by Stephen Tall on October 25, 2016
That was the title of the talk given by former CentreForum chief economist – these days chief scientific advisor to the Department for Education – Tim Leunig. I’m usually a bit “meh” about Ted-style talks and their over-simplistic attempts to cram nuanced arguments into “wow!” gobbets. But Tim is the real deal and this is an excellent riposte to the trite Ken Robinson-esque critique that schools somehow kill kids’ creativity:
by Stephen Tall on October 25, 2016
Zac Goldsmith’s resignation as Conservative MP for Richmond Park in protest at his Government’s decision to approve a third runway at Heathrow is, at least on the face of it, good news for the Lib Dems. A Tory-Lib Dem swing equivalent to that achieved in Witney last Thursday (19%) would see the seat, which Jenny Tonge then Susan Kramer held from 1997 to 2010, re-gained.
The Conservatives’ tactically savvy but politically cowardly decision to give Zac a free run as an independent Tory makes the Lib Dem task trickier. And all the candidates will, of course, be against the expansion of Heathrow. Which means Brexit will be to the fore, as Zac was a Leaver in a constituency which voted solidly to Remain.
On both issues I find myself in something of a quandary.
I’m not against airport expansion, so long as it can be done within our internationally agreed carbon limits. My gut instinct is to favour Gatwick (to create greater competition in London) while allowing more expansion at regional airports. Heathrow already sucks enough economic growth into London and the south-east. But I’d probably favour Heathrow expansion over no expansion at all.
And on Brexit, while I think the Tories’ apparent decision to hurtle towards a hard Brexit outside the single market is bonkers, I’m not much convinced the Lib Dem pledge to offer a second referendum on the negotiated terms is anything other than a tokenistic feel-good policy designed simply to attract a portion of the 48% Remain voters (an understandable enough ambition for a party still polling in single digits, I accept).
So, on the two big issues that will dominate this by-election, I find myself at least partially at odds with my party.
But as the Tory-in-all-but-name candidate will be Zac Goldsmith — whose borderline racist campaign to be London mayor destroyed his reputation for being a supposedly small-l-liberal moderniser — any lily-livered qualms are quickly assuaged.
by Stephen Tall on October 25, 2016
A relief to read this on the BBC:
The American Academy of Paediatrics (AAP) has announced new screen time guidelines for children aged up to two. It had recommended that children have no screen time before the age of two. But it now says children aged over 18 months can use video chat with family, and 18-month to five-year-olds can watch “high quality” programmes with parents. However, it also says physical activity and face-to-face interaction should be prioritised.
My 19 month-old is already an iPad addict (iPaddict?). He scrolls happily though YouTube, exploring its nursery rhymes, flicking from version-to-version of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’ — enjoy the slash-fic version, below — singing along, skipping the ads (which he does with a dexterity that would terrify marketeers).
It’s handy when we need half an hour’s respite, and I guess the hand-eye coordination training at least is better than simply goggling in front of the telly. In fact, he doesn’t like watching the TV much: it doesn’t do anything when he presses it.
by Stephen Tall on October 19, 2016
Too Much Happiness, Alice Munro
This is the fourth novel plucked from my #40booksby40 list.
I’m going to start with the one negative: reading a collection of short stories one after the other isn’t (at least for me) a great way to enjoy them. It’s wearying. Better by far to dip in and out; but that’s a lousy way to get through a list, so, reader, I rattled through them.
(There is, incidentally, a wonderful quote from a character who disdains a books when she realises it’s a collection of short stories, not a novel: “It seems to diminish the book’s authority, making the author seem like somebody who is just hanging on to the gates of Literature, rather than safely settled inside.”)
The positives are overwhelming. Munro takes the most sensationalist stories imaginable – sex creeps, child murders, child murderers, self-mutilation – and deftly unwraps them with a genteel but unsparing economy of language.
Occasionally hints are dropped to prime final-page reveals; more often the stories are left hanging, unresolved, yet it’s impossible to feel cheated. How can you when, in 30-or-so pages, you feel like you inhabit the protagonist?
The final, title story is something else: a mini-biography of a real historical figure, Sophia Kovalevsky, a C.19th Russian polymath, which imagines her life in back-and-forth swirls. The effect is dizzyingly, tragically brilliant.
by Stephen Tall on October 5, 2016
Offshore, Penelope Fitzgerald
This is the third novel plucked from my my #40booksby40 list. Fitzgerald’s been on my should-read list for ages. A Booker Prize-winner (beating Naipaul, Keneally) whose first book was published when she was 58, recently biographed by Hermione Lee, but still a little out of fashion (most of my friends looked blank when I mentioned her).
Offshore is a surprise, both good and bad. Good because it’s a quick, enjoyable read (just 140 pages). Its central character is Nessa, a 30-ish mum of two precociously articulate daughters, estranged from her husband and living on a leaky barge with a small group of other esoteric houseboat-dwellers in a then-still-grim part of Kensington and Chelsea in the early ’60s. All are misfitish characters, the awkwardness of their lives captured by their abodes: not quite on dry land, not quite all at sea. Fitzgerald’s trope is taut, sparse writing and she conjures an intriguing cast and crew.
But then (and this is the bad thing) it stops, abruptly. We never quite get what makes them tick. Even Nessa (who has the best scene when she defends her marital conduct to an imagined prosecuting magistrate) is under-sketched to the point where her behaviour is actually quite irritating. As for the others — in particular male prostitute Maurice and steady, dutiful Richard — they remain frustratingly out-of-reach.
In short: I liked it. But I wanted more of it. And, if I’m honest, felt a bit short-changed.
by Stephen Tall on September 30, 2016
Second up on my my #40booksby40 list. Friends had told me I’d love it — this classic, post-war, anti-war, semi-autobiographical, absurdist novel — that it’s a quick, easy read.
If I’m honest, though, I struggled with it. I tried to figure out why, because it’s not that it’s not brilliantly written. The sliced-up narrative of Billy Pilgrim’s account of the Allied bombing of Dresden and its impact on his life, is simultaneously disorientating and coherent.
And it’s not that it’s not powerful. The low-key matter-of-fact drudgery of war — the hunger, cold, squalor — which ridicules humanity (Billy ends the war dressed in blue toga and silver shoes, hands in a muff) counter-points ironically with his fantastical escapism in Tralfamador as a zoo exhibit with abducted movie star Montana Wildhack.
And it’s not that it’s not, at times, deadly funny. So it goes.
And it’s certainly not that it’s without purpose. Whether in its implicit denunciation of warfare; its discussion of free will (“All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist”); or our relationship to time and space, morality, the blurred lines between the realities we make up and the fictions we live.
Perhaps, then, it’s the combination — the denseness of style, content, intent — which weighs it down, makes it hard work. I didn’t especially enjoy reading it first time. I think it’s well worth reading a second time, though.
by Stephen Tall on September 23, 2016
The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton
And so I plunged in. For no particular reason, I selected The Age of Innocence as the first from my #40booksby40 list. It turned out to be a strangely apt mid-life choice, all about the dutifully dull transition from energetic youthful idealism to reflective sober making-do.
Newland Archer loves May Welland. Or at least he’s romantically devoted to the idea of being in love with her. But also worried that she’s too staid, stultified by the conventions of 1870s’ Manhattan. Enter stage left his cousin, the quixotically European, Countess Ellen Olenska, suffused in liberté, égalité, fraternité. Suddenly all else is lustreless by comparison. But how to balance this passion with society’s strict moral code of appropriate behaviour: their struggle dominates the novel.
And, ultimately, duty overpowers their love. Ironically, it is May, whom Newland thought to be too innocent to remain interesting, who manipulates the rupture, telling Ellen she is pregnant (before she is sure), and so driving her back to Europe, alone. The final, poignant chapter, a touching near-reunion 30 years later, leaves the widower Newland sitting outside the widow Ellen’s Paris apartment contemplating what has been and what could have been.
I see when The Guardian reviewed it in 1920, they found the book to be “careful, studied, temperate, but it is dull with detail which does not create illusion”. But I loved it. There is an elegant, dry wit, but also an unabashed message: the yearning for a life not just of the mind, but also with purpose; that new and modish manners will inevitably usurp the current and old-fashioned; that societies which are closed and stifling need to become open and adaptive.