Thursday, 29 April 2010
Briefs and a little Satantango
Not sure we learned much new tonight. Clegg looked a little more flustered, Cameron a little calmer yet angrier. Brown less liable to extend the hippo smile. Essential issues: cuts now or later? VAT (on jobs) or not? The responses to the question on immigration was really an auction on who could get the lowest numbers. The affair of Bigot Woman was clearly fresh in everyone's minds. Oddly enough the question did not exactly presuppose the desirability of the auction. It might have meant to, but it didn't. Curious to hear Brown talk about the needs of the middle classes on education when addressing a question from a teacher from a school in a deprived area.
I cannot see Brown winning. No one can. The prospect becomes dimmer with each day that passes. Nor can I see Clegg keeping him in power. Brown is a boxer who keeps throwing the same punch each time with ever less power while walking on to punches that seem to rain on him from everywhere. He's practically out on his feet. So it's prim-mouthed Dave. A relatively weak Conservative government, hobbling through.
Wonderful to hear of Fulham coming through to the Europa Final. I don't think any of their matches have been shown live, have they? A touch disgraceful if not. Liverpool, the bits I saw, looked tired and clueless. End of Rafa imminent. Gerrard nowhere. My admiration of Gerrard as a person has long vanished. I suppose he might still be capable of putting on top performances but he looks a shadow of a man and player at the moment. A full reflection on the football season will follow at some stage.
The question of the art school writing course also to be considered. Thereby. Tale. Hangs. Maybe piece of Tale in the morning. Tomorrow I travel to Bristol and stay overnight.
From LÁSZLÓ KRASZNAHORKAI'S SATANTANGO: Futaki Drunk
...Futaki carefully put out a hand as he leaned on his stick and teetered towards the door, his hair tousled, his shirt hanging out at the back, his face as white as lime. With great difficulty he removed the wedge, stepped outside, but the shock of fresh air immediately had him on his back. The rain was beating down as hard as ever, each drop ‘an inimitable messenger of doom’ exploding against the moss-covered tiles of the inn roof, against the trunk and branches of the acacia, on the uneven glimmering surface of the metalled road above, down below the road on the space by the door and on Futaki’s juddering and stooping body as he lay sprawled in the mud. He lay there for long minutes, as if unconscious in the dark, and when eventually he managed to relax, he immediately fell asleep, and if it hadn’t occurred to the innkeeper, some half an hour later, to wonder where he’d got to and shake him into consciousness (‘Hey! You gone crazy or something?! Get up! You want pneumonia?!’) he might have remained there till the morning. Dizzy, he leant against the wall of the inn, rejecting the innkeeper’s offer (‘Come along, lean against me, you’ll get soaked through to your asshole out here, so stop it…’) and just stood, stupid and drained under the pitiless power of the rain, seeing but not understanding the unstable world around him until – another half hour later – when he was utterly soaked he suddenly noticed he was sober again. He nipped round the corner of the building to piss by an old bare acacia and, while doing so, looked up at the sky, feeling tiny and quite helpless – and while the endless stream of water gushed from him in powerful masculine fashion he experienced a fresh wave of melancholy. He continued gazing at the sky, examining it, thinking that somewhere – however far away – there must be an end to the great tent extended above them, since ‘it is ordained that all things must end’. We are born into this sty of a world, he thought, his mind still pounding, like pigs rolling in our own muck, having no idea what all that jostling at the teats amounts to, why we’re engaged in this perpetual trotter-to-trotter combat on the path that leads to the trough, or to our beds at dusk. He buttoned himself and moved to one side to be directly under the rain. ‘Go wash my old bones,’ he grumbled. ‘Give them a good wash, since this ancient piece of piss won’t be around much longer.’ He stood there, his eyes closed, his head thrown back because he very longed to be free of the obstinate, ever recurring desire to know at last, now that he was near the end the answer to the question: ‘What is the point of Futaki?’
What indeed? We may find out...