A Selfless Response

I listened to will Self's Lent talk the other day. For those who missed this, he urges everyone to give up everything, all media, newspapers etc., for Lent. I'm glad that he has been inspired by my own little efforts!

He talked about many things, much of which I agreed with. In particular, he characterised the 20th century as representing a triumph for irony and facetiousness. It was when he came onto art that I began to disagree. He said "Art has quit the temple precinct.", i.e. art has become separate from religion, something that is undoubtedly true. He went on, however, to say that in the last 30 years art has become our religion. I wondered immediately, as he described the faithful flocking to the temples of art, exactly how widespread he thought this was. To me, it sounded suspiciously like he was describing the attitudes, if not the activity, of a relatively small metropolitan elite.

Indeed, the real point is that with the separation of art from religion, it has become if anything more not less elitist. Appreciation (a terribly unuanced description if ever there was one) of contemporary art relies on understanding a deliberately obtuse and overly intellectualised language. Without this, the works have to stand on their merits as visual objects, which in some cases is very little. Denied the glory of works designed to be intelligible (but not patronising) to all who view them, the only mass participation in art sometimes seems to be crude sensationalism. That's the real triumph and tragedy of the 20th century,

Proust And The Piccadilly Line

Yesterday I read a book on the tube. A relatively innocuous activity perhaps, but I was reading Proust, and whats worse it was a big book, and flashed its "I am a Penguin Classic!" black spine ostentatiously.

As I sat there, I was initially quite happy, until I noticed that I was attracting some strange looks. Nothing particularly new in that, but then I realised they were looking at me and at my book. What were they thinking?

The practically minded were probably thinking that it was a very large book, and that it was a good thing I had a bag in which to carry it. Others perhaps were thinking that the Metro had certainly increased in size and that it was amazing what you could get for free these days. They didn't worry me. What worried me was the knowing looks, the "he wants everyone to know he can read a big book" looks.

To some of them I am sure that my reading a book that size, that in your face weighty and serious in public was a sure sign of pretension, and i am sure to some of those who are reading this too no doubt. Why should this be? When did reading like this become for some something almost shameful. I had no agenda, I had no interest in what these people who I was never going to see again thought about me as a result of my reading a big book. Leave me alone I thought, if I wish to read then so be it.

Seven Days And Not One Moving Picture

"Slowly, slowly", seems to be characteristic of my new moving picture free existence. All at once I find that my time is no longer scheduled by the hour but by the page or the piece, that my time has taken a far more malleable mould.

I drift paradoxically idly from reading a few pages of one book to a few pages of another. Paradoxically, because this new life is far from idle. To a mind sapped of the ability to concentrate on a dense piece of prose, or rather to one unused to having this as leisure option, the prospect of a few more pages of Proust can sometimes seem more daunting than pleasureable.

On the flip side, there is a delight in the depths revealed by a single exquiste sentence or the spreading, messy thoughts inspired by the most meticulous of prose. Pockets of time appear also, free of distraction, in which the mind can meander gently through its corridors and pick up and discard at will. If only the corridors were a little more full...but there is time enough.

An Atheist's Lent

While as an atheist the religious brouhaha surrounding Lent does not apply, I think that the basic message of Lent, removal of the extraneous etc., tallies beautifully with what this little odyssey is about. The idea of removing the babble, the mindless bleating and quick fire splurge of baseless "information", in order to breathe and think is a persuasive one.

Already, after only one evening I find myself slowing down slightly, although when I stopped to watch a cup of tea brew I did begin to wonder what I had let myself in for!

So no films, no telly, just radio and Proust (and other books) and lets see what happens. Whether I end up drifting in a sea of tea watching or emphasising just a little too much with Proust in his cork lined cell, the experience is the thing.

In the beginning...

I think we all think too little, myself included. For a long time I have believed that our society has become at heart ephemeral, concerned with the fleeting experience and scornfully dismissive of that which is perceived as intellectual, namely anything that requires thought or enthusiasm or energy. I think we are all in danger of being forced to dismiss conversation, reading, art and music etc. in favour of instantaneous satisfaction and the cult of the new.

I am as guilty as anyone else.

This being the case, I have decided to renounce all television for Lent and attempt at the same time to read Prousts' " In Search Of Lost Time" cover to cover. I want to see if I think more, feel more and see more, whether in fact I too can go in search of lifes we have lost...