Category Archives: daily observation

Coronavirus haiku

You will stay alive

Through the spring and the summer

Winter will wake you

Let’s have a climate-friendly, pandemic-proof book fair in Europe in 2021

As London Book Fair joins Paris and Leipzig in cancelling its annual March shindig, it’s clear that the days of the greenhouse gas book fair are over, so let’s see this as the opportunity to create a new kind of publishing gathering.

What about taking all the energy and enthusiasm and using it to create a new kind of European publishing meeting in the digital space?  At last, here is a chance to show how publishing can use the opportunities presented by e-creation and e-commerce not just to add to the older models of publishing, but to develop a new meeting ground for publishers from throughout Europe and the world.

Are publishers and other book professionals ready to rise to this challenge? I hope so, for the sake of publishing and for the future of the world in this time of climate emergency.


Beyond 31st January 2020

The UK looks set to leave the European Union at the end of this week and it is unlikely to join again in my lifetime. It’s a time for a short reflection and a few observations.

First, when it comes to nationality, Brexit has not made me feel more British, or more English or, in fact, more European. It has not actually changed my view of myself much at all. I stand by the remarks I made at the time of the referendum.

Secondly, Brexit has not changed my views of the people who engage in politics, or those who are responsible for the management of major corporations or large institutions. As before, I consider them to be almost exclusively self-regarding, self-seeking, self-important chancers who make decisions to benefit themselves and people like them. I will never understand how we let them get away with it.

Really it seems that Brexit is not really any sort of change at all. On 1st February 2020 Britain will remain a place where inequality, prejudice, ignorance and superciliousness rule in equal measure. If Brexit has not changed my view of myself or of the country, has it changed anything?

The answer, I think, is yes. The way in which British politics have been conducted in past four years, since the time the referendum campaigns began, has helped us to see that political, social and material progress are chimeras. We are not just in a fake news post-fact world; we have reached a different end of history; we are in a post-progress world. Liberalism, democracy – whatever you call it – does not triumph; it damages both human society and the natural world. The bad guys win, again. The rest lose, again. The very idea of progress, the scale of the destruction, is now killing us, all of us.

At the heart of both the Brexit blip and of the far more important climate and ecological disaster is a history of selfishness, and systematic social, racial and gender inequity. It seems unlikely that there will be any coming together, except in the titanic clash of ideologies and sensibilities, in a struggle that will be determined by a straight division of the good, the bad and the ugly.

In the year 2020 and the coming decade Brexit will mean that some will make money, while many will lose livelihoods, homes, health and life itself. In these same years the far greater losses created by climate change will be shared by us all, as droughts, floods, pandemics, wars, crop failures and poisonous air take their toll of human, animal, plant and microbial life around the world.

This decade is important and we need to treat it that way and get on with the job of preserving what we can, as soon as we can, in any way we can. Those who want to work with others in Europe will continue to do so, and will get strength from that. Brexit will not stop us doing what is necessary.

Holiday Reading

Each time I go on holiday I take along some of the books I’ve bought in recent years but not read, and this year two of the items in the bag spoke of the current British predicament.

On the one hand I have the first three volumes of The Forsyte Saga telling me something about how we got into the mess we are now in (English entitlement, financial chicanery, war and property bubbles), while on the other, Futures and Fictions (a mix of essays and conversations published around the time of Mark Fisher’s death in 2017) offers some pointers of where we may need to go next.

Futures and Fictions contains seventeen contributions, and five stand out in my reading.


In Stages, Plots and Traumas by Robin Mackay, plot is a many headed term.

It is immediately obvious that “plot” is a semantically rich word. Perhaps uppermost for us is plot in the sense of narrative, but not far behind it would come the conspiratorial sense of the word – the manipulation of affairs by some shady agent or agents behind the scenes. Also current, if less prominent, we find the senses of “plot” as territorial (a plot of land), graphic (plotting a graph), and geometric or projective (plotting one space into another).

The essay talks about how plotting devices (specifically the visual threading of various pictorial and topographical evidence in many TV and movie detective dramas) do not always provide the proof they pretend to, and Mackay stresses the way in which unexpected interventions are often necessary to ‘solve’ various mysteries, either in fictions, dramas or in a psychoanalytic examination. What is shown in any graphic plotting rarely reveals the actual ‘plot’.  It is what happens behind the scenes that is often more vital in the investigation.

The dice are always loaded; continual navigation and reorientation is inevitable.  The essential tool of the detective and the therapist alike are the scalpel and the compass.

This seems like good advice to someone trying, at a distance, to make sense of the world today.


The second of the pieces to catch my attention is a conversation between Judy Thorne and Mark Fisher about his ideas on ‘Luxury Communism’, the idea that it is already possible for everyone to have enough to lead a fulfilling life if only capitalism didn’t stand in the way.

Positing something like luxury communism as a positive goal means that we can start to see capitalism a force of resistance and obstruction,’ says Fisher. ‘It is only unrealistic from the point of view of a system which cannot be sustained, and which is prepared to risk everything in order to preserve its own fantasies.’

The politics that stresses austerity for some while promoting deregulated wealth for the others is a block to human wellbeing. We all know this, but are not sure what to do about it.


A later essay may help. In Xenofeminism: A Politics for Alienation – Labioria Cuboniks tells us that ‘XF rejects illusion and melancholy as political inhibitors’.

The illusion that XF rejects is ‘the blind presumption that the weak can prevail over the strong with no strategic coordination,’ while ‘the malady of melancholia only compounds political inertia, and – under the guise of being realistic – relinquishes all hope of calibrating the world otherwise.

The message might be ‘don’t get mad, organise,’ and do this by a ‘transformation of deliberate construction, seeking to submerge the white-supremacist capitalist patriarchy in a sea of procedures that soften its shell and dismantle its defences, so as to build a new world from the scraps.’

Things – politically, socially, environmentally – are now at the stage where everything has to change if we are to hope for survival.


Theo Reeves-Evison’s Surface Fictions points to a world where the meaning of artefacts and artworks may ‘no longer hinge on a straightforward opposition between interior Truth and exterior fiction. In fact, they may not conceal an interior at all. They allow us to see that the surface itself has depth, and that it is only through fiction, understood as an additive process of layering, that we can understand and shape deception’s deception.’

Alternate facts and fake news are textured, and if we know how to look we can betray the architecture of their construction.  We need to learn new ways of looking to ‘see through’ the deceptions.


Which brings us to the only actual fiction of the collection, a story by Ursula K. Le Guin entitled The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas.

Omelas is a utopia of sorts – ‘like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time.’

There is only one dark spot, and this dark spot makes all the rest possible for the happy people of Omelas whose ‘tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it.’ Some, however, when they see this reality, leave Omelas.

They leave Omelas, they walk ahead in the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.

Who stays? Who walks away? Where can they (we) go? Is there another destination, another outcome to our local, international and global conundrum of political disruption and climate chaos?

When they leave Omelas, some people ‘seem to know where they are going’.

Relaxing with my holiday reading, trying to take a break in the sun, do I?

Climate Haiku (France, June 2019)

Sucking out water
Spray the aquifer on crops
Drought is coming soon

Medieval clothes
Conjuring and magic tricks
No thought of Black Death

Water to swim in
Tumbles from springs and snow melt
Leaving rocky peaks

Birds moving in trees
Ring doves flying together
No other thing stirs

Transhumance beasts move
Baaing and dull bells ringing
Up to fresh pasture

Stony mountain mist
No worry in beating rain
Dry later and hot

Raining for twelve hours
Owl hooting in the pauses
Sunny briefly cooler

Watch brown squirrel climb
Claws on bark like gnawing sound
Up in the pine tree

Rumbling grey sky
Thunder or high flying thing
Closer and louder

Three hill horizons
Cresting together in cloud
Changes will come soon

Full moon fathers’ day
First waxing and waning then
Waning and waxing

Bright sweet tomatoes
Soft hairs on yellow courgettes
Dirty garlic heads

Bark of the olive tree
Cracked like a river bed
Liquid under it

One hornet buzzing
Nearer then further away
Changes summer’s sound

Flies are bothersome
On the skin and in the air
Bringing more disease

Hands come together
Mountain top recedes in rain
Run for the shelter

My seventy-first
Longest day dawning cool blue
Short night approaches

Here comes canicule
Red on maps and voices shrill
Can’t block burning sun

Repeating food names
Staving off hungry meaning
Fuller but still starved

Heavy atmosphere
Over expanding waters
Closing over life

Twitter threads

Twitter threads are a new sort of writing 1/10

They come in different forms 2/10

They may be used to cover a topic succinctly and in a strict logical order 3/10

Or they may be vague and rambling 4/10

Often they have many of the characteristics of listicles 5/10

If they are numbered you can see that all the tweets have been written before the first one is tweeted 6/10

If the numbering system goes awry it looks as if they are more spontaneous 7/10

A twitter thread can be turned into a blog post 8/10

It can even be printed out, published as a small pamphlet or as part of an anthology 9/10

If you want to preserve a twitter thread you can keep a screen print of the whole thread 10/10


Thinking in Extremes

An exhibition called Benjamin und Brecht/Denken in Extremen officially opens at seven o’clock this evening at the Akademie der Künste in Berlin. It draws material from the Walter Benjamin Archive and the Bertolt Brecht Archive, both housed at the Akademie der Künste, and, according to the website blurb, it includes key documents illustrating the pivotal and conflictual points in the relationship between the two men.

Publicity for the exhibition bears the famous picture of the chess game under the knorrigen Birnbaum in the garden of the house at Skovsbostrand in Svendborg where Brecht lived in exile, itself a potent symbol of the mix of collaboration and conflict in the relationhip. The pear tree is gone now and I believe I am one of the last people to have seen it. I shall explain.

I stayed at the Svendborg Brechthuset in May 2014, and on the last day of my visit the trustee and a friend were tidying up the garden. They decided that the old tree was beyond saving and the time had come to cut it down. This happened quickly and the trunk and few remaining branches were sawn up into logs for the next winter’s fire. Some of the more rotten pieces were thrown on a pile to rot down for compost. I asked if I might save a small bit of branch from the tree, and they agreed, and then moved on to other tasks required in the early Danish summer.

Perhaps a piece of the tree would add to the narrative and, if so, I would be happy to provide one as a late addition to the exhibition. I do not know what this small object would add to the story, but I do know that on that day in May 2014 I felt very strongly that the ending of that tree was a significant event. It felt like a final sign of the passing of the twentieth century and the start of a new era, though one in which the thoughts that prospered under that pear tree might still provided memories, myths and methodologies useful in the coming extreme times.

Brecht mentions the Birnbaum in Naturgedichte I, a poem that ends by reminding us that in some circumstances it is a good idea to live in houses with several exits. Benjamin and Brecht knew this only too well as, sadly, do so many others in our own times.

Hat das kleine Haus wohl im ganzen drei Ausgänge.
Das ist gut für Bewohner, die gegen das Unrecht sind
Und von der Polizei geholt werden können.

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Showing the D-Day spirit on 1st April 2019

Brexit reminds me of D-Day, not the invasion of Europe in 1944, but Decimal Day on 15th February 1971, the day when Britain said goodbye to pounds, shillings and pence.

I was in Norwich at the time and spent the Saturday before in a pub, where an official was drowning his sorrows. His task for the day had been to make sure that all the traders on Norwich market were ready for the switchover and he told the story of one old boy who didn’t seem to have heard of the new currency. The man had asked when this change was going to happen, and when he was told it was in two days time, on Monday, he sighed in relief. “That’s alright then,” he said. “I don’t open Monday.”

Will it be like this on Brexit Day?

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Creative Reading

For the past month (23 August to 22 September 2017), in the continued search for creative ways of reading, I have noted down a small section from each day’s books. The following has emerged from one purposeful arrangement of this material.


He was so in love with books that he would prop one up beside his shaving mirror and read whilst shaving, which must have been a hazardous occupation.

‘Reading kept him alive,’ she said, ‘right till the end.’

Language shows clearly that memory is not an instrument for exploring the past but its theatre.

The only advice that can be given to the writer is: Don’t go further than others do. In fact, keep just a little behind them. If they say ‘guts’, you say ‘bowels of compassion.’

ACL – ACCELERATED CONTACT LANGUAGE – was, Scile told me, a speciality crossbred from pedagogics, receptivity, programming and cryptography.

Printing is ‘the artillery of thought’.

Workshop grey greenish, light but electric also; no bare arms except in packing rooms etc….figures with book compressors, stapling, scrimming; magazine sheet assembly; girls with sewing machines, comical spoofs; occasional solid bright colour, e.g. Blue covers ink or overalls. NOISE.

Anybody who has persevered thus far with this book without skipping may be assumed to be a dedicated reader.


He who seeks to approach his own buried past must conduct himself like a man digging.

When faced with the blank space on the map, we turn to the fantastical.

Life came before art with her – and what a life! Ezra remarked that he thought she got more out of life than was perhaps in it.

He was a very useful father to have, for he knew a great deal and didn’t mind answering questions.

All sciences are devoted to the quest for truth; truth can neither be apprehended nor communicated without art. History therefore is an art, like all the other sciences.

But instead of this necessary risk of ‘falling in love,’ what we have today is a worldwide movement directed against any sort of risk: from our decadent Western permissive societies to the Islamic fundamentalists, all of them are united in the fight against desire.

Repossessed by its owner, the fragmented, headless body of surrealism becomes a vehicle for irony, resistance, humour and self-expression.

When a man rides a long time through wild regions he feels the desire for a city.

Miami’s South Beach is nothing like a white cube.

I used to understand our way of life…The way we lived used to make sense to me…But now, I don’t I understand anything…None of it makes sense at all…


Pauvre Philippe, je me demande quelquefois si tout son mystère ne le fatigue pas de temps en temps.

Schwer zu wissen für den Autor, wie weit er gehen darf, wie weit heute, wie weit morgen.

Auch sehe er sich nicht als Lehrer; den das könnte bedeuten, dass er selbst nichts zu lernen hätte.

Schnellläufer sucht Balletttänzerin in Kongressstadt – Das Zusammentreffen dreier gleicher Buchstaben.

Deformation durch Schriftstellerei als Beruf, Popanz der Öffentlichkeit; als lebe man, um etwas zu sagen. Wem!

Er allerdings habe keine Lust, sich mit Texten abzugehen, die nur für Maschinen von Interesse seien.

Der Wärter in einem Leuchtturm, der nicht mehr in Betrieb ist; er notiert sich durchfahrenden Schiffe, da er nicht weiss, was sonst er tun soll.

Ich lebe jetzt ohne Vorsatz.


Apples can be forgotten about, but not bananas, not really. They don’t in fact take at all well to being forgotten about. They wizen and stink of putrid and go almost black.

Wipe your hands across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

We are proud, handsome and predatory.
We hunt machines, they are our favourite game.
We invent them and then hunt them down.

It were not right ever to cease lamenting
It was like the parting of day from night.

Some days I miss waitressing
And the way it made my feet feel.