Shared References

I've been thinking lately about the disappearance of shared cultural references.

A while ago, I read a book in which an old man was described as "a Nestor". He was, admittedly, a minor character, but it still struck me as unusual that this description was not extended or elaborated upon. Clearly, the reader was assumed to be sufficiently familiar with Homer to associate certain characteristics with Nestor, and these were to form the image of the old man in the book.

I was heartened by the fact that an author felt confident enough to make such an assumption in a general interest book, until I noticed that the book was written in the mid fifties; perhaps a time when such an assumption was justified.

I remembered this recently when reading a 'The Labours of Hercules', a series of short stories by Agatha Christie. This was written at least ten years earlier, and yet the reference to Hercules (the demi-god, not the Belgian) had to be explained in the first chapter. The book would have read more naturally without this discussion, which is certainly the worst part of the book. And yet Christie presumably felt that a sufficient section of her readership would not know the story of Hercules for it to be worth discussing.

Highly contestable point: So by the middle of the last century, it was still reasonable to assume a knowledge of Homer, but not of anything even slightly more esoteric.

A hundred years ago, such references were common time-savers. One finds references to Hesiod and Ovid quite commonly. If these references have disappeared, what replaced them?

References to Harry Potter, perhaps the only book read widely enough today; or to television and movies? Somehow, I doubt the timelessness of these new cultural landmarks, and their universality.

Running down

This is supposed to be a short post. That is, of course, how I have, thus far, introduced my longest posts.

I like to run. I have enjoyed running for several years. I normally run on my own, and I suppose that I enjoy the calmness and solitude one obtains. One's mind is mostly preoccupied with the sheer physical effort involved, and the small part that is left over is just powerful enough to sift through one's memories and the more superficial of one's thoughts. In short, it allows one to unwind, just the right amount.

People often think I'm odd when I talk about the relaxing quality of running, so here' an attempt to explain:

I want to compare people to old, mechanical, watches. The analogy may not be especially exact or entirely meaningful, but it is sufficient unto my purpose here. Most people are like most watches: their springs are wound to about the right amount, and consequently they keep about the right time. They function well in life, but occasionally they need to be wound up again, and it is good for their spring for them sometimes to be unwound.

Of course, there are people whose springs are wound a little too tightly. Watches that are wound far too tightly may run too fast, and in extreme cases they may break. And even so, people who are wound too tightly seem soemtimes to be a little too rushed (although not too fast), and are more prone to breaking than their less excitable fellows.

One of my (far too numerous to list here) faults is a tendency not to wind my spring. I am like a watch owned by a rather careless fellow; fine when primed and properly used, but sometimes found stopped when I oughtn't to be.

And so it seems that running is an appropriate form of unwinding for me. Those who are habitually wound too tightly need to unwind entirely when they rest. Those of us, on the other hand, who prefer not to be wound up quite as far as we go, have no need to do so; and running suits some of us just fine.

Civilisation

Welcome back.

I'm about halfway through watching an outstanding BBC documentary series called Civilisation. It was written and narrated by Kenneth Clark, who, I recenetly found out, was the father of Alan Clark.

Clark is magnificent in the series. The cinematography itself would make this series worthwhile, but his narration is beyond praise. He is absolutely clear, always intelligent, and almost never patronising.

The series is also impressive for the coherence of the thoughts and arguments expressed in it. Some of his slightly more xenophobic comments may be offensive to those who are easily offended; but they should also serve to remind one that the ideas and the narrative are the result of a single man's thoughts. That alone is worth applauding in an era of collectively produced, almost corporate entertainment.

It is also astonishing that there are only two signs of age shown by this work, apart from the obvious signs of the times in background, such as cars. The first is the occasional comments, mentioned above, which do not conform to the bland opionlessness of modern art documentaries. Secondly, the complexity of the thoughts expressed is significantly greater than anything else I have ever seen on television. It is a reminder that television can be educational and intellectually stimulating without failing to be entertaining.

However, the greatest quality of this documentary is its intellectual honesty. The presenter motivates his series with questions, and proceeds to attempt to answer them. But he does so in a scupulously open and honest way. There is none of the disingenuity which makes so many television programs look patronising, or even like propoganda. Where the evidence supporting his point is ambiguous he lets us know, and then explains his opinions, rather than prsenting an unbalanced narrative.

So many articles are written, or documentaries made, by people whose minds are already made up. Their contributions to the public discourse are an attempt to sell their position, and they do so without any regard for this sort of intellectual honesty.

This quality has all but dissappeared today; from political discourse where all issues are reframed by each side in ridiculous black and white, downwards (or upwards, according to one's tastes) through so much of society. It reflects a mind-set which is truly rare even in academic circles. It shows a man who is prepared to make his arguments seem weaker, in order to make them more honest.

Of course, Kenneth Clark was an emminent and distinguished scholar at the time he made the series; and this quality may have been extremely rare at the time. So this quality may never have been widepread in mankind. Nonetheless, I was glad to have caught this glimpse of it.

Indian (English) and American (English)

Welcome back. I would like to talk to you this evening about two languages that I know and ... well, perhaps love is a little too strong, so let us say, in which I take more than a passing interest.

They are American English and Indian English. I make some claim to impartiality in this discussion because I was raised in England. I can make some claim to knowledge too, because I have frequently visited India, and currently live in the USA. Objectivity and knowledge are essential when analysing a topic. Alas, they are also often illusory.

Let's start at the beginning, which is a very good place to start. We consider the development of these two languages. The vast majority of the (modern-era) settlers of this country were native English speakers. They arrived, however, before the modern fad for widespread literacy had truly taken off. They therefore arrived knowing how to speak, but not how to spell, the English language. This had the following two consequences.

Firstly, the standard American accent is, objectively, somewhat similar to the standard English accent. (These are both, of course, entirely fictitious beasts; but this is not a sholarly article, only a pretentious blog aping the mien of one. We proceed, then, free from the possibility of serious scholarly scrutiny.) One could argue that the American accents one hears today are descended directly from accents once heard in England, as people learnt English from their parents and grew up in a society where English was spoken.

Yet American English exhibits drastically different spelling conventions from English. Furthermore, where these differences appear, the American spelling is almost invariablysimpler or more natural. Standard examples include flavour becoming flavor; skilful becoming skillful; analogue becoming analog; and (my perennial favourite) plough being transmogrified into plow.

Indian English is somewhat widespread in India today. Yet even a generation ago it was far less common, something of an achievement. Those who spoke it several generations ago would mostly have been well educated and extremely well read.

However, the number of native speakers of English English in India was never high enough to teach all, or even most, of those learning English in India. Thus most Indians learning English have, for generations, been very carefully how to read and write, but not at all how to speak, English. Again, this may have had two consequences.

Indinan speakers of English would have grown up in a society where other languages were much more common, and this would undoubtedly have affected the development of the Indian English accent.

Hence an objective judge (probably another fiction, but ably substitued for by the author) would probably judge the Indian English accent to be further from English than is American English. And yet variations in spelling are remarkably few.

Aside from the radically different pronunciation, an interesting difference between Indian English and English is created by a certain ruthless Indian logic. The English appear willing, and even happy, to accept irregularities in their language, but the Indians do not. For example, the English word 'postpone' dates back to at least 1496 (according to the OED). It lived a happy life for many centuries. When it moved to India, however, Indians seem to have become unhappy that such a word has no opposite, and very soon created 'prepone'. It was an entirely logical, and thouroughly welcome addition, but very un-English.

A final, comical, example is provided by the word 'pyjamas'. In English the word is spelt with a 'y', but pronounced as if it were an 'a'.

In American English, it is thus pronounced 'pajamas', and, this being so, it is only reasonable for it to be also spelt with an 'a'.

The word probably reached India in written form, so it is still spelt with a 'y', but it is now pronounced 'pie-jamas'. I find that rather funny.

Materialism

I think that it is clear to most of us that there are, at least, two forms of materialism. Let's be simplistic for a moment and consider only one extreme, to show that there are many forms. And rather than calling the sort that I believe that I display, Good, and the other, Bad; I shall, in a radical departutre from my usual form, strive for an approximation to objectivity.

In my bathroom sits a spongebag. It is a truly beautiful spongebag. Made of a rich, deeply coloured, lustrous brown leather, it holds my attention every time I see it. (Lest you think too poorly of me, I may add that it is somewhat new.) It is a distinct pleasure to use it now; and even with the passage of time, I don't doubt that it will be more pleasurable to use it than it was to use my old, rather ordinary one.

Now, to dwell upon the purely physical qualities of such an object may be called materialistic. However, there is now venality, no greed in my thoughts. I am happy to have it, no doubt, but I would have absolutely no use for another.

This is not the end of the moral aspect. A digression, into waters of which I know little. Hopefully the ship of my allegory shall not run aground on the rocks of my ignorance.

At the beginning of the Renaissance, Humanist architects and artists produced work on a human scale. One identifies this period with small, but beautifully proportioned, rooms in small, but beautifully proportioned, houses.

Later, towards the Baroque, this sense of proportion was lost or discarded. Palaces became bigger (or rather, bigger palaces were made), works of art became more ornate, involved, and extravagant. Did this immediately lead to a decline in quality? No, but we can crudely characterise this progression as one from the building of wonderful houses to the building of, admittedly more, wonderful palaces; from achitecture designed for the enjoyment of individual human beings to architecture designed to overawe and to overwhelm.

So how on Earth does this relate to my spongebag? The point is that I don't intend to show it to anyone. I don't intend to compare it to other people's spongebags, and so the pleasure that it gives me is, in the sense above, humanist and even humane.

It is also reassuringly physical. Its seductive smell, and it smooth, sensuous finish are, of course, entirely irrelevant to its function. But they are to be enjoyed by only me, and so have a different impact on my thoughts than would the beauty of an object designed for ostentatious display, or indeed any sort of display.

The final measures, I feel, are given by how a material object may affect my actions, and my happiness.

The fact is that I didn't covet this spongebag before I bought it. I didn't dream of, one day, buying such a bag. Thus I was not at all unhappy without it, yet I was made marginally more happy by its acquisition. And doubtless, when it is gone, I shall not shed tears for its passing, nor attempt to replace it.

It entered my life unasked, its tenure in my life is marked by a slight increase in my happiness, and at its passing I shall be unmoved. If only I could feel this way about all of my possessions.