Hunger

Let me start by getting something out of the way:  I just saw Joe Spivak, the Christian (usually known as "cute Joe") sitting on the stairs quite drunk.  Joe Spivak seemed so much like the sort of person who never got drunk:  he is the definition of "clean-cut." So I was slightly taken aback.

Okay.

I just came back from seeing Hunger, Steve McQueen's film about Bobby Sands.  I really didn't know what to make of it.  The film begins not with Sands but with a prison guard at the Maze going to work:  he has to check under his car for bombs, and the film also at least suggests (without quite making it certain, at least to me) that he finds his job gruelling and torturous. So it seems to be seeking to show that the prisoners were not the only ones who suffered (indeed, since this guard later gets shot in the head whilst visiting his mother in a nursing home, and since at its end the film informs viewers that 16 guards were killed during the dirty protests, that seeking is pretty clear).

At the same time, most of the film is taken up with the actions of the prisoners -- first the prisoners generally, then Bobby Sands specifically.  The last 45 minutes or so are simply a visual record of watching Sands starve to death (it's not pleasant.  It's a lot less pleasant than you imagine it to be, however unpleasant you imagine it to be).  So the implication, at least in terms of time meted out to each side, is that McQueen -- or let's say, the film, in order to avoid the author/text fallacy -- is on the prisoners' side.

Yet there's little sense of direction in the film, little sense of focus or purpose.  I found myself thinking that if it were in French, or Swedish, it would simply be called an art film and put in a very small niche.  The portion in which Sands dies is the closest thing to cinema verite I've ever seen.  Since I presume that McQueen's goal is not simply to lay before us a number of scenes of torture and brutality, followed by a detailed rendering of a man dying by starvation, I did find myself wondering what I was supposed to take from the film.  That the British were terrible to the IRA prisoners in the Maze?  Surely that's a given.  That the IRA were murderers and brutalists who destroyed lives?  Surely that's also a given?  That Margaret Thatcher was a vile egotist?  Also a given.  Perhaps that in these times when America detains people it calls terrorists and mistreats them, here there is a fable for our times?  I hope that's not the message, because the parallels between the two situations are minimal indeed, and

because such a subtext was in no way made apparent.  If the message was meant to be that Bobby Sands decided to sacrifice himself out of a saintly impulse (since he gives a speech to that effect), that message seems somewhat teleological (that is, Bobby Sands became a secular saint after he died; therefore he meant to be a secular saint when he undertook to die, which - in this reading, I suppose - makes him even more of a saint), and also somewhat poorly given with all the reflections on the losses to the other side that come at the beginning.

So I was puzzled, and somewhat troubled (no pun intended).  And I realised about three-quarters of the way through the film that I was puzzled by the larger situation, too.  I don't believe the IRA should have killed, or bombed, or tortured.  But I also don't believe the British belonged (or, I sometimes think, belong) in Ireland.  I don't think the correct response to that is violence, but it's pretty clear the ballot box wasn't going to work.  Furthermore, I do believe that by refusing to negotiate or to grant concessions the British government effectively prolonged the IRA's terror campaign, so it is possible to argue that in a certain way the government contributed to the torture and murder of its own citizens.  So I don't know where I come down, or what I believe.  Or even what I think.  

Maybe that was the point of the film.  I discover from a brief cruise round the web that Steve McQueen is primarily an artist, so perhaps his goal was simply to provoke complex thought, rather than to support any side.  But then I'm left feeling that I don't want that from a film.  But then I'm left thinking that as a person committed to considerate thought, I ought to.  And so, yet again, I don't know what to think.

I went on my own.  I semi-tried to get someone to come with me, but now I'm glad no one came.  Although I did want someone to talk about it with afterward, it's a film you could only go to with someone you knew well, or someone you were intimate with and so hoped to know well, and hoped would know you well.  And I don't have anyone here like that - not even a friend of that level of intimacy (yet?).  It's funny:  the only person I could imagine might have wanted to come to it with me was my ex-boyfriend J., because he was Irish and we saw tons of Irish films together, but even he I'm not sure about.  I think he would have viewed it as an art film, and I think our experiences of it would have been radically incommensurate.  In any case, it's best that I went alone, at least in this situation.

Odd film.

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Books!

This morning I heard that my book on Byron has been accepted by the press I sent it to!  This is very good news:  it means, in essence, that I'll be keeping the job I have, or that, if I want another job, I have a pretty good chance of getting one.  So it's an enormous relief. And I'm very pleased. 

Here is a giant picture of Lord Byron to mark the event.  My friend J. loves this picture.

I promised to have a finished version to them by next May - which is, incidentally, one and a half years before they demand it - and that means that it'll be out by early 2010.  Now, I know this seems like forever, but I remember when I had an article accepted in 2005 for publication in 2007; that seemed like forever to wait, but then I forgot about it, and all of a sudden it was 2007. So the time lag doesn't bother me.

It was nice, and fun, to e-mail everyone in the States to tell them the news, and it was nice to tell people here, too.  And I don't want to complain (which means I'm about to).  But of course I couldn't help feeling, as I felt when I got the fellowship to come here, and when I had my birthday, that it would be so much better if I'd had a boyfriend/partner to share it with.  People are pleased, and my parents and closest friends are proud, but no one was going to give me a proper kiss, or take me out for a proper dinner, or have commemorative sex with me -- or even really understand how important this is, and love me and celebrate accordingly.  And I know it's silly, because of course lots of people were lovely (and S. said, "You'll see:  now on your way to the gym you'll run into David Tennant, and it will be a perfect day," and my friend T. said,  "I'm so proud of you -- we'll have to have champagne when I see you!"), but you only get one first book, and I would have liked to have that be a milestone that became part of a relationship's shared memory ("Remember when you heard about the book, and we went to Brown's for a bellini that weekend?"  "Remember how pleased you were when you got the first book accepted?").  And now I'll only be someone who has a first book - that milestone will become part of my story, and it will make me impressive to some, but it will never be a thing shared.  What I'd like most of all, of course, is to e-mail the person I was involved with but am no more and tell him - share it with him and know that he was sharing it - but I would also have to tell him not to e-mail me back, because I don't want him in my life if he's not my person (what Tom Stoppard enchantingly calls, "my chap"), and then it would just look, and perhaps be, pathetic. But then I suppose this whole paragraph, this determination to be sad when something wonderful has just happened to me, is pathetic.

Anyway, who can say?  Maybe I'll have someone by the time it comes out.  Which, to be fair, is the milestone that will really matter to me.

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People Who Write in Library Books Should Have Their Hands Cut Off

As you will see from my Book of the Day thingy, I have recently read The Old Devils, by Kingsley Amis.  Here is one conclusion I have drawn from reading this book, then thinking about it in connection with Amis's Lucky Jim:  Kingsley Amis hated women.  As far as I can determine, for him the best kind of woman was a dumb woman, both in the sense of stupid and in the sense of silent.

Well, that's hardly hot news on the literature circuit.  Kingsley Amis was also a serial philanderer, and he was an Englishman in the 1950s - or perhaps I should say a man in the 1950s - when women were essentially there to serve stuff (including themselves) to men.  

But since I've been in England I've had cause to read a lot of the comments that people are allowed to attach to online newspaper articles, and since quite a number of those articles are about 

relationships or gender issues, I have read quite a lot of men's opinions on these issues (by means of their comments).  And these men hate women, too.  They repeat all the tired cliches about how getting married saps your strength, about how women don't want sex, or dole it out sparingly, and about how they make your life a misery once you're involved with them.  I always thought American men were bad about women, and frankly thought English men were at least fractionally better, so I'm not quite sure what to make of this.  Lying in bed the other night I was trying to sort out who hated women more (and thus, of course, to some extent trying to figure out in which country I'd be better off).  Do the English hate women?  Do the Americans hate women?  And finally the conclusion I was forced to come to, after examining as broad a range of evidence as you can manage when you're lying in bed at night with only your mind to help you out, was that everyone hates women.  Including quite a lot of women themselves.

Last year for my birthday I got a ballet DVD that included a performance of Roland Petit's Le Jeune Homme et la Mort.  This ballet, which is in fact extremely good (you can see it here in shortened form, with Baryshnikov) and has terrific music, was created in 1946, and is the ultimate existentialist ballet:  young artist in garret dances dance of gloom and torture whilst waiting for his hotsy-totsy girlfriend; girlfriend appears and they have sex, ballet style (although she clearly gives him a blow job), and after she teases and generally abuses him she sets up a noose and leaves.  He, tortured, kills himself, and Death appears to lead him solemnly over the rooftops.  Only when Death takes off its mask and places it on the young man, Death is revealed to be - you guessed it - his girlfriend.

So, you know, I'm not crazy about works of art that show me that women equal death, but it's not really surprising that someone would be antediluvian in 1946. Later that summer, however, I was teaching a lesson in my writing class about interpreting literature, and I used a Cure song as my example, having the students first read it, then listen to it, then watch the video.  The song is "Lullaby," and in its final verse, when the singer is at his peak of fear, he says, "I feel like I'm being eaten by a thousand million shivering furry holes."  The director decided to recreate this line on film as Robert Smith being eaten by one giant furry hole:  he's swallowed up progressively by what is clearly a giant vagina.

That video was made in 1989.  1989.  That's 53 years of me having to listen while men tell me I'm not just deadly; I'm Death -- and there's another 1000 years before that.  And now there's been nearly another 20 after.  And I just think, Is this how you want to be, men?  Is this who you are?  What is the problem?  Women love you.  We fix you hot meals; we listen when you tell us your problems; we procreate your species; we take care of you when you're sick; we give you blow jobs even in ballets, for heaven's sake.  We think you're smart and clever, and most of us are not in the business of treating you with contempt, to the best of my knowledge.  Jesus, you can't wait to get us on our backs (or our knees), so what is the problem?  And I know what the deal is:  sexual desire is scary; love looks weak; revealing your problems or your sickness or your desire for a blow job is a confession of weakness; and, frankly, menstruation is kind of yucky, and I could see how it would freak you out.  But, you know what?  Get over it.  I LOVE men.  I LOVE you.  I respect you and have faith in you and find you deeply interesting. And my half of the species and I are quite interesting, too.  So I just wish that somehow what appears to be a deeply ingrained hatred, which I suspect comes down to fear, could be worked through.  If I have that much respect for you, maybe you could try to rustle some up for me, too?

(Because to me, at least, it raises the possibility that men are cowards, and I would hate that to be true.  I so much want to keep thinking well of you.)

Oh, the title?  It has nothing to do with today's post.  It's just a fact.

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Alienating Americans

There are a number of things I haven't got any better at as I've got older, but near the top of the list must surely be Liking Americans When in Britain.  To be fair, I don't like most Americans when I'm in America, and I certainly don't like America itself.  But I have always felt a particular antipathy towards people from the US when I encounter them in Britain.  I don't go to (or come to) England so I can be an American in England:  I go to (or come to) England so I can erase my American-ness and become part of this nation and culture.  Americans in England, it seems to me, largely want to talk to you about the mysteries of England, or about the ways the British/English are alien to them (I recognise this as a vast generalisation), and since my goal is to penetrate those mysteries and eradicate them to the extent I'm able, I don't really have any interest in having that conversation.

This reflection was brought on, unsurprisingly, by an encounter I just had with an American boy who came up to the room where I was watching TV to set up for an election party.  He asked me if I was going to be watching the election results, and when I said, "No," he very pleasantly asked me why, and I said, "Because, to be honest, I don't care."  I don't think I said it harshly, but that is what I said.  The air in the room made it very plain that he didn't like that.  I did explain why, and I think my explanation was fair and valid:  I don't live in America at the moment, so the politics there is of limited interest to me; the election hoo-ha has been going on in one form or another for 18 months in America, and for a year I lived there with it, so I'm electioned out; and, finally, I just think the conclusion is foregone - I believed Obama would win from the moment he became a candidate. 

This boy said, "I've never heard anyone say that about this election.  About the last election, yes."  But the funny thing is, I was all into the last election, and I really did care.  I yearned for John Kerry to be President (and I suppose what might also come into play here is that, although I sure as hell don't want John McCain to be president, I have misgivings about Obama, too).  And it seemed to me that if he was elected it would be a real demonstration of difference: people would have the option to re-elect George Bush, and they wouldn't, and that would certainly send a clear message about what they wanted and did not want. But this election can't be a statement about Bush - it can be a statement about Republicanism, which will be good in its way, but it can't be the round condemnation of Bush that he deserves.  If you want to see a guy get slapped, there's little excitement in watching his cousin get slapped while he walks off stage.  That seems to me a reasonably good metaphor for what will happen in this election, so, although I hope Obama wins and believe he will, I have no visceral attachment to this process.

Also, and finally, getting the results of an election is a long process, and barring an event like Florida in 2000 quite drawn out and without anything that could be considered a central event or climax.  When I wake up tomorrow the election will be won, and who won will be the climax - I don't need to stay up all night to reach that moment. (of course, as I write this, I suddenly feel that I would like to stay up to see that moment.  But only that moment. So maybe I could get up at 6 to check.)

I suppose I sounded snotty and aloof to this boy, and I'm sorry about that.  But mostly I'm sorry because he had someone with him whom I actually do like - a pleasant English young man who does American literature and who has been quite nice to me (although I suspect that's in part because he loves all things American [which he pretty clearly does], and I am a thing American).  And I'd hate to have him think ill of me because his friend tells him I seem snotty.

Still, when you get down to it, I just don't care for Americans in Britain that much.  Even if I am one myself.  If I am.  But how would I know if I was, if I didn't believe it already?

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Hello we'en

So now I've been away after what feels like forever, and it's quite hard to start up again. Hmm...

First I guess I should say that I finished a first draft of my novel tonight.  This sounds more exciting than it is.  The person who might become my agent if I can produce a novel draft that satisfies him told me that the old version (239 pages) was too short for him to sell, as it was really just novella length.  As I typed this version I added 30 pages, which is pretty good going, in my opinion, especially as the old version was in Arial and this one is in Times New Roman. Still, it's not long enough to be a novel.  I figure I need 300 pages of typescript at least to manage that. That means that over the next two weeks I somehow have to add 40 pages.  I would judge this to be medium hard, but nonetheless it means that a finished first draft (essentially an old draft plus about 40 pages, if you include ongoing revisions) is not much to get excited about.

In other news, I went to the Hallowe'en party here.  I went as a nurse. Which is to say I bought

a vinyl nurse's outfit from Ann Summers (the sex shop that appears on main streets all over the UK), stuffed some socks down the sides of my bra to make things look better, and went out to the disco and danced like a fiend (if you can imagine this dress with a woman inside who's wearing it without such obvious, um, intent, and without the stockings and little hat, that would be how I looked.  Only not brunette). What can I say?  I love dancing.  Also, I've always wanted to wear a vinyl dress.  Well, a rubber dress, really.  When I was doing my junior year abroad, there was a girl at the college I went to named Lucy Colbridge.  Lucy Colbridge was very beautiful, and not unaware of it:  she had long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a great body (incidentally, she also had a very handsome brother name Chris, who was perhaps the nicest man alive.  He was also very handsome. Obviously, they were a blessed family.  He is now  a successful lawyer and,

amazingly, you can see a picture of him here). When that college had its Hallowe'en party, Lucy Colbridge came in a red rubber dress and just stood at the bar (hers was shinier than the one on the left, and I remember it as strapless).  In about four seconds, she had a crowd of men around her.  I don't think it was just the men that made me want a rubber dress, though:  it was also that the dress said, "I have enough confidence to be wearing this dress.  And I know I look spectacular in it!"  So I wanted, I think, not just to wear the dress, but to feel that I was spectacular enough to wear it.  And this year, because I've lost so much weight and kept it off, and because I'm far from home, I at last felt worthy of a rubber dress.  Then it turned out that rubber dresses cost about $200!!!  So I decided on a vinyl nurse's outfit.  And here's a thing:  for the very first time, I noticed men looking at my breasts.  It was quite interesting, and also enjoyable.  But I could see how if it happened your whole life it would be neither.  Still, it's interesting to know that forty pounds' worth of vinyl and a judiciously placed pair of socks can get you quite a bit of attention.  And I also noticed, as I was once told, years ago, by my then- best friend, that I actually look nice with larger breasts.  Still, the ongoing lack of sag outweighs the ephemeral advantages of large knockers.

(Incidentally, in case you were wondering, you have to dust yourself with cornstarch or talcum powder before you can even get a rubber dress on.  Otherwise it will just scrape against your skin and never slide on.  Lucy Colbridge told me that.)

Oh, and it turns out the cute guy is Catholic -- deeply Catholic.  It's a pity, 'cause he is cute, and also nice.  On the other hand, he seems a bit mathematiciany:  slightly oblivious to the world. Except the Catholic world, of course.  Ha ha.

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Follow Up

You know, I think I would go so far as to call him a cute guy.

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This One Was Supposed to Be Light-Hearted

There's an attractive man here who is actually around my own age; I met him on Saturday.  I wouldn't go so far as to call him a cute guy, but he's certainly attractive enough to while away some time with.  So today, which was the first day after Saturday that I was at college for lunch, I put some rouge and some mascara before  I went to the refectory.  And of course he didn't show up!  How irritating.  I probably would have put the rouge on anyway, since I'm so pasty pale, but it's still irritating to feel that I acted out of my ordinary pointlessly.  Moral: don't put on mascara on the off-chance that a cute guy might show up.  Boy, that's one to take to your grave.

But this actually does raise a knottier issue (see?  this is why it's called "This One Was Supposed to Be Light-Hearted").  This man is reasonably sexy, and pleasant enough, but I already know that he's not someone I'd want to get involved with.  And, really, I am looking for someone to get involved with.  It's always been a puzzle to me how to negotiate that difficulty: that is, the difficulty of having immediate sexual desires even as you have long-term emotional desires.  If I want to have sex, that want is quite separate from my wanting to have a partner -- that is, it would be nice to be having sex with a long-term partner, but the fact that I don't have a potential such person around doesn't stop my desire to have sex.  What do you do?  Do you just sit on your sexual feelings, or deal with them yourself, until you find a partner?  That seems a waste of those feelings, to me, and thus in fact seems quite sad.  Or do you have sex with someone you don't really want to be with, which not only throws up all sorts of problems (such as, how do you tell them that?  do you?  how do you extract yourself in some way after the necessarily brief relationship has run its course?), but also is rather sad in its way, because it would be nicer if the sex came with an attachment that was more than simple physical desire.

My best friend told me once that thought is considered by some scientists to be an epiphenomenon, and it's complexities like this that make me believe it.  If I didn't have a consciousness/thought, I'd have no desire for emotional or intellectual connection, and when I wanted to have sex I'd just have it (and probably pretty much enjoy it all the time, since intellectual stimulation or the need to articulate preferences wouldn't be an issue).  But thought and intellect make me want partnership as well as sex.  And what's more, they give me the ability to trouble myself with these thoughts in the first place.  Thanks, nature.

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