The Stranger

In The Stranger Albert Camus exposes the terrifying gap between social convention and social reality. Meursault's narrative begins with the death of his mother and the famous line, 'Maman died today'. He explains the very human nature of the estrangemed relationship: he could not afford to care for her, and neither was good company for the other, so he sent her to a home where both could be happier. Nonetheless, he confesses to a prevailing feeling of guilt: 'It's not my fault'. It is a curious statement, made more curious by repetition, but it becomes clearer with the realisation that Meursault is recalling these events from prison.

As the trial proves, a rational motive for Meursault's crime is difficult to trace. 'It was the sunlight', is all that he can say. However, throughout his narrative his victim is referred to simply as 'the Arab', part of a gang of 'Arabs', who are not granted any differentiation: 'The Arab fell flat in the water, facedown, and lay there for several seconds with bubbles bursting on the surface around his head. Meanwhile, Raymond had landed one too, and the other Arab's face was bleeding [....] But the other Arab had gotten back up.' The court never interrogates racial prejudice, the blindness of an individual to the humanity of another. Rather, it is Meursault's seemingly unfeeling attitude to his mother's death that provides a basis for his conviction. The prosecutor declares that Meursault lacks a soul, 'not one of the moral principles that govern men's hearts'; it is 'an abyss threatening to swallow up society'.

Meursault is not the threat; he is merely a keen observer of the malaise. Early in his narrative, he meets Salamano and his dog, who enact a cycle of brutality, hatred and terror: 'Salamano stumbles. Then he beats the dog and swears at it. The dog cowers and trails behind. Then it's the old man who pulls the dog. Once the dog has forgotten, it starts dragging its master along again, and again gets beaten and sworn at. Then they both stand there on the sidewalk and stare at each other, the dog in terror, the man in hatred. It's the same thing every day'. Tellingly, Meursault does not intervene. In fact, he rarely acts, and when he does, his actions are a product of circumstances rather than decisions of a conscious will. In such a twisted world, there is no hope, only the comfort to be found in the consistency of hate.

The Interpretation of Dreams

Last night I dreamt in a language that I don't understand. It wasn't that I could speak or comprehend it in my dream, but it was an interminable presence--a white noise of complete sentences, paragraphs, narratives. When I woke up, the French was still ringing in my ears. Freud says that the subconscious stores the stuff of everyday life, even the immediately incomprehensible, and processes it through dreams. It isnt just flotsom and jetsom that turns up but significant clues to the psyche. That can seem a little bit like reading tea leaves, but the process of analysing the dreams is useful in itself in that it can lead to the articulation of thoughts, emotions, and desires. For example, I am certain that my dream is a result of my current feeling of alienation--and yes I mean alienation, with all its significance. There have been times when I relished months away alone, nevermind a paltry week. But the past while has been a busy time and an emotionally intense one, with milestones for cannon-fodder left and right. Part of life must be learning when to be alone and when to be together. And if life is not about achievement but enjoyment, what more precious lesson to be learned?

A few nights ago, I dreamt that all of my teeth were falling out, rolling across the floor like marbles. A man who was a cross between Sarkozy and Kevin Spacey was trying to help me save them. Sometimes a dream is just a dream, and Freud quietly admits that too.

The Secret Scripture

Kirsty kindly asked me to review a book for Other Stories. The result, a review of Sebastian Barry's The Secret Scripture, is here

a manifesto of sorts

When Kirsty at Other Stories invited me to write a review for her book blog, I was simultaneously flattered and flabergasted. What would I have to say and to whom? I have followed a few literary blogs since Mark Thwaite of ReadySteadyBook and dovegreyreader gave John Mullan a run for his money at the Oxford Literary Festival. While Mullan argued that the critic was a divine repository of literary knowledge, the bloggers gave an eloquent and erudite defence of Everyreader. It's an irrefutable fact that idiots abound, but mindlessly opinionated people are no more prolific on the interweb than in the press or--albeit disconcertingly--in the lofty spheres of the academy. It would be disingenuous to fail to confess that I have two feet planted firmly in the one world and am oh-so-tentatively testing the waters of the unfortunately named 'blogosphere'. Be ye forewarned, look not for bells and whistles here. (I can't even manage a hyperlink.) Rather, what you can expect is a straightforward approach to books and posts that attempt to balance visceral spontaneity with considered coherence. Good luck, you say.

The James Dickie poem, 'Kudzu' (which lends a quote to the title of this blog), is a vivid depiction of a foreign element, the Japanese vine, which is introduced to control and, to a certain extent, cultivate the unruly soil of the American South. The Kudzu is unexpectedly uncontrollable, shelters evil, and threatens to destabilise the quiet agrarian life. But just as it brings fear, it also gives strength, 'Such strength as you would not believe/ If you stood alone in a proper/ Shaved field among your safe cows'. I intend for this to be a space where the academic can meet the everyday and neither need fear the other but both can be empowered. It is not so esoteric as it seems. I come from a place where Oxford means Mississippi and Dublin means Georgia, and that's as far as people generally get. It's difficult to reconcile where I'm from with who I am, so maybe this will be a space where those worlds can meet as well.