Hanya Yanagihara (2015) A Little Life.

This is a big book in lots of ways. 720 pages. There’s nothing little about A Little Life. I’d picked up hints about this book in my reading. The Great American Novel. It made it a must read. Yanagihara’s second novel won acclaim from all the major players in literary fiction. The Wall Street Journal, for example, ‘Announces [on the flyleaf] Yanagihara as a major American novelist. The New York Times bestseller. A panegyric from Edmund White. A serious book about A Little Life that asks to be taken seriously. And yet.

Four guys go to college in New York together. Jude is sixteen. Polymath. He becomes a successful lawyer. Willem is eighteen. He becomes an internationally acclaimed actor. JB and Malcolm are also eighteen and black, Malcolm less so. JB becomes an internationally acclaimed artist, based on portraits of his group of friends (Jude, Willem, Malcolm and himself). He’s the bad boy, takes drugs and becomes an addict. Malcolm is a good mummy’s boy and becomes an internationally acclaimed architect.

The narrative begins in a run-down apartment in Lispenard Street shared by Jude and Willem, and ends in Lispenard Street, over thirty years later, but with a different narrator and point of view. It doorstops their friendship through their twenties, thirties, forties and into their early ‘honeyed’ fifties and ‘The Happy Years’ (post-ironic title).

Four friends, two groups of two friends.

Willem and Jude are poor orphans and shared a dorm room at school. Malcolm and JD are relatively well off. They also shared a dorm room, but their parents were loaded. Malcolm’s mum and dad, for example, let Jude live in their basement flat when his sister moves out. They love him. Everybody loves Jude.  The secret is in his name Jude St Francis.

Willem tries to describe to his therapist what he means by friendship.

‘The word ‘friend’ was so vague, so undescriptive and unsatisfying, but how could he use the same term to describe what Jude was to him…And so they had chosen another, more familiar form of relationship, one that hadn’t worked. But now they were inventing their own type of relationship, one that wasn’t officially recognized by history or immortalized in poetry or song, but which felt truer and less constraining.’

In simpler terms, it’s the kind of relationship not outside history but very much inside history and carved into trees by adolescents—fill in your own childhood names here—Willem loves Jude xxx, Jude loves Willem xxx.    

Women love Willem. He has two long-term relationships with women that almost end in marriage and numerous other relationships that begin and end with sex. Yet it’s Jude he loves, but not sexually. Then sexually. Then not sexually. It’s complicated.

JB is straight, as in straightforward. He’s gay. Malcolm less so. He dates a guy and comes out to his parents as being gay, then marries a woman he falls in love with.

They have other friends who are gay or straight, or a bit of both. Jude is the exception. And his exceptionalism is the catalyst, because he has secrets that drive the narrative.

‘[Willem] would study him covertly, wondering how he had gotten from where he had been to where he was, wondering how he had become the person he has been when everything in his life had argued that it shouldn’t be. The awe that he’d felt for him, then, the despair and horror, was something one felt for idols, and not for other humans, at least no other humans he knew.

‘I know how you feel, Willem,’ Andy had said in one of their secret conversations, ‘but he doesn’t want you to admire him, he wants you to see him as he is. He wants you to tell him that his life, as inconceivable as it is, is still a life.’

Andy loves Jude too. But differently. Andy treats Jude when he cuts himself, because he’s a surgeon. A few years older than Jude, but he knew him at college. He’s treated his wounds two or three times a week. They argue and he threatens to have him committed and demands Jude see a therapist, but Jude doesn’t want that. He cuts himself to forget, but which brings it all back.

Good guys like Andy wear white hats. They’re immeasurably good. Too good to be true. Harold and Julia are other examples. We find out about their backstory and about the lost child. Jude worked for Harold and Harold came to love him as a son. They adopted him when he was thirty.

Bad guys wear black hats. The ‘long eel of memory’ extends back to Jude being left on the step of a monastery as a baby. Being brought up by monks who beat him and used him for sex. Brother Luke who groomed him and took away and sold his body to other paedophiles for cash in motel rooms across America when he was around nine.

He’s taking into Care and physically and sexually abused by those ostensibly caring from him. He escapes and sells himself to drivers from Montana to Boston truck stops. He’s fifteen now and gets picked up by Dr Traylor. He treats him for sexually transmitted diseases, but imprisons him in a basement. Jude imagines other boys being imprisoned in the same basement. He’s used for sex and when Dr Traylor grows bored with him, he drives over him with his car. That’s where his inability to walk properly comes from.

Ana, with the clichéd white hat, is a social worker, with a heart of gold. She helps save him and recognises his genius and gets him a place in college. She conveniently dies.

Then there’s Caleb. Black hat. He hooks up with Jude when he’s a successful lawyer. Caleb recognises him from JB’s painting. Caleb is successful too. He fucks Jude up, not just by fucking him, but degrading him and almost murdering him. He gets away with it. He also dies conveniently of natural causes.

An existential drama, which I don’t buy into. Jude suffers from what we recognise as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Shakespeare recognised the pattern in sixteenth-century Hamlet:

‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. Well, isn’t it one to you, since nothing is really good or bad in itself, but what one thinks about it.’

I’m not a fan of the writing. Everyone explains too much. But I’ve said too much already. I finished it, despite myself. Read on. 

Seth Stephens Davidowitz (2017) everybody lies. What the Internet Can Tell Us About Who We Really Are.

Google announced they would delete data. Algorithms rule the world. And their algorithm made Sergey Brin and Larry Page the richest men in the world. That’s the equivalent of an oil company announcing it would no longer produce petrol. Google would not cooperate with law officials who sought to prosecute women seeking abortion in lieu of Roe versus Wade after searching online, using Google.

Google is a noun and verb. Google trends offer the searcher anonymity. What we type into an internet search engine (Google) tells us who we are. Netflix’s algorithm, for example, offer the films we like based not on our stated preferences—we lie about the type of movies we watch—but on what we’ve actually watched. It’s become a cliché to state that these companies and corporations know us better than ourselves.

Davidowitz, in his introduction, ‘The Outlines of a Revolution’, put this to the test.

‘In the 2016 Republican primaries, polling experts concluded that Donald Trump did not stand a chance.’

We all know how and when the moron’s moron was elected. Google Trends, introduced in 2009, which counts how often a word or phrase is used, but also monitors locations and time.

Conventional wisdom painted the United States a multiracial society with the election of Barack Obama. Race didn’t matter.

‘Nigger,’ ‘Nigga,’ ‘Niggers,’ was typed into the Google search-engine on the night of Obama’s win.

‘There was a darkness and hatred that was hidden from traditional sources, but was quite apparent in the searches people made.’

Google search-engine also showed a different pattern to conventional media wisdom. It was taken as a truism that racism was a problem of the South. Good old boys. Those were white and Republican districts. ‘Nigger’ searches with the highest rates also included upstate New York, rural Illinois, West Virginia, southern Louisiana and Mississippi. Not a North versus South divide, but East versus West.

Data proved, retrospectively, that in states with a high number of racist enquiries about ‘niggers’ Obama did worse.  Davidowitz suggests Obama lost around four percent of the vote for explicitly racist reasons.

His loss was the moron’s moron’s gain. A map of racism mapped out by the term ‘nigger’. The strongest correlation was between Trump and his support was the use of a word we dare not speak its name.

The moron’s moron’s legacy lives on in a number of areas, including misogyny. Overturning Roe versus Wade. Davidowitz also offers a map of what women of child-bearing years and living in the dis-United States can expect.

‘In 2015, in the United States, there were more than 700 000 Google searches looking into self-induced abortion. By comparison, there were some 3.4 million searches for abortion clinics that year. That suggests that a significant percentage of women considering an abortion contemplated doing it themselves.

Search rates for self-induced abortion were fairly steady from 2004 through 2007. They began to rise in late 2008, coinciding with the financial crisis and the recession that followed. They took a big leap in 2011, jumping 40 percent…ninety-two state provisions that restrict access.

Looking by comparison at Canada, which has not seen a crackdown on reproductive rights, there were no comparable increases in searches for self-induced abortions during that time.’    

Google declines to share data. Google destroys data. In Google we trust. The moron’s moron’s legacy lives on. Expect a tsunami of death and dying of young coloured girls. But you don’t need to be coloured. All you need to be is poor. God help us.  We don’t need Google or Davidowitz to tell us that.

Charles Egan (2017) Cold Is the Dawn

When people talk about literary merit, I wander away to the pub to have a pint. Since the pubs are closed, and I get smashed by a snifter of poitin, or indeed three pints, perhaps slightly more (when I’m watching Celtic) I’ll hang about. Literary merit is just a fancy way of asking if you liked the book. I don’t finish books I don’t like. Cold Is the Dawn is 427 pages. So you do the maths of how much I liked it.

If like me, you have a manuscript (or indeed manuscripts) lying about in various stages of distress then you note who publishes them. Cold Is The Dawn is published by SilverWood Books. I had a look at their business model. They help self-publishing authors publish. Something I’ve been thinking about. I know it’s not meant to be funny, but point 11 of Frequently Asked Questions: I’m publishing my book to make a profit—is that a good idea?

https://www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk/faq

You know when Oliver Hardy pokes Stan Laurel in the eye (you need to be a certain age to remember Laurel and Hardy) and stamps on his toe, then they accidentally bump heads with a knocking sound. And then they sing The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, by the trail of the lonesome pine, because it makes more sense than I’m publishing my book to make a profit—is that a good idea?   

I guess a book deal with SilverWood Books costs an author around £10 000. An Unbound Book costs much the same. That’s the market rate if you’ve got that kind of dosh. So Charles Egan invested his cash, put his money down as an investment in literary merit. What did he get for his money?

The cover of a group of miners (if that’s what they are) staring at the camera, with the superimposed image of an older man in a flat bunnet looking on—passable. The white font of white on black for the author’s name and the title of the novel stands out. The reader is told it’s ‘A novel of Irish Exile and the Great Irish Famine’.

The Irish Holocaust interests me, because I’m part Irish and I’m thinking of writing about it. The current population of Ireland is almost five million, with more citizens living in Dublin, than all of the other areas combined.  https://www.worldometers.info/world-population/ireland-population/ If we go back to the 1960s the Irish population dipped under three million.

Ian Gibson writes in the foreword The Great Famine, Ireland’s Potato Famine 1845-51, that out of a population of around eight million people, about a million people died, and around another one-and-a-half million emigrated, but there were no exact figures, and this is likely to be an underestimate. Many of the poorest weren’t registered and included in official data. They did not live in Dublin and were wholly dependent on the potato crops.

Charles Egan’s way into carrying the weight of such history is by concentrating on Luke Ryan’s extended family and their fortune in the aftermath of the potato blight. County Mayo, where Michael and Eleanor, Luke’s mum and dad, have a farm and quarry was one of the hardest hit regions in Ireland.

This is home territory, for Luke’s wife Winnie and their son, Liam, before they sail across the Atlantic to join Luke in New York and later Pennsylvania, where the couple starve in the new world.

Luke’s younger brother, Pat, is the bridge to England. Irish farmworkers often made the journey across the water to help harvest crops in England and send money home to pay the rent to rapacious landowners. But Pat returns to Mayo to work compiling reports on the effects of the famine.  This allows the reader to travel with him as he charts the impact of ‘The Exterminator’, Mayo’s largest landlord, Lord Lucan as he cleared the land he owned of tenants.

In the Preface, Egan tells the reader of the Railway’s boom and bust.

‘Of the estimated two hundred thousand navvies working on the railway construction in 1847, one hundred thousand were without work by the middle of 1848. For labour contractors on the railways, many of them Irish, this was an excellent opportunity to exploit hungry Irish workers.’

Egan places his characters in the middle of this moral quagmire. Luke’s aged Uncle Murty Ryan (he’s around my age) works on the construction of the English railroads. But to begin with he works as a clerk. Murty Ryan’s eldest son Danny is a contractor, hiring and firing Irish labour, shipped in directly from the workhouse in Mayo. And shipped back home by Bradford and Liverpool workhouses when they were no longer needed. They regarded Irish people as a pestilence and a plagued nation. But relief efforts were a fraction of the sum spent on The Crimean War.

Egan makes use of news reports to add ballast to his fiction. London, Morning Chronicle in November 1848, for example, reported, as an opinion piece that might  have been written by a Nigel Farage of yesteryear.  ‘We say therefore that we grudge the immense sums which we appear likely that we have to pay this year to Irish Unions very much indeed, because we know that it will be thrown into a bottomless pit, and because we feel that money, thus wasted, would be better in removing them than feeding in idleness the people of Mayo—in getting rid of the burden, than in perpetuating it.’

Murty Ryan’s eldest son, Danny had established a foothold in the railway construction business, before he committed suicide. An Irish man he was an exploiter of his fellow man. Something Murty abhorred. When his youngest son steps into his elder brother’s shoes he proves even more ruthless. He pays them even less than Danny and charges them rent for shacks. He pays them in script that can only be exchanged in company shops. In other words, Murtybeg is a good businessman that exploits needy labour. In modern parlance, he creates jobs for his fellow countrymen.

A subplot involves Murtybeg being played off by Irene, who claimed to be his elder brother’s common-law wife, and therefore in control of the company they created. Murtybeg, being merely a paid employee. He gets an immediate rise in pay of three shillings a week, but his workload increases accordingly. Irish navvies working for the company make do with a shilling a week. Murtybeg is both exploiter and exploited by Irene, but he’s far above the Irish navvy class. He’s almost gentry.  Facing off against Irene to take control of the company Murtybeg seeks legal advice. It’s not Charles Dickens Jarndyce and Jarndyce, (a book I haven’t read) but the way in which it was resolved had me thinking of another novelist. Emile Zola’s La Terre had a woman raped and falling in love with her rapist, which in a different era tied up plot points.

Exploitation takes many forms. Egan’s novel runs on rails and touches on the horrific and short lives that many lived, with children under ten, for example, working in Bradford mills, or pushing coal trucks in the fictional town of Lackan in Pennsylvania, where Luke holes up with Winnie and their child. His novel spans the old world and the new industrial order. It touches on the historical events such as cholera epidemics, fever epidemics, typhus epidemics, repeal of The Corn Laws, the rise in trade union activity, and the search for universal suffrage. The Molly Maguires get a walk on part, as does the less secretive Hibernian associations that tried to the poor Irish, especially those landing in New York harbour and fresh off the boat for exploitation.

Much of the novel relies on conversations between characters to carry the narrative. And like many modern novels can read more like a screenplay. Egan’s problem is characterisation. Luke Ryan, for example, has two lives. One in New York and in Pennsylvania. His backstory about being a gaffer and hated, because he had the power of life and death during an earlier famine, and the rate-funded road-building programme is relevant and stands out. But I couldn’t pick Luke Ryan out in a police line-up. I don’t know what he looks like. His friends and companions, say six in each region are interchangeable doodles. Different clothes, same person. Similarly, major characters such as Pat, Murtybeg, or Murty also carry the weight of another six, sometimes more, minor characters that are also doodles. Egan in going for greater breadth of worlds has given his characters less depth.

Pat, for example, slaps the Scottish philosopher Thomas Carlyle. Carlyle’s eugenic views were on par with ‘The Great Protector’ Oliver Cromwell, who was sure it pleased God that his troops had massacred 3000 men, women and children at Drogheda, with only a handful escaping.  Carlyle may have been in Mayo. Few would argue he needed slapped (add the moron’s moron Donald Trump and Nigel Farage to my list, fling in anyone that identifies as One-NationTory) but Carlyle seems smoke and air, and little of substance.  Where I  overwrite my characters, Egan underwrites.

Charles Egan has tapped into the Irish holocaust and the cultural heritage of The Great Famine at home and abroad. It did change the new worlds. Around 40 million Americans with Irish roots and the current President Joe Biden brings that message home. Capitalism in its rawest form and xenophobia combined. Somehow it seems a familiar tale of rich men and poor men, only one group dying of hunger, labour fodder for the new industrial age. I’m sure with global warming, the worst is yet to come.

Love is Strange (2014) written and directed by Ira Sachs, Film 4, 11.15 pm.

love is strange.jpg

Love is Strange, but so are my sleeping habits. I stayed up until 1a.m., watching this. Believe me, I need my beauty sleep and so do these old codgers, George (Alfred Molina) and Ben (John Lithgow). Ben is 73. We know that because later in the film he blacks out and falls down some stairs of the New York, brown-stone apartment he lives in, while coming down from the communal roof. The cost of medical care might be a problem, or another problem added to a litany.  George is perhaps fifteen years younger. They are an old married, gay, couple. Finally, after 39 years living together they are able to get married.

That’s where we come in, their wedding, with their family. Well, not direct family. What they mean by that is Ben’s nephew and his wife and son that live in the apartment downstairs. Their neighbours, two male gay cops. And another female couple, who I took to be lesbians, but really who cares what you do with your fiddly bits?

The Catholic Church cares. Gay marriage is the kind of abomination that has evangelists lining up to shoot down such sinful states and if there’s a few casualties along the way, so much the better. Here the law of unintended consequence comes into effect. George loves music and is a music teacher in Catholic schools. Ben is a painter and artist. It’s all very well them arty-farting about for almost 40 years explains the priest that sacks George, but when they make it official, and the Bishop gets to hear about it (it’s all over Facebook) then something got to give. What’s got to give is George.

George is out of work. Ben’s pension isn’t enough to pay the mortgage. Some sharp suit tells George he’s been lucky to have a house for that length of time and out of the goodness of his heart he’s will to compensate them with $17 000 cash. Enough to buy a second-hand car, but neither of them drive. Neither George or Ben can find any place that will take them. They can’t afford to move, but aren’t allowed to stay. What makes this unusual here is it’s not a coloured working class couple, or single mother, but a white, middle-class, elderly couple who are vulnerable.

They need to split up –temporarily – until they get something. George is allowed to sleep on the settee of the gay cops that live downstairs. Ben moves into the bottom bunk of his nephew’s, son’s, bedroom. It reminded me the way we used to separate men and women when we put them in the poor house. There’s a story, about that, an old married couple, no longer having each other to lean on, dying shortly after admission. I can’t remember what it’s called, or who wrote it, which worries me. I should play some scary music here. You’re next, pal.

What follows is the tensions and bickering that happens when people try and do the right thing.  When houses became a financial asset and not somewhere in which we live, financial whiz-kids are always out to make a killing. Coming to a cinema near us too soon.

Saturday Night Fever on a Tuesday

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You can see the shell of the La Scala from Second Avenue. I can’t remember the first X-rated movie I went to see there, but you can bet the fear on my face was real enough as I got to the turn at the top of the stairs and I expected the woman taking the tickes to eye me up and say, ‘Nah, son you look about fifteen’. Which would be about right, even though I did have a proper suit jacket on and open-necked collar to somehow make me look older, the more mature kind of man that wanted to see Saturday Night Fever.

My mate Burnsie went all the way with the white suit and black shirt, aka, John Travolta. I wasn’t that stupid or that daring. In a rare sighting you might have seen me falling out of the emergency door of a moving bus in Ramelton, somewhere in Donegal, with a white-jacketed jounce, and giving  it skid marks in all the wrong places, but let’s face it that’s what drink does to you. That’s Saturday Night Fever on a Tuesday or Wednesday or whatever the hell day it was. Now Nik Cohen has come clean and said Saturday Night Fever didn’t exist. In fact he just made it all up. I need to re-think my whole life and my propensity to wear parachute material for all the wrong reasons.

My first stop was the off sales. Only then could I think myself into Night Fever falsetto. Then I read Nik Cohen’s story which was the truth of Vincent and his crew’s hand gliding and foot finding. Published in ‘New York’ magazine  7th June 1976 it inspired  those in the disco scene to cut their balls off and dance, dance, prance and with the right kind of parted hair and with the right kind of clobber to take a bullfighter’s stance. Inspired Hollywood to go after the next blockbuster that would gross almost $300 million at the box office in 1976, and me to fall off a moving bus, while swearing it wasn’t really my fault.

I do a lot of reading for a little known group called ABCtalers. A weird bunch that insist we never meet anywhere but on the page. ‘Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night’ by Nik Cohen.  No cherry for you Nik. I’ve nothing against making things up. I do it all the time and imagine I could rattle something like this off in a few hours. But ‘Tribal Rites’ is so damn boring it makes you glad you’re not fifteen anymore and not a proper writer. New York that prestigious capital of magazines and books must have been a simpler place in those days.  Or I’m simpler. I no longer fling myself from buses. There, I’ve done it. Admitted it was my fault and not the feckin drivers. Like Nik I feel better for it. I’m a fraud.