Ventiak
novel without a cause
In May 1943, Max Harris, the editor of a modernist Australian literary magazine, Angry Penguins, received a packet of 17 poems purportedly written by a completely unknown writer, Ernest Lalor Malley. Harris, a leader of Australia's literary avant garde, was astonished by the quality of the work. It seemed that it was in the same league as other well-known modernists, such as Auden and Dylan Thomas. Harris showed them to his literary friends who agreed with him. The result was a special edition of Angry Penguins, with a cover by Sydney Nolan, which brought the work of this new poetic genius to the world.
Trouble was the poems had actually been written by two disgrunteld poets, James McAuley and Harold Stewart, who had sat down one afternoon with A concise Oxford, a collected Shakespeare, a dictionary of quotations and a few beers and deliberatedly tried to concoct nonsense. Their aim was to demonstrate that later forms of Modernism, as exemplified by works such as The Wasteland, were meaningless crap. Ern Malley was a hoax, in other words, a brilliantly successful practical joke.
Of course, if Harris had known a little philosophy, he might have been alerted to what was being perpetrated upon him. As mentioned in an earlier post, the Austrian philosopher Ernst Mally was known for his theory of non-existent objects, of which Ern Malley must surely be a prime representative. This may be the only instance of modern philosophy having a practical used. (A pragmatist might thus deem something here to be true. I'm not sure what.)
More curious, perhaps, is the question of the quality of Malley's work. Was Harris and the whole Modernist programme exposed as fraudulent, as McAuley and Stewart intended, or did the two hoaxers produce interesting, original and vital work despite themselves? Perhaps, as Harris and his friends later claimed, McAuley and Stewart had unwittingly unleashed the creative forces of their unconscious and produced, in Malley's poems, something far more significant than their usual work.
Judge for yourself. Here is the first stana of Malley's Palinode.
There are ribald interventions
Like spurious seals upon
A Chinese landscape-roll
Or tangents to the rainbow.
We have these declensions
Have winked when Hyperion
Was transmuted to a troll.
We dubbed it a sidshow
And then this
The black tongues in dead mouths derided
The silliness of song and wagging wisdom.
These made a small dumb pile, the hopping shells
Froze to the floor and those made patterns
Half-witted cameras peered at...
I'd better stop before Felix is ill.
'Are all right?' Rupert asked.
'Perfectly.' Amanda's smile was disturbingly smug and sweet.
'Who's the bloke, then?' Janice demanded.
The smile disappeared. Almost.
'Come on!' Janice said.
Amanda looked suddenly coy. A horrible sight, I have to say.
'His name's Gavin.'
'Tall, dark and handsome, I'll bet.'
'He is actually. '
'And what does he do?'
'He's a consulting psychologist.'
Astonishing. Amanda going out with a psychologist is like a vegan going out with a pork sausage maker.
Janice laughed. 'And he's intelligent. And charming. And kind and considerate. And he loves good books and classical music and etc etc...'
'Yes, actually. All of that.'
'He's perfect then.'
'Pretty much.'
'Come on,' I said. 'There must be something wrong with him.'
'Well.' Amanda looked at me, an expression that was at once defiant and sheepish. 'There is one thing. One tiny thing. He's a member of the National Party.'
'Good God!' Rupert said.
We were all taken aback. Amanda is and was and for ever has been, as far as I know, a member of the Pink Guard, the staunchest Labour Party supporter imaginable. Now she was actually telling us that she was in love (what other explanation could there be?) with a follower of Captain Bland.
'I'm sure he's really, really nice,' Janice said.
'I expect you agree to differ on a number of points,' I said.
'Well...'
Felix laughed and made a latinate gesture, as if he was throwing a handful of seeds into the air.
'So,' he said. 'When do we meet this papillon?'
'Don't you mean paragon?' Rupert asked him.
'No. I mean papillon. I say what I mean and when I say something it stays said.'
'When?' Amanda pulled a face. 'I don't know really. If I asked him round to dinner would you cook?'
'Of course!'
Felix, you should know, is an excellent cook. We have often pressed him to open his own restaurant but he will have nothing of it. He is a poet first and foremost. Frankly, I think if he spent more time on pantry and less on poetry, the world would be a better place.
'All right,' Amanda said. 'I'll ask him.'
Something is amiss. Amanda, Our Lady of the Scornful Countenance, has returned from her staff development course in a very strange mood. Normally, on such occasions, we would be subject to a glum frown and at least one diatribe of withering contempt directed at the new age claptrap that had been visited, at the tax payers expense mind you, on her and her fellow officers from the Ministry of Rubber Bands. This time there was nothing but a clear brow and sunny smiles, a serenity of countenance that would have done an ad for toilet cleaner proud. Janice even claims to have heard Amanda singing in the shower. What can have possibly gone wrong?
Felix thinks that Amanda is in love and Janice agrees. I find it hard to imagine that anything as impractical as romance could have found its way into the strongbox that Amanda calls a heart. I rather fancy she must have been put up for promotion or has learned that one of her bitterest enemies has suffered some grim and retributive fate.
I asked Rupert what he thought.
'I don't understand,' he said. 'She looks normal to me.'
'She's not behaving normally. At least not what would be normal for her?'
'Is she sick?'
'It's passion!' Felix said. 'Some lusty fellow has swept her away on a tide love!'
'No!' Janice screwed up her face as if this suggestion was just a little distasteful. 'It's her knight in shining armour. He's wooed her with songs and vowed to be true to her forever.'
'Would she believe him?' Trevor asked.
'She doesn't have to believe him. She just has to let him think she believes him.'
'Poetry, wine and passion!' Felix said. 'That's the way!'
I would be loath to contradict him. He seems remarkably successful in such matters. I sometimes wonder if fewer conquests would have made him a better poet.
'It's not my way,' Janice told him.
'If she's sick,' Trevor said. 'She should see a doctor. 84.2% of fatal illnesses would have been survived with early enough medical intervention.'
'You made that up!' Rupert looked indignant.
'I don't think it's fatal,' I said.
Felix groaned. 'Love is always fatal! I die daily!'
A propos of recent posts, Rupert has reminded me of the work of the Austrian philosopher Ernst Mally (1879 - 1944), known, among other things, for his theory of non-existent objects. This somewhat paradoxical notion, as I understand it, is intended to solve a problem that arises from a theory of language dear to the heart of all logicians.
According to this theory the sentence 'George W. Bush is the President of the USA' can be analysed as follows:
Consider now the sentence 'George W Bush is a skwirtsigl'. Is it true or false? Our first impulse is to say well it depends what 'skwirtsigl' refers to. Suppose it refers to nothing. In such a case, the sentence is neither true nor false. Indeed, we might well want to say that it is meaningless.
How about the sentence 'Cynthia likes this blog'? Following the approach of the previous paragraph, we could say that if the name 'Cynthia' signifies a real person then the sentence is true, at least on the basis of the post of 15/6. What say, though, that Gregor is right and that Cynthia does not exist. How can a person who does not exist be said to like or dislike anything? In such a case, isn't the word 'Cynthia' in the same category as 'skwirtsigl', meaningless? And isn't the sentence therefore meaningless? In such a case, you dear reader (I'm assuming there is only one of you left by now) are in the peculiar position of being faced with a sentence that may or may not be meaningless. You just can't tell.
Mally's contribution to this discussion is the claim that the word 'Cynthia' always refer to something - either an object that exists, in the case that she is real, or one that doesn't, in the case that she is invented. Thus, there are non-existent objects.
Oh, dear. I’m in trouble. A netizen, Gregor, has written to express his disappointment at the way this site is developing. He says, in part:
‘…you started off OK but then you invented this character Cynthia with her comments about how great you are and truned [sic] it all into some post-modernist, self-serving wank.’
I suppose it does me no good to protest that Cynthia is indeed real and that her remarks are genuine and unsolicited. Here in Wonderland, the difference between what is real and what is not is always problematic. As Trevor might say, if Truth does not exist, it has to be invented.
Of course, it is also possible that Gregor is invented. Perhaps only he or I know if he is real. If he is my creation then you might conclude that my reason for writing this post is draw further attention to Cynthia's flattering remarks. (What other reasons is there?) So, invented or not, his claim that this site is a post-modernist self-serving wank might still be justified. It would also mean that I was practicing the Art of the Disingenuous, which would put me in Felix's bad books.
Perhaps the only way out of this is to allow Cynthia to speak for herself.
'I'm real.'
Cynthia
Does that help?
I mentioned the Montana Book Award business to Felix the other day and he reminded me of his poem on the subject of critics and their influence:
The critic shall not poison me.
My work has made me whole.
It springs from creativity
And my enormous soul.
His mind is sere. His heart is cold.
His spirit's made of lead.
Oh muse, unloose thy shaft of gold
And shoot the bastard dead!
As often happens with Felix, I am torn between approval of his sentiments and a certain wariness concerning the social consequences of seeming to endorse his mode of expression. Yet, am I not a hypocrite in this? If, indeed, I share with him a determination to pursue my own artistic course regardless of anyone else's opinion, why should I worry about what others may think of my approving him?
I guess we all have a critic in us somewhere and it is the critic that aligns us with a community of taste and desperately wants acceptance and inclusion. Maybe it pays no great part in the creative process (I suspect there are as many degrees of involvement as there are writers here) but it is always the critic that makes the decision to give the work its public airing and it is the critic that feels the embarrassment and the outrage at the negative judgements. The stronger the inner critic, the greater the potential shame.
Felix's inner critic is a pussy cat. It has no chance against the mad dog of his creative spirit. I think I envy him.
Cynthia, one of my faithful fans from last year has returned.
She writes:
'I like the opening salvo - about invisibility. I certainly feel it's a nobler state after reading some blogs - NOT yours - those self promotional and/or navel gazing diaries that leave me feeling as if I've somehow trespassed, become a voyeur, and leave them feeling a bit soiled. Ventiak is totally different, because it's full of characters and great dialogue and playful ideas.
'Not "Oh my book has had eight new covers in eight new editions and someone sent me a lovely photo of this one that they saw someone reading in Inner Mongolia, it's just so humbling to realise how I've affected readers all around the world."
'Or "I've decided that I'm really so intensely interior on my writing days that I find it hard to relate to anyone, which is why I failed to recognise my elderly mother struggling with her walking stick in the wind while I was staring out the cafe window where I'd gone for a little rest from all the creative strain, and why I didn't rush to help her when she was blown over, but left it to strangers. I felt a little shaken by it all until she was assisted on to the bus by a couple of other women, but then I realised after much thought that I mustn't feel guilty, I'm just so focused and my art really does need these sacrifices...."
'Ventiak is a tonic, and I can see it's going to be the same compulsive reading as Beattie's Book Blog for me! (Okay, he's another non-navel-gazing blogger...) '
Isn't that nice? I hesitate to think what Amanda will say if she happens to read it but she probably won't. She's off on some staff development course with her team from the Ministry of Rubber Bands and she'll be white-water rafting or running an assault course or being hypnotised by motivational gurus for the next four days. We await her report with interest.
The pelicans are in a flap. The Montana NZ Book Award judges have selected only four fiction finalists for their shortlist instead of the usual five.
'Why did they do that?' Janice asked.
'Good question,' I said. ' According to the chief judge, Lynn Freeman, they did not want to dilute the Montana finalist sticker by promoting a fifth.'
'Diluting a sticker?' Trevor said. 'That's a mixed metaphor, isn't it?'
'Yes,' I said. 'I guess so.'
'Not a good look for a literary award,' Amanda said.
'No.'
'But even so I suppose all the people who missed out are running round like a bunch of petulant teenagers with bruised egos?'
'That's not a very nice thing to say!' Janice told her.
'Ah.' Amanda glanced at me, an expression that was as close as she could ever come to an apology. 'You had a novel up for this thing, didn't you?'
'Yes.'
'You must be really, really upset,' Janice said.
'Well, I do feel as if I've been told my book is second class.'
'What was it called again?' Amanda asked.
'Black Earth/White Bones.'
'Ah, yes. That one.' A pause. 'You're never going to win a literary award. You're too much of a clever clogs.'
'Actually, I got a very good review in The Australian Women's Weekly.'
'You're proud of that?'
'I got other good reviews, too.' No one but Amanda can get me on the defensive so quickly.
'I'd vote for you,' Janice said. 'And I know other people who would too.'
'Your loyalty's touching,' Amanda told her. 'Have you actually read it?'
'Of course, I have. I really liked it. I read that one by Damien Wilkins, as well. Well, a bit of it. I'd vote for him, too.'
'Only because you think he's cute.'
'So?'
'Well, I guess that's the problem, isn't it? You pick different judges, you get a different shortlist. For whatever reason.'
'Yes,' I said. 'You probably do.'
'So it's just a lottery.'
'I guess so.'
'Does that make you feel better?'
'Maybe.'
'If it's a lottery,' Trevor said, 'you don't need judges. You could pull the shortlist out of a hat.'
'That wouldn't work!' Janice said.
'Why not? Either it's arbitrary or it isn't?'
'The judges don't think it's arbitrary,' I said. 'I don't think anybody else does either. We don't say about the authors of the short-listed books. "Gee, they were lucky."'
'But, if different judges would pick a different list...'
Rupert raised his hand in his best lecturing gesture. 'Trevor's right. Either it's arbitrary or it isn't. Modus ponens.'
Having Rupert and Trevor agree always compels serious reflection. It's like the chalk shaking hands with the cheese.
'Well,' I said. 'I suppose the arbitrariness is a demonstration that the awards aren't really about quality. At least not in any unqualified sense. I guess they're more a system of bestowing public approval. Like getting a pat on the head or having your name read out in school assembly.'
'Status,' Rupert said. 'An innate need of the human animal.'
'Ego,' Amanda added. 'Like I said.'
'And recognition,' I said. 'And sales. And reputation.'
Janice was frowning. 'I don't get it. What gives these people the right to tell you that your book's no good?'
'That fact that they're the judges.'
'Are they supposed to be experts or something?'
'In this case, I think they are supposed to be well-informed and discriminating readers.'
'But other well-informed and incriminating readers would come up with a different answer?'
'Yes. Quite possibly.'
'I love it,' Trevor said. 'There they are beavering away, sweating their guts out trying to pick the best book and really, it means nothing at all.'
'Not nothing. It's status. Like Rupert says.'
'If you care about status,' Amanda said.
'I take heart from Diogenes when it comes to that.'
'Mutterings from the barrel?'
'We'll see.'
Diognese puts me in mind of Janice's friend Brian, who is the president of the National Association of Hermits (known, somewhat dyslexically, by the acronym NOAH). Brian used to work with Janice at the Ministry of Cheese where he was a high-flying policy analyst with a stellar career ahead of him until the day he saw the light.
'Which light was this?" Trevor asked him.
'The sun,' Brian said. 'I'd been working forty hours straight doing research for a ministerial on the national parmesan stocks and I stepped outside for a break and there it was.'
'Where?'
'Up there. In the sky. This big golden thing beaming down on me with like the glorious orb of truth. And I thought to myself, what profiteth it a man if he gain a deputy-directorship and yet lose his ability to smell the roses.'
'What roses were these?'
'I think they were metaphorical.' I turned to Brian, fascinated by his tale. 'Go on.'
'Well, it seemed to me, in that moment, that I was vouchsafed a vision of earth-shattering importance, a vision that would be the salvation of all mankind. So I walked down to the cenotaph and I stood on the steps and I looked at the people walking up and down and I shouted, "Oy! You lot! Listen to me!"
'They took no notice so I yelled louder, "Oy! Listen to me! I have something really important to say! I can tell you the meaning of life and the secret of happiness."
'And still they took no notice. One or two of them even turned away and walked on the other side of the street. So I shouted for a third time. "This is your last chance! If, in the next five minutes, one of you doesn't come up to me and ask me what the secret of happiness is, then I'm going to shut up and never tell anybody. And none of you will ever know. So there!"
There was a moment's silence. Brian looked at us with a defiant smile.
'So what happened?" I asked.
'Nothing. They ignored me. More fool them, I thought. I'll show them.'
'What did you do?'
'I went home,' he said. 'And then a couple of days later I moved out to Makara.'
(Brian, I should say, lives on wind-swept hillside at Makara in a sod hut he built with his own hands. There is no electricity or running water and no sanitation. Currently, he is looking for a wife to share his blessings with but that's another story.)
'It took me a long time to realise,' he went on.
'Realise what?'
'That I was part of an important philosophical revolution, a new movement.'
'What movement is this?" Rupert asked.
'Sulking.'
'Never heard of it,' Rupert said.
'Ah, well. That doesn't surprise me. You're like all the other fools that are so busy puffing up there egos they are blind to what is right there in front of them.'
'Tell me about this sulking,' I said.
'It is a philosophical position based on a single, all-powerful premise that can elucidate all the ultimate questions you would ever want to ask.'
'What premise is this?'
'I'm not going to tell you.'
There was a pause.
'Yes,' I said. 'I see. I think.'
'So,' Rupert said, 'are there many of these sulkers?'
'Oh, quite a few. I'd say about half of the members of NOAH are sulkers.'
'What about the other half?' I asked.
'They're paranoid. And then there's around ten percent that don't exist. It's actually a very important organisation. One of the very few in the world that has stayed true to it's founding principles. We've just had our AGM. That's why I'm in town.'
'And was it a success?'
'What?'
'The AGM.'
'Oh, yes. It was a triumph! Nobody turned up.'
'Except you.'
'Oh, no. I wasn't there. What sort of message would it give if the country's leading hermit turned up to a meeting?'
Life on the veranda continues much as before.
'Diogenese?' Trevor said. 'Is that what a diogen speaks?'
'Diogenes was a Greek philosopher, c. 412 to 323 B.C,' Rupert informed him. 'He was the founder of the school of cynics. The word cynic, incidentally, is derived from the Greek word kynikos, which means 'dog-like'. Diogenes believe that the dog was a counter-example that demonstrated everything that is wrong with human beings.'
Rupert has a tendency to lecture. I ignored him.
'I like the idea of a diogen,' I said.
'What's it mean?' Janice asked.
Nobody answered. Trevor and I looked at one another.
'It's your word,' I said.
'No,' he answered. 'You can have it.'
'What I would want it to mean.' I said, 'is a social irritant whose life exemplifies his philosophy.'
'Or her,' Janice said.
'Or her.'
'Like Diogenes.'
'Diogenes wasn't a her,' Trevor said.
'But he could have been, eh?'
'No, he couldn't,' Amanda told her. 'No woman would be so stupid.'
'You might be right,' I admitted.
Amanda looked at me. It wasn't triumph exactly. More an expression of boredom at having to state the obvious.
'I suppose you fancy yourself as one of these diogen things,' she said.
'I aspire,' I said. 'Modestly.'
'You're irritating enough, that's for certain.'
'You're not going to take a vow of poverty, though.' Janice looked worried. 'You're not going to give up all your worldly goods and things like that.'
'I don't think Diogenes actually took a vow. It was more that he made a philosophical virtue out of his circumstances. His life was a demonstration of his beliefs and his beliefs were an expression of his life. That seems to me to be an interesting way to achieve personal integrity.'
'And that's what you aspire to?' Amanda asked. 'Modestly?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'You know the story. No truth without irony.'
Already, despite yesterday's abjuration, I am tempted to stray from the straight and narrow. My good friend the Laird of Muck na Bucket has sent me a document entitled The Teachings of Diogenes, gleaned from the Net. It recounts some of the wittier sayings of the world's first cynic. Thus, for example:
I must say I am quite attracted to this fellow. I'm not sure I could go quite as far as eating raw onions and living in a barrel but there has to be merit in the cynic's doctrine that true wisdom and happiness can only be achieved by those who are independent of society and its materialistic values.
Simplify, simplify. Renunciation is the pathway to contentment.
For example, the world is faced with soaring food and oil prices both of which are largely due to a refusal to abandon any element of our unsustainable lifestyle.
The point here is not just to solve a political or economic problem. More important, perhaps, is the alleviation of the all pervading anxiety that besets middle-class existence. This consists partly of what Alain de Botton calls status anxiety and partly a more broadly based fear that the world as we know it may come tumbling down about our ears. If, indeed, I could be happy living in a barrel, then I would be free from all such apprehensions. I think I'd still draw the line at the onions, though.
Here we are again. I must say I am not entirely sure why. The experience of having the site closed down by the thought police from the Department of Productivity and Sanity was truly traumatic and it has taken me over a year to recover. Indeed, had it not been for the demands of my fans, both of whom have been importuning me for several months, I doubt I would ever again have ventured to dip my toe into the ocean of the Internet.
Let me make it clear, therefore. I won't be going on in the old way. From this time forth I shall do my very best to ensure that everything on this site is sane and sensible and makes a useful contribution to the advancement of art and the general spiritual well-being. I won't be slagging off any members of the government, all of whom are doing their very best to make our lives happy and fulfilled; I won't be indulging in idle speculation on matters of philosophy and literary theory and I won't be offering insights derived from teachings of obscure and absurdist religious cults. If that makes the site dull and boring, all well and good. The less attention it gets the better, as far as I'm concerned.
There is, of course, the danger that I am going to bore myself to death but I suppose that can't be helped. The only alternative is to turn the site into a shameless piece of self-promotion. Given I have a novel coming out in a few weeks that might be excusable except for the fact that I would then be joining 99.9% of the other bloggers in the world. No, I shall resist that temptation. I shall be firm and resolute. I shall take comfort from the fact that if small is beautiful, invisible might be deemed a form of perfection.