Slowly slowly

Anyone who’s thought about humiliation knows that people can be brought to commit the most degrading acts if they’re taken to them stage by stage, little by little, chipping away at their self-esteem until there’s no trace of it left to protect them. Until what they still consider to be their self esteem has been utterly transformed into self delusion and abasement.

So maybe, after years of fawning around the rich and famous and powerful, not all at once of course but, as Liza Minnelli put it, man by man, from Ecclestone to Branson to Bush, ex-PM and ongoing lapdog Tony Blair will be ready to accept the new job he’s being offered: Dean at Berlusconi’s brand spanking new international university in Rome. Free bandanas supplied with every mortarboard.

Of course the place doesn’t exist yet, but hey! it’ll be handy for the Vatican. Something to keep him busy, in other words, until the next big job comes up.

Bye bye Eggs. Hi there Tony!

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Mixed messages

A new TV ad for the Italian mineral water Ferrarelle features a pregnant woman. She’s drinking a glass of the water in question and as she drinks the action moves to the womb and we see the little hands of the foetus start to shift to the disco beat, the tiny feet tap out the rhythm. In next to no time, the little thing’s bopping away, even quoting Pulp Fiction as its fingers pass before its not-yet eyes.

Worryingly anthropomorphic, you might think. Disturbingly pro-life. And, of course, you’d be right. Except for one redeeming detail.

The music that get the little fellow going is You make me feel (mighty real). By Sylvester.

Gay icon. Gay foetus.

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A question of emphasis

In the context of a long and fascinating piece on E.M. Forster’s attitude to fiction in the LRB (10 May 2007), Frank Kermode comments:

Discordances between the order of story and the order of the narrative can be methodically and minutely accounted for, though ordinary readers may not always see the need, understanding from their nursery years that ‘some months earlier’ can introduce a portion of narrative which occurs earlier in the story but later in the narrative. But the narratologist will continue to discuss analepses as either homodiegetic or heterodiegetic, according to the status of the story affected by the analeptic intrusion, because he or she is more interested in what he or she is doing than in what the author was doing (my italics).

This ties in neatly with what Doris Lessing was saying (quoted below) about the way in which all groups tend towards religiosity and the establishment of orthodoxies based on unquestioned, and finally unquestionable, truths.

More tragically, it glosses the appalling cruelty of the Pescara priest’s refusal to receive an autistic child (previous post).

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Suffer the little children…

A parish priest in Pescara, Don Lino Cisotto, has refused first communion to a nine-year-old autistic child on the grounds that he’s incapable of understanding the full significance of the Eucharist.

I would have taken this as a sign of mental health.

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Family Day: statistics

According to research conducted by Vincenzo Mastronardi of Rome’s La Sapienza, a murder is committed within the walls of the Italian family home every other day (to be precise, 174 in Italy in 2005). The most murderous group is composed of the male partners, both married and unmarried; these are followed by infanticides, matricides and patricides; in third place are brothers and sisters in law, cousins etc. The least likely group to top another family member? Mothers in law.

Family Day sì! Family Day no!

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Commonplaces

Ever since I came across W.H. Auden’s commonplace book, the name of which I forget, I’ve been collecting extracts that appeal to me in one way or another. It’s the most impersonal, and knowing, form of autobiography there is, and a blog, which is also impersonal and knowing, seems a good place to store/expose it. So I’ll start with one that feels particularly apposite at the moment. It comes from Under My Skin, by Doris Lessing:

… it is a commonplace of sociology and psychology that a group anywhere, no matter what its first inspiration, political, literary, even criminal, tends in the end to become ‘religious’ …

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FAITH

A flame that believes in everything
could burn the world, its house,
the husk of wood round the heart.
Tinder that sucks up that moisture

is a lie. It would never take fire.
A flame that believes in everything
has its own explaining to do.
The husk of wood round the heart

is waiting to be caught, to catch.
Tinder that holds in the moisture
is a wall shored around tears. They
could burn the world, its house,

they could rot what is left. A lie.
Let it lie. It will never catch fire.
A flame that believes in everything
is to be taken, is to be possessed.

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Revealed truths 1 and 2

Fundamentalists in Israel have complained about the use of cotton and linen in the same garment, as this is contrary to Talmudic law. The clothing retailers Zara, with 30 stores in Israel, have complied and removed the garment.

An Egyptian theologian issued a fatwa a couple of days ago according to which a woman working in the same office as a man could regularise her position by removing her veil, lifting her gown to a suitable height and breastfeeding her colleague. Five times. As far as Islamic law was concerned, this would make him a member of her family.

Posted in crank, religion, revealed truth | 2 Comments

Where are you, UN observers, when we need you?

Ten days ago, Palermo elected its new mayor. The choice wasn’t particularly mouth-watering. In the blue corner, for Berlusconi’s centre-right coalition, a man of no obvious merit other than a slightly oily bella figura and a clean police record. In the red corner, for the centre-left, Leoluca Orlando, the man behind what became fondly known as the Palermo spring some years ago, when a small measure of legality was introduced to the city, but whose political career since then has been one flop after the next. Berlusconi’s man won, by a substantial head.

None of this would be worth mentioning if it weren’t for the way in which the elections were conducted. In one polling station, 200 ballot papers were clearly marked with the same hand (and unauthorised pen). On numerous occasions, people turned up to find that someone else had already cast their vote for them. On others, voters were accompanied into the booths. Scrutinizers who brought these malpractices to the attention of the person in charge were intimidated and the doubtful votes—always, I need hardly say, for Forza Italia—accepted. Just to make sure that people did what they were told, mobile phones were being distributed outside the polling stations, so that photos could be taken of the ballot papers, and then handed back at the exit. These voters were less fortunate though than Forza Italia voters in the last general elections in Aversa who, I’ve been told, got to keep the mobile.

Orlando immediately denounced all this, but the general mood is that he’d have done better to keep his mouth shut. The centre-right say he’s a bad loser. The centre-left, as usual, seems to want to avoid claims of electoral corruption, possibly to save its skin, more probably because they also see it as counterproductive to be seen to be complaining. Taking it on the chin, in Italy, has become synonymous with letting Berlusconi decide the agenda.

The most perturbing aspect of the whole business for me though is the absolute silence of the European press (as far as I’ve been able to tell). What would have been said if this had happened in Birmingham, or Bonn, or Barcelona? Would nothing have been written? Would nobody have cared? In its own way, what went on in Palermo is quite as shocking as the nefarious process by which Nigeria recently ‘elected’ its government, and that was reported at length. Is it simply that people expect this kind of behaviour from Italy, and Sicily above all?

Berlusconi continues to insist that Italy gained massive international prestige during his five years of misrule. This is laughably untrue. Even the Mail on Sunday called him a corrupt buffoon. But unless some noise is made to remind Italy and the Italians that normal standards of political conduct apply in the country, even in Sicily, he can hardly be blamed for continuing to conduct his dirty business in this shameless manner.

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No, no regrets…

This cartoon is a wonderful example of the way in which the nature of what we understand when we see something can be gradually transformed by a series of minuscule shifts in representation. If you could find anyone in the enviable position of never having come across Bush or Blair in what’s fondly termed real life, I wonder if they’d recognise from photographs these wonderful caricatures that, to us, are such strikingly accurate portraits of the two mean vicious little men they represent. They’re accurate because we’ve been brought here, step-by-step, distoirtion by distortion, by Steve Bell, for me the most visually inventive political cartoonist working in Britain. It would be instructive to trace the history of Blair the poodle from his first appearance, some years ago, to this appalling creature panting slavishly beside his impatient master.

Posted in blair, bush, cartoon, steve bell | 2 Comments