Seb Palmer

I’m currently listening to this (an In Our Time podcast on Voltaire’s Candide). Which lead me to start reading his Letters on England.

Many moons ago, a friend recommended Candide, so I bought the edition pictured below, and read it. Frankly? I hated it!

This was a major disappointment, as practically everything I’d heard about Voltaire up till that point had predisposed me to loving both him and his writings.

If one is at all literary or culturally minded, in a European context, Voltaire’s going to figure. I’d encountered references to him countless times. But it wasn’t until we watched an episode of Kenneth Clarke’s Civilisation, in which he featured prominently, that I decided to take a keener interest.

I think I’ll have to revisit Candide, at some point. Maybe it needs a contemporary rewrite? Perhaps even a graphic novel treatment? I’m usually horrified by the mere idea of such ‘re-boots’. But, as written – at least in the translation I read – Candide was an unenjoyable unfunny slog.

At this point I returned to the podcast. About midway through. One of the pundits is saying ‘The narrative structure is an attack on Leibniz.’ By which he means two things (as the fuller context makes clear): one is the attack on the Optimism, of the subtitle, and two is chaos vs order.

The narrative of Candide feels like utter chaos. A constant series of unrelated episodes. Leibniz, by contrast, suggests that all is actually ordered to a Divine plan. It may look shitty to us. But from a Gods’ eye view all is exactly as it ought to be. It’s ordered and good.

This is interesting. For numerous reasons. On the level of pure reading, the near total lack of narrative structure reduces Candide to a bewildering – and seemingly pointless – maelstrom of apparently random stuff.

For a contemporary analogue, imagine the most self-indulgent of late 1960s film (see above), or – for an even more lobotomised equivalent – something like Kentucky Fried Movie. I’m not equating these films with Voltaire’s ideas or intent, but the rather the viewer/reader experience. How they feel.

What strikes me, as I listen to the podcast, is how philosophy, or what I’ll call intellectualism, seems to result, very often, in rather gloomy results. Perhaps deep thinking can and is often overdone? Does that mean Voltaire is saying thought/philosophy is (worse than) useless? That’s certainly a view one could take from a passage near the end of the novel:

“Let us work,” said Martin, “without disputing; it is the only way to render life tolerable.”

Buddhism is another cultural efflorescence of such a ‘mindful’ or thoughtful/philosophical approach, and, rather as with the 17th C. Encyclopaedist Bayle (mentioned here as an antecedent to Voltaire’s ideas), the conclusions often reached are… that life is suffering. Buddhism goes even further; it’s all suffering, and it’s all illusory anyway!

These are, on the face of things, extremely bleak outlooks or philosophies.

Going back to Voltaire. I find the way folk discuss him, his writings, life and ideas, is what – thus far – I find most compelling. Not Voltaire’s writing itself. This reminds me of hearing critics discuss Christopher Nolan films. The talk sounds interesting. But the films are, I find, unwatchable.

Back to the podcast, and Candide. Bragg presciently observes that, in many ways, the book seems both chaotic and dashed off, as if in response to recent calamities (like the Lisbon earthquake, of 1775). Are there any underlying generalised messages?

One is the already alluded to attack on Liebniz-ian optimism. And the response to that seems to be despair at our impotence. The second, and the only sliver of hope – fannily emuff it’s exactly the conclusion I’ve already come to in my own ‘real’ life – is that one might, perhaps (if one is fortunate enough) carve out a little personal shangri-la somewhere, and there shelter from the madness of the world.

In truth, then, for all that I find Candide a very unenjoyable headache-inducing mess, in essence I agree with the author’s intent. I just don’t much like the execution.

Regarding the latter, perhaps rather like me – albeit I do so to virtually no audience (and the wrong ones at that) – Voltaire’s totally hung up on constantly displaying his wit and erudition.

Anyway… I finally finished the In Our Time podcast. And it’s interesting that the novel ends with what can and often is taken to be a Voltaire-ian admonition; ‘We must cultivate our garden.’

Once again I find myself in broad (if not total?) agreement with Voltaire, if this is indeed his own view, and not just another layer of ironic lampoon.

S’funny, how things work out. Some pretty awful shit has happened in my life, particularly in the last couple of years.

But, viewed from the right perspective, even the bad stuff can (possibly?) be ‘made good’. Not in and of itself. But dint of the overall picture.

I’d been wanting to stop teaching for years. And now I have. The way my teaching career ended was most emphatically not the way I wanted it to. But the overall outcome, in part at least, was.

On a whole other lesser level, yet equally fundamental – pardon the pun – the recent breaking of our toilet, by a pal/regular guest… (further poor punning alert), well… that didn’t pan out as we’d wanted it to, either. But in the end; we’d long needed a new toilet. Now we have one.

I mention these two things, one that very nearly destroyed my whole life, and another that, whilst much more mundane, was still of great importance, to bring in a third topic.

Work and health, right now.

When we took our recent break, a short while back, I could often be heard saying – to anyone who’d listen – that whilst one week was very nice, what I really needed was at least six months time out.

Well, once again, I’m being forced to do what I both want and need to do, not out of choice, but circumstance. On returning from our hols I couldn’t work. My driving license had expired. That lead to the one week off expanding to three weeks.

And now, having only just resumed work, I’ve come down with a cold, flu, or something. Today, Sunday, if I manage to summon the energy to read for half an hour, it knocks me out completely, such that I then sleep an hour or so!

I certainly won’t make my minimum £300 a week, in this, my first week back at work. Indeed, I’ll be lucky if I make £200. But I’m being forced to take time off work just to survive.

It’s as if mind, body, even the goddamn indifferent universe, are conspiring to force my hand.

I’m not quite there yet – or mayhap I am? – with Voltaire’s Pangloss: ‘all being created for an end, all is necessarily for the best end.’ But I guess I’m fishing in the same lake?

What is Optimism?” asked Cacambo
‘Alas!’ said Candide, ‘it is the mania for insisting that all is well when all is by no means well.’ And he wept…

I guess I’m trying pull something from the fire? I’ve been to Hell, in gasoline pants (thanks, Tom), and I’m not dead yet.

I just googled ‘I’m poor don’t have kids what’s the point of living?’ The search results brought up several references to DINKs.

Eh? So… what is a DINK?

Well, we are Dual Income No Kids. But we’re poorer than church mice, nonetheless.

*Or cry…

These (presumably decommissioned?) shells are just sitting, rusting, on the verge/someone’s drive, at Gedney Drove End. Weird!

I’ve mused upon my possible ‘allergy to life’ before. My psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis are, to my mind, potential manifestations of this idea.

The skin component came on in my early to mid teens. The bone part started about a decade later.

I’ve also had some form of perennial rhinitis since childhood, prior to the onset of the psoriatic conditions.

So my body’s baseline is, it seems, to be at war either with itself, or ‘nature’ at large, or both. Not an ideal starting point.

Depression also began during early teen years. And as time passed, grew ever stronger. Aided in growth by the physical aspects of ill health, and psychological issues, arising from family and relationship stuff.

The ‘nuclear family’ blew up in my late teens. And the fallout has been lifelong. And, as Robert Crumb has it, ‘my troubles with women’ have cast an equally long and doleful shadow.

And here I am. 52 years old. Struggling with both physical and mental health issues. Will things ever get any better? Or will they actually get worse?

I’m on a ‘biologic’ treatment for the psoriatic stuff. And have been for what must be about a decade now. And that has improved things massively on the skin and bones front. So there’s certainly some grounds for optimism.

But sometimes – like now – it can seem that there’s nowt to look forward to but yet more slings and arrows. I only just got back to work, after three weeks not earning. And I seem to have picked up a cold or infection.

In my fragile state, all and any setbacks can be magnified out of all proportion.

LATER THE SAME DAY…

Well, I rang 111. They had someone – allegedly a doctor – call me back. He reckoned I prob’ had an infection. And that antibiotics might be a good idea.

He also set up an urgent – as in within the hour – ‘out of hours’ appointment for me, at Doddington Hospital.

The lady I saw there seemed to think I was fine!!! And when I mentioned the Doc’s comments, re infection and antibiotics, she ridiculed the suggestion (actually saying the person I spoke to obviously didn’t know their business!).

I went home. Very pissed off. What a total waste of my time and near non-existent energies. I may take this up, with 111, or whoever is appropriate.

[pic/vid?]

Anyway, once home, I was offered a shift. So I did it. Just as that shift ended, I was offered another. So I did that as well. I didn’t really want to work at all today. But our economic situation requires I do all that I can.

And now I’m home, in bed, feeling utterly appalling. My nose feels as if someone’s poured concrete into it. It’s totally blocked (inflamed?). And my throat feels like I’ve been deep breathing in a combination coalmine/woodwork-shop.

So… what am I to do? I’m using Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest, and as a steam inhalation. I’m taking Lemsip, and throat lozenges. And lots of liquids, inc’ hot lemon n’ honey, etc.

But I feel like absolute shit! And in addition to all the usual crap, plus this cold or allergy or whatever the fuck it is, I have super-itchy toes. Athlete’s Foot, perhaps?

We just watched the rather duff Curse of The Crimson Altar. And now I really ought to sleep. But I have to sit upright, on account of my breathing/congestion. My feet – esp’ the right one – are driving me nuts. Gaaah!!!

It’s 10pm. I’ve been abed since about 7.30-8’ish. I’ve got a calming YouTube video playing. I’ll try reading. I just hope I get a good nights sleep…

This movie was a fairly fun watch. Not great. Just dependable fun. The music, by Lalo Schifrin is occasionally rather groovy.

The plot is fairly lame. Broadly grouped with ‘revisionist Westerns’, we find Clint’s Kidd initially siding with the villains, before (kind of) crossing over.

It’s not a plot that bears much scrutiny. But it’s the McGuffin that drives what is – for all that it’s supposedly ‘revisionist’ – a very bog-standard set of Western movie tough guy clichés.

There are a couple of moments that are almost worthy of classic 1960s James Bond levels of silliness. I’m thinking of the train through the saloon scene, and Kidd’s moment as judge, jury and executioner, in the courtroom.

*one more than half expects Eastwood to have a furry white kitten in his lap.

Eastwood gives the standard full-Clint: tough, taciturn, in like Bond with the babes, and, well… scowling, etc. Robert Duvall is perfect as the arch-villain, with a crowd of suitably ne’erdowell hangers on.

The landscapes are stunning, and the acting and direction dependable if not inspired. Far from being a classic. But fun, and worth watching.

I can’t help but think that the cast and/crew, or production team, must’ve recently read some James Bond. In particular Diamonds Are Forever, with the Spectreville/Old West train scene, springs to mind…

I also found a website online that refers to the ‘phallic imagery’ of this movie. Certainly the hijacked train achieves deep penetration! And whilst such phrases as phallic imagery seem too baldly literal, it’s undoubtedly true that Clint’s persona is, like Janes Bond, an archetypal male fantasy.

Usually churches like this have a Saintly name. Not, it seems, in this case. That said, I did find one website calling it Saint Germain (note the added ‘i’!).

The church is right beside the Great Ouse. Outside…

Inside…

One very striking feature here, are the large numbers of carved wooden figures on the ends of the pews. Some have been defaced. Many have not.

As with pretty much all old churches, look hard enough, and there will be something – often many things – making a trip to visit the place well worth making.

In this case it’s all the wood carving. Definitely worth a look.

I do love Rick Stein. As does Teresa. She watches his stuff daily! Ought I be worried? She’s cooking in the kitchen now (smells delicious), and Rick’s on in the background.

One of the things I love about him, is his love of culture. He often talks about art, music poetry, and suchlike. And just a moment ago, he slipped in a short poetic extract – ‘A sweet disorder in the dress / kindles in clothes a wantonness’ – I just had to immediately look it up.

Turns out it’s an old’un:

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

By a certain Mr Robert Herrick. A new name to me. Or so I thought. But everyone know the phrase ‘Gather ye rosebuds’, surely?

Having just learned who Herrick is, or was. I’m beginning to like him a lot! His poem, The Vine, essentially a near psychedelic dream about his willy, is fabulous.

And the ending of To His Muse are an entire compendium of a philosophy of life in just two lines:

That man's unwise will search for ill,
And may prevent it, sitting still.

My great and longest standing buddy, Dan Ellis, has been battling thymic cancer for several years now. It was discovered, alas, at what they call Stage Four.

He posted an update on his current status yesterday. On the one hand it sounds pretty awful: constant pain, lots of quite invasive and draining treatments.

On the other it’s quite positive: he has a loving family and devoted wife, and a well remunerated and supportive/understanding job; a very fine oncologist; and his treatments thus far have been very effective ; i.e. he’s still alive.

Not that long ago a stage four diagnosis meant imminent death.

When I first learned of his illness, I tried to go and see him weekly. Sadly since then my own life issues have intervened and made that much harder to do. And these days I hardly ever see him.

I posted a comment to his latest update, and a screenshot of Amy’s response is atop this post.

I was tempted to say Dan is ‘in our prayers daily‘. But I opted instead to say ‘in our thoughts daily.’ And that got me thinking about what prayer might actually be.

One definition of prayer is that we ask for intercession from a supernatural source – most popularly (‘though nowhere near as common as in former times), in our present culture, the ‘all powerful’ being called God – to alter the course of reality in our favour.

That’s quite obviously deluded poppycock. The recourse of desparate fools. At least in my opinion.

But another definition of prayer might simply be the speaking out of a thing ‘devoutly’ or keenly wished for. And I can see some value in that.

I forget now, it’s so long since I read it. Did Alain de Botton address this in his quite interesting book Religion For Atheists? He certainly should have. So he probably did.

Nowadays there’s a lot of wishy-washy New-Agey stuff, and worse, where you’ll hear talk of ‘manifesting’. I must confess, such stuff makes me bridle.

But, within both prayer and the desire to ‘manifest’, usually through such stuff as ‘affirmations’, I do see things of real genuine value.

Perhaps the most important of all is the merest glimmer of hope. One of the worst things about the energy and motivation sapping depressions I’ve experienced (and am currently experiencing) is their bleakness. The absence of hope, or ‘faith’, call it what you will.

A crushing sense that things will only get worse is not conducive to any kind of improvement. Perhaps prayer, or affirmations, or whatever, can be a part of a practicing of hope?

And if these vocalisations of one’s hopes are repeated, as is the very core of practice, then maybe they become gradually more tangible, or plausible?

It certainly seems true that constantly repeating negative stuff has the opposite effect: one’s vistas shrink; less and less is possible or plausible.

I’ve certainly already discovered, through using my cue-cards, for example, the power of repeated recourse to positive ideas.

Having just read a Tolkienian re-imagining of Breton folklore, I give myself license to take on – oh, the hubris! – the trad Christian verse, known as The Lord’s Prayer.

I found a Church of England website giving these two versions:

Modern

Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
Forgive us our sins
as we forgive those who sin against us.
Lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.
For the kingdom, the power,
and the glory are yours
now and for ever.
Amen.

Trad

Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name;
thy kingdom come;
thy will be done;
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation;
but deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom,
the power and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.

So, here goes nuttin’…

Oh Life, whose art is heaven,
Tho’ hollow seems the game
Yet days do come;
And nights, as one;
on earth we are yet in heaven.
We eat each day our daily bread.
And forgive us our mistakes, 
As we forgive the mistakes of others. 
Let us forbear from evil;
And avoid foolish council.
For this is our world,
Our hour, and our story,
For this fleeting moment.
Okay.

I like this, as a first attempt. It’s so much more humble and universal and real, than any religious prayer belonging to any tradition I’ve yet encountered.

I may ‘worrit it‘, as in come back and finesse it. This is a first attempt. But I think I am going to get it printed. And start saying it daily. See how it feels…