Remember Me (Weldon 1976)

 Fay Weldon. Remember Me (1976) Madeleine, Jarvis’s ex-wife, wants revenge. She’s obsesses about him and his new wife Lily, who is a self-centred horror. Their circle includes Philip, a doctor (somewhat of a cold fish) and Margot his wife, who once many years ago made love with Jarvis, on the coats stacked in the spare bedroom during a party when Madeleine was still married to him. That’s the setup. Weldon tells their interlaced stories with a mix of universal and character points of view. About halfway through the story, Madeleine dies in car crash, and her ghost hangs around making trouble. Eventually loose ends are nicely knotted, some poetic justice dishes appropriate retribution, loves are rekindled, and ghostly Madeleine rests in peace.

     IOW, this is a romance, but with sharp elbows. Weldon is very good at skewering moral failings, and acute in observing how people avoid painful but healing insights. An enjoyable read that raises questions that most of us need to ask about ourselves and our relationships.
     Recommended. ***

Mordecai Richler's Take on Humour

Mordecai Richler. The Best of Modern Humor (1983) Well, when it comes to humour, we disagree. Richler likes satire, and some of the selections are quite cruel. And many of the pieces here are neither satire nor humour, but merely slices of (usually sad) American life.
     The best pieces, or rather, the ones I liked best, are the earliest ones, such as Leacock’s Gertrude the Governess, or Simple Seventeen, or Maurice Baring’s King Lear’s Daughters. Maybe that shows that absurdity is the only universal humour. Or else that I like humour that takes some premise to absurd lengths. I studied logic in my younger days, and learned that reliance on logic is often unreasonable. Logic merely calculates the consequence of some premises, which often reveals some hidden silliness in the assumptions on which the self-diagnosed rational man bases his argument.
     Leacock’s “nonsense novel” satirises how love romances violate common sense and common knowledge. Little has changed in the hundred odd years since he wrote that Nonsense Novel. Baring takes the opposite tack: he makes Regan a suburban housewife of the type that knows what’s best for everyone, but especially herself. The piece shows that this type of woman (and man) is at least as old as humankind.
     But most of the pieces reveal one or another of the deadly sins and their effects. But like Woody Allen’s Kugelmass Episode, they tend to be more sad than funny. So Kugelmass can enter a fictional world, and make love to fictional women? He’s still a sad sack who can’t deal with the realities of his life, and whinges to his therapist about how the universe doesn’t provide the romance that he needs.
     Nevertheless, this anthology is a keeper, if only because it brings together many disparate pieces that would be difficult to find. ** to ****.  

Give the Devil His Due: The Screwtape Letters (C S Lewis)

C S Lewis. The Screwtape Letters (1942) A re-read. The letters tell the story of a recent convert to Christianity that Screwtape wants to recapture for Hell’s delectation. Unfortunately, despite his excellent advice on how to exploit the weaknesses of human nature, his nephew Wormwood fails. The object of his devilish affections dies in a bombing raid after achieving another step on his journey to full discipleship.
     Ah, those weaknesses in our nature. They’re all caricatures or dark inversions of our strengths and virtues. Lewis understands that only too well. For example, the false humility of wanting “just a little toast and tea” instead of the three course dinner on offer, which imposes extra work on the host. The apparent self-abnegation disguises the actual selfishness of the perpetrator. Lewis also understands the difference between genuine pleasures and their counterfeits as labelled in the list of seven deadly sins. Enjoying food is good. Gluttony is bad. The book is worth reading merely for these and many other psychological insights.
     For Christians, the extra dimension of theology adds more insight. For example, Lewis believes that pleasure and joy are divine gifts. The Devil can’t produce anything like them; at most he can misdirect the desire for these gifts. Simple pleasure is beyond the Devil's power. Thus, Screwtape loses his temper when contemplating the innocent pleasure of a human splashing about in his bath. How dare the Enemy endow this abominable mix of flesh and spirit with the ability to enjoy mere sensations! At best, the Devil can pervert pleasures, or encourage over-indulgence, or shift the focus from the pleasure itself to the ego, thus making them means instead of ends.
     The letters also hint at Hell’s political ideology, which bears an uncomfortable resemblance to fascism and other totalitarianisms.
     One of Lewis’s best. I’ve read it several times now, and every reread reveals more subtle insight and wisdom. Recommended. ****

Simplicissimus: German Satire from the 1920s and 30s

 

Stanley Appelbaum. Simplicissimus. 180 Satirical Drawings... (1975). The satirical weekly Simplicissimus was published from 1896 to 1944, but its years as Nazi propaganda rag from 1933 on were a sad comedown from its heyday as one of the most thoroughly moral weeklies. It attacked everything and anything that its editors found objectionable. The hypocrite, the poseur, the indifferent capitalist, the militarist, the fashionable people and faddish ideas of the day, all these and more were mocked in its pages. Some drawings were gentle jokes, others savage attacks. The quality of the art ranges from pretty good illustration to astonishingly evocative art. Some, like those by Käthe Kollwitz, merely represent reality. Others use conventional imagery to signal the social types and classes on display. Most artists have mastered the expressive line that can show us anything from rage to languor.

Dover Publications commissioned this selection of drawings. Appelbaum wrote a potted history of the magazine for it, as well as brief bios of the artists. The cover illustration’s caption reads, “Why do we [men] need suits when the women wear almost nothing?”

Out of print, but worth a search. ****

Political Satire. It's a page-turner! (The Best Laid Plans by Terry Fallis)

 

Terry Fallis. The Best Laid Plans (2007) Who’da thunk a political novel could be a read-through page-turner? Well, almost, I don’t set aside enough time to read through the whole book in one sitting. I did anticipate the pleasure of taking up where I left off, which was always rewarded.
     Daniel Addison leaves political hack work when he discovers his lover in the House Leader’s office having a non-political encounter. Broken-hearted, he retreats into academe. But one last political job must be done before he can relax and enjoy teaching and research. He must find a Liberal who is willing to stand in a riding certain to be lost to one of the most popular Conservative Finance Ministers ever to wear shiny new shoes on Budget Day. He manages to find one, his landlord Angus McLintock, an engineering prof doomed to teach English For Engineers. Daniel proposes a deal: He’ll teach the course if Angus will stand for the Liberals. Assured that he will lose, Angus is happy to oblige.
     And so begins an engaging story of how McLintock wins (what else did you expect?), Addison heals his broken heart (ditto), and various other characters receive their just poetical desserts. Not quite as funny as I expected from a book winning the Stephen Leacock Award, but slyly satirical, robustly indignant, sappily romantic, unobtrusively informative, with enough witty asides to satisfy my taste for irony. It was also the 2011 winner of Canada Reads, a CBC-sponsored competition in which miscellaneous celebrities argue for their book. I’ll add my recommendation to whoever promoted this one. ****

Glossary: Riding = electoral district. Shiny new shoes = Canadian political tradition, the Finance Minister wears brand new shoes when introducing the Budget. CBC = Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.

 

The Great Dictator (1940) [D: Charlie Chaplin. Charlie Chaplin, Paulette Goddard) An overrated film. The satire works very well, especially since Chaplin has sussed that Hynkel-Hitler was the empty puppet of his impulses. But Chaplin can’t resist inserting slapstick and farce, which interferes with the developing terror. The Brown Shirts may have been buffoons, but their buffoonery killed people. Chaplin shies away from following the logic of his plot to its dark conclusion. The final scene, obviously meant to be a stirring call to arms against tyranny, turns the plot into sentimental farce. Satire is allied to tragedy, and doesn’t need a happy ending to make its point. But perhaps the American audiences of 1940 preferred to laugh at slapdash tyrant instead of considering the moral imperative laid on them by recognising evil.
    I watched this movie because of its reputation. It’s become a curio, important for its historical significance. It did help mobilise American opinion against Hitler. But it's also an example of the muddled mess that Chaplin was capable of producing when not restrained by a strong director. A mixture of inspired satire, slapstick, and comedy, but that’s all, a mixture. The movie doesn’t have the structure that I expected. It’s a series of set pieces loosely strung on an underdeveloped plot line. Too often, I got the impression that Chaplin was showing off, or relying on his audience recognising a shtick he’d used many, many times before. **

A Loony Hero: Spike Milligan's The Looney (1997)

Spike Milligan. The Looney (1997). Milligan was one of the script-writers for the Goon Show, which changed sketch-comedy forever. His writings have the same crazy mix of puns, riffs, dead-pan literalism, absurdly valid logic, and unexpected but somehow fitting plot twists as the shows. They also contain occasional bits of painful self-revelation. Milligan’s humour was his armour, his shield against despair. His rage at the hypocrisy and selfishness of the human race, at indifference to suffering, at the despoliation of nature, is barely contained. The combination makes his books hard reading at times.
     Dick Looney believes his father’s claim that the family is not only descended from Irish royalty, but are the rightful rulers of the Isle. The story, such as it is, follows Looney’s attempts to confirm the rumour and claim his throne. The short chapters read like Goon-show sketches, but as in the Goon Show, they coalesce into a sufficiently coherent narrative that the ending satisfies. ****

Nancy Mitford Amuses

 Nancy Mitford Don’t Tell Alfred (1960) Mitford’s last novel, in which she revisits some of the characters of Love in a Cold Climate. Whitehall appoints Fanny Wincham’s husband Alfred Ambassador to France, first making him a Sir. Their children, her niece, assorted other relatives and friends, as well as a handful of French politicians, cause a variety of tangles, which Alfred and fate must unknot. Mostly fate. The result is a nicely done airport book, the kind that amuses and entertains, but requires no close attention to plot.
     The dialogue carries most of the story, which is really a long shaggy dog anecdote.  Mitford slings in some less-than-sly digs at the English and French, modern child-rearing, pop-culture, tabloids and their owners, and gormless idealism. The spice of satire enlivens what would otherwise be a rather bland dish. I enjoyed the book, not a page turner, more of a bowl of noshes to dip into. It did trigger a desire to reread Love in a Cold Climate and Cold Comfort Farm, which I’ve so far been able to resist. **½

The Martians are Coming, the Martians are Coming!

Frederik Pohl. The Day the Martians Came (1988) So the first fully staffed expedition to Mars accidentally discovers Martians, who live underground in tunnels that their ancestors must have built. That’s the first chapter in a series of tales that show how humans, well, Americans mostly, react to the news. Everyone is out for a buck or some other advantage. The Martians look somewhat like seals with more leg-like flippers. They like to huddle together and enjoy each other’s company. Apart from eating, that's all they do, really.
     Excerpts from magazines, scientific papers, Congressional records, media interviews, etc punctuate the narrative and display the official reactions. All the narrative threads come together in the final chapter, in which Pohl dispenses some poetic justice, just so’s we won’t totally depressed by his satiric insights into our weaknesses and vices.
     A nicely done satire. Pohl has a good eye and ear for the self-delusions that underpin most of the damage we inflict on ourselves and each other. ***

Suppose God wrote a memoir....

     David Javerbaum. The Last Testament: A Memoir by God (2011) 1. In the beginning, I took a lunch with Daniel Greenburg of the Levine Greenburg Literary Agency. 2.For the future of print was without hope, and void; and darkness had fallen upon the face of the entire publishing industry. (Prologue, 1-2) Thus begins this Memoir; and if you have a good knowledge of the Bible, you will recognise allusions to its contents not only here but throughout the book.
     The God who writes this memoir is the God of the Bible, as understood by Javerbaum, and probably others, since he was a writer for Saturday Night Live at the time this book came into being. It’s a well-done and often subtle satire of those who believe in a God that resembles a human being, a conclusion that follows from the assumption that humans are made in the image of God.
     Certainly, the more literalist believers will find much to be offended by, but I think for those who understand that the Bible is one of many attempts to make sense of the astonishing creativity of the Universe that brought us into being, this book will be at least as thought-provoking as it is entertaining. If you have wrestled with questions of creed and theology, this book may suggest that most of those questions are unanswerable in St Augustine’s sense. The trick is to recognise which are mere verbal puzzles, which are matters of substance, and which are the consequence of ill-understood and mistaken assumptions.
     Recommended. A keeper. ****

Gary Larson. The Far Side Gallery 4 (1993) Another lovely collection of Larson’s cartoons. Two samples below. ****

R. Cobb. Raw Sewage: Unprocessed Cartoons (1970) No longer in print, but worth searching for, this collection reminds us of several things: The Cold War and the threat of nuclear annihilation. The increasing damage caused by our overproduction of material goods. The tight grip that unexamined ideas have on us. The morphing of political principles into religious dogmas. And so on. And while some details of Cobb’s cartoons  fail to foresee the future, the theses are as valid today as they were fifty years ago. Our consumerist capitalism will destroy us. A bleak vision, but a necessary one. ****

Cobb died recently. New York Time obituary here.

Trump the Real Estate guy

So Trump has confirmed he's considering buying Greenland.

ROTFLMAO.

He's become the master of unwitting self-mockery. Really, you can't make this stuff up. Nobody will ever take him seriously again.

Update 20200728: I have underestimated the, um. loyalty of his followers.

.... 1066 and all this?

    E. O. Parrott, ed. The Dogsbody Papers (1988) What’s a dogsbody, you ask? The guy who has to do the work that’s not glamourous or important enough for the glamorous and important people to do. A factotum. A drudge. The one without whom the house would turn into a garbage dump. The necessary worker that the important people don’t notice. Hence the one who can collect and preserve the evidence of what really happened, such as diaries, unpublished poems, drafts of speeches, fragments of joke books, etc. We see bits of history that the official record omits.
     The Dogsbody clan is found worldwide, in all social strata. The age of the lineage is uncertain,. However, palaeontology provides evidence that it originated before recorded history. We owe the record of the discovery of the wheel to the scratchings of one Ugg Dugg Budd, ca 15,000 B.C.E.
     This book is a compendium of such ephemera. Nicely decorated by W. F. N. Watson, including facsimiles of oddments such as broadsheets and manuscript illuminations. If you have a reasonable grasp of history, it will amuse you. If not, you may be puzzled why I rate it ****.

Don't Get Too Comfortable (your life's course is changing). Essays by David Rakoff

     David Rakoff. Don’t Get too Comfortable (2005) Rakoff died in 2012. He wrote pieces about culture, mostly about examples of excess, such as the last essay in this book, which reports on cryogenics. (A technology to freeze you so that at some point many centuries hence you can be unfrozen and resume your life. Though why people many centuries hence would want to unfreeze you is a question that apparently never occurs to the believers).
     That parenthetical remark is the kind of thinking Rakoff does, and as often as not triggers in the reader. That makes him a valuable analyst of our times. He was revered as a humourist, but he’s really a satirist. The occasional one-liners and jokes are as on-topic and often as biting as his analytic comments.
     Many of these pieces were written during the Bush years, and some refer back to Reagan. Rakoff was one of the first to recognise that the Republicans were going down a road of self-destruction. As always when a dragon self-destroys, the thrashing of its tail in its death throes causes damage around it. That’s what’s happening now.
     There I go again, thinking like Rakoff.
     He writes about food, fashion, plastic surgery, politics, flying on the Concorde, and many other topics, trivial and significant, mundane and exotic. The title applies to all of them. There’s an undertone of existential panic, a how-did-we-get-here apprehension of unknown and unexpected consequences.  You can see why I recommend this book. ****

Candide, a puppet

     Voltaire. Candide (1759. This edition, 1930, Illustrated Editions Co, New York) I first read this book some 50 years ago, and couldn’t remember a single thing about it. In fact, I knew the famous “Let us tend our gardens” line that ends it only from 3rd party discussions and references. So you may think that re-reading would be a revelation.
     Well, the revelation is the reason that the book was a blank: it’s the most boring, uninvolving, mechanically constructed “story” I’ve ever read. I suppose in its day it was daring, provoking, a poke in the complacent citizen’s eye, an insult to the philosophers, and so on. But that’s just a reminder that there wasn’t much reading matter available in Voltaire’s day, and the average was pretty low. It didn’t take much to effort to jump over the bar, and Voltaire did not exert himself. Or else the book proves that fiction is somewhat more difficult than essays.
     I just didn’t care about Candide or any of the other characters. It’s clear I was supposed to react to the horrible things that were done by various evildoers, and to laugh at Candide’s naive insistence that despite these horrors the world was the best it could be, and so on. But the characters are mere ciphers. They are satirical theses with labels attached.
     Compare Candide with Gulliver’s Travels, published about 30 years earlier, and known to Voltaire. What a difference. Gulliver, a naif like Candide, is fully rounded. We believe Gulliver’s reactions and feelings because they spring from his character. What’s more, he changes. He moves from one naivete (that the world is as it should be) to another (that there’s nothing good in the world).  Candide is a badly made puppet, and Voltaire an unskilled puppeteer. Voltaire is also inconsistent: people cheerfully steal the treasures Candide brings back from Eldorado, cheat him when he sells parts of it, renege on their promises, but he always has a few more diamonds to sell. Why doesn’t someone just beat him up and rifle through his pockets? In the fantastic world that Voltaire has posited, that omission is flat out incredible.
      I took four evenings to get through this book. Overrated. *

Spy Caper Spoof

      Spy (2015) [D: Paul Feig (also wrote), with Melissa McCarthy, Rose Byrne, Jude Law, Miranda Hart] Mildly amusing spy caper spoof in which a CIA desk-operative Susan Cooper (McCarthy) volunteers to take on a “track and report” field mission involving an international gang of suave psychopaths who are trading in suitcase-sized atom bombs.
The joke is that Cooper is not a svelte, elegant, self-confident wonder woman, but a dumpy, inelegant, unconfident woman who’s hopelessly in love with the spy (Jude Law) she assists. But she’s smart, brave, has trained in martial arts and firearms, and gains self-confidence as she outwits, outfights, and outshoots assorted baddies. The fun comes from McCarthy’s acting, our recognition of the James Bond tropes, the above averege script (although far more F-bombs than it needed), and the care taken to make all minor characters just caricatured enough for humour. The cast and crew obviously have a lot of fun too, which always helps. Enough (semi-plausible) plot twists to keep you watching.  I enjoyed it. **½

Canadian Satire: Barbed Lyres, 1990

     Barbed Lyres: Canadian Venomous Verse (1990) Foreword by Margaret Atwood. This Magazine asked readers ro write satirical verses, and this book is one of the results. The verses in it for the most part express annoyance rather than venom, but the standard of both content and form is high. An example relevant to the current US Presidential election:
     Of Brian and Ronnie and Free Trade
     How wonderful his breath must smell
     From his bid to be famous
     He sold our nation straight to hell
     And kissed old Ronnie’s anus
              (S. Piatkowski, Ottawa)
     Found in the Sault Ste Marie library’s book sale for $1. A keeper. ****

Leacock, humourist and satirist

     Stephen Leacock. Literary Lapses and Winnowed Wisdom (1910 & 1926) Leacock suffers from his reputation as Our Great Canadian Humourist. He does write humorous pieces and some wonderfully bizarre fantasies, his sense of the absurd is exquisite, but his real strength I think is satire. His taught economics, the dismal science, which isn’t a science but is dismal, especially when its practitioners have a political or philosophical axe to grind. There’s only one law of economics: trading is an exchange of wealth. Everything else is ideology, psychology, and (mostly) superstition. Leacock understood this, and his savage attacks on the rich, their greed, indifference, and ignorance, are disguised by a veneer of absurdity, or surrealism, or a bonhomie that may trick you into thinking that a snarl is a grin.
     Leacock likes to use the naif as his narrator, as in How to Make a Million Dollars, not nearly as well known as My Financial Career, and not nearly as pleasant to read. It begins “I like millionaires”, and pretty soon we realise that the millionaires are venal, self-indulgent, greedy, and more or less corrupt. But the narrator sees only the fine clothes, fine food, fine houses, and fine drink, all which he would like to have more of himself. He can’t make a million dollars, but he can ingratiate himself into millionaire society: they will feed him well in exchange for his flatteries.
     Leacock knew his audience, and was careful to write the nonsense that elicits laughter rather than awareness. He was a complex man, who knew perfectly well that humans are a good deal less than they wish to be and persuade themselves they are. His need for approval often made him pull his punches and sheathe his claws. His best pieces are those in which he can indulge his sense of the absurdity of daily life without risking satire, such as The Men who have Shaved Me, or The Everlasting Angler (he was an avid fisher all his life). But his most powerful ones are the satires, see Summer Sorrows of the Super Rich.
     Reprinted in A Treasury of Stephen Leacock (1999), along with Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town. I bought it for $1 at a yard sale, excellent value. Recommended. ****

Bad boys and other fun stuff (book review)

     Cornelia Ostabrauck, ed. Das Kleine Wilhelm Busch Album (n.d.) Includes Max und Moritz, those terrible boys whose pranks damage humans and kill animals. Their demise is not mourned. Plus a handful of other Busch faves, including Der Virtuoso: Ein Neujahrskonzert, which reminds me of Gerard Hoffnung’s music cartoons. It’s quite likely that Hoffnung knew Busch’s work and was influenced by it. Busch has fallen out of favour in some quarters because of his combination of physical fantasy and psychological realism. He know that humans are not only imperfect but often intentionally evil. A nice little gift-book, about 5cm square, I have no idea how I acquired it. If you haven’t encountered Busch, you can find his books on the Gutenberg Project.***