HI

... this is an expanding selection of pics and of some of my shorter pieces of writing ... and other bits and pieces ... in German and mainly English ... and other strange languages ... COME BACK AND CHECK IT OUT ... COMMENTS WELCOME

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Thursday, March 13, 2014

WASTED WASTELAND

WASTED WASTELAND


not really dedicated to T.S. Eliot



When I opened with my own eyes the box, not Pandora jumped out but Sibyl of Cumae

And when I asked her what the time is, she replied in modern Greek Zeit zum Sterben!





Sooner in foolish April rather than later

One has to read it, feel it

[STREAM OF poetic UNCONSCIOUS CONSCIENCE]

For the erudite hell of it

And come to the belated realisation that

Yes, I studied Tristan and Isolde but, no, not

On the Starnberger See

Having read the after-notes with extreme shame as to

What I should have known from my

Classical education

Hence I said, turn the table, I said with

A bit of sarcasm

And announce my notes before the poem just in case

You are wasted already

On funny Nietzsche and bloody stupid Wagner but wait

There is more, as they say on TV, to sell the vacuum cleaner

With allusions hidden in the dusty blood of ages

Dragged from the pages of a blood-stained Bible

Death to you too, die with broken bones Jesus, blood-less Inferno

Proto-Fascists Dante and Virgil (and not Ovid), haha, give me Catullus instead

Read Lao Tse and the I Ching but not the Tarot cards

And then finally come to London

City of fog and old fogeys and anglophiles like me and you

Now she comes in colours (malheur you never heard the beetles sing)

Your wife, your crazy wife, depressed as the Hades

Fatally attracted to Black Holes

Politically and psychologically unacceptable at 31 of age what shall we do?

Sadly nothing ado, nothing, NOTHING

Walk along the bank and see what’s floating past

The juncture where the Ganges turns into the holy river Thames

Where rats talk about winners and losers and the neither-nors

Enough to drive you mad with gibberish only to emerge as

Tiresias ever so liminal

What’s this obsession with mythology? Is it really illuminating?

Tiresias, beyond man and woman, jenseits von Gut und Böse …

One cannot best a classicist rife with allusions in Latin and Greek

But a hundred years ago everyone did

So now we have to add Sanskrit and modern French/Italian/German/Mandarin

To be truly educated in English and compose mixed metaphors

Like nymphs in the sweet Thames? Come on!

The stanza about what the thunder said is very Zarathustra-like

Quite brilliant really

I don’t mean to parody

To be a poet ain’t easy, especially if you’re American in exile

And London Bridge is falling down around your ears

And life is your literature, life imitating art

I’m just a jealous guy

Alakh! Bam Bam Bholanath! Bom Shiva!




Sunday, February 16, 2014


THE POINT

Is receding fast
Into infinity and/or eternity
Words are loosing meaning
Past is plain
Aspect is perfect
Future is running out of time
Start again in present tense
Like English teacher

Narrative is here and now
News events unfold on TV as we speak
Workers watch ads
To buy fads with tomorrow’s money
Weather forecast is good
Paper sun will shine
History repeats
Universe expands until it retreats
Life is black sand beach
Joker is looking for punch line
She cannot find
So keeps writing script
Lost for words and nonsense
Sad ending guaranteed
Having missed

THE POINT

Saturday, January 25, 2014

A political review of The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton (2013)


A political review of The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton (2013)

Nobody can deny that this is a very well crafted novel – less discerning readers might call it convoluted. In terms of its artistry one may however point to the age-old dilemma of differentiating between art and craft. Since the novel is set in Victorian New Zealand – hence is very British in its characters – one could perhaps make an analogy with the Victorian obsession with extremely intricate needle-craft that compelled well-to-do ladies to spend most of their life time in contemplation of intricate patterns while life outside raged in the most outrageous political degradation.

As such one would have hoped the The Luminaries have some sort of Dickensian purpose, namely to uncover some of the more unsavoury aspects of the Victorian empire. So let us first uncover some of the unfortunate aspects of the novel that adhere to the Victorian ideal of idle pattern-making: the astrological contrivance of the plot is as pointless as ‘astrology’ has always been. Sure, it is a popular past time next to religion, and since the novel also makes a play on the opium consumption of Victorian proportion – including the Chinese connexion – one would have expected at least a pun on Marx’s famous quote of ‘religion is the opium of the people’ by replacing ‘religion’ with ‘astrology’. That the slightly evil character Francis Carver deals in opium is therefore not a surprise. That the ‘whore’ Anna falls for opium and that Emery falls for Anna and a bit of opium is another contrivance that neither explains nor tries to uncover the politics of opium in Victorian times. Catton could have done a Baudelaire turn and explored the positive effects that opium can have, but, alas, there is no sign of it.

With astrology and opium out of the way we can comment on the pattern of narration that is obsessed with the closing of the narrative cycle – as associated with the cyclical nature of astrology. As mentioned in the beginning, this is done very well as we end up with Anna and Emery, with a hint of a happy ending that star-struck lovers usually have. With Anna as a central character we note that there is a quite clever Victorian contrivance in that she as a ‘whore’ never has any sex to speak of, for sex in Victorian times, as the cliché goes, was never talked about and only performed under cover of the dark. How the ‘magnate’ Dick Mannering as her pimp in Hokitika manages his escorts is also quite murky and mysterious. The politics of Victorian sex are as such submerged in the sludge of Hokitika whilst there is the frequent mention of the ‘whore’. The plot seems to suggest that ‘whoring’ is a deviant occupation in that ‘fallen girls have no future’ and that Anna as a good girl (from the beginning) redeems herself in the end by going cold turkey on her opium addiction which was imposed on her by her pimp: another cyclical narrative aspect.

Next is the gold or ‘colour’ as it is termed in Victorian English (on which we shall comment later on). The gold rushes in the new world are both legend and testimony to the mad capitalism that engulfed the world from then on. The politics of gold as the worst tool of imperialist manipulation and exploitation has been documented only in a few anti-imperialist works that are nowadays suppressed as evil propaganda that seeks to overthrow the status-quo that still is built on gold. Of course Catton has nothing to say on these matters. What she does say is that gold that comes around goes around: the mysterious Crosbie Wells who makes a fortune in the Otago gold fields only to have the gold stolen by Carver and Well’s wife Lydia, from him under his nose. How the gold gets back to him, or rather to Emery or to the infamous Lydia Wells aka Carver aka Greenway, via Quee Long and Anna, is one of the most convoluted stories imaginable. I always think that the strength – if not artistry – of a novel lies in its believability, even if it involves magic realism (as mastered by     authors like Vikram Chandra and Márquez), hence above story line is lacking in this department. The more unbelievable a story is the more one can lead the reader by the nose to figure out how it all happened, and when the plot is finally revealed the reader feels cheated as it was impossible to predict such a ridiculous series of events. At this juncture I always quote Chomsky who said that nothing is impossible but many things are unlikely. Even in fiction we want to be confronted with what is ‘likely’ and not having to work out what achieved by the narrative device known otherwise (and suitably so) as deus ex machina. To have five pounds or so of gold sown into dresses by Carver and Lydia, to be shipped illegally to Australia, billed to the politician Lauderback who is thus blackmailed (and who is Crosby’s long-lost half-brother) but the trunk is sort of intercepted by Crosbie Wells and gets loaded on a ship bound for Hokitika where the ship promptly sinks, what with the unclaimed trunk’s dresses  to be sold to Anna who in turn doesn’t know that they contain the gold but Quee Long finds out and who in turn smelts it into bars that Emery secretly buries only to turn up at Crosbie’s hut and is thus found after his death, to be claimed by Lydia and God knows who – all of this is quite bizarre to say the least.

Catton does well to describe and bring to life the hustle and bustle of Hokitika during its short-lived gold rush and one can be sure that many of the shenanigans described have some historical background, as in fact Catton credits the well-known (in New Zealand) historian Eldred-Grigg who wrote a populist account of the Southland gold rush days in his (2008) Diggers, Hatters and Whores. Obviously Catton made good use of it like involving the daily news sheets brought out in Hokitika, conveniently inventing a Jewish newspaper man by the name of Löwenthal. The idea that the ‘service industry’ for the gold diggers made more money than the diggers themselves is of course also well documented and The Luminaries are mostly drawn from this murky world of entrepreneurs. That there were some 120 pubs/hotels during the heydays of the 1860s Hokitika with a population of about 6,000 highly transient inhabitants is of course a statistic one can make good and entertaining use of in a novel of this sort. Given the enormous money-go-round it was no wonder that a far-off place down under could sport the latest furniture from London as well as assorted fashions of the day, not to speak of delectable food and drink imported from afar. Visually this was very well exploited in the movie The Piano (directed by the NZ director Jane Campion) whereby a piano was transported to a pioneer’s cottage somewhere in the middle of nowhere, sparing no expense and effort to have the darn piece of furniture dragged through the mud and rain that is so iconic for many parts of NZ even today (it is of course a nice touch that the novel itself ends with the very word ‘rain’).

Before we get to the politics of the novel – or the lack of it – let us look at the language used: I suppose Catton got seduced by the newspapers of the day what with their style of language that seems so contrived today, and perhaps with the whole of Victoriana which while puritanical to the extreme also relished in a type of language that was as pretentious as it was flamboyant in its theatrical embodiment. The professional classes wrote their missives in a manner that was both laughable and exulted. Catton put in a huge effort to replicate this style, and while successful for the most part, it reads in the end like a Victorian Mills and Boons. She should have adopted a Dickensian approach and cut out the frills and spills. Whilst it is quite cute to spell ‘connection’ as ‘connexion’ and reduce evil Victorian swearwords like ‘damned’ to ‘d-ned’, one is put out, so to speak by the overwrought language that even the working classes in the novel seem to come up with. One would have wished for some more Victorian Cockney as many of the characters seems to originate from London. To Catton’s credit she also introduced two other languages in their original wording, namely Cantonese and Maori, which also brings me to the characterisation of the protagonists involved.

The two Chinese characters, Quee Long and Sook Yongsheng, play quite different roles, what with Sook Yongsheng having a parallel history with ‘blackguard’ Carver and gaoler Shepard and second-hand wife Margaret – all of whom reunite in Hokitika of all places and play out their convoluted connexions. The history of Chinese diggers as indentured labourers in New Zealand is of course a classical case of exploitation close to slavery, and Catton makes a good fist of it by letting the European rednecks use extreme violence against the ‘stinking Chinaman’. On the other hand she present both characters as somewhat bumbling simpletons who fail in all their endeavours such as killing Carver and/or making enough money to get back to China. That they cannot speak English properly is a cliché that echoes today’s ESOL industry in New Zealand (note the only French character in the story, Gascoigne, speaks English quite perfectly, as does the Jewish Löwenthal who stems from Germany – wouldn’t both French and German accents make for good entertainment?! ). Surely the British must come a close second to the Germans in their disdain of people of colour who cannot speak their tongue – even if they do (but the colour bar simply renders it impossible).  New Zealand is still a vastly mono-lingual country even though it is officially a bi-cultural and bi-lingual one, which brings us to the other language, namely Maori.

The solitary Maori character, Te Rau Tauwhare – not being a member of the luminaries of course – is much different to the Chinese in that he is portrayed as  a ‘noble native’ who does his very own thing, wandering around the bush looking for pounamu and otherwise educating the willing Pakeha (like Crosbie Wells) in te reo Maori and tikanga, both concepts that the unwilling colonist-Pakeha (like most of the luminaries) do not have the intellectual wherewithal to deal with. The whole idea of a solitary Maori stalking the story line like some exotic bird is somewhat of a cliché, especially as the philosophical Maori is one that values whanau above making friends with Pakeha who by and large rape the land for its mineral riches and leave a big mess behind. There is even an allusion by Catton (via Te Rau) that the nobility of the  Maori language is so far removed from crass everyday English that it is sometimes impossible to translate between the two languages, a notion that is in vogue with cultural relativists, but is total nonsense in linguistic terms. To be sure, some of the English natives of this world have much to answer for in terms of their imperialist and genocidal politics and armed interventions: for example the Chinese and Maori in general were hard done by, suffering injustices and insults around every corner: it’s just that this has nothing to do with language per se. Catton who hails from the South Island in NZ but grew up in an internationalist family with North-American leanings (and got part of her literature education from the writer’s Workshop in Iowa) should have a good idea about Maori and Maori politics and history and as such portray Maori in her fiction as ‘special’ because that’s what makes New Zealand special. For this to succeed one has to do much more (descriptively and imaginatively) than introduce a solitary Maori into the Aotearoa landscape, much in the same manner as Australian writers introduce the solitary Aborigine as a tracker who shows the Europeans what is what but otherwise disappears into the background as some sort of unsubstantial supporting actor. It is perhaps no surprise that the only other NZ Booker Prize winner was Keri Hulme in 1985 with her Maori-based novel called the Bone People, and which was in a time when English literature from the colonies was written, if at possible, by indigenous (or at least semi-indigenous) authors. This trend was of course occasioned by the English language literature explosion in India (and in the Caribbean to some extent) what with Arundhati Roy and her The God of small things being a prime (and actually very deserving) example. New Zealand’s indigenous populations of Maori and other Polynesian peoples have always been kept to the sidelines, in literature and otherwise. Eleanor Catton as a sort of internationalist (north-American) Kiwi author did well to resurrect a historical episode of New Zealand but she did not achieve a well proportioned depiction of what in the 1860s was the last stand of Maori against  European/British oppression and land alienation – the so-called Maori wars of the 1860s find no mention at all in her book. Hence in depicting a solitary Maori figure in the sea of European-British ‘luminaries’, she does a disservice to Maori and Maori history. Authors do have the task to educate readers when it comes to ‘historical novel’ and this task is ever more important in the contemporary context, especially as Maori grievances against the Crown are played out in the Waitangi Tribunal, what with historical data playing a key role. The majority of Pakeha New Zealanders are still ignorant in these matters and are prone to hold racist views that are no different from those held in the 1860s. I just saw an Internet article entitled something like ‘the best 20 or so novels to read that address racial discrimination’ and The Luminaries certainly wouldn’t qualify.

So let us turn to the thorny issue as to why the novel lacks a political perspective. Detractors will immediately claim that a novel doesn’t have to have one. I disagree because all good stories convey, covertly or overtly, life as we know it, hence are political in nature. The Luminaries even has a politician in it and as such should covey the New Zealand politics of the 1860s. However what we learn in the novel about Mr Lauderback is only a vague approximation: yes, there are the usual machinations and manipulations of the electorate, the empty promises, the wheeling and dealing, the normal immorality of philandering, the revengeful character and so on. Such a disastrous political landscape begs for analysis: that Catton doesn’t provide one is best explained in that she perhaps doesn’t have one, or worse, that she is implicated in and approves of these processes as some sort of normality. As such it is no surprise that the current PM, John Key, has endorsed the novel as a good read. You couldn’t get a worse recommendation. Consider the reverse: J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy with its benign political critique of contemporary British politics was savaged by the political right (the Conservatives) as a sort of communist manifesto, hence one must assume that if they were to read The Luminaries, they would concur with their political peer, PM John Key (I am putting words in his mouth), that it is a good read that upholds good old Victorian values, values colonialism as a commendable policy, promotes ‘gold’ as an economic necessity, renders ‘aliens’ and indigenes to the periphery, accepts the governmental institutions (goal, court, Reserve Bank, etc.) as God-given (note the half-baked prison chaplain who helps Anna and other souls in need of comfort), and generally celebrates the laissez-faire of the ‘free market’ as long as not too many common laws are broken in the process: to obtain a ship by fraud and blackmail is in the novel frowned upon but it is quite OK to buy and sell ‘indentured’ labour. Above all the novel seems to concur with – if not to celebrate – the pioneering spirit of the time, a spirit that is upheld today, of the pioneering entrepreneur who steps over corpses to make a billion or more, the rough and tumble of greed and decadence, the imperial mind-set that allows people to exploit natural resources wherever they please, causing pollution and natural degradation wherever they operate (gold mines in NZ to this day cause untold chemical wastelands) – and finally - and perhaps most incomprehensible since it involves a female author – the degradation of women as ‘camp followers’ and ‘whores’ as if this was an inevitable accompaniment of the times (and to this very day). Feminist literature seems to have died out: the women in the novel are by and large pathetic creatures, in the service of men, and in the case of Lydia, are as conniving and Thatcher-like as can be.

The whole novel is thus reduced to a very well crafted (twisted) sailor’s yarn that can be read on steamship from Southampton to Sydney to Dunedin. It has no political consequence and is as entertaining as a good Hollywood movie. Hokitika comes to life as a gold rush town where things happen when men and women engage in a pointless exercise, when everyone is in everybody else’s pocket, when fortunes are made and lost at the back of coolies, when diggers move on to the next field, when the mud and the rain turn the landscape into contradiction between nature and mankind. It made no sense in the 1860s and it still makes no sense today as a historical treatise cum novel. As Marx said (with my emendation in brackets): to repeat history the first time is a tragedy, to repeat it a second time (and again and again in historical novels like The Luminaries) is a farce.





  

Saturday, November 30, 2013

SOME COMMENTS ON THE INHERITANCE OF LOSS BY KIRAN DESAI (2006)


SOME COMMENTS ON THE INHERITANCE OF LOSS BY KIRAN DESAI (2006)

It is very good book and it not a very good book. One is torn between the two point of views. I should think that if I were an Indian reader, I might not like it that much because by and large it paints a kind of sorry picture of India and Indians in the USA. Just about all the characters in the book are of the unusual sort and somewhat clichéd. Take the judge as a central protagonist: poor village boy makes good only to become a quite insane character: goes off to England and becomes a weird Indian student: comes back to India to become an even stranger judge and husband, abusing his wife, alienated from all his family: ends up in a ramshackle grand villa on the slopes of the Himalayas, with his cook and a pathetic attachment to his dog: and finally his grand-daughter arrives as an orphan only to undergo an upbringing that is less than satisfactory, given all the bizarre circumstances that arise, like a local uprising of the local Nepalese. The cook’s son too fares not very well once shipped off to the USA: as an illegal immigrant he is shunted from menial to more menial jobs in Indian restaurant kitchens, contending with his hapless peers (apart from a funny one from Zanzibar) and with the Indians that have the green card. When the cook’s son returns to India to his father he is robbed of all his possessions he brought with him as some sort of trophy from the USA and he lands in his father’s arms in a woman’s nightgown. And that’s the end.

On the other hand it’s all so true: there are these unfortunate individuals – not just Indians, hence the appeal to an international audience – who with their lives manage to concoct a story of perpetual misery, be they poor or not so poor, with the former of course providing less drama and opportunity to shine with literary gems. Desai certainly does the latter a great service, evoking the life of the educated classes as permanent witty dialogue, what with all the foibles and contradictions one encounters when being an Indian educated in the West – England most likely, but latterly in the USA. Given that India combines all imaginable human conditions, one would have hoped that the occasional average character comes into play. The problem with introducing a wide range of idiosyncrasies, one cannot quite believe the author – as the Olympic narrator – to have access to all thoughts in the heads of the protagonists, thereby often giving lesser souls – like the cook – an appearance of being an intellectual in his own right. By ‘intellectual’ I mean the sort of language that educated middle/upper-class people use these days, Kiran Desai included. Sure, the cook could be a true intellectual, much more so than the mentally off-balance judge but that would have required a different style of writing, perhaps akin to some of the other masters of the Indian genre like Vikram Chandra, Aravind Adiga and Arundhati Roy. The scenario of the Gorkhaland up-rising is also a bit flawed: while seemingly sympathetic on some pages, the overall description favours the middle-class characters who are all inconvenienced by the goings-on, plus – as one of the main protagonists –Gyan seems to recant in the end just to get back to Sai. While we do learn of local police brutality there is also the perception that the GNLF is a bunch of terrorist hoodlums even less desirable than a bit of random terrorism by the police.

The whole idea of poor Nepali boy –Gyan – and well-to-do orphan Sai – as an essentially confused Indian girl who was brought up in a Catholic convent reading Wuthering Heights twice while waiting for Gyan to return – having a sweet love affair is essentially a Mills and Boons plot that lacks credibility. A similar scenario in Roy’s The God of small things where the Kerala-Syrian solo-mother falls in love with the Hindu gardener is on the other hand a real gem and totally believable.

The misery of illegal immigrants in the USA is of course well-drawn in the manner of the classic tragicomedy, perhaps with some exaggeration towards the laughable, especially with the Moslem-Zanzibar character who becomes Biju’s best friend at times, playing out the absurdities that arise when a Hindu boy like Biju, having been brought up with a hatred and loathing of Muslims, has to admit that a real Muslim boy from Zanzibar isn’t that bad after all. The idea that the flamboyant Zanzibar boy takes advantage of the ‘ethnic chic’ prevalent in some quarters of US society, and thus shags all the teenage college girls – is also a bit of a cliché. That the Indian restaurant owner makes money from selling fake vegetarian food to new-age customers who are attracted by the restaurant’s name – Gandhi – is also a bit of a low point, especially if you are an Indian reader, I would think.

I am struggling to understand the colonial hangover some Indians, like Desai, surely carry around with them: I work in an educational institute where many of the students are Indian and a few of the tutors are too (some migrated to NZ, some were born here). To be totally dismissive of one’s so-called home country is not all too common but for example, I as a German citizen (in name) living in NZ, have no compunction to rail against Germany. For the expatriate Indian to rubbish India is another matter: it is a sort of betrayal that is very difficult to explain. Many an Indian is simply an economic migrant seeking a ‘better life’ and ‘better education for their children’ – a dreadful cliché nevertheless. They would gladly return to India if they could get a well-paid job and a guarantee that their children receive a world-class education. The English – and other Europeans – are after all prime examples of large-scale economic migration. Of course they did it in such numbers as to create English colonies in their wake. No other group of peoples has achieved this dubious honour in modern times. Certainly not the Indians which must be to their credit. Still, there are Indians everywhere, a bit like the Chinese, having left their home countries in search of a often very elusive better life. Of course I may be blind to the real lives of the Indians I see on a daily basis but none strike me as characters of The Inheritance of Loss  scenarios, hence my earlier criticism that just about all the characters of the novel are a bit unusual to say the least. On the other hand what would a novel be without them? A boring tale of everyday life where nothing unusual ever happens?

Desai tried her best to make it as exciting as possible, and there is a lot in her novel that merits praise. She does very well to evoke the landscape of the Himalayan region around Darjeeling, a region of stunning beauty if not eccentricity – and it is perhaps not surprising that certain equally eccentric characters are drawn to it, living through the extreme seasonal changes, paying a high price for the occasional glimpses of Kanchenjunga.  

Saturday, October 19, 2013

CHEKHOV ALIVE IN CANADA?



When Alice Munro received her Nobel Prize for Literature she was dubbed ‘Canada’s Chekhov’, presumably on the strength of a fellow traveller’s observation, quoted as follows:
Her subjects and her writing style, such as a reliance on narration to describe the events in her books, have earned her the moniker "our Chekhov," in reference to the 19th century Russian playwright Anton Chekhov -- a term affectionately coined by Russian-American short story writer Cynthia Ozick. 
http://www.ndtv.com/article/people/alice-munro-dubbed-canada-s-chekhov-430565
Munro herself is only quoted as saying:
I have recently re-read much of Chekhov and it's a humbling experience. I don't even claim Chekhov as an influence because he influenced all of us. Like Shakespeare his writing shed the most perfect light - there's no striving in it, no personality. Well, of course, wouldn't I love to do that! 
http://www.quotes-museum.com/author/Alice_Munro
Munro’s assertion that ‘he influenced all of us’ is a heavy dose of literary snobbery  in that she can align herself with many of the literary greats who have paid homage to Chekhov. While some are ambivalent, the overall verdict stands, such as that of Nabokov who is cited as complaining of Chekhov's ‘medley of dreadful prosaisms, ready-made epithets, repetitions’ but declaring that ‘The Lady with the Dog is ‘one of the greatest stories ever written’ and describing Chekhov as writing ‘the way one person relates to another as the most important things in his life, slowly and yet without a break, in a slightly subdued voice.’( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anton_Chekhov)

Whilst I am not a fan of either Alice Munro or Nabokov, I am again reminded of the eternal fame Chekhov seems to have garnered. Hence in line with Munro (above) I have re-read ‘The Lady with the Dog’ and ‘A Doctor’s Visit’ just in case I missed something during my previous attempts to get to like Chekhov as a writer of short stories - a genre I like myself as a writer of no note (hence always eager to compare myself to the one with that je ne sais quoi). Based on my previous reading experience I would of course never deny that Chekhov is a good writer – like a million other good writers. I just fail to see what is so special about him that elicits the heights of literary praise.

So let us do a close reading of the ‘Lady with the Dog’ and critique it mercilessly. This being a Yalta story one is of course aware that Chekhov himself frequented Yalta and as such knows the surroundings well. Yalta as a premier Russian resort town, where the well-off Russian hypochondriacs convalesced, attracted many a character rife for literary treatment, and as such the protagonists of the story, Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna fit the description, quite apart from Gurov’s observation that ‘the two peculiarities of a well-dressed Yalta crowd were very conspicuous: the elderly ladies were dressed like young ones, and there were great numbers of generals’. While neither of them belongs to this type of ‘well-dressed crowd’ they are nevertheless paragons of the Russian bourgeoisie, Gurov owning ‘two houses in Moscow’ while Anna is married to a reasonably wealthy man and as such a lady of leisure. Gurov as an obvious alter ego of the author – at least in my reckoning – is of course several degrees removed from all of that, even though on the surface of it he is married with children and holding down a job in a bank. Indeed his main obsession, if not occupation, seems to be to figure out the female species (arguably a fascinating topic under any circumstances), echoing Chekhov to the point, writing to Suvorin:
By all means I will be married if you wish it. But on these conditions: everything must be as it has been hitherto—that is, she must live in Moscow while I live in the country, and I will come and see her ... give me a wife who, like the moon, won't appear in my sky every day. 
Letter to Suvorin, 23 March 1895.
and as paraphrased in ‘Lady with a Dog’:
From the past he preserved memories of careless, good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression—an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.
Is this a lady-killer speaking, or chauvinist or even a misogynist? That he cannot be the former is evidenced by the remark an associate of Gurov makes on his behalf:
The part of a lady-killer does not suit you at all, Dimitri.
Chekhov (and by implication Gurov) cannot not be considered a misogynist even though the idea of ‘capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth’ isn’t exactly a flattering statement about women. Chauvinistic? Paternalistic? Quite possibly in today’s terms of political correctness, especially if one describes one’s wife as one ‘who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion’. For is it not the failing of the man/husband to get himself into a situation that blames the female/wife as being disaster of sorts? At the very least the adjectives ‘unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent’ are more applicable to men who treat women as some sort of chattel and/or object of pleasure.

Since ‘Lady with a Dog’ might be considered a cautionary tale whereby an erstwhile chauvinist/hedonist is turned into a true lover (and devoted husband perhaps) one could construe the Gurov character as just that, i.e. the flaws in his character taking a turn for the better, and with a happy end in sight (‘a new and splendid life would begin’), and love conquering all:
Anna Sergeyevna and he loved each other like people very close and akin, like husband and wife, like tender friends; it seemed to them that fate itself had meant them for one another, and they could not understand why he had a wife and she a husband; and it was as though they were a pair of birds of passage, caught and forced to live in different cages. They forgave each other for what they were ashamed of in their past, they forgave everything in the present, and felt that this love of theirs had changed them both.
Never mind that along the way Gurov thought that ‘there's something pathetic about her, anyway’ and that he ‘felt bored’ by Anna’s pathetic self-accusations like ‘ … and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise.’

Is Chekhov, the story teller, merely playing on life’s many contradictions or is there a sense of an inherent psychological disturbance? Chekhov in real life seemed to have a somewhat difficult relationship with the female species, preferring the brothel rather than domestic pleasures, preferring to have a somewhat platonic relationship with his ‘wife’. Sex seems to be a subject best not talked about and in ‘Lady with a Dog’ we are baffled by the quick and salacious line
"Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly.
which ends in
Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front …
Did they do it? Did they just talk and steal a few kisses? Did Anna improve on Gurov’s wife who is said to love ‘without any genuine feeling’? What exactly is this love that ‘had changed them both’? Gurov/Chekhov invokes ‘fate’ as the progenitor, akin to the Greek Cupid shooting his arrow. How does this equate with his previous life in that women (lovers, wife, and daughters) are a nuisance incapable of true love? Isn’t love supposed to be something that develops and need s a lot of patience and tolerance? Chekhov seems to paint over these questions with a broad brush that belies a certain boredom with the very idea. It just doesn’t make much sense when Gurov complains
… he always seemed to women different from what he was, and they loved in him not himself, but the man created by their imagination, whom they had been eagerly seeking all their lives; and afterwards, when they noticed their mistake, they loved him all the same. And not one of them had been happy with him. Time passed, he had made their acquaintance, got on with them, parted, but he had never once loved; it was anything you like, but not love.
This man is in need of serious therapy! Maybe one cannot deny that such men roam the earth, creating a lot of unhappiness (‘not one of them had been happy’) along the way, and that one can use them as a character in a short story. But what is the point? That they can be redeemed in the end with true love, love that only can ‘fate’ dish up? Chekhov cannot even contemplate what that would mean other than to say that ‘the most complicated and difficult part of it was only just beginning’. This is yet another contradiction, for how can love as ‘fate’ be ‘difficult’? Chekhov does seem to have inkling that love – as a human endeavour – is ‘complicate and difficult’ but on the other hand he doesn’t want to have all these long-term complications and difficulties, preferring the one-night stand and a shake-down in the shower (as Leonard Cohen, the song-writer, puts it so beautifully) and then complain that this isn’t the answer either.

If we assume that Chekhov deep down has a fairly cynical attitude to life (life is a bitch, or, again, as Leonard Cohen sings about the ‘homicidal bitch who decides who eats and how doesn’t’) we can find some evidence for it in his other story ‘A Doctor’s Visit’ which we will analyse briefly. Chekhov as a real-life medical doctor has of course developed that attitude common to all medics, namely that life is cheap and ever so transient, and that all our efforts to keep people alive is a somewhat perverse endeavour – but at least a well-paid one, especially if one attends to the richer hypochondriacs. In any case, this seems to be the crux in A Doctor’s Visit, the Muscovite well-to-do doctor attending to a rich but very sickly grown-up girl whose mother owns and runs a horrible cotton factory in the country-side. The main point seems to be to muse about the contradictions of life:
The strong must hinder the weak from living—such was the law of Nature.
Well said! If we spend our lives to observe this sorry spectacle we cannot but become crafty cynics – and in the case of Chekhov turn this into an accomplished art form. I myself find myself practising this form of black humour, for what else can one do? Become a revolutionary and be shot? Chekhov like his good Dr Korolyov in the story do know very well what is wrong with people and what medicine they need – even if it is only someone to talk to. Chekhov as the doctor was said to make less money from his doctoring than from his literary enterprises, treating many of his poorer patients for free. That he did not attend to his own illness (TB) was perhaps a sign of denial peculiar to some medicine men who let fate play out is design, not bothering to intervene, and as such Chekhov has the sad history of dying in Germany in a ‘Bad’ where sick people go to be cured. Korolyov on the other hand seems to epitomise the doctor who has everything under control, enjoying the snippets of life as much as he can, deriving some pleasure from a sunny Sunday:
…. but thought of the time, perhaps close at hand, when life would be as bright and joyous as that still Sunday morning; and he thought how pleasant it was on such a morning in the spring to drive with three horses in a good carriage, and to bask in the sunshine.    
This sounds like a strong dose of pleasure as only the lofty bourgeoisie can enjoy, a kind of meaningless trifle in the midst of the sea of mindless suffering. It sounds like what the bourgeois Americans did a century or so later, namely cruise in an open Cadillac and have some back-seat fun. Stories that peter out this way are of course lauded by the literary cognoscenti as being of the Chekhovian trade-mark, stories without beginning or end, excerpts from life, vignettes, snap-shots of time, short streams of consciousness, making cute observations about the absurdities of life, as no doubt Chekhov is master of (from his Notebook):
Aristocrats? The same ugly bodies and physical uncleanliness, the same toothless old age and disgusting death, as with market-women.
This is all true enough but disingenuous at the same time, for the market-woman would rather be an aristocrat, given half a chance. It is from this point of view that I find Chekhov difficult to like as a writer. I prefer writers who write of their visions to change the world, not writers who merely describe the world. That Alice Munro also belongs to the latter category is of course no surprise, as she a master of the local non-event, stuck in a Canadian countryside where psychological drama revolves around the choice of the breakfast cereal.



Monday, September 23, 2013

DIE MERKEL FERKEL REPUBLIK


Als langwärtiger-bärtiger expatriat-Deutscher (in Neuseeland) kann man sich nur darüber wundern warum die Mehrzahl der wählenden Bundesrepublikaner eine so komisch-geile-geierlich rechts-gerichtete Merkel und ihre Partei gewählt haben. Oder vielleicht soll man sich überhaupt nicht wundern, denn das ist ja alles klar:

• so-genannte demokratische Wahlen sind in Deutschland (wie auch sonstwo) dermassen von den rechts-gerichteten Eigentümern der manipulativen Medien bestimmt daß wohl niemand mehr seinen eigenen Verstand einsetzen kann oder darf
• daß fast 30% nicht wählen muss doch bedeuten daß die Merkel-Union mit ihren über 40% + SPD oder Grüne keinesfall die Mehrheit aller Wahlberechtigten hat, ganz abgesehen von den nicht-Wahlberechtigten; d.h. wenn man schon von echeter oder „unbeschränkter“ (siehe Rosa Luxemburg, unten) Demokratie reden will, die Merkel nicht mal mit 40% irgendetwas gewonnen hat (und wenn man schon von Zahlen redet, warum kann die Mehrheit von SPD+Linke+Grüne eigentlich nicht die Regierung bilden?)
• diese Form der Demokratie als Wettbewerb mit Gewinnern und Verlierern hat ja schon immer dafür gesorgt daß der Extremismus sich etablieren kann, wobei (Haus)Frau Merkel als eine Inkarnation von Margaret Thatcher den Geier-Kapitalismus (vulture capitalism, Loewenstein, 2013) dermas ankurbeln kann daß Deutschland und Europa bald ausverkauft sein werden
• um ein paar Einzelheiten zu kommentieren: Rössler und die FDP haben wohl „verloren“ weil ein eingebürgerter Vietnamese doch nichts in der rassistischen Deutschlandpolitk zu suchen hat (auch wenn er das Kapital vertritt); das sieht man auch bei den Grünen mit ihren Türken, und auch noch damit daß die und die Linken ja alle Ferkel sind die man lieber in die Konzentrationslager schicken sollte; und laut Spiegel:
...die SPD konnte ihre klassische Klientel, Arbeiter, Angestellte und Gewerkschaftsmitglieder nicht mobilisieren - gerade einmal 27 Prozent der sozialdemokratischen Wähler waren Arbeiter (Union: 36 Prozent) und 26 Prozent Angestellte (Union: 40 Prozent) ... http://www.spiegel.de/politik/deutschland/bundestagswahl-ergebnis-nach-alter-geschlecht-beruf-sortiert-a-923376.html 
was wohl heissen soll daß das „klassische Klientel“ der SPD-Proletarier auch schon radikalisiert ist und nun Merkel wählt. Nun wird sich das „Klientel“ schon wundern müssen wenn es bei der nächsten Lohnrunde bergabwärts geht (es ist ja auch kein Zufall dass sich die „gewählten“ Nazis erst als „Arbeiter-Partei“ etablierten und dann die „Arbeiter“ zu „Zwangsarbeitern“ machten). Daß die Bayern wieder einheitlich die CSU wählen ist auch kein Zufall: die haben sich alle zuerst auf der „Wiesn“ angesoffen und haben dann immer das erste christliche Kreuz (das sie ja so gut von der Kirche und ihrem seltsam „früheren“ Hitlerjungen-Papst kennen) angekreuzt
• man muss auch darauf aufmerksam machen daß natürlich alle die sich „wählen“ lassen und die, die sie „wählen“ sich ja gegenseitig verdienen, selbst wenn man davon ausgeht daß der „Wähler“ keine „Wahl“ gehabt hat; sogar die Linken die Gott-sei-Dank immer noch im „roten“ Berlin populär sind, sollten sich darüber schämen daß sie Rosa Luxemburg verraten haben, die ja geschrieben hat:
„Das Proletariat kann, wenn es die Macht ergreift, nimmermehr nach dem guten Rat Kautskys […] auf die soziale Umwälzung verzichten und sich nur der Demokratie widmen, ohne an sich selbst, an der Revolution Verrat zu üben. Es soll und muß eben sofort sozialistische Maßnahmen in energischster, unnachgiebigster, rücksichtslosester Weise in Angriff nehmen, also Diktatur ausüben; aber Diktatur der KLASSE, nicht einer Partei oder Clique, Diktatur der Klasse, d. h. in breitester Öffentlichkeit, unter tätigster ungehemmter Teilnahme der Volksmassen, in unbeschränkter Demokratie.“ (Rosa Luxemburg: Zur russischen Revolution. GW 4, S. 362 f.)
Man kann sich ohnehin Genosse Gysi schlecht als Klassen-Diktator und „unbeschränkten“ Demokraten vorstellen.


Loewenstein, A. 2013. Profits of doom. University of Melbourne Press.


Wednesday, September 18, 2013

A contradictory review of Lina Sun’s ‘Growing up in Red China: Representations of the Chinese Cultural Revolution in young adult novels and memoirs’


A contradictory review of Lina Sun’s ‘Growing up in Red China: Representations of the Chinese Cultural Revolution in young adult novels and memoirs’ in Vol. 7 No 2 (2013) of


Wolfgang B. Sperlich

In Lina Sun’s ‘Growing up in Red China: Representations of the Chinese Cultural Revolution in young adult novels and memoirs’ the Cultural Revolution and its main protagonist, Mao Tse-tung, are variously labelled as ‘authoritarian, paranoid, unjust, dark, malevolent, manipulative, brain-washing, torturous, totalitarian, abysmal, senseless, cruel, iron-fisted, fanatical, violent, masculine, dogmatic, indoctrinating, frenzied, extreme, frantic, suffocating, tyrannical, autocratic, inhuman, feudalistic, cowardly, oppressive, evil and abusive’ and at the same the reader is invited to consider Sun’s statement that ‘by serving as a witness and providing a personal testimony to the inherent “evils” in contemporary China, these writers are welcomed as guests in the West because they don’t critically examine the oppressive and hegemonic nature of the new world order’.

So is this a classical case for Mao Tse-tung’s (1937) famous essay ‘On Contradiction’? Maoism is after all not quite dead yet, as indeed China’s new leader Xi Jinping has reiterated recently (15 July 2013). Hence what is Sun’s purpose in writing this article? Since the question of the ‘audience’ is the famous sine qua non of Critical Literacy, one can only guess that the editors of the eponymous journal determined that Sun speaks to the Critical Literacy audience. Does Sun’s opinion piece go towards a reconciliation of sorts, hoping against hope that such an article will be acceptable to the academic establishment in Beijing? Are any of the readers of Critical Literacy sympathetic towards Maoism, in theory or praxis? Or even the Cultural Revolution? Let us assume a small possibility, hence my review.

If we employ Mao’s ‘two world-view’ metaphor, can we also employ Sun’s above adjectives to describe the current American regime? President Obama personally signs off drone attacks causing quite a bit of collateral damage (30 May 2012), and as Sun points out:

Actually, serious human rights problems also exist in contemporary American society, especially after the 9/11, such as racial discrimination toward the Muslims, surveillance of people’s private phone conversations, abusive treatment of prisoners of war in the internment camp in Cuba, subjecting immigrants to high levels of governmental scrutiny by creating detention centers for the undocumented immigrants and denying them medical
assistance …, as well as censorship on certain politically sensitive publications.

We could add Chomsky’s (2003) list of US war crimes as well as Loewenstein’s recent (2013) book on Profits of Doom in which he notes that the US has the largest prison population (per capita) in the world and largely made up of the US’s minority communities. Detractors will claim that these ‘crimes’ do not add up to the ‘genocidal atrocities’ committed by Mao, hence the US can still claim the high moral ground. Is there a neutral observer who can quote the relevant statistics of death and destruction in China and the USA? Shall we live by the maxim of the ‘lesser evil’ and employ Orwellian newspeak and rejoice with Sun that the ‘narratives culminate in their escape from China to the West, from political oppression to the ultimate freedom’. Is this ‘ultimate freedom’ the best we can hope for? Is it just a pragmatic stance that says that ‘(American-style) democracy isn’t perfect but is the best we have’?

What exactly then does Sun mean when she implores US teachers to use these texts ‘critically’ so that the students can ‘call into question the capitalist system on which this country is built …. express their frustrations and disappointments about stagnant social upward mobility …. indignant about unfair wealth distribution and bourgeoisie (sic, my emphasis) exploitation caused by blatant loopholes in the American political system’? Isn’t that what a young Mao did with respect to China and the rest of the world by studying Marx and Lenin (and who knew the word ‘bourgeoisie and how to use it)’ ? Or is there a sub-text like: in the USA students should be allowed to study Marx and thereby realise that he was all wrong and that it engenders people like Mao to become homicidal maniacs? Of course historians always tell us that Mao didn’t have capitalism in China at the time, and instead was dealing with a feudalist system, namely a serf-like system endemic in Russia, hence there was nothing to learn from Marx as he was much more advanced in tackling the question of ‘das Kapital’, only to get it horribly wrong, or did he? All in all there are so many contradictions that we cannot possibly allow Sun to call for a sort of academic freedom that Mao called ‘let a thousand schools of thought blossom’. While Sun bravely quotes the likes of Freire and Zinn, she does so in the jester’s knowledge that there isn’t a chance in hell that anyone in power in the US will pay any attention to them -  other than laugh about them. Is it therefore just some kind of nice academic posturing or is there a real sense of Sun’s concluding remark of ‘for teachers, critically examining the representations of the Cultural Revolution in young adult literature with students is probably a good start to embark on the journey of reading for social justice and a better world’?

Notwithstanding Sun, the only ‘revolutions’ that can be contemplated in the USA at present are those of the banking kind that ‘revolutionize’ the ease with which the tax payers have to fund the ‘profits of doom’ – to use Loewenstein’s metaphor. A young Mao today will have the greatest difficulties in writing ‘On Contradiction in the USA’ simply because the contradictions have multiplied from the binary model into a nasty bog of neo-feudal, post-modernist, pre-virtual, sexist, neo-fascist and fundamentalist religious proportions that leaves the socialist analyst perplexed to the degree of catatonic verbiage – the present author included. On the other hand, as Chomsky explains for linguistics and language in general, we are born with the binary brain and we can only solve binary problems. As such the baffling, binary question will remain: will the East prevail over the West, as Mao once predicted? If so, what would Sun’s and Critical Literacy’s position be in this new world order? It hardly bears thinking about.


REFERENCES

Mao Tse-tung. 1937. On Contradiction. In Selected Works of Mao Tse-tung. Foreign
            Languages Press, Peking.

Chomsky, N. 2003. Hegemony or survival. America’s quest for global dominance.
            Metropolitan Books.

Loewenstein, A. 2013. Profits of doom. Melbourne University Publishing.

Newsmax (15 May 2012). White House: Drone Attacks, ‘Kill List’ Necessary to

South China Morning Post (15 July 2013). Xi Jinping turns to Mao Zedong's thoughts

Monday, June 3, 2013

MAKING A LIVING OUT OF MAKING THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE?


MAKING A LIVING OUT OF MAKING THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE?


It is old adage that the political left is its own worst enemy in that various factions devote most of their time attacking each other for presumed crimes against ideological correctness. If the forces of the left could only unite then they would have no difficulty in waging a war against the forces of the right – and stand a good chance of winning. There is some truth in this but of course real life is far more complicated than that. To certain degree it is also true to note that the forces of the center-right are often shifted to the centre or even centre-left as the extreme right becomes ever more established and claims the middle ground – as is obviously true for the current state of the politics in the USA, Canada, the UK, Germany and New Zealand to name but a few examples.

In the US anyone who ever worked for the Obama campaign in the mistaken belief that HE would make the world a better place, and when realizing one’s naivety, then shifted to a campaign that is slightly to the left of the centre-right Obama democrats (many of whom remain purely right-wing), one becomes an extreme left-wing lunatic in the reckoning of the new centre-right.

In New Zealand the right-wing National Party government now paints the Green Party as an extreme left-wing party even though the Green Party had – quite amazingly – signed an MoU with the government at the beginning of the term. The NZ Green Party in line with many other Green Parties in the Western democracies are as centrist as can be, ready to make deals for a piece of the action. With new elections looming, the right-wing parties must of course claim the middle ground and accuse the Greens as lunatics, lest they team up with an even more centrist party, the NZ Labour Party, and win the elections. OMG, they would force supermarkets to become ‘fair trade’ shops!

Which brings me to the sad case of Aaron Swartz which is highlighted by a Guardian lead story entitled ‘Aaron Swartz: hacker, genius… martyr?’ (June 2013) in which his former girlfriend Taren Stinebrickner-Kauffman reminisces as to the likely reasons for Aaron’s suicide. Taren is revealed to be a social activist and ‘executive director of SumOfUs, a global protest movement that seeks to hold corporations to account’. Her account – as edited by the Guardian reporter – makes, in parts, interesting reading:
His professional choices were guided by his conscience. In 2009, he chose to spend time as an intern in the congressional offices of Democrat Alan Grayson because he wanted to learn about how government operated before he set about the business of trying to improve it. Swartz had already compiled a report about the relation between candidates' wealth and their electoral success. During the period he spent in Grayson's office, he worked to help pass Obama's landmark healthcare reform. In 2010, he volunteered for the Democratic national convention in the runup to the midterm elections.
Unlike many social activists, who dismiss the political process as corrupt without seeking to understand what makes it so, Swartz was always seeking a deeper explanation from within the institutions he wanted to change.
To be somewhat disingenuous, one wonders what the second paragraph is meant to convey: do we have to join the NSDAP first in order to find out what makes it abysmally corrupt? How sadly deluded does one have to be, to work for someone in good faith who will ultimately kill you? Aaron was driven to his death by an Obama appointee, namely by US attorney Carmen Ortiz who prosecuted the case to set an example for anyone contemplating the freedom of the Internet by hacking into a commercial-academic (JSTOR) site to liberate academic articles. Aaron even returned all the articles and JSTOR withdrew the complaint, unlike MIT which is embroiled in a new right-wing takeover from Obama democrats. Ideological cleansing (read ‘murder’) within political parties and movements is nothing new but to snipe at harmless souls like Aaron is akin to the proverbial killing of a fly with a sledge hammer. On the other hand it has huge propaganda value to do the occasional overkill, just to demonstrate the absolute power of the powers-to-be. The Guardian in reviewing the case does just that, especially with the sly headline suggesting that Aaron could be mistaken as a ‘martyr’, a term we all know has the current connotation of mad Islamists.

My real point is however the question as to how much Taren Stinebrickner-Kauffman has learnt from this tragic case. The Guardian portrays her as going back to work as ‘executive director of SumOfUs, a global protest movement that seeks to hold corporations to account’. If and when you visit SumOfUs as an example of an increasing number of like-minded web-based ‘protest movements’ you will see a list of the oddest co-workers that are introduced after the ‘executive director and founder ‘ of the web-site. Quite a few of the US based ‘campaigners’ have had previous roles in the Obama election campaigns while others have worked for various NGOs and government organizations that feed on each other. The European Campaign Manager, Oliver Moldenhaur, is credited with ‘in his spare time he likes good food and wine and hiking mountains – best of all good wine on top of mountains’: I mean, how much more bourgeois can you get? So what do all these good people do?

Well, they set up story boxes about naughty corporations that do the wrong thing and you can ‘take action’ by clicking on it and adding your name to a petition to remind the wayward corporation to pull up its socks, lest they get more bad publicity which could hurt their profits. One such example is the ‘Whole Foods: Stand up for exploited children’ campaign which notes that ‘America’s largest fair trade and organic retailer … Whole Foods has built a successful brand as an ethical retailer’ but actually fails to comply with its own doctrinal business and ‘fair trade’ ethics, such as sourcing and selling chocolate that is tainted by child slave labour. We can then electronically add our name to the following petition:
Stop stocking chocolate produced by companies that have not committed to eliminating child labor in their supply chains and purchase only fair trade certified chocolates.
Didn’t they just say above that Whole Foods is America’s largest fair trade and organic retailer’? It doesn’t take much detective work to figure out that the whole ‘fair trade’ movement has become a sham that puts Band-Aids on some of the most glaring crimes in international food production practices.

Returning then to the quip about the NZ Green Party, one can see the contradictions piling up on the contradictions whenever an established political party is subject to the wildest left-right fluctuations visited upon by rival parties just to the right of the other rightists. Is Taren Stinebrickner-Kauffman serious when launching a campaign – and they won - to ‘Don’t let Wall Street block Elizabeth Warren from the Senate Banking Committee’? Is this a case of voting for the devil you know versus the one you don’t? In sum, SumOfUs is a ‘support Obama’ web-forum under the vaguely left-wing banner of a ‘protest movement’. No wonder, to entice potential donors, the site announces that ‘SumOfUs is a movement of consumers, workers and shareholders speaking with one voice …’. What an odd assemblage! Aren’t large corporations owned by ‘shareholders’?  Is that where the big donations are coming from to bankroll SumOfUs? What is going on here? Delusion? Self-deception? Agent-provocateurs? Material for conspiracy theorists?

Don’t they know that governments and corporations cannot be reformed? After all it was the democrats under Clinton that sanctioned the greatest aberration in the history of economics, namely investing corporations with the legal status of a person.  You cannot turn the NSDAP into a good party by signing a petition asking them to comply with human rights. You cannot turn disaster capitalism (à la Naomi Klein) into good capitalism: it’s a contradiction of terms, it’s an oxymoron. You cannot falsify Chomsky’s dictum in that if he were to become president he would send himself to jail: it is the office that corrupts (keeping in mind that most office holders were corrupt long before then).

Just to demonstrate that the US is not alone in these machinations, consider this story from New Zealand: Kim Hill is a National Radio presenter who does the Saturday morning show that has a media reputation as being savvy and  slightly to the left of center. I suppose to ‘balance’ her politics she must interview various wannabes from the corporate right wing in order to sneak in the occasional lefty, such as the UK’s Howard Brenton who calls himself a reluctant Marxist on her interview, and is as such a source of great amazement for Kim Hill. The mainstream right-wing counterpart is one Derek Handley, a ‘young and inspiring’ NZ entrepreneur who wrote a book based on his ‘recent involvement in The B Team, a global leadership group, led by Sir Richard Branson, focused on new models of business for a sustainable and prosperous 21st century’. In the interview with Kim Hill, he keeps repeating that all we need to make the world a better place, are enlightened leaders like SIR Richard Branson who demonstrates so well that we can make lots of money and make the world a better place by doing so.

No wonder the world is lurching ever closer to the brink of a new NSDAP. History has a sad tendency to repeat itself, first as at tragedy, then as a farce (as Stalin said), mainly because – the way I see it – various well-meaning people see the storm coming but their only solution is to propose to the storm to calm down. Aaron Swartz paid with his life. Taren Stinebrickner-Kauffman and her supporters need to wake up to the reality of the situation and consider some ideas for a better world: one WITHOUT governments, presidents, corporations, entrepreneurs, knighthoods and quite possibly ‘executive directors’ of ‘protest movements’ in cyber space.



http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2013/jun/02/aaron-swartz-hacker-genius-martyr-girlfriend-interview  

http://sumofus.org/about/who-we-are/ 

http://www.radionz.co.nz/national/programmes/saturday 

http://www.randomhouse.co.nz/books/derek-handley/heart-to-start-9781775532705.aspx 


Friday, April 26, 2013

A REVIEW OF DAPHNE SHELDRICK’S (2012) LOVE, LIFE AND ELEPHANTS: An African Love Story


A REVIEW OF DAPHNE SHELDRICK’S (2012) LOVE, LIFE AND ELEPHANTS

I must confess that I don’t usually read books like that but three felicitous reasons combined for this occasion. One, we were in India in 2012 and happened to come close to a wild elephant who had wondered into our resort in a nature reserve – the elephant ditch had not been an obstacle for him/her in order to get to the jackfruit that was on offer on the trees. Two, I recently happened to come across Heathcote Williams’ The Sacred Elephant, a great, long ode to wild elephants. Third, Sheldrick’s book was presented to me by a member of my wife’s family – who once were Kenyans – and indeed one of my wife’s uncles is mentioned by name in the book.

My wife was born in Nairobi in 1955, the same year as Daphne Sheldrick’s first daughter, Jill. My wife’s father and step-mother, now living in New Zealand, know many of the characters in the book. As such, while I have never been to Kenya, I have a bit of background knowledge based on the many tales I’ve heard, notwithstanding popular treatises like Out of Africa, The Flame Trees of Thika and Happy Valley. Being more interested in politics than wildlife, I’ve always wondered why some Europeans stayed in Kenya after independence while many others – like my wife’s family – left. So how come Daphne Sheldrick and members of her family stayed on? Surely I would find the answer in the book even if it was all about the wildlife. Don’t get me wrong, I am totally on the side of animal rights activists, and while I know next to nothing about elephants (apart from what Heathcote Williams tells us in his Sacred Elephant, which quite a mine of knowledge) I have no doubt that elephants are some of the greatest creatures on earth, and I admire anybody who deeply cares for them and their freedom (I hate people who keep elephants as circus and zoo animals).

Sheldrick’s opening gambit is rather flawed in this respect: she gets nearly killed by a wild elephant whom she mistakes as one of the former orphans she had reared and reintroduced to Tsavo National Park. This happened many years after she had left Tsavo, and it was many years after her second husband, David Sheldrick had died. While the stated aim by the Sheldricks had always been to reintegrate their elephant orphans (and other species like rhinos) into the park’s wilderness, there had developed such an anthropomorphic bond between Daphne and some of the orphans (like the one she named Eleanor) that she thought it only natural that she could meet them in the wild and they would come up to her and give her a cuddle. That she couldn’t tell for sure who is who in a wild herd is perhaps a reminder that such anthropomorphism should cease when such animals are returned to the wild. If a formerly orphaned animal returned to the park headquarters in Tsavo to say hello to Daphne and her caring assistants, one would fully accept it as a friendly gesture on behalf of the animal. There are many stories of animals that return to their former caregivers who do not recognize them by way of any distinctive features but by the mere fact that they behave in a way that is not normal for a wild animal, i.e. they make a friendly contact with the humans whom they remember as having saved their lives. Often such visits are fleeting and in time may cease altogether. The humans should accept this as a job well done. This may be easier said than done, as some people really do love their animals in the way one loves a best human friend who would do anything to help out in need. To let go of this bond is a great sacrifice to make, as Daphne Sheldrick often relates when she lets her charges go. She should not have sought out Eleanor in the wild herd of elephants when she should have known – as a person who had studied elephants all her life – that this was a risky undertaking as another elephant might well come up instead of Eleanor and be not recognized as such and thereby set up a situation that can dangerous for both animal and human very quickly. That this elephant merely threw her onto some rocks but did not kill her, she puts down to some sort of telegraphic communication between Eleanor and the said elephant, informing the latter to spare Daphne’s life. I doubt this to be the case as it sounds like another anthropomorphic assumption of which Daphne Sheldrick is so convinced about. I have no doubt that elephants amongst each other have quite sophisticated communication channels that may seem telepathic to humans but on the other hand there is simply no evidence at all that any animal, be it elephant or any other animal, has anything like the human capacity of language and communication. Daphne was just lucky that the elephant didn’t kill her, and the elephant was very lucky that Daphne wasn’t accompanied by any park wardens who would have shot the elephant. In any case, Daphne opens her book with this very unfortunate incident, setting the scene which, unwittingly perhaps, is a story of her life that leaves many of the more difficult questions unanswered.

Her life story begins with her ancestors’ great journey from South-Africa to Kenya in the early 1900s, responding to a call from the then Kenyan Governor, one Sir Charles Eliot, to settle on land given to them for free by the Governor. Daphne never questions this transaction – a British colonial administrator giving away African land to his countrymen -  instead describing her ancestors as hardy pioneers who endured countless obstacles to establish themselves as cattle farmers on Kikuyu land. The leader of her group of settlers was Great-Uncle Will who was a great hunter who ‘satiated his lust for land and animals’ – as Daphne puts it without much of hint of sarcasm or even irony. That European settlers decimated the wildlife as much as the dreaded African poachers later on, never really occurs to Daphne. She does however comment on her first husband, Bill Woodley (incidentally well known in his adolescence by my wife’s father) who as a game warden to protect the wildlife against poachers was a keen elephant hunter himself. Such a contradiction was apparently quite common amongst the European fraternity in Kenya, as it is indeed today with many of the so-called patrons of various wildlife charities who don’t mind a bit of blood sport themselves – note the notorious case of the current Spanish King Juan Carlos shooting elephants while being a patron of the WWF. Indeed Daphne’s first husband seemed to lack in other areas too, such as in his matrimonial duties – something Daphne doesn’t seem to mind making public knowledge – hence the inevitable second marriage to David Sheldrick whom she describes as her ‘soul mate’. David who more or less single-handedly created the Tsavo National Park out of nothing was of course that rare human being that considered all wildlife as sacrosanct, going all out to protect elephants from the African poachers who by then were the greatest threat to elephants and rhinos. Both David and Daphne shared the touching belief that elephants in particular – and all animals in general – exhibit behaviors that are very close to human experience, thus often being in opposition to the many scientists of the day who studied wildlife in Tsavo and elsewhere. When one of them demanded the cull of 300 elephants in Tsavo to study them, David reluctantly agreed but put his foot down and refused a further kill of some 900 or so as demanded by the crazy British scientist. Even to agree to have 300 elephants slaughtered sounds like a major tragedy if not crime committed against elephants and no different to the endless poaching for ivory that goes on to this day. One of the great things that David achieved was to prevent elephant culls in Tsavo in the name of balancing the natural ecology – as recommended by renowned British zoologist Julian Huxley – because of his realization that nature balances itself very well without such human intervention. That the great herds of wild elephants in Tsavo recreated the park in their image is a testament to his insight.

One of the contradictions in Daphne’s life is related to this whole issue of British elites determining the fate of nations as much as of animals. Heathcote Williams who in his Royal Babylon decries the crimes of British royalty committed against animals, is in stark contrast to Daphne Sheldrick and her ilk who venerate British royalty and everything that goes with it. Her acceptance of a gong (Dame Commander) by the Queen is obviously a highlight of her life. She wholeheartedly agrees that the high and mighty alone can change the course of history for man and beast while at the coalface she and her co-workers do the actual work. I do admire her for the latter part but I cannot understand her submission to an authority that ultimately is to blame for all the troubles she faces on the ground.

Another contradiction, if not omission, is a considered account of the Mau Mau period, from about 1950 to 1960. While she offers some vivid descriptions of personal experiences, there is a lack of insight into the causes of the Mau Mau rebellion. She claims that she and her ancestors, as white settlers in general, were ‘humane and totally honourable pioneers who had braved the unknown and, with blood, sweat and toil, brought progress to darkest Africa, promising law and order and good governance under benign British rule’. She does not once admit that the Africans, and the Kikuyu in particular, had any rightful grievances. This is in stark contrast to other Kenyan voices such as the eminent L.S.B Leakey, who in his 1952 book Mau Mau and the Kikuyu presented a long list, including the ‘colour bar’ as a sort of apartheid Kenya-style. While Leakey does brand the Mau Mau as a ‘terrorist’ organization, he does point out that the white settlers and the British rule had turned the Kikuyu in particular into a tribe of squatters who saw no way forward. The British military response resulted in a pyrrhic victory that saw Jomo Kenyatta as the eventual winner – driving out many white settlers and British government officials and workers (such as my wife’s parents and grandparents). That the Sheldricks stayed on was more of a financial necessity rather than a decision of principle. As they were not employed by the British government – and had no land assets to sell – they hoped for the best and continued employment under Kenyan rule. While David Sheldrick lost his job as Tsavo warden he was re-employed in another capacity which ultimately led to his early death. It is of course to Daphne’s credit that she was not deterred and stayed on in Kenya – for the love of the elephants and other wildlife.

When Daphne was first married to Bill Woodley – and was pregnant with her fist child – they nearly got killed in a Mau Mau ambush, and one can understand her reluctance to engage with the macro-politics of the time that could shed light on the individual experiences that were of course tragic in many cases for the white population. Even after the Mau Mau rebellion, and when Kenyatta had taken over, there were many challenging times for the remaining whites. Indeed Daphne’s first child, Jill, as a grown-up was robbed in Nairobi together with her French partner, and they left for France, establishing their base there. To remain apolitical in all these situations must come at a price. The Sheldricks were tolerated as white Kenyans only because they were useful in attracting funding from white countries (mainly Britain and the US). Even the famous Leakeys had mixed fortunes in post-colonial Kenya. As I write this the new Kenyan president, Jomo Kenyatta’s son, is inaugurated with Damocles’ sword hanging over him. The ‘darkest’ Africa has become darker still. Once the British, German, French, Dutch, Spanish and Portuguese colonizers had left, all hell broke loose in the regions where tribal borders re-emerged from what were arbitrary lines drawn in the sand by the colonizers. There can be little doubt that Africa as a whole came off worst from colonial rule and is still reeling from it. Daphne Sheldrick is wrong in saying that the colonists ‘brought progress to darkest Africa’, i.e. Kenya, especially as L.S.B. Leakey points out that the pre-European Kikuyu were a society that thrived and had a sophisticated land tenure that ensured sustainable agriculture. As with many indigenous peoples around the world, the Kikuyu did not alienate land by sale but willing to have it tenanted by mutual agreement. This was their understanding when ceding land to the white settlers, and when they were confronted with the European claims that they had bought the land in perpetuum, the Kikuyu rightfully felt cheated. In addition to this item of ‘progress’ brought by the colonizers there are all the usual diseases and Christian religions that wrought havoc amongst the Kikuyu and other African tribes. This is not to romanticize African tribal societies in the face of European colonizing nations: both are subject to the yin and yang of life but there can be little doubt that colonization is the one of the most denigrating processes that history has ever seen - and continues to see.

David Sheldrick, whom Daphne describes, as mentioned before, as her ‘soul mate’ is by all accounts an amazing person who moves heaven and hell to give African wildlife a leg up. Daphne credits him with an anthropomorphic understanding of flora and fauna, thereby being in conflict with the scientific community at the time – zoologists in particular. On the other hand he welcomed the scientific attention given to ‘his’ Tsavo National Park, hosting many a scientist. Daphne credits David for her own extensive wildlife education and paired with her maternal instincts towards all manner of animal orphans, she developed a much more personal – hence anthropomorphic - relationship with her charges, enabling her and her co-workers to save many an orphan from certain death.

David’s untimely death after having left Tsavo to undertake a new role for the newly independent Kenyan government is traced back to David’s reluctance to face up to his heart problems first diagnosed when they were on a South African visit many years before. It seems to me though that his removal from his beloved Tsavo must have caused much proverbial and literal heart-ache, so much so that he went downhill quite rapidly. Whatever the causes of his death, there is now a new chapter in Daphne’s life.

The Kenya government eventually agreed for her and her two daughters to set up house inside the Nairobi National Park where she continues to raise orphans, especially elephants and rhino. Both her daughters became avid wildlife activists as well and helped to establish the now famous David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, attracting world-wide funding, thus being able to expand operations and lobby governments and wildlife organizations to intervene in the cruel trade of elephant ivory and rhino horn, reign in destructive poaching and uncover wide-spread corruption that allows these practices to flourish. She is unflinching in her dedication to the cause, and while she is given to collect local and international awards, allowing her to travel far and wide, one must admire her for her down-to-earth attitude, living a simple life inside the Nairobi National Park.

As always she does remain somewhat contradictory in her approach to animal welfare: a supposedly hilarious episode demonstrates this well: the Pope visits Kenya and wants to bless a rhino – how absurd! – and Daphne is asked to help out by ‘taming’ a suitable rhino, and she agrees. In my mind she should have denounced such a bizarre request but I suppose she saw the advertising potential in that such a scene would be televised work-wide and as such attract further funding. Of course she is also a devout Christian and fails to see the Pope as one of the problems of the world.

The late 1980s also saw Daphne come into contact with Richard Leakey who had been installed as Director of the Kenya Wildlife Service, only to end in near tragedy when his plane crashed and he lost his feet – some say that his plane was sabotaged. Daphne doesn’t say so but continues to complain about the general corruption and mismanagement that plagues the Kenyan government (now under Arap Moi) and its wildlife service, what with the elephant population in Tsavo having decimated to some 16,000 in 1990 (out of well over 100,000 two decades before). Indeed, her David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust assumes the de facto running of Kenya’s wildlife service by attracting ever larger funding and commitments from various sources, thus being able to provide services that the government agencies are increasingly unable to.

In 1994 the incident occurred with which Daphne opens her book – as described earlier - namely being attacked by a wild elephant she mistook for Eleanor, the hand-raised orphan elephant who had returned to the wild. Daphne spent six months recuperating, receiving bone and skin grafts in South Africa. She was then invited to Japan to undergo further treatment. Her elder daughter Jill, who after her first marriage had shacked up with a Frenchman, and had a child with him, and was living on a farm they had acquired, continued to work in the elephant nursery in Nairobi. As also mentioned before, she was held up at gun point and forced to hand over cash from the kitty that paid the workers. Her French partner couldn’t cope with such a situation and to Daphne’s great sadness they moved to France permanently (Jill returning every now and then). Angela, her second daughter (by David Sheldrick) had in the meantime also married a local white Kenyan, and they went off to manage a resort in northern Kenya. However before long they returned and built a house next to Daphne’s (still inside the Nairobi National Park). Angela took over many of Daphne’s day to day running of the Trust as well as establishing a working satellite field base at Tsavo National Park, thereby more or less returning to Tsavo that her father had established.

Daphne finishes her penultimate chapter by musing over why Eleanor – the elephant – never returned to meet her in Tsavo, concocting a rather strange explanation: Eleanor was afraid that Daphne would ‘hijack’ her offspring, assuming that Daphne had ‘hijacked’ all the other orphans before and after her. If we take the anthropomorphic angle, I’m sure that Eleanor would have known very well what an ‘orphan’ was and that Daphne obviously didn’t ‘hijack’ them. Surely there are other more appealing possibilities: maybe Eleanor didn’t want to ever again face Daphne because she felt guilty about her ‘friend’ having nearly killed Daphne; or else  Eleanor wanted to make the point that David Sheldrick had always made, namely that animal orphans saved by humans must be returned to their natural environment lest they become human pets.

Indeed in the last chapter dedicated to David, he is quoted as saying that animals are ‘other Nations’ – a notion so well captured by Heathcote Williams in his epic poem called Whale Nation and he could have easily entitled his other poem Elephant Nation instead of his Sacred Elephant. David Sheldrick also echoes the latter by saying that we need a ‘more mystical concept of animals’. Personally I prefer, as it were, Animal Society, inasmuch animals are living beings like we are, largely living in communal societies, minding their own business in accord with nature – indeed embodying nature, and not like some in-human humans are apt to, to conquer nature, and to colonize and exploit those other humans who only expected benevolence when meeting them. Daphne Sheldrick no doubt fits the description of a good human who is dedicated to Animal Society as a friend and saviour – it’s just that sometimes she doesn’t realize that her own British/European/American society harbours many a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing, and she falls for the cuddly sheep, like Winfrey Oprah, The Warner Brothers, the Queen and all the other celebrities that have elevated her, in her senior years, into a society that couldn’t care less about Animal Society other than using cute animals in advertising campaigns. She also sometimes seems to forget about Kikuyu and other tribal societies that struggle under the weight of globalization and Western Market domination. She does well to remember the words of the elder L.S.B. Leakey who noted that the Kikuyu and Masai tribal societies of old regarded the elephants as a Nation that held prior tenure over the lands they roamed.

There is also an antidote to the Sheldricks’ anthropomorphism which may apply to humans and animals alike, one that Werner Herzog in his film Grizzly Man called ‘the overwhelming indifference of nature’ – after all Daphne Sheldrick nearly paid the price for it. That she bore no ill will is both a sign of her naïvety and of her touching belief in the essential goodness of nature.