I almost bought this book on the strength of the title alone, without knowing anything about the contents. When it turned out to be an 18th-century anti-self help book I was ashamed of my doubts and promptly purchased it.
The subject is the fine art of making people miserable - your friends, your family, your servants, and (if you are absolutely desperate for subjects) yourself. Wonderfully psychologically astute before there was even such a thing as psychology, and hilarious as well. I'm surprised it's not more generally taught, as it's a short read and even if you sadly have no interest in learning how to be the best annoyance you can be, it's a good window into the daily life of the time - especially the relationships between masters, mistresses, and servants. Apparently nothing was quite so annoying as a master with transportation issues - was that horse really necessary or not?
The author, Jane Collier, was an 18th-century contemporary of Henry Fielding and Samuel Richardson, and is now so obscure that she lacks even a decent Wikipedia entry for me to link to. But she must have been great company if "Essay on the Art" is anything to go by, although you probably wouldn't have wanted to get on her bad side.
Monday 30 June 2008
"Gordon Brown," Tom Bower
I decided to read this book because I love a good disaster story. Bower specializes in writing takedowns of unpleasant people, so I thought most of it would be scurrilous gossip a la Kitty Kelley, but a great deal of it is actually about failures of economic understanding. I know about as much about economics as George W. Bush did about the interplay of ethnic and religious forces in the Middle East, so I have conveniently translated what I could understand of the action into Liberal Arts Major-ese.
Gordon Brown, by Tom Bower: The Play
starring Our Heroes (civil servants, anybody with a working grasp of economic theory)
Gordon Brown
Act I
The setting: an office
Our Heroes: Hey, what's up? Can I look at that policy you're working on?
Gordon Brown: No, because I'm a control freak with problems! I grew up in a manse!
OH: Come on, just a tiny peek.
GB: Noooooooo!
He attempts to eat the paper, but failing, decides to hide his work by sitting on it instead.
Act II
Later that day Our Heroes sneak into the office and find that Brown's cunning plan of concealment has failed. He failed to perceive that when he got up from the chair, the notes would once again be visible to his enemies!
Our Heroes: Jesus Christ! This is an unholy marriage between neoliberal economic theory and state interference! It will never work!
Brown springs from underneath his desk. He was hiding the whole time!
GB: It will too work, because I said so!
Brown savagely beats them to death, then steals their policies for himself.
GB: I am a genius!
Choral interlude
Brown appears underneath Tony Blair's window to sing him a beautiful song. ORCHESTRA appears, Charlie Whelan on synth, Ed Balls on the panpipes.
"Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As means-tested benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not..."
WHEN'S IT MY TURN AT THE BIG JOB? YOU PROMISED, TONY!
Act III
The economic plan fails... because it was stupid!
The cycle repeats for about 300 pages, and Bower has to end with another round of this nonsense and some "what does the future hold?" speculation because he published before it became clear that Brown would get to be PM. Reading the speculation now is strangely upsetting, like reading a truncated version of "Carrie" that ends right before Carrie goes to the prom. "Would Gordon be elected prom queen? Would this be the best prom ever? I don't know, but time will tell!" Cue pigs' blood, fire, and a whole lot of laughing at you.
Anyway, now you without counting skills have read the nasty biography of Gordon Brown. Oh, I forgot, he was mean to his girlfriends for some vague reason that may or may not be actionable under libel law. Now you've read it.
Gordon Brown, by Tom Bower: The Play
starring Our Heroes (civil servants, anybody with a working grasp of economic theory)
Gordon Brown
Act I
The setting: an office
Our Heroes: Hey, what's up? Can I look at that policy you're working on?
Gordon Brown: No, because I'm a control freak with problems! I grew up in a manse!
OH: Come on, just a tiny peek.
GB: Noooooooo!
He attempts to eat the paper, but failing, decides to hide his work by sitting on it instead.
Act II
Later that day Our Heroes sneak into the office and find that Brown's cunning plan of concealment has failed. He failed to perceive that when he got up from the chair, the notes would once again be visible to his enemies!
Our Heroes: Jesus Christ! This is an unholy marriage between neoliberal economic theory and state interference! It will never work!
Brown springs from underneath his desk. He was hiding the whole time!
GB: It will too work, because I said so!
Brown savagely beats them to death, then steals their policies for himself.
GB: I am a genius!
Choral interlude
Brown appears underneath Tony Blair's window to sing him a beautiful song. ORCHESTRA appears, Charlie Whelan on synth, Ed Balls on the panpipes.
"Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As means-tested benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember'd not..."
WHEN'S IT MY TURN AT THE BIG JOB? YOU PROMISED, TONY!
Act III
The economic plan fails... because it was stupid!
The cycle repeats for about 300 pages, and Bower has to end with another round of this nonsense and some "what does the future hold?" speculation because he published before it became clear that Brown would get to be PM. Reading the speculation now is strangely upsetting, like reading a truncated version of "Carrie" that ends right before Carrie goes to the prom. "Would Gordon be elected prom queen? Would this be the best prom ever? I don't know, but time will tell!" Cue pigs' blood, fire, and a whole lot of laughing at you.
Anyway, now you without counting skills have read the nasty biography of Gordon Brown. Oh, I forgot, he was mean to his girlfriends for some vague reason that may or may not be actionable under libel law. Now you've read it.
Thursday 26 June 2008
"Servants of the People: The Inside Story of New Labour," Andrew Rawnsley
I have been on a politics reading kick lately. It's embarrassing; I promise to make up for it by reading something less horribly dorky, like a romance novel or something about space soldiers commanding armadas of space dragons. Bear with me, I am sure I will recover soon!
Frankly, I should have known better in another way; history makes for better reading after all the participants are dead, because then you can get all the gossip and cod psychoanalysis in without the danger of libel suits popping up. But I keep forgetting this, to my detriment. Stupid contemporary history! You can't have a proper narrative without knowing how things end! (I felt like writing in little epilogues for all the "characters" on the endpages.)
Anyway, according to Rawnsley, Tony Blair became Prime Minister and some things happened (not Iraq, the book was published before that shitstorm came to rain feces upon the land). Everything that happened, good or bad, made everyone involved feel terribly insecure, because they were all terrible fakes. Rinse, repeat, the end.
The one part of the book that really sticks in my head is the account of the 2000 London mayoral election, mainly because Rawnsley keeps making newt-themed puns at the expense of Ken Livingstone, the now ex-mayor. By the end of the book I was half-reading, and half thinking about newts and why they were so important to Red Ken - so important that Rawnsley had to bring them up every damn time the man was mentioned. I came to a conclusion: The newts were obviously Ken's spirit animals, the amphibian equivalent of Dick Whittington's cat. I like to think that Ken would go riding round London at night on a giant newt, visiting all of his ten bajillion children and maybe siring some more along the way. That's why he lost the mayoral election; the giant newt died and without its psychic powers he is nothing. I wonder where it is buried?
Frankly, I should have known better in another way; history makes for better reading after all the participants are dead, because then you can get all the gossip and cod psychoanalysis in without the danger of libel suits popping up. But I keep forgetting this, to my detriment. Stupid contemporary history! You can't have a proper narrative without knowing how things end! (I felt like writing in little epilogues for all the "characters" on the endpages.)
Anyway, according to Rawnsley, Tony Blair became Prime Minister and some things happened (not Iraq, the book was published before that shitstorm came to rain feces upon the land). Everything that happened, good or bad, made everyone involved feel terribly insecure, because they were all terrible fakes. Rinse, repeat, the end.
The one part of the book that really sticks in my head is the account of the 2000 London mayoral election, mainly because Rawnsley keeps making newt-themed puns at the expense of Ken Livingstone, the now ex-mayor. By the end of the book I was half-reading, and half thinking about newts and why they were so important to Red Ken - so important that Rawnsley had to bring them up every damn time the man was mentioned. I came to a conclusion: The newts were obviously Ken's spirit animals, the amphibian equivalent of Dick Whittington's cat. I like to think that Ken would go riding round London at night on a giant newt, visiting all of his ten bajillion children and maybe siring some more along the way. That's why he lost the mayoral election; the giant newt died and without its psychic powers he is nothing. I wonder where it is buried?
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