants to Be a Cat

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I’d just like to say to those who object to photos and videos of cats and kittens on YouTube, Facebook and other social media, that they have missed the entire point. The single overriding purpose of these sites is to promote cat worship on a planetary scale. This would be entirely obvious to any aliens studying the Great Chain of Being on Earth: the felines are at the top of the chain and, having need of beings with opposable thumbs to do useful things like opening cans, at the Dawn of Time they elected them to be their vassals and votaries. In the words of the late Terry Pratchett,  “In ancient times, cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.” Nor indeed have we, and there is substantial evidence that cat worship is now at its apogee, a global phenomenon rather than one limited to certain ancient civilisations such as the Egyptians, the Peruvians and the Chinese. 

 It was announced yesterday that three new books are to be published this year, compiled from the posthumous papers of Charles Bukowski. One of these, scheduled for September 2015, is On Cats“If you’re feeling bad, you just look at the cats; you’ll feel better, because they know everything is, just as it is,” Bukowski once said, adding: “The more cats you have, the longer you live. If you have a hundred cats, you’ll live ten times longer than if you have ten. Someday this will be discovered, and people will have a thousand cats and live forever.” 

 Whether called Cat (Holly Golightly’s pet in Breakfast at Tiffany’s), Tobermory,  Skimbleshanks or Tabitha Twitchit, cats have always had a special place in literature, beloved by the likes of Mark Twain, T. S. Eliot, Hemingway, Samuel Johnson, Yeats, and Patricia Highsmith. In the words of Charles Dickens, “What greater gift than the love of a cat?” 

 My favourite encomium to our furry overlords is “For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry” – an extract from “Jubilate Agno” – by the 18th-century English poet Christopher Smart, written when he was confined for seven years to a lunatic asylum and the eponymous cat was his only companion. Here it is in full, for the benefit of those who are unfamiliar with it:

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For First he looks upon his fore-paws to see if they are clean.
For Secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For Thirdly he works it upon stretch with the fore-paws extended.
For Fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For Fifthly he washes himself.
For Sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For Seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For Eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For Ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For Tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incompleat without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his fore-paws of any quadrupede.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord’s poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually – Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in compleat cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in musick.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is affraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly,
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroaking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadrupede.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the musick.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.

Christopher Smart (1722-71)

 

 

Elena Ferrante

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One April afternoon, right after lunch, my husband announced that he wanted to leave me. He did it while we were clearing the table; the children were quarrelling as usual in the next room, the dog was dreaming, growling beside the radiator. He told me that he was confused, that he was having terrible moments of weariness, of dissatisfaction, perhaps of cowardice. He talked for a long time about our fifteen years of marriage, about the children, and admitted that he had nothing to reproach us with, neither them nor me. He was composed, as always, apart from an extravagant gesture of his right hand when he explained to me, with a childish frown, that soft voices, a sort of whispering, were urging him elsewhere. Then he assumed the blame for everything that was happening and closed the front door carefully behind him, leaving me turned to stone beside the sink.

Thus begins Elena Ferrante’s The Days of Abandonment. Olga, a 39-year-old woman, with two children and a dog, is left by her husband Mario for a younger woman. What follows is her attempt to cope with this abandonment, day in, day out, and the increasing probability with time that there will be no return. A banal premise for a novel? Not here. From the outset, we are in the hands of a magisterial writer who takes us through every detail and depth of Olga’s inner and outer life with an intimacy, candour and emotional power that cannot leave you unmoved. At times the writing reminded me of Amos Oz, at other times of Ivan Klima or Javier Marias. In other words, Elena Ferrante is clearly in the front rank of international writers today. 

But who is Ferrante? The name is a pseudonym and, though theories exist, no-one is really sure who she – or possibly he – is, beyond a Neapolitan background. Ferrante is also the author of Troubling Love and The Lost Daughter, and a four-book series of Neapolitan novels, to be concluded later this year.  The Days of Abandonment was published in Italy in 2002 and remained a bestseller there for over a year. It was warmly recommended to me by friends, and I recommend it in turn and with equal warmth. Each page felt like striking gold, the thrill of discovering a contemporary writer with a unique and complex insight into what makes people tick, coming from a direction that was least expected. Any other Elena Ferrantes out there?

 

© 2018 Adrian Mathews