A delayed quarter-review of DFW's study of Cantor and Infinity. Or, how to avoid serious mathematics.
Rarely does a reader begin a book certain of its unfinishability. There are, of course, examples to the contrary, but they’re usually study-based, or socially motivated “required reading” — the sort of thing that forces the Zeligs of the world to read as much of Moby Dick as they can. This is not the case with my reading (or quarter-reading, or even eighth-readings) of David Foster Wallace’s Everything and More. I chose it; I willed myself to read it. Sure, it was on a bargain table ($8) and thus easier to excuse, but I nonetheless got it aware that as a reader I would never fold its last page with the kind of completion-satisfaction even a bad book can provide. I could only excuse such a wasteful purchase on the inverse of future completion satisfaction: completion anxiety (bear in mind that this is a book about Infinity after all). As an ailment, this is closer to what record collectors suffer, tossing in their sleep about that rare Pavement 7-inch with the B-Side cover of the MC5’s ‘The Human Being Lawnmower’ (more on that soon). Continue reading “David Foster Wallace – Everything and More”
I believe that Bitches Brew is one of the most mysterious albums in jazz, period.
Alinear, spliced, swampy grooves played in modes or keys somewhere between uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Long sketches that completely collapse notions of verse-solo/chorus in the standard jazz sense. The insinuation of virtuosity but not the harmonic foundation to ground it. Multiple musicians weaving around each other in austere groove and rhythm. Echoes and congas, electric and acoustic instruments (one of my fave combinations), planned and unplanned spontaneity. Obscurity, occlusion and occasionally sharp clarities of melody. Loose cohesion. No major hooks or choruses, but searching stabs of notes (played for echo-decay) cutting through the noodling undergrowth and treacherous quicksands. Continue reading “Miles Davis – Bitches Brew”
OK the title leaves a lot to be desired, but students of the novel will reap diligent reward from this final work of intrigue and narrative power.
In my Balzacian quest to acquire as many works of Balzac as geographically possible, I picked up the noble-titled L’Envers de l’histoire Contemporaine of which a new translation was reviewed on Powell’s a while back under the slightly askew translation as The Wrong Side of Paris; which is nonetheless miles ahead of my bargain-base Signet translation as The Seamy Side of History, complete with seedy cover — a busty woman swigging from a bottle while a ruffian feels up her exposed leg — which, for a novel about Christian charity seems just a little distracting and or beside the point. Or a juiced-up transliteration of what was a bad mistranslation in the first place. Continue reading “Balzac – The Seamy Side of History”
What’s in a name? What’s in the smokey still out in the back yard? Well, about four fine Irish whiskeys, subtle and lighter than your Scots variety which bludgeon you with malt. Ever run through a field of barley with your mouth open? Jump over to Eire and taste the alternative. Come in from the cold and rally your toasts with our smooth and well-aged guide to Bushmills Irish Whiskey.
Good afternoon, good evening and good morning readers, and welcome to this small submission, this humble offering to the Slow Review. After much humming and hooing I’ve decided to turn my pen to the glorious world of whiskey and one of my favourite distilleries: Bushmills. I’ll admit, I’m watching Eurosport at the same time as writing this and can’t help being distracted by the sight of two rather shapely young lady tennis players. So, if the flow of this story seems somewhat disjointed then you can put it down to hormones and a span of attention that has been worn down, over the years, with the help of large doses of Bushmills. Continue reading “Bushmills Whiskey(s)”