Long Time

[peterbirks]

Went long on sterling this morning at 1.9560, March contract rather than intra-day. You have to take an eight-point spread on the longer contract, while the intra-day "rolling" spot deals are a three-point spread but, like the vig on a mafia debt, it's repeated daily.

Although I had been concerned at the precipitous nature of Sterling's decline, the bounceback when 1.9490 was touched was fairly immediate. I think I've got about a 60% chance of nicking 2.00 before March.

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As I have written before, I predict that in 50 years time, when, thankfully, I shall be long dead, people will look back on this decade and say "My God, they had some great writers in England early this century". Ian McEwan's latest, "On Chesil Beach", is a masterpiece -- certainly superior to his previous novel, "Saturday". You might recall that there were arguments about whether On Chesil Beach qualified as "a novel", because of its brevity. It's weird, because you don't hear of people arguing over whether something qualifies as a painting only when there are a minimum number of brushstrokes involved. A cartoonist of the late 19th century, one of the forerunners of more modern work, was Phil May. He was paid by the picture, and one day he was given less than his due. On enquiring why, he was told that his drawing "did not have enough lines". May patiently pointed out that this was because he had taken out all of the irrelevant lines.

Gombrich's The History of Art compares two pictures by Rembrandt, from his youth and from his old age. The author focuses on the detail of a coat (a bit of brocade, I think). In the first picture, that detail is lovingly reproduced, pixel-by-pixel, as it were. In the second, it's a single brushtroke. But, as EH Gombrich might have said, had he been from South London rather than Mittel Europe, what a fucking brilliant brushstroke it was.

Here's a single paragraph from early on in McEwan's latest, before it descends into tragedy (incidentally, a couple of women I have spoken to did not like this work, and I suspect that it's because the truth of the story -- that silence and delay in the hope that time will heal a problem, rather than biting the bullet and being the bearer of bad tidings, can often lead to a worse result. How many arguments have YOU had with a woman where you have uttered the phrase "But why didn't you tell me at the time!"?).

The year is 1962. The honeymoon couple are eating in their room in a Dorset Hotel.

This was not a good moment in the History of English cuisine, but no-one much minded at the time, except visitors from abroad. The formal meal began, as so many did then, with a slice of melon decorated by a single glazed cherry. Out in the corridor, in silver dishes on candle-heated plate warmers, waited slices of long-ago roasted beef in a thickened gravy, soft boiled vegetables, and potatoes of a bluish hue. The wine was from France., though no particular region was mentioned on the label, which was embellished with a solitary, darting swallow. It would not have crossed Edward's mind to order a Red.

Genius. Without wanting to head into literary criticism (which is a bit like telling you how a magic trick is done. Once you know how, it's obvious), I must mention the use of the word "cuisine" rather than "food". And "thickened" gravey rather than "thick" gravy. As for "potatoes of a bluish hue", well, what can one say apart from "I wish I had thought of that"?

It might be only 160 pages long, but On Chesil Beach is a story that will linger in the mind long after many 500-pagers will have been forgotten.

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Comments

[jellymillion.livejournal.com]

I wonder how much of writing well about the recent past relies on an ability to recall the minutiae of the time. I was transported instantaneously back to the 60s by the melon reference. The thing is, melon was a treat in the 60s. I don't think we had anything other than honeydew, did we? It was a decade or two before I experienced watermelon; these days Tesco typically have five or six varieties from which to choose.

I used to give the cherry away, mind.

"Thickened" to me implies intent: liberal application of cornflour, I suppose.

I think he missed a trick with the spuds, though. Boiled or roast? The bluish bit isn't helping.

[jaybee66.livejournal.com]

Novels. Aren't they reading books, the ones without pictures?

I'm too caught up in my own fantasy world to read about someone else's.

Though I did download Diary of a Nobody. Maybe I should rename my blog.

I can manage bios of people who interest me - Woody Allen, Orson Welles, Andy Kaufman, Bill Hicks, Alfred Hitchcock, Jack Hargreaves, Fred Dibnah, Peter Sellers, Billy Connolly, Spike Milligan and Kenneth Williams. I am limited to what the local Oxfam Shop has to offer.

And now, as 3pm approaches it is time to tune into Secret Army on UK History.

Illiteracy

[geoffchall.livejournal.com]

On Chesil Beach is on my list of books for When January is Over, along with 6 or 7 that arrived at Christmas. Apparently this pile itself puts me in the minority of British adults. Surveys show 1 in 4 have not read a book in the last year and half the population have read 5 or fewer.

I hate Ian McEwan (along with William Boyd) for writing books that appear effortlessly brilliant. Your slice typifies this ability not to produce good words and good descriptive narrayive, but to produce the perfect words. Not unlike Jane Austen really.

Size matters

[(Anonymous)]

The relevant difference between painting and books is that works of fiction are classified by length. Below a certain size (40,000 words according to SFWA) it's a novella, not a novel.

A work of fiction may be only a few pages long and excellent, but I think no-one would call it a novel.

I don't know On Chesil Beach, but unless it averages fewer than 250 words per page it would seem to be a novel, albeit a rather short one.

-- Jonathan