The Death of Steerforth

Actually I think it's probably just a virus, but being a man I feel duty bound to lie in bed and suffer from intimations of mortality. If I can't get in the mood, there's always some Shostakovich on my MP3 player. I defy anyone to listen to Six Poems of Marina Tsvetayeva without succumbing to the urge to throw themselves under the nearest bus replacement service. However, when I was 17 I couldn't get enough of it.

I miss the emotional highs of being a teenager - the delusion that you are the hero of your own novel, embarking on a great adventure. I didn't relish discovering that in reality, I was a minor character in a badly-written blockbuster. However, I don't miss the terrible angst and black depressions that seemed to appear from nowhere.

I agree with Shaw that youth is wasted on the young. Looking back, my teens could have been one long snogfest if I hadn't been so idiotic. For example, when a girl asked me if I was interested in going to Paris for a weekend, I concluded that she might fancy me, but there wasn't enough evidence to reach a firm conclusion. How stupid can you get?

Instead, I spent far too much time listening to Mahler and watching obscure European films (although I'll admit that the latter was partly for the gratuitous nudity).

In spite of this, I would give anything to recapture a feeling I had when I was 19, walking along a moonlit beach in Dorset. I have been to many far more remarkable places since then, but my responses are always tempered by a terrible self-consciouness: here I am on the edge of the Grand Canyon and I can see that it is awe-inspiring, but am I feeling what I should be feeling? In Dorset, I experienced a perfect moment; perhaps because I was surprised by joy (and top marks if you spotted the references to both C.S.Lewis and a Martine McCutcheon single).

I'm still have those wonderful serendipitous moments, but the moment I become aware, the bubble bursts. It's very annoying.

If you're wondering what the point to this post is, I'm afraid that there isn't one. These are the demented ramblings of someone in the advanced stages of Man Flu, with his whole life flashing before him. I do apologise.

If there's anyone left who hasn't seen this film...

I rest my case.

Diaries of a Nobody

"I have no heart for camping. I would rather be amongst my books in some cottage."

Most of the books I deal with at work are titles that have failed to sell in charity shops. That might not sound very promising, but my employers have built up a successful, multi-million pound business selling books that used to be dumped on landfill sites.

Occasionally we also receive the contents of house clearances, where the owner of the books has either died or moved into an old people's home. It can be rather depressing wading through someone's book collection, realising that however erudite and well-read they were, this is how it ends.

On Monday we received a huge delivery of house clearance books, most of which had a religious theme. The books were mostly conventional titles about Biblical history and the Gospels, but there were a few that were more off the wall. I noticed a recurring theme of lost civilsations and in addition to the usual titles about Atlantis, there was one book that tried to prove that humans and dinosaurs co-existed. Who owned this strange collection?

The answer lay in a box at the bottom, which contained the personal diaries of a local government officer called Derek.

Why were Derek's journals sent to us? A few of his diaries from the 1950s could have been mistaken for books, but not the thick, foolscap binders from the 1980s, with their typewritten pages.

These diaries were of no use to us and were almost binned, but I couldn't bring myself to throw someone's life into a skip. I rescued the box and later, started to browse its contents.

This is Derek in 1956:

If he looks like this in the mid-1950s, then we can assume that Derek was born at some point between 1925 and 1935.

When Derek's diaries begin, he is in love with Brenda:

Derek marries Brenda and they have a son. They also become Mormons, and the recurring theme in the diaries is Derek's personal battle against sin and temptation. This extract is from 1987:

"I was much troubled by evil dreams last night. I tossed and turned upon my bed in a way I have not done for many years. I dreamt that I was at the office and kept calling the female staff by titles and name that were blatantly sexist and in transgression of the County Council's instructions in this matter."

The Pooterish tone of the writing results in many examples of unintentional hilarity:

"On the way to Bristol this morning, Elaine Hamilton and I got to discussing her daughter's hay fever and I suggested that susceptibility to such things could be dependent upon the density of the hairs in one's nose. It was a novel suggestion that gave her some thought!"

Or:

"Eric the Barber, with his lady asistant, was sitting in his shop idle when I passed by with the hamster. He called out to me, so I went in and showed the scrap to them. Eric thought that hamsters would live amicably together in the same cage. I soon disillutioned him of that myth. I also told him that they were a great thing to have in the house if one were plagued by mice, since mice are scared beyond measure by hamsters."

Hamsters obviously play an important role in Derek's household:

"When we got back home, we said hello to Brenda, Richard and the hamster."

The Pooterish theme extends to the cast of characters: Mr Sunter and Mr Lippett, Oliver Dewsnupp, Gerald Ramsbottom, Mrs Moncrieff, Norman and Joan Farbus, Warwick Kear, Steve Fagg, Pam Balloch, Julia Sleet and Blake Thompson. All real people.

But it would be so easy to save Derek's diaries just so that I could use them as comic material, whereas the truth is that the humorous moments are only a small part of the whole. Derek comes across as a decent man, trying to live the good life according to his beliefs. He is plagued by self-doubt and his journals bear witness to the struggles of an ordinary man who is regularly plagued by extraordinary feelings:

"I set my lip on fire the other morning. And on Sunday night I had a dream. I became acquainted with an attractive woman with curly hair, but undefined facial features. I was much tempted by her and took her back to a basement with rusty radiators..."

And what of the diary itself? Why did Derek faithfully maintain his journal for at least forty years?

"Why I keep a journal is often a mystery to myself. There is an inward compulsion - some would call it egotism - that will not rest until my life is recorded. Of course, the Keeper always imagines that any journal he keeps will be of inestimable value to future generations; will be a work of intimate revelations that will declare his glory to endless decades. And that is a foolish dream hardly worth the paper he has kept it on. "

I don't know what to do with Derek's diaries, however I can't bring myself to throw them away. But if not now, when?

Orientalism

Several months ago I discovered a tatty-looking French book, lying at the bottom of a box. The cover was damaged and the binding was in a terrible state, but I knew that I had found something special:

It's not just the illustrations that make this book so remarkable, but also the fact that it was published in 1890. I had no idea that colour printing was so advanced in those days.


If you click on these images, they make take slightly longer to upload, but I felt that illustrations of this quality warranted high resolution scans (and as these images are copyright-free, I hope they'll make their way around the blogosphere).





Both the book and its author remain something of a mystery, which I find hard to understand. How can a stunning title like this languish in obscurity? I'm sure the book has some value, but selling it is proving to be an uphill strugle.

More is Less

According to Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, "millions of people now own Kindles". I'm baffled. It's an ugly, clumsy-looking device that reminds me of the first generation of mobile phones. The Kindle lacks the elegance of the I-Touch and I can't see it winning any design awards:
Bezos adds that "Kindle readers read a lot", but what does that mean? I listen to a lot of music on my MP3 player, but I would argue that the quailty of my listening has deteriorated, as the technology allows me to jump tracks so easily.

It feels like a long time ago (it is a time long ago) since the days when I'd carefully remove an LP from its sleeve, put it on the turntable, gently lift the stylus arm and place it down on the outer edge of the record, listening with anticipation to the crackles and clicks. Whether I was playing a Shostakovich symphony or a Stevie Wonder album, I would lie back and listen to the whole thing, experiencing the record as a whole.

I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember the last time I listened to a piece of music in its entirety. I can partly blame my children - we live in a small house and I don't have a "room of one's own". However, there is nothing to stop me lying down on the bed and listening to a piece of music on my headphones.

When I do listen to anything on my MP3 player, I find that I have the attention-span of a two-year-old. I will dutifully begin listening to Beethoven's Eroica symphony, right up to that sublime moment when Beethoven gets really angry, then my attention will wander and I'll start zipping through my tracklist: St John Passion, Andy Warhol, Siegfried Idyll, Meera Nam Chin Chin Chu, Luonnotar, The Headmaster Ritual, Concerto for Orchestra, Wichita Lineman, Trying Not to Think About the Time, Peter Grimes...

30 seconds here, 15 seconds there, I know I've only myself to blame, but it's too easy to change tracks. I need a deterent - the modern-day equivalent of the tedious, time-wasting process of rewinding a C-120 cassette back to the beginning.

If I had a Kindle with several dozen books at my fingertips, I'd probably go through a similar process, giving up on anything that wasn't utterly gripping. My Kindle would have to be restricted to one book at a time.

I'm not a Luddite, but I'm concerned about the increasing emphasis on quantity rather than the quality of experience. Our Kindles can store hundreds of books whilst our MP3 players and cameras can store thousands of tracks and photos, but what is the end result? Are we leading richer lives as a result?

I can see certain situations where the Kindle comes into its own. If you're backpacking for several months or are one of those commuters who devour airport novels, the Kindle is ideal. But, to quote the title of a novel, books do furnish a room. The book isn't just a medium, but the thing in itself. It is something that we see, touch, smell and even hear, as we flick through the pages.

Working with secondhand books, I am acutely aware of the sensorial qualities of a book: the slightly indecent softness of calf leather, the odour of stale pipe tobacco, the cracking of the binding as you open an old book, the unpleasant, chalky feeling of photographic plates, the smell of public libraries and, occasionally, damp, mildewy cellars.

These qualities proved to be too much for one of my customers who, last week, returned a 1920s book to me with a handwritten letter explaining that she felt that the book was too dirty to take to bed. There was nothing wrong with the book. Perhaps my customer would be happier with a nice, germ-free Kindle?

I shall not be buying an e-reader or I-Pad. I don't need more technology. What I do need is something that I got rid of years ago and have been quietly regretting it ever since: a wind-up gramophone.

Twelve years ago, when I lived in Twickenham, there was a power-cut late in the evening. Everyone was plunged into silence and darkness. However, my wife and I lit candles, opened a bottle of wine and listened to Noel Coward records on our gramophone. It was one of those perfect moments.

No piece of technology I own has ever bought as much pleasure. With their vast array of functions and huge storage, my gadgets promise so much, but somehow they seem to deliver so little.

Resenting the Zeros

A Facebook friend posted this clip a few weeks ago. Apparently there's a "technical problem" with embedding the clip, but if you click to he original YouTube page, it works:

I agree with everything Louis CK says in the interview, although I'm ashamed to say that I'm one of those people who complains that the internet is "slow" if it takes longer than half a second for a page to download (the 14k modem is a distant memory).

I also remember resenting telephone numbers with lots of zeros.

Seduction

Last Saturday I caught the train to Victoria to meet some old university friends at the Coal Hole, which I love. It's one of the few central London pubs where you can always get a seat, thanks to a secret basement.

After a few drinks we walked along the Strand to the India Club - one of the most bizarre restaurants I've ever visited. There are no neon signs or menus in the window. The entrance is in an inconspicuous doorway, with only a small plaque to alert passers-by to the restaurant's existence.

After ascending three flights of stairs, you enter a room that looks like the refectory of an Antarctic research station or a nuclear bunker, with cheap formica tables and garish flourescent strip lights. I kept expecting people to enter through an airlock.

The waiters always seem surprised by anyone's arrival. On one visit I discovered them all fast asleep, lying on rows of chairs pulled together (I crept out and returned later). They are also flummoxed by standard restaurant practices, like putting plates on the table. Instead of moving glasses and side dishes to make room, the waiters stare impassively at the table, as if contemplating an algebraic equation.

The restaurant isn't licensed, but if you ask for beer a Polish girl will mysteriously appear five minutes later with a bottle of Eastern European beer and a request for hard cash. It is all very strange. But then the food arrives and apart from being very reasonably priced, it is gorgeous - better than anything most Indian restaurants serve.

During the evening, one friend confessed that when he was doing a postgrad course, he'd made a compilation cassette called "Seduction Tape." The idea was simple enough: he'd entice girls back to his room, turn the heating up to maximum and put the tape on.

He then revealed the track listing. This was the fourth track:

Not a great seduction song, to put it mildly. Sailor only had two hits and were generally regarded as the poor man's Roxy Music. By the time this song appeared on my friend's compilation tape, Sailor were a distant memory from another decade. Surely this seduction technique couldn't have worked?

However, my friend had the last word: "Reader, I married her."