I Was Wrong, It Was Harry Benson That Took The Hazy Paul Photos. Multiple Photographers Horny For Beatles

The city of memories: Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria

If one of the novels in Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quartet were submitted to a publisher today, it probably wouldn’t make it past the receptionist. A great, sprawling meditation on the tangled loves and confusing lives of a group of wealthy, privileged eccentrics living in 1930s Alexandria, the two I’ve read (Balthazar and Justine) break just about every rule in the creative writing book. The plot, as much as there is one, meanders aimlessly, all the characters speak in an identical voice that exactly mirrors that of the narrator, the prose is laden with archaic terms and classical allusions, and the mood of relentless intensity never lets up. Yet the novels are captivating in a way other, better-written books are not, because even though they present us with one writer’s idiosyncratic version of reality, that reality is presented with utter conviction and sincerity. Durrell himself was fully aware of what he was doing, as the note at the beginning of Balthazar reveals. In it, he explains that ‘modern literature offers no Unities, so I have turned to science and am trying to complete a four-decker novel whose form is based on the relativity proposition. Three sides of space and one of time constitute the soup-mix recipe of a continuum. These four novels follow this pattern.’ In the postmodern age, such grandiose ambition might seem incredible, but Durrell was not being an egomaniac – he was simply following the themes of early 20th century modernism, in all its forms, when many still believed that art and literature could change the world. He acknowledges himself the outdatedness of his ambition, even as early as the 1950s (Balthazar was published in 1957): ‘These considerations sound perhaps somewhat immodest or even pompous. But it would be worth trying an experiment’ I have always found that the greatest artists are the ones who succeed in drawing you absolutely into their world, who weave such a compelling spell with words or music or images that even the flaws in the work become an essential part of it. Other great artists can present you with a perfectly achieved idea or object, to be consumed in the exact moment it is seen in and executed with the flawless precision that comes from years of work. Paul Klee, Philip Larkin and Stevie Wonder are examples of this kind of artist, and they and their kind are essential and great. But there is an especial wonder in being drawn into a fully realised artistic world, and it take a very different kind of artist to do that – the kind that writes a four-volume novel about one city and a few of its inhabitants. Evoking place is a key obsession for many novelists, and Durrell succeeds magnificently. Alexandria – a long-disappeared Alexandria – seems to breath from the page as he lovingly describes the moods of its harbour waters, the smell of the streets, the faces of diplomats, policemen, Bedouin and barbers, the wind swelling the curtains of the narrator’s tiny room, the sweep of coast and silent deserts outside the city walls. The characters live vividly, even though they all speak in the narrator’s voice – in fact that is part of the spell, as the quartet is telling the story of one man’s experience of a place and time. Wordy, humourless and intense, the characters should be insufferable, but Durrell’s longing eye lights on a hundred and one idiosyncracies and tiny mysteries that makes them all live and makes you care what will become of them. I say ‘longing’ because though the central theme of the quartet may seem to be the course of a love affair, in fact it is about memory and the almost painful longing that writers have to preserve long-distant times and feelings in prose that will bring it all back to life, rather than condemning it to a dry death on the page. Many times throughout the books the narrator makes reference to the continual struggle of the artist to catch a place and a time, and the act of love required to hold that form permanently. It’s love that inspires this kind of writing, not just romantic love, but love of existence. The unequal city with its countless tales of poverty, misfortune and unhappiness is presented with a loving eye that doesn’t want any part of it to be forgotten. It’s this loving capture of a personal version of reality which brings the work of Henry Miller to mind. Durrell greatly admired Miller, but though they shared the same all-encompassing eye Miller’s approach was much more rough-and-ready, not just in his sexual explicitness, but in his harsher assessments of the people around him. However, in Tropic of Capricorn, he evokes New York in the early 1920s with the same vividness that Durrell does Alexandria, taking the same joy in every beautiful and hideous aspect of the city. This is the great value of fiction – when written by a person consumed with longing for a place and time, it gives us a kind of completeness of vision that could never be provided by a straight-up factual account. We read non-fiction to find ways to change the wrongness of the world, we read fiction to balance that quest and find a fully realised version of reality. Much of this is a matter of taste – plenty would find Durrell’s intensity impossible to read, and there’s no denying that the novels have pretentious passages. The focus on the lives of the rich and idle, and their various hangers-on, is not exactly all-encompassing, even though just about every part of Alexandrian society features in some way. But if Durrell had ever adapted any of his content to suit a greater number of readers, or provide a more fully-rounded version of the story, the spell would immediately have been broken, because the sincerity would be gone. For any who do start the novels and find the first few pages heavy going, my advice would be to give it time to work its magic. As a postscript, I generally am not very interested in books about fading aristocracy – ‘Big House’ novels leave me cold – but between this quartet and the wonderful, little-known novel Beer in the Snooker Club by Waguih Ghali I have developed a compulsive fascination with the former aristocracy of Egypt: the French-speaking Coptic community. Perhaps the heterogenuity of the world they lived in, as opposed to that of the aristocracy of England and Ireland, has something to do with it.

Songs from the room of life

Back cover of the sleeve of ‘Songs From A Room’.

Leonard Cohen’s career has been incredibly long and varied, covering everything from whispered 60s folk to extravagant 80s hyper-production, but his songwriting themes have remained quite consistent over the decades. Sex, God and the weight of history come up again and again, expressed in ways that are in turn beautiful, shocking, funny and tragic.

His later career has been pretty illustrious and judging by the reception to his recent tours, he is more loved than ever, but in many ways he reached the apogee of his favourite themes early on, in his second album, 1969′s Songs From A Room. This has always been my favourite Cohen album – I never get tired of the way he delicately juxtaposes the longing of love with the search for transcendence and the heavy meaning of history, both personal and universal.

Despite being a Buddhist for some decades now, Cohen’s chief spiritual inspiration has always been his Jewish heritage, and this is revealed time and again in Songs From A Room. In ‘Story of Isaac’, Cohen not only represents the turn of humanity from primitivism to monotheism and text-based religion, as the angel sings to Abraham: ‘”You who build these altars now to sacrifice these children, you must not do it any more”….my father’s hands were trembling, with the beauty of the Word’, he also succintly analyses the mythological schism between the sons of Abraham that led to the separation of Judaism and Islam: ‘And if you call me brother now, forgive me if I enquire, just according to whose plan? When it all comes down to dust, I will kill you if I must, I will help you if I can’ (followed by the qualifier ‘when it all comes down to dust, I will help you if I must, I will kill you if I can’).

In ‘You Know Who I Am’, the jealous God of the Old Testament addresses his people as a lover: ‘I cannot follow you my love, you cannot follow me, and the distance you put between all the moments we will be. You know who I am, you’ve stared at the sun, I am the one who loves changing from nothing to one’ and carries the story forth into the New Testament and Christ: ‘I will give you one broken man, who I will teach you to repair’. God is a darker figure in ‘The Butcher’, ‘slaughtering a lamb’ while the narrator, possibly again the collective voice of humanity, feels he is experiencing the same fate. He cynically reflects on the feebleness of faith in the face of disaster ‘I saw some flowers grow up, where that land fell down, was I supposed to praise my lord, make some kind of joyful sound?’ but concedes that he cannot do without the butcher-father-god: ‘do not leave me now, do not leave me now’, while the butcher repeats ‘listen to me child, I am what I am, and you are my only son.’

History and politics are universalised in ‘The Old Revolution’, when the narrator, perhaps a supporter of the monarchy adjusting to life post-early 20th century-socialist-revolution, thinks about past glories and current disasters: ‘I can’t pretend I still feel very much like singing, as they carry the bodies away….To all of my architects, let me be traitor…Now let me say I myself gave the order to sleep and to search and to destroy’, carried through by the extraordinarily moving refrain: ‘Into this furnace, I ask you now to venture, you whom I cannot betray’. ‘The Partisan’ is a reworked version of the WWII French Resistance anthem ‘La complainte du partisan’ by Anna Marly, but stripped of time-specific references (the French line ‘les Allemands l’ont pris’ is sung by Cohen as ‘then the soldiers came’), placing the protagonist as a universal, nameless, hidden figure, found in every war in history.

That same sense of timelessness is found in one of the album’s sadder songs, the exquisite ‘Seems So Long Ago, Nancy’. Written in homage to a good-time girl from Cohen’s youth, who killed herself after her illegitimate child was taken away from her, the story of her fate unfolds sparingly: ‘Nancy wore green stockings, and she slept with everyone. She never said she’d wait for us, although she was alone. I think she fell in love for us, in 1961′. Nancy comes from ‘the house of honesty’, but as Cohen devastatingly puts it ‘none of us would need her in the house of mystery.’ The way he sings ’1961′ makes it sound like some impossibly ancient time, before the founding of Jericho. Haunted by visions of the dead Nancy, the narrator ‘sees her everywhere. many use her body, many comb her hair’. She reappears at the end, a ghostly figure ‘in the hollow of the night’ who comes to you ‘when you are cold and numb’, both a comforting mother and a frightening spectre: ‘you’ll hear her talking freely there, she’s happy that you’ve come’. In death Nancy still seeks love, and the living people still run in fear.

Another ghostly woman appears in ‘Lady Midnight’ but this time she is a representation of despair, perhaps of the will to suicide that Cohen openly says stalked his younger years. After ‘argu[ing] all night, like so many have before’ the lady tersely tells the singer ‘Don’t try to use me, or slyly refuse me, just win me or lose me, it is this that the darkness is for.’ Perhaps she frees him from egotism when she tells him ‘if we cry now…it will just be ignored’, at any rate he awakens to new hope: ‘I walked through the morning, sweet early morning, I could hear my lady calling “you’ve won me, you’ve won me, my lord”.’

It’s a Leonard Cohen album, so there are no overt love songs – Cohen, for all his reputation as a chronicler of the heart, only really writes ‘love’ songs about sex – his real, all-consuming love is for the terrible father-God figure who stalks his entire oeuvre. After all the tenderness and wisdom that comes before, the album ends on a depressing note dressed up in a jaunty tune – ‘Tonight Will Be Fine’ cynically dissects the mutual dishonesty and cowardice that keeps a failing relationship limping unhappily along. Perhaps the album’s ‘message’ if it has one, is that dependence on romantic relationships is just a cover for the real lacunae in our lives – the search for something beyond reality, the struggle to find meaning in the past, the huge questions we must all ask but repeatedly hide from. It’s one of the most human pieces of art ever created, and that’s why it’s so timeless.

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Construction no.128 (1920)

"There are so many interesting things to do in life. And we waste our time emptily and keep dreaming about something...And this dream isn’t worth anything. But what’s been actually done, even poorly – is worthwhile"

Aleksander Rodchenko

"You must take up your well-shaped oar and go on a journey until you come where there are men living who know nothing of the sea, and who eat food that is not mixed with salt, who never have known ships whose cheeks are painted purple, who never have known-well-shaped oars, which act for ships as wings do. And I will tell you a very clear proof, and you cannot miss it. When, as you walk, some other wayfarer happens to meet you, and says you carry a winnow-fan on your bright shoulder, then you must plant your well-shaped oar in the ground, and render ceremonious sacrifice to the lord Poseidon, one ram and one bull, and a mounter of sows, a boar pig, and make your way home again and render holy hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven, all of them in order. Death will come to you from the sea, in some altogether unwarlike way, and it will end you in the ebbing time of a sleek old age. Your people about you will be prosperous. All this is true that I tell you.” The Odyssey

Crates from every port.

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How to write a historical novel

I recently read two books which could be handily placed on opposing sides of the ‘how to write historical fiction’ spectrum. They are The Map of Love by Adhaf Soueif and Brooklyn by Colm Toibín. One takes in the entire modern history of a particular country through the experiences of its characters, the other’s scope is limited to the point of provinicial. Yet, it is the small story, Toibín’s Brooklyn, that is infinitely more successful. Souief said of her leading male character, Sharif al-Baroudi, that she wanted to write a character one could fall in love with, using the appearance of a romantic hero in Egyptian cinema as her template. The story of the Map of Love is split across the 20th century, focusing on the romance and marriage between Lady Anna Winterbourne and al-Baroudi in Egypt in the 1900s and the discovery of her diaries by two of her female descendents, American Isabel and Egyptian Amal. Soueif had an admirable aim in the book – to tell the little-known story of the nascent Egyptian struggle for independence in the years before the First World War – and while the research is comprehensive and the historical details are fascinating, the characters utterly fail to convince, in my opinion. Lady Anna is too modern a woman to be believable as a character of her time, and her unquestioning, wholehearted adoption of her new husband’s family, culture and country come across as forced rather than romantic. From a secure position within conventional Victorian genteel society, she abruptly and without question pledges uncritical support for the cause of Egyptian independence. Even though she is portrayed as more thoughtful and historically aware than her peers, her decision just doesn’t feel believable. History shows us that the need for independence in former colonies was justified, but it seems implausible that someone like Lady Anna would take that position so quickly and easily in her place and time. The story isn’t helped by the fact that Lady Anna and her husband are too saintly to be true – apart from some minor cultural speedbumps they remain sickeningly in love, without any of the normal gripes and confusions that accompany even the happiest of marriages, let alone one across a cultural gulf. The two are like a cardboard cut-out couple, cloyingly devoted to each other and to the cause of independence with barely a question asked or a dissenting voice raised, and they are also implausibly modern in their attitudes to each other. Perhaps if they were not presented to the reader in the form of Anna’s diary entries a more convincing inner life might have arisen, but as it stands they don’t convince and it is hard to care about them. The modern Egyptian, Amal al-Ghamrawi, is more rounded, but again her edges seem to have been neatly rounded off to leave a character who, despite all her soul-searching, seems somewhat hollow. The main problem with The Map of Love is that the characters seem to have been designed to represent particular things and so perform a kind of wish-fulfilment for the author. Lady Anna is the contrite face of colonial Britain turning her back on her old life to embrace that of the people her nation is oppressing, Sharif al-Baroudi is an unusually enlightened 19th century man who disavows gender stereotypes and political violence and Amal’s brother Omar lives a successful, cosmopolitan life but remains loyal to his ethnic background. It is always obvious to the reader when a writer is using characters as a mouthpiece, and immediately interferes with any spontaneous enjoyment of the text. The Map of Love aims nobly to tell the story of modern Egypt, and does succeed to some extent, but it ultimately fails due to the lack of believable characters. Brooklyn, on the other hand, appears to be telling nothing more than the story of one unremarkable young woman, from an unremarkable town in Ireland, and her emigration to America. Eilis Lacey, the woman in question, is not even moving to New York as we know it from movies – the American sections of the book centre around a few streets of the Irish-American district of Brooklyn with its large Irish community, complete with an omnipresent parish priest. But prosaic though Eilis’ life and experiences may be, her inner world and small conflicts are rendered so thoughtfully and reverentially by Toibín they end up telling a larger story – that of the Irish emigrant experience. Eilis has never expected more than a life in Enniscorthy, working in an office until someone marries her and she devotes life to having his children, but events conspire to send her abroad to work in a department store and study bookkeeping. Initially Brooklyn is not much more exciting than Enniscorthy – Eilis lives in a Irish-run boarding house with a curfew, her days are spent wearily trekking across the shop floor and her free time taken up by evening classes and helping the priest with parish activities. But as time goes by the opportunities American life begin to open themselves up – from exposure to people of different races and cultures, to the excitement of the latest fashions. Toibín is a compassionate author who doesn’t sneer at the joy ordinary people find in ordinary things - in fact he accords these things the respect they deserve. Eilis even finds romance in America, but the slow tugs of obligation from the two sides of her life threaten to undo her when circumstances require to return home to Ireland. The premise of Brooklyn is the choice Eilis must take between her two worlds, and interestingly this choice is not presented as a clichéd split between home, obligation and repression and abroad, freedom and experimentation. On the contrary, Eilis faces potential nooses wherever she looks, and the ties that bind can take unexpected forms. Her mixture of engagement and passivity are wholly convincing as the experiences of an individual, yet also seem to encompass the thoughts and feelings of a whole generation that were put in her position. This novel has no overawed glimpses of the Manhattan skyline for the arriving immigrant, but a collection of moments – a parish hall dance, a trip to a bookshop, a day out in Coney island – to give us a truly authentic sense of the migrant experience. Brooklyn has been as carefully worked and polished as The Map of Love - the difference is the joins are not visible and the author has all but disappeared, and that is why it is the more successful work.

why did stu make him look bald

Anne Mason (1958) // Stuart Sutcliffe (1960) // Helen Anderson (1958)

Sugar Street

My Goodreads review of Sugar Street, the third in the Cairo Trilogy by Naguib Mahfouz (Black Swan edition, translated by William Maynard Hutchins and Angele Botros Samaan)

Two main things struck me while I read Sugar Street: firstly that while I don't know Arabic, I got a strong sense of the elegant economy and poetry of the written language from this translation. The second thing was how much traditional Egyptian middle-class life in the 1920s and 30s as depicted in the book reminded me of Irish culture up until relatively recently. While on the surface there wouldn't seem to be many similarities, the conservative, family-focused, deeply religious patriarchy in which mothers dominated the home felt very familiar. Even the way religion infused the language and thinking of the characters, even the nonbelieving ones, was very like the way Irish culture was for much of the 20th century a Catholic culture. Like in Ireland, families observed religion, gossiped about neighbours, argued about the politics of a young nation and mothers hoped for a civil service career for their sons and a good marriage for their daughters. 

The story covers a long period of time and is a little episodic - there were many subplots that could have been explored more, and some main plots that could have been trimmed. I had limited patience for Kamal's endless romantic vacillating, but was engaged by his nephew Ahmad's adventures working for a Marxist magazine and trying to break free of the constraints of traditional middle-class life. 

Politics runs through the story constantly, as the characters debate and wonder where the new country will go once the double-crossing English are finally gone. It might be advisable to have a wikipedia entry on pre-war Egyptian history open as you read as the various parties and individuals are mentioned without backstory (and there's no reason why they should be, considering the novel was written first for an Egyptian audience.)

Quotes from “John & Paul: A Love Story In Songs”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

“This book germinated during the lockdowns of 2020, when I wrote and published, via my newsletter, a ten-thousand-word essay called ‘64 Reasons to Celebrate Paul McCartney.’ I didn’t expect many people to read it — it was just something I needed to write. But they did, in great number. Surprised by the scale and intensity of the response, I started to wonder if I could write a whole book about the group I have loved since childhood, and when I asked myself which aspect of the story I was most interested in, the answer quickly became obvious. I’d like to thank all previous Beatles authors for not getting there before me.”

“Perhaps the most important aspect of the podcast subculture is that it has introduced many more female voices into the Beatles conversation, raising its level of insight and emotional intelligence. It was through podcasts that I discovered two Beatles experts who have been reshaping a narrative formed mostly by men: Erin Torkelson Weber, the historiographer and author of The Beatles and the Historians, and Christine Feldman-Barrett, author of A Women’s History of the Beatles. I am grateful to the all-female Another Kind of Mind for its penetrating exploration of the group’s relationships. I owe a special debt to Diana Erickson, creator and presenter of One Sweet Dream. Diana’s deeply insightful podcast, and her generosity as a conversation partner, have been vital to John & Paul.”

Early Bloomsday.

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