Corbyn, Corbyn, Corbyn

Hello readers!

Previously, I promised you more of my polemics in the realm of politics—especially those concerning Jeremy Corbyn, the most contentious political figure in recent British politics. Well, I can now say: here it is.

But before we get onto some juicy analysis (Little Red Book, anyone?) allow me to draw your attention to a few changes here in the Magical Realm. You will, no doubt, have noticed that there are now two sidebars; this is because of two reasons, aptly enough. The first is that the Featured Post gadget (left), while useful—I think—does nevertheless take up a fair bit of space. Because of this, I’ve widened the blog (you’ll now need at least a 1280x720 resolution) and cleaned things up a little.

The second reason? I’m testing Google’s AdSense programme. I do place emphasis on the testing element—I’ve not decided whether the potential generated revenue (i.e. cash) is worth the ads. If you feel strongly about it, send me an email (see the Contact Me page).

With that out of the way, let’s look at Jeremy Corbyn’s performance thus far as Leader of the Opposition…

The Little Red Book

Technically, since it was Corbyn’s Shadow Chancellor, John McDonnell, who was responsible for this little incident—I may be unfair in judging Corbyn. On the other hand: he did select him to be his right-hand man (much to the protest of most of the PLP) and thus may be attributed a degree of responsibility.

Anyhow—McDonnell withdrew a copy of Mao’s Little Red Book, and quoted a passage:

We must learn to do economic work from all who know how, no matter who they are, we must esteem them as teachers, learning from them respectfully and conscientiously, but we must not pretend to know what we do not know.

If you’re wondering why the passage is significant (and it is) it’s because McDonnell is making a point: Osbourne’s plans to have the Chinese build the Hinkley nuclear power station is not only an act of remarkable hypocrisy (since the Chinese regime is still quite fond of Mao; Osbourne’s ideological nemesis) but also shows that Osbourne thinks like Mao. Who cares if the Chinese have a record of gross human rights abuses? Who cares if they, for example, force women to have abortions? They can teach us something; we must esteem them as teachers.

Unfortunately, McDonnell’s little episode provoked laughter among the Tory benches, along with the ire of the media. Numerous journalists called him a Communist, or a supporter of Mao’s brutal regime; others called him merely incompetent.

Thankfully, according to my (admiteddly anecdotal) experience, this incident has not progressed beyond the media bubble.

Now: was Corbyn or McDonnell wrong to engage in this theatrical exercise? I should think so. Both of them ought have known how the media were likely to react; further, there were numerous more important policy points on which to excoriate Osbourne (like his U-turn on tax credits). Ultimately, I think this shows a certain degree of political miscalculation at the least.

But does this McDonnell a communist? Nah.

(Video below.)

To Bow or not to Bow

Another error the media (particularly the Telegraph et al.) were keen to pick up on was, unsurprisingly, whether or not Corbyn had bowed at the Remembrance Cenotaph along with the Queen. This is of course pertinent to our dear Comrade for two reasons: firstly, he doesn’t much like the Queen; secondly, he doesn’t much like war or—by extension—people who support and fight in wars.

When it turned out that Corbyn did bow (albeit with less flourish than the commentariat would have liked) after a number of pieces claimed he didn’t, well—I’m just glad Corbyn knew to leave this particular battle alone.

‘Corbyn Snubs Queen’

Another popular meme for the rightwing press was whether or not Corbyn would kiss the Queen’s hand, or bow, or do any of the other associated Royal pleasantries.

This issue is somewhat problematic for Corbyn—or indeed anyone who would like to see the monarchy abolished. On the one hand, actually kissing the Queen’s hand might be seen as an act of hypocrisy; on the other, it may be viewed as impolite. (Stuck between a media rock and a principled hard place, in other words.)

Ultimately, I think the best any anti-Monarchist should do here is indeed to kiss her hand, and bow, but also to be frank—in a polite way—about one’s thoughts on the monarch.

(Whether or not Britain should keep its monarch is a different debate. I’m for—we need the tourist money—but let’s not derail the train here.)

Seumas Milne et al.

Corbyn has also recently hired an (ex) Guardian journalist—and apologist for Islamic terrorism—as his chief of media communications. Is this a very good idea? On the one hand: Milne does know the media. And he’s very good at apologising. On the other... Milne may tar Corbyn’s image on the subject even more than it already is tarred.

If Corbyn picks sensible arguments for his views on the Middle East—like the possibility of civilian casulaties, the cost of military intervention, the successes of intervention—he might be able to convince people, or at least skeptics would not be overly antagonised.

If, however, he claims that ISIS and other similar dirtbags were innocent Islamic lambs turned into psycopaths by the evils of Western imperialism, he will find the electorate very unforgiving. No one, after all, wants a man who hates his own country being the Prime Minister!

But is he Sexist?

Another furore that occurred in the media was on Corbyn’s appointments to the Shadow Cabinet. In particular, it was said that dear Jeremy did not appoint very many women—even though his is the first Shadow Cabinet in Labour history with an equal ratio of men to women.

The media then decided to seize on something else—the so-called High Offices of State. The Chancellor, Home Secretary and First Secretary are considered roles of crucial importance; McDonnell and Burnham have been appointed to the former two. Oddly, it seems that for Corbyn to appease the feministas, he must actually appoint more women than men!

But frankly, the whole thing is ridiculous. Most of the PLP is composed of men. Likewise, 60% of the membership is made up of men (very close to the PLP). The feminists, it seems, would rather Corbyn wilfully discriminate against men in order to fulfill pointless symbolism—never mind consider things like, oh I don’t know, competence.

Speaking of competence: McDonnell’s appointment was under particular fire, as he became S. Chancellor instead of our dear Angela Eagle. The feministas were quite displeased about this. Never mind that Eagle does not—as any sensible economist can see—possess a particularly strong appreciation of the economy. Just read this:

The Liberal Democrat motion has been much commented on, possibly because it reads like the storyboard for “Apocalypse Now”, or perhaps even “Bleak House”. According to the motion, we are facing an “extreme bubble in the housing market” and the “risk of recession”, and we must “act to prevent mass home repossessions.”

This, mind you, was in 2008—literally months before the financial crisis!

This is not necessarily to say that McDonnell is himself especially competent. But if the feministas do want us to appoint a woman to the S. Chancellorship, could they at least direct to us to a) someone who is competent and b) someone who wants to serve in Corbyn’s Cabinet?

The Media Dealings in a Nutshell

Let’s boil down all this media furore to a few things. Corbyn threatens the establishment; the establisment does its best to discredit him. Inevitably, the likes of the Torygraph Telegraph and the Mail will excoriate him, sling mud—or attack him under covert pretences, like the above.

Corbyn, for his part, can’t really do much. He certainly can’t appease the media—it’ll be as successful as appeasing the terrorists. What he can do? He can avoid giving them ammunition. If this means being polite to the Queen, or not appointing dubious characters to his staff (Milne anyone?) or committees (cough Livingstone cough)—so be it.

Still: if there’s one thing that’s clear from all this, it’s that our press is pretty corrupt.

What About... Policy?

Strangely, I’ve heard little from Team Corbyn on policy. The only noteworthy issue that’s sprung up is, of course, Syria. Corbyn’s views on that have been pretty clear. Just as clear was Hilary Benn’s speech—more on that in a second.

I’ve decided not to go into the Syrian issue too much right now; the matter is so complicated that no succinct prose can really be made for it.

I’ll say a few words though. Hilary’s speech silenced the Tories and gave him praise in the media (even in the Telegraph!); this is in part because of the message, but also for different causes entirely. On the issue of Syria, there are plenty of dissenting voices right of the political spectrum—Peter Oborne being one such.

This means that there’s no reason why a speech against the bombings should not be well viewed upon by the media as a whole. So why did Benn’s speech garner applause, while Corbyn received no kind words?

Well, it boils down to a few things:

1. Delivery. Sorry Corbyn, but as I’ve said previously—you’ve got some good ideas, but you’re not the right man to sell them. Benn’s speech was was eloquent, convincing and aesthetic; you sound clumsy by comparison.
2. Rhetoric and emotion. Benn’s speech is emotive; it strikes at the heart of why we want to bomb IS. And that’s because IS are wholly and utterly despicable. Hard logic and argument is admirable and necessary in government, but then—so too is rhetoric.
3. Image. Benn is viewed as moderate, pragmatic and agreeable; Corbyn is seen as away with the fairies by many, and a terrorist sympathiser by quite a few.

(Video below.)

Wrapping Up

At the end of the day, being Leader of the Opposition is tough work. Being a Leader that has most of the press against him (purely because they feel threatened), much of the party in revolt (because some of them never should’ve become Labour MPs—Danczuk?), and no easy task in winning is... well—tougher.

Corbyn has made some blunders. Livingstone should never have been appointed; and there are more pleasant folks than Milne to act as your media man. And some things were miscalculated—like McDonnell’s Little Red Book.

Still: all is not bad. Corbyn has proven calm and well spoken on the Andrew Marr show, for example; his PMQs go well, even if he doesn’t always beat Cameron at the rhetoric game. Things could be worse.

Well—that’s all for now, folks. Stay with me for more. The stars do burn bright, here in the Magical Realm…

Special: On Refugees

Hail readers! As a departure from my usual musings on poetry and other literary endeavours, I have today a special post on the refugee crisis. Being, indeed, special, this post—and all future works like it—will be prefaced ‘Special’ (funnily enough). Such technicalities aside, let’s get down to the difficult questions: what is the refugee crisis, why is there a refugee crisis, and what can and should we do about it?

The What

The refugee crisis is a term coined for the current situation in Syria (primarily) and the resultant impact on Europe.

To elaborate: Syria, at present, is suffering from a severe civil war. The incumbent Head of State, Bashar al Assad, is a hereditary dictator masquerading lackadaisically as an elected president; his regime is an authoritarian one, having pursued military action on largely peaceful ‘Arab Spring’ protesters. On top of this, he has instigated the murder—and tortue—of 11,000 people in detention centres reminiscent of Auschwitz.

The UN has even implicated Assad personally in war-crimes 1, and he is currently due for prosecution by the International Criminal Court 2.

In essence, the first cause of the Syrian civil war—and the resultant refugee influx—lies with Assad.

It is worth noting that the Assads have been ruling Syria since 1971, following a coup d’état. Though this history is not directly relevant to the situation at present, it is worth knowing. Syria was actually established as a French colony—bearing no national identity to its citizens—in the 1920s, with the consent of Britain. 3 Initially a feudal state, it was later replaced by a class-ridden rentier society, whereby two percent of the population received 50% of the income.

In 1946, Syria became an independent state. However, things had not changed; indeed, they worsened in 1948 following a war with Israel. Thereafter, military dictatorship became the norm.

Eventually this was forcibly replaced by a military committee of discontented peasants, nationalists (Syria was created arbitrarily without national identity) and a movement comprising radical socalists and pan-Islamists called Ba’athism.

As you can see, Syria’s history is long, complex, and—to put it bluntly—disastrous. We can point the finger at Britain and France, of course, but that was decades ago. The fault of the conflict now lies clearly with Assad.

‘Alex! But what about the refugees?’ you ask. And this is where the situation worsens once more. Aside from a bloody civil war between (understandably) angry rebels and a ruthless dictator—a conflict which has already involved several uses of chemical weapons, with death tolls in the thousands 4—there is one more fire in the pan: Isis.

This particular entity needs little introduction. Composed of murderous, raping, Islamic fundamentalists, it has made quite a name (or is it names?) for itself, what with beheading journalists and enslaving Yazidi girls into sex slavery. This particular unsavoury group has activities in both Iraq and Syria.

The situation is complicated by the fact that Isis is being opposed not only by the Iraqi army, and by Kurds, but also by Assad himself. Of course, Assad isn’t doing it for humanitarian reasons (ha!)—no: Isis is a major threat to his power (being determined to create its own caliphate) and is therefore being resisted.

Anyway: let’s leave such deliberations aside and get back to the problem of the refugees.

Refugees, Refugees...

The Syrians are fleeing their country for obvious reasons. On the one hand, Assad is busily torturing and killing dissidents; on the other, there’s a dangerous civil war going on. And to top it all off, Isis is also in the fray, busily pillaging and killing away.

It should be mentioned that the Syrians aren’t the only ones fleeing. In addition to their 9 million 5—a million of which are in the tiny country of Lebanon, with many more in Turkey and other neighbouring countries—there are also Libyans fleeing a failed state, various victims of Egypt’s wonderful rulers, and several disaster zones in the Congo, in Somalia, and in much of Africa.

Whatever to Do?

Several solutions and workarounds have been proposed. Firstly among these is accepting more refugees; a noble quest, but there are questions to be addressed.

Britain—nor any other country—cannot and should not support a large group of dependent, non-working people. It would be a substantial drain on our already damaged and inequality-ridden economy. And besides: none of us were in power when colonialism was about; we share no culpability for this.

However, this is not to say that we shouldn’t let the refugees in. No. My suggestion is a simple one: let the refugees work. Abandon arbitrary and tedious conditions on asylum; and let them be productive members of society. Because, whichever way you look at it, the situation in Syria is not going to get better anytime soon. Might as well enjoy the popcorn.

There are other concerns with these refugees. Some have expressed worries that they will be like some of our Muslim citizens—i.e. dangerous, fundamentalist, and batshit crazy. We can already see those ‘British’ Muslims getting plane tickets to join Isis.

But there’s a problem with this argument: the vast majority of these people were persecuted by Isis, and have every reason not to engage in that type of behaviour. And if they did fancy joining Isis, chances are they would have done so already. Also, to be blunt, if they are that way inclined—deport them! Let them sow the fruits of their harvest.

But let’s not get carried away by these fears. The vast majority of these refugees are impoverished, traumatised, and desperate. They are people just like you and me—people with dreams, with hopes, with ambitions. People who lost their children in a gas attack; people who faced being shot, bombed and beheaded as part of their daily lives. Do we really want to abandon them to the mercy of Assad?

But What About Assad and Cronies?

There is an important argument to be had here. We can take on 20,000 refugees, or a hundred thousand, or—like Germany—we can take on 1% of our population: 600,000.

And with a convincing pan-European plan, we might get a few million refugees safe.

But there are millions more living in a destitute Lebanon; millions more still waiting to escape Syria. This cannot be a permanent solution. Europe cannot be the lifeboat for the Middle East; we have neither the capabilities nor the culpability to merit such action.

So: what do we do about Syria?

Taking on Isis would be a start. Being a non-state entity, it isn’t subject to the pesky technicalities of international law in quite the same way as a state is. But defeating it is easier said than done: like all guerilla forces, it is tenacious, capable of hiding itself, and thus not defeatable by a bombing campaign or a simple Blitzkrieg operation. It is like a virus.

Isis itself isn’t that powerful—its oil revenues are modest, it has no aircraft or tanks, and its soldiers don’t possess the level of training or armament that a developed nation can bring to bear—but it exists in a region filled with weak governments, civil war, and nations barely capable of providing for their citizenry (let alone creating the Wermacht).

But this leads to a possible solution. Can we not help the Iraqi government, the Kurds, and the Turks to take them down? Can we not arm them, train them, and equip them?

The danger is that we may create a situation similar to the Mujahideen. Formerly armed in a similar fashion by the CIA, these Jihadists were initially employed to beat back the Soviets from Afghanistan many years ago. Unfortunately, they went on to create the Taliban, Al-Qaida, and now Isis. Reluctance to engage in anything similar is understandable.

But the Kurds are not the Mujahideen. They have been ruthless at times, as anyone in their position may well need to be; but they fight ultimately to defend themselves, their husbands and wives, and their children from Isis barbarity. They are not ideologues and warlords.

Although I do not profess to be an expert, it seems to me that the situation is not analogous to that of Afghanistan. It is a proposition worth considering.

Aside from that, there are other possibilities. Britain may continue to employ airstrikes and drone attacks—which have some limited effect—but as Tom Watson, the deputy Labour leader, has said: no airborne campaign will succeed in beating Isis without ground support.

Which leads us to another possibility. Can we, and should we, bring in the army? I am not opposed to this on a moral and practical basis. There is no danger of creating another Mujahideen; and it would be substantially more effective than dropping bombs.

Still, it is fraught with problems. A force like Isis will not be defeated in an a year; for it can hide, and it can recruit. As long as there are angry, bloodthirsty fundamentalists and murderers about—well, you may need to keep those troops in there for a while. Maybe for a decade, or so. It will cost money, and lives.

Morally, I am not opposed to a couple thousand soldiers giving up their lives—and a few billion to be spent—if it can save millions from suffering. But I know that my view will be unpopular among many; and there are other, less expensive possibilities to consider.

Jeremy Corbyn, newly elected leader of the Labour party, has proposed cutting off Isis by controlling the Turkish border. While the intent is effective—cutting off Isis supply lines and oil revenues will certainly weaken them—controlling the Turkish border is easier said than done: Turkey’s border spans more than a thousand kilometres between Syria and Iraq, along with Iran. Even if the Turks somehow manage to patrol and control such a border (an improbable feat indeed) it is well known that Iran tacitly supports anything that will weaken its neighbours.

The final problem alluded to previously is one of ideology. There is little doubt that Isis promises of heaven, and virgins, and killing the infidels (and all the rest) finds itself home among a region dominated by fundamentalist Islam. Devotees certainly do find solace in the various scriptures of Islam—that support Jihad and violent action—as well as the precedents set out by Muhammad and centuries of warlords thereafter.

Saying this will no doubt solicit some ire, but is is ultimately true. Richard Dawkins is right to point out that religion is a major part of what is going wrong in the Middle East—as indeed has gone wrong for the last millennia. The statistics are frightening to bear. The entire Islamic world has translated fewer English texts in a thousand years than Spain has in one. 6 Illiterary is rife, particularly among women; and it has been so for thousands of years. Imams and scripture regularly call for and defend the subjugation of women.

There is little point in continuing. All of the Abrahamic religions have long and bloody histories, with long and bloody Bibles. The fact that Isis devotees genuinely believe that killing thousands of innocent people in a suicide attack will send them to heaven is, really, a testament to how violent religion really is.

What Are We to Get from This, Alex?

Dealing with Isis is a complicated matter. Sending in the army would be a good step, but the cost may be too high to bear—and without a broader plan, it is ultimately futile. Isis must be fought along several frontiers: the Kurds must be aided in their fight against them, but cautiously; airstrikes should be continued, but faith must not be placed on them; and borders need to be controlled as best as feasible.

But more than anything, in the long term, the Middle East needs education. Its citizenry must learn of science, of the Enlightenment, of liberal democracy and tolerance. We should support attempts to replace violent dictators—because ultimately, there will never be progress so long as they remain in power.

That’s right: realpolitik has failed. It has failed time and time again. By all means, be careful to avoid creating power vacuums and anarchy; and if you’re not willing to invade and control a country in order to depose a dictator, don’t do it. But don’t be afraid to support forces that desire prosperity and freedom from doing so either.

Wrapping Up

I have discussed at length on this matter. The situation is undoubtedly complicated, and poses many difficulties for Britain and the EU. But there are solutions, both short-term and long term.

In the short term, we need to work with the European Union to adopt a Europe-wide asylum policy. We need to accept our fair share of refugees; and I do mean our fair share—the same as Germany and France. We need to do this not because Europe wants us to, but because it is within the scope of our shared humanity.

It sounds corny, I know, but it’s true. If you’ve a heart, for the love of all that is good—give these people safety. If you lived with the daily threat of gas attack, bombing and beheading; would you be any different?

On a more practical level, the refugees need to work. And the root causes need to be addressed.

Europe cannot be the lifeboat for the Middle East. Instead, the Middle East needs to become a prosperous place: it must became safe, so that millions need not flee for their lives; it must grow economically, for destitution has no place in the 21st century. If you don’t support their wellbeing for their sakes, at least support it for ours; for millions will enter Europe, no matter how many barbed wire fences your erect—nor indeed for how many will drown in the Mediterranean.

Doing so will require destroying the forces of evil, be it Isis or Assad. It will require education, and emancipation for women; for minorities; and from the toxic clutch of religion.

Some may call me fanciful. They will continue with their realpolitik, with their dodgy deals and dictators. And on one level, deals will need to be made—not with the evil, but often with the unsavoury. Politics is a dirty business.

But politics can also bring hope, and vision, into life. And that’s something we’re going to need.

On Writing and the Ark

Hail readers!

Today I bring to you my musings on the Ark. It is proving a difficult endeavour—as any such work ought be, in truth. However, one question in particular poses a special kind of difficulty—that being: in what manner ought the Ark be written? Should it be formal, and (were I unkind in my interpretation) full of flosculations? Or should it be tight, informal... but at the same time, lacking in eloquence and vivid description?

The question may be phrased in a different way: should it be mainstream, or literary?

Mainstream, Literary... or Both?

It seems I have fallen fowl to the apparent dilemma plaguing many a writer. On the one hand, I wish to write beautiful prose, and words of elegance and wit; on the other, I worry that I am too formal, too complex in my vocabulary and manner of expression. I worry that I am too dense.

The mainstream writers may say: but Alex! The realm of literary fiction is a small one; and what good are words, if they have no readers? Is is not the reader, who defines the poem?

The literary writers will no doubt reply: but even if your words find solace only among a few; even if you are not blessed with riches and fame and the adulation of the masses... surely it is worth bringing beauty and imagination to those erudite few?

Both arguments are to some degree valid. I, for one, am usually of the former disposition; I do believe that words are best when sampled by the many, not the sanctimonious few. And yet... aesthetic prose, and words written free of any consideration for audience sensibilities, can be powerful.

But to frame the discussion in such terms ignores a fundamental truth: that beautiful tales are formed both by beautiful words and expert execution. The novel is not the poem; it cannot partake in exercises of writerly practice, or of vain exhibitionism. Or in other words—it cannot be written purely for the sake of it. It must convey a story, a message within its lines and sentences.

But nor is a good tale composed merely of anodyne phrasing and lackluster prose. It is the strange nature of writing: it is not merely the what which creates the tale, but also the how.

To be mainstream and to be literary, therefore, is no contradiction. On the contrary: truly good novels possess the qualities of both.

But What of the Ark?

The Ark is in some difficulty as of present; for I now suspect that the language which it employs, and the manner in which it is written, is indeed too much of the literary and not enough of the direct. Here—an example:

For a moment, I’m surprised. Not because I didn’t see him as a poet—he’d have to be to quote Dante in Italian—but because there is something at once so inopportune, and yet so felicitous, about it, that I cannot help but laugh.

Are the latter clauses too keen to employ rare words? Is the expression too stitled, too formal; too High English, even for poetic Casey—a sixteen year old boy? There are numerous concerns as to what audience would be interested in both the premise and the manner of writing; and questions too, concerning the aspect of believability.

And yet, such questions aside, it must always be remembered that bad words may be taken away; but that good words cannot be invented by the editorial mind. Also, the Ark is no ordinary tale; and its characters are not ordinary teenagers. There is nothing ordinary about the brilliant. No great tale ever became great by being average.

So what are we to take from this? Perhaps some of these phrasings will be altered; some words replaced with simpler equivalents. But nor is this to say that the words of the Ark, and the tale brought by its words, need careful manipulation by cynical purveyors of finance.

A tale is a tale is a tale—to paraphrase Gertrude Stein—and it must be written both for greatness and for readability. The two are not contradictory, and neither can one come at the expense of the other; true brilliance lies in both.

On Sequels and Politics

‘Alex!’ you cry; ‘wherever have you been?’ you enquire forlornly. Rest assured that—though occupied with many an hour of math homework, courtesy to my charming math teacher—I do nevertheless have a great deal to discuss. First up: politics. Yes, it’s that time of the year.

Politics

Though an inclement beast, my school has for once been daring: it has organised a ‘mock election’ in which candidates (that is, me; and a few others) must campaign in order to win the student vote.

Presently, there are eight parties involved: moi, representing the Reason Party (of course); the Tories; the Lib Dems; Labour; along with the Communists, the Greens, the kippies (may Hell feast upon their empty souls), and a joke party called ‘4Uture’.

We firstly began with a debate. This proved a fortuitous moment in my rise to power: the kippies were promptly humiliated (claiming that an NHS policy cost us three times the entire NHS budget is bound to do that), the Tories’ policies were—despite a rather poignant appeal by the party candidate—revealed to benefit the rich at the expense of the poor (alas the Communists were instrumental in that particular coup), and Labour droned repetitively and without the slightest inkling of conviction.

Then we were asked to deliver a speech in front of the entire school. This proved a somewhat daunting proposition—the audience is 1100 strong after all—but I’m pleased to say that I and my peers delivered an excellent performance.

The kippies made another spurious claim (the EU apparently costs us £120B—the figure is closer to £12B), the Tories busied themselves with trite insults against the other parties, Labour… was Labour. The Lib Dem’s performance was more solid, along with, of course, the Reds. The winner of this particular battle will likely be between the Reds, the Lib Dems, and myself—though the Tories, Greens and unfortunately the kippies will likely remain in the game.

You, however, probably don’t read this wonderful blog of mine purely for my antics. Thus, here’s a bit of serious analysis for you.

Proposition A: ‘The Tories believe in the good of all, including the less well off, for they are the party of aspiration.’

Ironically this is actually genuinely believed by a lot of Tories. Indeed, the Tory candidate made an impassioned appeal; having lived in a council house, he said, he was not a man of the rich—but he did believe in aspiration; in aiming high rather than stooping low.

Unfortunately, while the Tories may believe this is what their party accomplishes, the truth is rather different.

Firstly, the desire to be successful is usually not what is in short supply. We would all wish to be successful; to earn well, to provide for our human wants, desires, and needs. But people are not poor—or indeed merely not particularly successful—for lack of desire. No: the problem is that people can’t fulfill their dreams. It’s all well and nilly to say that tax incentivises entrepreneurs; but no one is going to be an entrepreneur if they have to choose between eating and heating.

And that is the great contradiction in Tory thinking. People want to be successful—of course they do. And having to live in a smaller mansion or buying a Mercedes instead of a Bentley isn’t likely to make them any less keen.

But if people cannot go to a good school; if people cannot attend university, if they do not have a stable environment… if, were they to fail (and it is conveniently forgotten that 65% of small businesses go bust within 3 years, and that liquidation often leads to debt) they would be without help… then they can never succeed.

In some instances, there is a poverty of ambition. Pupils doing badly at school often do badly not because they are stupid; but because they have no hope. If you have lived a life in poverty, success seems to belong to another galaxy.

But lowering taxes won’t make these kids sit up and learn. For that matter, hiring more teachers probably won’t either. The problem is that Britain suffers from a perpetuating cycle of poverty.

Proposition B: ‘Europe is the cause of Britain’s ills.’

This is essentially the entire premise by which the kippies argue from; often they do so implicitly, but if you look at their complaints—immigration, EU funding—you’ll quickly realise this is their bête noire.

But let us examine the veracity of so grandiose a statement. Chiefly among ‘Britain’s Ills’ would be the Credit Crunch of 2007 onwards. That, however, was instigated by the collapse of the Lehman brothers (remember them?) after which much of the banking system went down with them. This of course was caused by two things: banking—particularly when it involves the trade of other debts—is a risky business; and of course, the banks lent massive mortgages to people who never had an icicle’s chance in Hell of paying them off.

That is why Britain is in a financial crisis. The problem has very little to do with bureaucrats in Brussels and everything to do with greed and irresponsibility at home.

Neither can Greece be blamed. Greece’s economy is small; bailouts, when shared among Germany, France, the UK and other EU nations amount to little; and most of these bailouts, sadly, need to be repaid. (So the creditors don’t actually lose any money.) What’s more, Greece actually suffered in no small part because of the crisis caused by the UK: Greece has a significant tourist economy, and one that was badly affected by the British credit crunch—us being the single largest nationality of visiting tourists.[1]

This is not to say that Greece is without blame for having such a tourist-dependent economy. It is also true that Greece’s tourism profits were unsustainable—since the money British tourists used to pay for those holidays was somewhat based on credit card loans that needed to be paid off eventually (and painfully, as in now).

Greece also has a major sovereign debt problem—due primarily to the corruption of former governments. That, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish. But it does lead me onto proposition three.

Proposition C: ‘Britain is in debt; we must eliminate the deficit; we must pay off the debt.’

Some of the greatest lies are half-truths, and this certainly is a half truth. (Though probably not the greatest of lies.)

Firstly, some data:

Firstly, note that we were far, far more in debt post-WW2 than we are now. The debt reached 240% of GDP in 1945, and is currently at 80% (edit: 90% as of latest figures). Thus, to state that Britain ‘must’ pay off the debt (or some terrible fate is imminent) is false: we have sustained much greater levels of debt in the past than we have now. And, if you’ll care to observe, we were able to pay all of it off. (The small increases you see post 1975 is from new debt.)

But how far are we in debt now, why are we in debt, and is this a concern?

With regards to the cause, the bank bailouts cost us £124B [2] in the immediate term (though at its peak ten times that amount was offered as guarantees) and another £5B per year in interest. A ballpark figure of around £150B may thus be derived.

The UK GDP is around £1500B as of 2014 [3] so these bailouts have added around 10% to the total debt. However, post-2007 sovereign debt increased by 40%. Where is the other 30% coming from?

That is likely due to the not-insignificant deficit the government has shored up: averaging around £90B post-2007 [4], which makes up most of the rest.

So, let’s recap: Britain is in much lower debt that in 1945, has less debt than the US and quite a lot less than Japan (neither economy is doing especially badly), and most of the debt is from a budget deficit, with some from bank bailouts. The final question remains: is this a concern?

Well, it is a concern insomuch as 80% GDP public debt is not small, and in that it is increasing—albeit less rapidly than immediately after the Great Recession (as it is misleadingly known; the 1930s one is much more accurately described as such, while this fiasco is proving to be one of long-term stagnation).

But is this an immediate, and terrible concern? No. Debt levels have been much higher previously, and it did not crush our economy (yes, France and Germany’s post-War boom was considerably more pronounced, but then they were either not as badly damaged or got more help). Indeed, Keynesians would propose—quite reasonably—that we keep borrowing to help us initiate a growth period, and pay the debt when we are more able to do so.

This is not entirely without flaw (it is unlikely, for example, that we will have the same growth as we did in the post-war period, since we are not rebuilding) but it is certainly quite misleading to portray the current debt problem as a bomb waiting to explode.

Okay: enough with the economics lesson.

Why Do People Believe This?

I believe I have bored you long enough (I have news on a sequel!) but do humour me for this last, important point.

People believe what they want to believe. The Tories ultimately act out of greed, and selfishness, but also because many are well-meaning but mislead. Frankly, lower taxation for the wealthy or even middle class will spell very bad news for the many that are less fortunate. And it won’t get them out of poverty.

The fiasco on Europe stems in part because people need a scapegoat, and are unwilling to face the truth: the growth we experienced post-WW2 happened because we were rebuilding to our pre-WW2 height, and because we had cheap hydrocarbons. There is also strong evidence to suggest that we have reached an economic state where the major breakthroughs from industrialisation that generated strong growth previously are no longer present.

But people still remember the good times. They remember when they could expect regular payrises and a better future for their children. And they tried to keep it going—through debt. That, unfortunately, is stupid. And dangerous. The hard truth is that people blame Europe because they won’t look themselves in the eye, and realise it’s their own bloody fault. (Other agents such as the banks, the landlords, etc. are far from innocent as well.)

Our final proposition does have some merit, but it is ultimately an attempt to blame Labour and our political system in general, for our own failings in the personal sphere of fiscal responsibility.

Above: private household debt as a percentage of GDP. Source: Touchstone Blog, citing OBR.

Finally! Sequels

Our tedious but hopefully informative foray into the murky realm of political economy over, I’ve got news. Specifically: a tale is a-coming. But it isn’t the one you think.

I’ve mentioned my plans for a sequel to the Necromancer. That would have been called the Deathbringer, and I had many a plan for it. But plans change. My reasons for deciding not to write the sequel now (you may be thankful to know I haven’t written it off for future endeavours) are twofold. Firstly: the Necromancer is not going to be my greatest work. This is not to say that it is bad (how can it? It’s got flying zombies!) but rather that the powers of the imagination have different tales to tell.

This leads me onto my second reason: this is a story I’ve been waiting to tell for some time.

It’s about love. You may not be surprised to learn this, if you’ve followed this blog. Inevitably, the life of a teenager (no matter how intellectually minded or capable) features love—or at least the desire for love. You may be surprised to learn that said lovers are male. But would you really?

I have many other details. It is set in a time of beautiful desperation; a time when space is salvation—and the Earth is but a sweet, decaying tomb. Its name is the Ark; and though much may be said of it—of its bitter, hopeful struggle; of its pain, and its awe and its love—the sweetest tales are those first discovered.

I shall leave you, now. You have much to dwell upon. And, alas, school never was a kind beast…

Hey Ho! I Got Words

Hello faithful followers! I say faithful—you’d have to be, if you’ve managed to get through that ridiculously long lull in the posting. But rest assured: I have good reasons. Here; I’ll tell you, so you don’t stick my head on a pike.

Blog Book Tour (BBT)

With the help of the wonderful Sage at Sage’s Blog Tours, the Necromancer shall find its way to interesting blogs—and interested readers. That’s the plan, anyway. (We all know plans have a tendency to go... in surprising manners.)

I shall be quite busy with this. In addition to providing numerous materia (cover, bios, etc.) I shall be writing answers to interview questions and perhaps even doing some blogging on... other venues. (‘Traitor!’ you call; ‘do not abandon us; for we are not merciful.’)

The tour will last 8 weeks. If things go to plan, that will probably be prolonged. Hopefully I can get some excitement from you lot. Hopefully...

Tests

My lovely school does so love tests. Math tests (several of those—and hard ones too); mechanics tests; physics; philosophy; econ. Rinse and repeat. I have finally realised not to bother giving my all on them. Their true purpose is to identify weaknesses—and urge you to address them.

It’s not a pleasant way to go through education. Not only that, but; the tests themselves have some questions to answer. Heck, the entire damnable education systems need be asked questions! For one, they seem to prioritise memorising the (pedantic, absurd) mark schemes, over, you know—actual learning, passion and talent. And to top it all off: it has the effect of sticking us in a rat race.

As you can see, an essay on education is to be written. But let us move on...

Life

We’ve finally started to get some winter weather. We’ve had frost; we’re hoping for snow. Alas, nature is a fickle beast. She ought not be second guessed.

Additionally, there’s the cliched old being-with-friends excuse which I won’t bother you with.

What About Blogging?

Once the tests are over, I’ll be writing my (perhaps rather annoyed) post on education. And I shall also—surprise!—be releasing some more poetry.

Finally: I’ve made good my promise. Here’s a link to the first chapter of the Deathbringer—the prologue has also been included, in case you haven’t read it.

I am concerned with this sequel. I have... difficulties, with Linaera and Derien’s relationship. Frankly, it was an accident; a chance meeting of chance personalities. Then again—isn’t that how so many love tales begin?

If you’ve any questions or suggestions, feel free to contact me. (Hint: head over to the contact page.)

Read The Deathbringer: A Taster

The Necromancer... Covers

Hello Blogosphere:

I, Alex Stargazer—writer extraordinaire and not-so-extraordinaire poet—presents to you five possible covers for my book, known as the Necromancer.

If you are unfamiliar with it, know that it is a High Fantasy novel with—surprise surprise—a Necromancer (that is, a person who raises the dead) and flying zombies, and magic, and stuff. Oh: did I mention our Necromancer is trying to take over the respective world?

Well, he is. That’s what people with 50,000 strong undead armies tend to do. Right? (Note: those 50,000 undead happen to be really fast, and strong, and fearless and all that. He’s kinda difficult to stop. That’s kinda the premise of the book, ya know?)

In any case, here are some descriptions of him:

Neshvetal permitted himself a small smile. It was not a pleasant one: it revealed teeth that were inhumanly white, and a twinkle of madness within those cold orbs of sight.

His eyes are balls of azure light, glowing with deep, unnatural power; his hair is darker than the darkest of nights, yet it reflects the scant moonlight like some fantastical lake. His form is tall – his posture, arrogant. A cruel smile lights up his long, aristocratic nose and handsome (if rather dark) features. He knows he has won.

As you can see, our Necromancer looks as scary as he is.

And without further ado, I present to you these covers. (Thanks goes to Kit Foster for providing them. Yes, I am paying him. Yes, it is still polite to thank those who enable your success.)

You can share them with whom you think may be interested. And please make sure to rate them on the comments below. After all: a good book needs a good cover to get you lot to read it.

Why Modern Poetry... Sucks

A contentious title, is it not? But unfortunately, I believe it a true one. Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against modern poets (I mean, I technically am one) and indeed some—like Carol Ann Duffy, to name my favourite—produce some excellent works.

And yet I cannot deny the fact that, reading most of today’s poetry—be it online, in a few books, or in literary journals—I have the powerful impression that there really aren’t many real poets out there. What gets classed as ‘poetry’ today possesses a certain… vacuousness, that would make poets—even those of a few decades ago—turn in their graves.

I’m not trying to be hyperbolic. Allow me to elaborate…

A Look Into Today’s Poetry

I shall not be naming and shaming; I don’t consider that kosher. Mostly, I shall be using examples created by myself. Take this one:

In my house
The song of radiators
Echoes into television dreams.

Actually, that’s a little too good for what I’m referring to. Let’s try again, this time with a poem by Anonymous:

So I want
To leave
A deep scratch
Of my mind
On the screen
Of the world
And walk along
With all bards
After my death
Hundreds of years
On soiled paths
And metal streets
Without my limbs
Blood and flesh
In haunting houses
And Joyous classes,
Make them feel
My hovering spirit
In emotional moments
In acts and deeds
Soothing souls
And agitated minds.

This actually isn’t bad, in the general standard of things. It’s biggest mistake is in being too long, having overly short lines, and overly bulky stanzas. (Let me paraphrase: it’s god awful hard to read.)

Closer examination, however, reveals a deeper problem. It’s meaningless. It has neither rhyme nor reason; and with that it no longer becomes a work of art—an expression of emotion, a creation of inherent desire—and instead becomes a vapid caricature.

Let’s delve into some specifics:

On soiled paths
And metal streets
Without my limbs
Blood and flesh
In haunting houses
And Joyous classes,

Does the adjective ‘soiled’ have any impact whatsoever on the meaning of the poem? Does it even create imagery? As far as I can see, it doesn’t. Nor, for that matter, does ‘metal’ in streets; for there are no such things, and neither is it metaphorical or used to evoke imagery.

‘Blood and flesh’ literally has no meaning whatsoever. You could remove it, and nothing would change. ‘Haunting houses’? Really? I know alliteration is effective, but this really is very forced. As for ‘Joyous classes’—why the capitalisation, what exactly is ‘Joyous’ supposed to mean in this context, and what type of ‘classes’ are we referring to exactly?

Perhaps Anon is referring to school classrooms? In which case, he is being: a) terribly vague; b) unrealistic; and c) not evoking of the image.

Basically, six entire lines are devoted to nothing at all.

Harsh? Yes: But Not Without Reason

You may think I am being harsh on the author. And indeed, I am: the idea of leaving an indelible mark upon society through art is certainly an interesting and powerful idea.

Trouble is, modern poets seem—on the whole—obsessed with joining words together instead of writing meaningful prose. Turgour is even worse of a problem than it was in the eighteenth century; for now that turgour is devoid of meaning.

And remember: this is actually pretty good for the ones I’ve seen. Most seem to have little relation to anything at all.

The Poet has Killed the Poem

That’s my final message, at the end of it all. There was a time when a poet could bring his work to the masses… and the masses could be expected to listen. They may not have understood everything; but still, the poem would have connected. They would have seen something of their lives, and of themselves. Perhaps they would enjoy life. Perhaps they would reform something of themselves.

At the least, they would feel something.

The killing began with pretentiousness. Poets began writing ever longer and more turgid works. The references to gods became too many and too obscure for the ordinary working class citizen to know or understand. And the structures! Complicated, twisting; difficult to read; harder still to speak.

At least poetry was still read (and enjoyed) by the academics and those of a literary disposition. Now, even writers pay them little attention; and poetry seems mainly to belong to a few niche circles.

This new fall came from the modern era. Poetry is no longer a an art form worth practising: it is now merely a way to express musings. Little snippets of words that just happened to be passing through your mind are now considered serious prose.

At first we stripped poetry of general appeal; then we stripped it of meaning; and now we condemn it to the work of the untalented and poor.

I am giving you two poems of mine to read. They both carry a message—one dramatic, the other subtle. I would submit them to literary magazines, but no one will read them even if they get published. (Which is easier said than done, considering hw pretentious and closed-minded they are.)

I would voice them; but who would listen? The organisations relevant—LGBT rights advocates, reason and science foundations—don’t do poetry. I wonder why. And good luck getting anyone on the street to listen.

Perhaps you, dear reader, are willing to give them look. And maybe you’ll take my message to heart. Don’t pretend they’re any good. Don’t pseudo-analyse and write praise that would seem fake even in an ad.

Repudiate. It’s bullshit, and you know it.

Read The Lover’s Curse—a dramatic fusion of rhyme and hexameter, on false social practice and oppression.

Read God the Sun: a subtle attack on the notion of an omni-benevolent god.

Essay: The Essence of a Good Tale

PART I: The Forms of Art

I shall begin by saying that, although this will be an essay, it cannot really be called that; for it shall include elements of art, and—therefore—a more apt description would be ‘philosophical fiction’.

Such semantics aside, the purpose of this essay/tale/enter-what-you-think-is-right-here is not merely to ascertain the purpose of a good tale (contrary to its title); rather, it is to determine what art is, why it is important—and to make some (hopefully) humorous comments on all of it. Let us begin with an anecdote.

(Clearly, I am already committing a faux pas. Mea culpa.)

The Anecdote: Dutch Paintings

Recently, I was in the Netherlands. There, I had the pleasure of examining some of the works displayed in the Groninger Museum (named after the town I was in).

I saw some wonderful things there: abstract forms hinting of nightmare imaginations (ironically); capturings of strange, crazy artists; and landscapes—so many landscapes!

They were vast, awe-inspiring things; and they seemed filled with both the timelesness of nature, and the tenacity of the humans that lay upon them, and the very spirit of Holland: of the tiny, utterly flat country that yet seemed so imposing, and so full of the feats weaved by its inhabitants.

And yet—despite all of the myriad of colours, the range of expressions, and the intangibility of the forms—I felt there was something missing. I felt that it was somehow… incomplete.

One does not think such of paintings. After all: they are our most tangible sense—sight. We can easily tell that the man is decimated by a crushing sadness that pervades into every aspect of his world; and we can quite comfortably recognise the need for a rock in the children’s expression. Everything is clear. And yet so much is missing!

Paintings in Further Detail

Let me use another example: the smiling Dutchman. You can perhaps tell from the warm, brown eyes (bordering a shade of orange) and the strong, leathery hands, wizened by years of exposure; you can perhaps tell that his voice is powerful, and strong—and that he would move in confident, reassuring strides; and that, even, he would smell of freshly cut hay and angrily uprooted tulips and orange carrots.

But you would not really get all that. You wouldn’t get it straight from the artist’s imagination—that strange otherworld that seems to reveal itself only to a chosen few (and rarely then).

You would have to imagine all of these things yourself. Create them, if you like. To truly experience, a painting (or a drawing, or a pastel, or a photo)
requires that you fill in some of the blanks yourself.

In a way, this is a good thing: for the purpose of art—or better put, one of its purposes, for it has many—is to inspire its receiver. And art that requires this emotional and intellectual investment will invariably inspire you more—because it makes you think.

But writing—to take the personal example—does this too. The writer must never attempt to cover every possible minutiae of a scene. And writing can give you those other senses directly; those feelings of loss, and confusion, and fear—or the wonderful euphoria of falling in love.

Likewise, writing can make you feel the deadly caress of the assassin’s blade. It can make you smell death, and taste its bitter aroma. Writing can be everything.

But this comes with a cost.

Investment, Difficulty; Two Foes of an Artist

There is no question of the fact that a painting is immediate. You can instantly see the blackness of malice and the white of puerillity. And this means less work, for you as a viewer; and so a painting can be gazed at by so many more (for we all know that not many take the promise of a large, heavy book easily).

We can argue idealism all day. Why, you say, should a greater art form be confined to less? Heresy!

But this does not take into account the realities. (I shall refrain from discussing the relevance of said ‘realities’, for to do so would drive this off on a tangent.)

The best art is also experienced by the many. It is why a bestseller may be the better art than the niche tale, despite the fact that it uses less of the greater language and may employ some simplifications. While it is true that a more refined, upper-class work of literature may give those equipped to deal with it a greater short-term enjoyment (and inspiration), it does so at the cost of alienating many more.

Moreover, inspiration and enjoyment is also drawn by the reader when they are able to communicate (read: discuss) the work in question with others. Such a feat is much more difficult in the case of the latter. Furthermore, it will relegate such discussion to a small strata of people. There would be less variety, and less understanding.

Allow me to elucidate. Let us assume, briefly, that a story follows the life of the most quintessentially poor man in history. I shall say no more on this; for no more need be said.

A reader from more fortunate echelons may scoff and laugh; but the working woman—whose life revolves around the 9-to-5—would quite easily comprehend the true difficulty of the opprobrium faced by the poor, poor man.

But to go back to the point: writing requires greater Investment from the reader; and this isn’t a good thing.

What’s more, there is always the question of difficulty.

Oh no…

I have no doubt this topic has been debated before. To some of you, it has even been debated ad nauseam.

But perhaps the viewpoint of a writer and hobbyist pianist may be of interest to you.

Writing is hard. You will see this mentioned, but very few outside the literary circle really understand the scale of it.

Pay attention now. What does a writer do when they are writing? (This isn’t about what writing and other art is, though, mind you; but we’ll get to that.)

You cannot write if you do not have something to write about. Firstly, therefore, you must create.

And now understand this: you must create the kernel of the story first. (In much the same way one does for an operating system, to use a rather oblique IT analogy.) What is the plot? What is the premise of all of this? What makes you want to know more?

And who is involved? Why? What motivates these people; what do they cherish—and what terrifies them?

When you begin, you will start with a character and a scene. Thus begins the creation of sense 1: sight. You must describe the tower that your character is looking from, for example.

She lay in a tower—a terrible thing it was: embittering the clouds in envy; deterring any climber with its perfectly sculpted, gleaming bricks (of which no man had made); and imprisoning her.

You must describe her thoughts—and more.

Once, she had been angry; then an all-encompassing loneliness had made its den inside the confines of her mind; and then she had been sad, so sad. She could have made the tower cry, had it not been as lifeless as its master.

Now she was empty. Emptier than the damnable walls that so cruelly immured her.

A husk—but one with a purpose.

To kill the man who put her there.

You must describe touch, and smell, and even taste.

The floor underneath was hard, unyielding, and totally impenetrable. The air lay still; it seemed to mock her, she thought, with that stillness of it. There wasn’t much in the way of smell: rocks lacked that little human feature.

But she could definitely taste the power of the magic that bound her there. It was like drinking acid, bile and poison in one fatal gulp. (But it was not fatal; that would have been merciful.)

It was almost as bad as the taste of meaninglessness that was forever imbued in her mouth. She had no meaning now.

She was shattered.

And she would be the shard that could finally kill him. If only one thing went into place first: the birth of a mage foretold by a mad woman.

Yeah, it wasn’t much to bet on.

The final paragraph leads me to my next point: not only must you imagine all this, but you must transcribe it—you must give it form, through the medium of words, grammar, and punctuation. Indeed, not only is this aspect alone difficult (for children take years to master them to the point that they can produce something intelligible), but it is actually an art in and of its own.

And did I mention plot? Or direction? Or any of the numerous techniques that are employed (subconsciously, it seems to me) by writers in order to really take their prose into the next level?

I admit to not being able to paint or draw much. I can, however, create music. Making a song requires inspiration, technique, and a great deal of effort taken perfecting the song to the point that it becomes what it can be. (Hopefully.)

But song writing feels more raw, and turning it into a conglomerate of sounds is considerably easier for me than writing is. (And I am a much better writer than musician.) And of course, writing also necessitates some revision—quite a lot of it, often times.

Now you’re thinking: ‘Geez, Alex, but shouldn’t you be proud that you’re the toughest kid on the block?’

Well, if only it were that simple…

The Quality of Art

A lot of art isn’t very good. There, I said it. But it’s true: many ideas are never realised. Many books that could have been written, are not. Likewise many paintings go… unpainted, and many songs unsung.

Humans are fallible creatures, and we can’t always do an idea justice. Nor, indeed, are our ideas fit for the big, bad world.

Easy art is good. Easy art means an easier time for the artist (and artists go through much dolour in their quest to become who they are), and it means more art to go around. This is also good. Art brings to us inspiration, emotion and carries with it meaning—detail into which I shall be going into later on.

That said, a difficult art form can forever challenge and develop the burgeoning artist. It is why so many move from the pencil to the brush, and from the marimba to the piano to the violin. (Please appreciate that I am making some simplifications here for the purposes of illustration and brevity.)

Music…

I have thus far made little reference to this popular art form. Which is quite strange, considering my background.

This is because I think music to be a little… different, from other forms of art. Music is not something concrete, and easily tangible—it is, after all, based on a weaker sense. While all art is to some degree intangible (why does one particular shade of vermilion remind one of death, while the other reminds one of lazy days spent basking on the beach?) music is especially so.

This is not to say that being so is a bad thing, or a good thing. It is merely the way in which these artists express themselves.

The beauty in a less tangible art form is that it brings the most unique emotions and inspiration to each particular listener. This is also its curse. While a certain melody may remind one of vast arctic plateaus imbued with the light of the cold, white pearl that is the sun; for another it may remind them of alien electronica playing to the tune of dancing club-goers.

This aspect of music can also present Difficulty for the musician. The musician may be able to apply some of the principles that help music—rhythm, harmony, or even simple intuition—but the true nature of the song will always seem impervious to analysis.

And yet again, this confers an advantage: for if the subtleties and feelings, and meanings, of the song are conferred not through didactic telling—as plagues certain writers and storytellers—but through the true medium of the art itself, then the essence of the song shall be carried, specifics be damned.

Concluding Part I

I have made numerous comments on the forms of art, their difficulty; their weaknesses, and strengths—and on why this is so, and what this means for the art.

The perfect art form would require the smallest amount of Investment and Difficulty while producing the greatest amount of Utility, Emotion, and Inspiration. Clearly, this is impossible: Investment is usually a requirement for all of these three, and likewise Difficulty can enhance the artist themselves—again improving the desired qualities.

There are other concerns for the art forms, naturally: commercial success, let’s take. Once more, the idealistic may espouse the arts in lieu of any financial considerations; but the realities cannot be ignored.

It is possible—though difficult—to make a lot of money with a book or a song. For a painter, however, the tale is different: it is generally easier to gain attention for their work (this being particularly troublesome for writers, but posing problems to musicians also) but to become commercially successful is very much easier said than done.

The problem with much of the visual arts is that they typically pose high financial value only to an elite class of the wealthy—meaning that there is less money available for those artists as a whole, and that what money there is usually gets thrown on an even smaller artist elite.

This is not to say one should condemn said artists. It isn’t their fault, now is it?

No, what I hope this work will do to artists reading is to make them better aware of their strengths and weaknesses. It is a great strength to be able to make someone gasp with wonder at a brilliant painting; for the musician—and especially the writer—more time is required.

It is also a great strength to be able to give viewers a powerful view into your imagination, without requiring a great deal from them; again, this is not the case with writing.

But the power of a painting is so often ephemeral. One becomes used to the curves of the arches, and the strange hue of an insouciant sky; until, eventually, the painting becomes no more than a commodity—a crude fashion accessory.

Getting around this requires some creative business thought. I shall leave you to it, dear reader, if you are so inclined; for I have concerns of my own as a writer, and because only the artists themselves can truly empower themselves.

Also, this section is getting long. There is much to be discussed…

PART II: The Essence of Art

I am reminded of the phrase ars gratia artis. For those of you unacquainted, it means art for the sake of art. And that is part of my view: art is by its own merit a reward; a gain for the one fortunate enough to have completed it.

Of course, gain can mean anything at all. For a deeper understanding, I believe we should examine what art is—then its purpose shall become clear.

So: What is Art?

Is art the precisely engineered camera, capable of revealing the reality behind the world—as per the likes of Aristotle? Is art an illusion?

Or is art an expression of emotion, imagery, tale, sound and scent and taste?

Is art the heightened form of our experiences? Or are those experiences, in a way, beyond what we normally experience—and is that why art is valuable?

So many questions. I am of a clear opinion on this matter, and through my cogent writing (‘Alex, let’s not get too cocky…’) I shall convince you of it.

Art—Not Engineering

I like engineering: I enjoy the challenge brought about by real world situations; I enjoy the difficulties of research, experimentation and calculation; and of course I enjoy perfecting the final solution—and making life that little bit easier.

Art could not be more different for me.

I cannot engineer art. I cannot force it to follow my wishes, or to include things that—from a casual perspective—would improve it.

Because they don’t.

Art is not like an engine, where the problem is clear—and the solution is achievable by logic and fact. Art is not solving a problem. And there is something about it that defies logic: it is emotion and idea and it resonates in a way that cannot be measured by a microphone.

I do not invent a story in the way that I do, let’s say, a tablet: there is no thought of why consumers would like such a device (the story), or why it will have an USP over the rest of the market (rest of the stories), or how I should go about building said tablet.

Art comes to me. I did not come about the idea of a tower that puts the clouds to shame, or a Necromancer whose plight is so powerful I cannot deny it, or a about a ship that could save two lovers from extinction—I did not come about it by analysing markets.

Perhaps some of them are, to a degree, reflections of other art. Towers are a common sight in mediaeval tales; and there is a lot of work done on zombies, for example.

And yet, every story is unique. Clearly, we are not regurgitating the work of others. (Which would in itself be a logical fallacy—where did those artists get such a wealth of different ideas?)

I still think some art is inspired by and altered in the presence of other art—and that’s not a bad thing. A populated subconscious means ideas can grow, and meld with other ideas; the power of both can be combined.

The word subconcious is key here. I did not smash these ideas together consciously; instead they formed together, naturally, the way birds and bison collaborate after being together for a great deal of time.

And remember: the subconscious never sleeps…

The greatest proof of this, I think, is not from the art—but from the artists. If you were to put Aristotle to try and create a novel, what would you get? Even if he were to learn every writing technique known to man, and toil away at it for hours on end; his work would still seem to lack alacrity, and soul.

It would be nothing more than empty words.

Okay, Al; But What Is Art?

I must admit to not being of clear opinion. It is difficult to make an analysis on the nature of art: for art is something unique to each artist, and even unique to many of those who experience it.

I shall, therefore, contain my analysis to the things experienced by myself. References to the aforementioned shall only be made when they are suitably clear.

For me, art is… an experience.

It seems vague, but the word is the best one available in the forever limited vocabulary of language.

I suppose I could say that art is the culmination of feeling, thought and imagination amalgamated into artistic form.

I believe imagination is most important here. When writing, I have always felt there was something more to things—the glimpse of a deeper reality becomes visible when producing art.

Perhaps an example would better elucidate my thus far vague assertions.

Let us take my aforementioned excerpt: the woman in the tower. For some reason, many people would find her plight of great importance—they would wish for her escape almost as surely as she would herself; and, moreover, their hatred of the captor would be powerful, despite never having met the man.

There is a certain amount of emotion related to this. It is emotion that makes bestsellers, bestsellers; and likewise it is emotion that reaches out to grab the hearts of art admirers, and it is an emotion that makes a tune’s last echoes reverberate forever in our memories.

So there you go. Art is emotion.

But it is also an unusually powerful form of emotion—a dramatised version, you could say.

Still, part of me denies this. Many books do not dramatise the experiences of their characters. Indeed, this is considered a bad thing: feeling that seems forced or out of proportion becomes… unnatural. It alienates, rather than draws in.

So what do we end up with? Is art just true emotion?

Well, to a degree yes. True emotion is important; a lot of our behaviours in daily life show false emotion. The forced smile at coworkers who need not deal with concerns of your own. The faux interest in a boss’s ideas. Even, perhaps, the ostensible enthusiasm at a child’s new toy.

Humans do a lot of pretending. Much of that is unavoidable; for the realities of life cannot be ignored, as I have stated all too often now.

If art is true emotion, then art is who we really are.

So Why Is Art Important?

Why are we important? For if art is the expression of our true selves, then it would not matter if we had no care to find that out. Perhaps some of do prefer a life of unjust pretense and patinas devoid of meaning.

But for most, art brings happiness, and truth; art is a gateway to a better, truer world.

That’s the real crux of it all, isn’t it? By seeing who we really are, we can improve ourselves; and so we attain greater.

I suspect the above will lead some to debate the merits of various genres. No doubt some of these arguments will be rehashed, but allow me to present cursory reasons for the power of each genre:

1. Fantasy. By creating worlds and characters with features beyond this one, we highlight the very importance of the human characters in an alien world. Additionally, Fantasy is the truest genre; for art is fantasy—as well as an expression of emotion—and this allows Fantasy to truly bring art’s greatest purpose to life: building a better world.
2. Science Fiction. Again, syfy is a fantasy and humanity is all the more apparent in a world full of non-humans and tech. Syfy also shows us a glimpse of the future, or of a different place (a la fantasy). Thus current mistakes are revealed: the cyberspying, to take a popular example.
3. Crime. Humans do evil things, at times. It helps to see the whys and the maybes. Additionally, a crime can shatter a person; and through this harsh punishment, their inner self is revealed.
4. Romance. Love is one of our best creations, but it can also poison with verisimilitude. Romance can reveal these fallacies. Furthermore: it is good to learn of another’s love. It may show what you’re doing wrong.

Who Are Artists?

The gifted and the cursed. A most literary description, is it not?

But it’s true. Artists are… emotional people, for one. They’re people who feel, and who aren’t dissuaded from making that clear.

Artists do have a gift. I do not pity those of you who wished for egalitarianism in this regard; there isn’t any. Artists have a talent, and not all are as equally talented as one another. Nor, however, is the difference as great as some claim; truly, it is practice and dedication and determination that makes a good artist.

What is their gift?

I believe—and not without some uncertainty, mind you—that our gift is to be able to… not visualise; rather, imagine,
emotion that is not our own, people unmet, and places unseen.

We have imagination.

But imagination is also a curse. After all: you can imagine the empowerment of a poor farmer boy—his rise to power; fame; glory.

Likewise, you can imagine the terrible downfall of a great leader; or the decimation of a beautiful city; or the crumbling relationship between two highschool sweethearts.

And as I’ve also stated, we have emotion. The two seem follow one another. Emotion is a wonderful thing—who would abandon all happiness, love and excitement just to avoid sadness, loneliness and depression?

But this does mean we have unusually sensitive emotional antennae. Not necessarily thin skin though—just greater heights (and lows) of emotion, and smoother transitions between the two.

Sounds Like I’m Missing Out

Thankfully, it is not a selfish gift which we have. In fact, we feel a great desire to spread it as far and wide as possible; to make it the beautiful butterfly, seen and spotted—called to the many.

The others need not work to experience art. But they never experience it fully; an advantage and a disadvantage. You decide which is better. I suspect the artists will always choose art, and the non-artists will be too afraid to want it. Such is the way of things.

Finale: Good Art

And now we arrive to where this essay started: good art.

We’ve talked of the what. We’ve talked of the why. You cannot create good art without understanding those first.

You could say this is the how. It isn’t. This is not a guide to writing fiction, or any other form of art. There are other things for that.

(And if you do desire a comprehensive guide into my art written by me, email me at alexstargazerwriterextraordinaire@outlook.com and maybe I’ll think of making one.)

No, this final section is about recognising the things that produce emotion, produce the truest emotion, and which shows us—ultimately—of a better world.

Being specific is impossible. I shall try to keep my ideas confined to the literary medium; although many of these should apply to any other form of art you care to consider.

1. Write for yourself, not for a ‘market’. Art is your emotion, your imagination, and your creation. Be true to yourself. If you try and write what you think x will like, x will not like it; for people are unique (and cannot, therefore, be taken as a whole and used to construct art) and also fickle. More importantly, you would have created a piece of art that… really isn’t one. It would be devoid of anything that would make anyone want to experience it.
2. Prepare yourself. It isn’t easy.
3. Understand yourself. Or in other words: don’t force your art to try and conform to a set of ideals or preconceptions. Your art is a reflection of yourself. Unless you’ve forced it. If you understand yourself, you can tell. The danger, of course, is that you do not understand who you are—or that you’ve changed. Always give art a long look before making major alterations. You might not like what you get if you don’t.
4. Know that not all art is created equal. And don’t despair: you can improve.
5. Practice. A lot.

‘Alex!’ you say; ‘but what about the features of good art?’

Alas, dear reader, this is where I leave you. Not that there aren’t techniques which can help polish and improve a specific art medium—for there are—but the real problem is: art is subjective. To a degree, at least.

While one may objectively ascertain the skill at which a novel is written—or a painting painted, or any other axiomatic example you care to think of—the final product produces what I have said uniquely for each person.

That said, a reviewer may make comments on how well they believe a piece of art accomplishes its purpose for the general audience.

But ultimately art is emotion and fire and the imaginings of strange irrational beings: cherish it, criticise it, and let it make you a better person.

This essay is finished. I am contradicting myself by writing that, so please don’t make me repeat myself. If you desire (for reasons unknown to me) to discuss it, email me at the aforementioned address. If you are reading this on my blog, comment. I don’t spy. (Google does that for me.)

So Long, Holland

I have arrived back in the Land of the Angles and Saxons, and indeed have spent a day recharging my batteries. So now I’m thinking: why not give you lot something to think about?

Well, this will probably be my last post on Holland for the time being. What I aim to do is make some further comparison between it and England (and indeed the UK in general) while—hopefully—amusing you.

Where Was I?

I was in the part of Holland towards the inner continent, in a town called Groningen. Which reminds me—in Dutch, most of the time the grapheme ‘G’ is pronounced [ɣ] (a harsh ‘hrrr’—or voiced velar fricative if you really want to get technical). So ‘Groningen’ is actually ‘Hrrroningen’. Weird, huh?

Now, Groningen has some strange little features. It has two bells, for one; and they both ring at the same time! And they’re pretty close to one another. And they play totally, totally different tunes.

And they do that every fifteen minutes.

So: you know you’re in Groningen when you here that awful, discordant clanging every fifteen minutes or so (for the clocks on those aren’t perfectly calibrated). You can also guess that it’s pretty damn annoying—don’t try to live in the city centre if you ever want to open a window. Or don’t have soundproofing.

The other pleasantry that Groningen has to offer is the rounded street corners. They’re quite quirky, I admit; they also mean that intersections occur on the pavement, so you always have to watch out for cars and bikes.

Which reminds me: the Dutch are crazy about bikes. It’s quite common to ride to work, ride to a park, ride to a restaurant, ride to…

And good for them. They save themselves money (thanks to the big taxes imposed on cars, along with the fact that car ownership is generally an expensive business) and they get health benefits. I just hope you like the rain, because you’ll be pretty comfortably enured with it by the time you’ve done any serious biking in Holland.

Anyway, let’s move on from all of these oddities to something a bit more concrete.

(Here’s my Google Web Album with some pictures, by the way.)

Holland, and the UK: An Economic Perspective

Anyone with a brain can ascertain that Holland is a wealthier country than the UK, simply by looking at the statistics: higher GDP per capita; a lower Gini co-efficient; lower teen pregnancy; et cetera.

But the statistics don’t tell you as much as the words. And while they are correct on the gist of it, they’re not quite correct on the scale of it. Because Holland isn’t just richer than the UK: it’s loads better off.

There is pretty big class difference here in the UK (unfortunately; a long standing problem worsened by economic crisis and a certain party I know of...)

There is class difference in Holland too, of course; there has to be. The reasons are complex—they range from the fact that some inequality must exist in order to provide incentive for greater risk, and because some people are harder working and more determined (while others are more content); and because, at the end of it all: some professions are more useful to the world than others.

However, class difference is very much pernicious. Firstly, it causes economic problems. This comes in two forms: through the principle of marginal utility—adding a ten grand bonus to guy earning a hundred k is far less meaningful than adding it to someone earning 16k, for example; and through the fact that it is more difficult to make money if you do not have it.

There are many frequent examples of this. Having more cash means you can buy shoes that will last for years, not months; and it means you can buy the more expensive fridge that’s cheaper over the long term due to efficiency; and so on and so forth.

There is also the question of borrower credibility. Banks are generally more willing to lend money to people with more money—the assumption being that the latter are more responsible. (This is quite often mistaken, of course: rich people are just as likely—if not more so—to end up in debt than less rich people.)

But class difference can manifest itself in much more subtle ways than in their economic ones; and it is these differences—these unseen ones—that are more dangerous.

Class

We all know the stereotype: the Victorian ladies and gentlemen sipping their favourite Earl Grey while the peasants are on hunger strike. Perhaps they’re even buying a nice gold chandelier while the peasants are trying to put out a fire.

These things seem silly to us know. But they’re true: the rich so often become heedless of the needs and concerns of less fortunate citizens. They do, to put it more simply, lack empathy.

And empathy is a very important part of a functional society. Those who do not have it are considered psychopaths; those who do are considered saviours. To lack in empathy would make you unable to deal with the emotions of other people (especially those close to you) and it will lower your capability to be a good, responsible citizen.

Which brings me onto a little known fact: a lack of empathy towards those less fortunate does often lead to a lack of empathy in general. Or to put it more bluntly—money damages you as a person.

There is also the age old question of entitlement.

Many of us laugh when we hear about millionaires (or billionaires) giving but a fraction of their money to their offspring. It makes sense, though: money leads to entitlement; and entitlement leads to an inability to cope with scarcity or difficulty.

The economic implications of this are merely an incomplete picture of the problem, of course. (As indeed economics is just part of the issue of class.)

We do not live in a perfect world. Bad things happen. People leave us; relations dull, and colden—and sometimes, disaster strikes. If you feel the world belongs to you, how do you deal with this?

Alex: Why?

I have gone off on a rather long tangent. Pardon me. So: we know that Holland has fewer rich snobs, and that’s a good thing. But how and why is it richer?

If you come from a 1st world country, looking around some neighbourhoods of Birmingham (for example) would come as a bit of a shock. There is a powerful sense of poverty in much of Britain: everything from the small, ugly terraced houses; to the ageing, dying cars; even to the poor taste in fashion—it all paints a gloomy picture.

After two years in the Netherlands, I can honestly say that I’ve never seen this level of poverty. Indeed, most of Groningen seems to be swimming in cash: the restaurants are full; the fashion houses seem busy; the trains are running on time—no complaints to be heard. Everything just seems so… smooth.

I do not claim to know exactly why this is the case. Neither do the economists, as much they as they wish they did.

I will merely present to you some hypotheses.

Infrastructure

Do you live in the UK? If so, you have probably complained extensively about:

1. The fact that the damn motorways seem forever clogged in a mass of rumbling, grumbling cars filled with even more rumbling, grumbling motorists;

2. The fact that the trains are bloody expensive;

3. The fact that the trains are slow sons of a b****;

4. The airports—they’re too full;

5. The ferries—they don’t go anywhere;

6. And more…

In holland, the motorways don’t get traffic jammed for hours (barring force majeure), the trains are fast, on time (and affordable); the airports are big enough; there are better sea-links, and so on.

A weak infrastructure means time and fuel lost by lorries idling idly in packed motorways. Fuel is expensive. Time is expensive—especially when foodstuffs are concerned.

Basically, infrastructure is a good investment; and one that the UK doesn’t do enough of.

Vocational Training…

In the UK, there exists a certain contempt of the word ‘vocational’. Yuck. Vocational. The images typically conjured are of lazy teenage boys sitting around in their DiDa classes (or whatever the hell they call them now) doing ‘ICT’ and ‘Game Design’.

And there’s a reason for this: training in the UK is very, very weak. The fact of the matter is, we can’t get those less fortunate to become competent craftsmen, IT personnel, or even shop-assisstants. (Some supermarkets have implemented their own numeracy and literacy tests for first time employees.)

Try going to a Dutch supermarket—Albert Heijn, let’s say.

Shop Assistant: ‘Hallo.’

Moi: ‘Hallo.’

BEEP BEEP

Moi: ‘Dank u vell.’

SA: ‘Astublieft.’

Fast, efficient, polite. In the UK? You’d likely have to wait a fair bit more and be asked a fair few more unnecessary questions before you’d get anything done. Let’s not even get into the quality of Dutch vocational training—they have separate universities for people like that (unlike here, where the best you’ll find is a poorly paid apprenticeship) and those universities are affordable (ditto), and have better facilities than UK ones.

And it’s not just at the tertiary level, mind you. Dutch highschools are better funded and have a much wider range of courses (that are taken seriously) available for non-academic students. Moreover, I have never seen Dutch schools as bad as some of the ones we have here.

EU

Britain has always been an insular country with insular tendencies. And recently, the bastards that borrowed money from fools banks to be spent profligately on swimming pools, jewellery, fashion and various other things they couldn’t afford—they’ve decided to jump on the anti-EU bandwaggon (ah, scapegoating) to cover up their irresponsibility.

Going into the merits of the EU is a topic for another time. I’ll leave it at this for now: every other EU country that has historically been comparable in wealth to the UK (e.g. Holland, Germany, France, Belgium) is both significantly richer, prone to less inflation, has less class division, and is growing faster than we are. That’s some coincidence, eh?

Let’s Finish

The Dutch are an odd, arrogant bunch with a terrible taste in food outside of cheese and waffles—both of which are fantastic, by the way.

(I’ve seen vegetables in hot water called ‘clear broth’. Oh, please.)

They also have a weird obsession with orange—they sell lots of orange shirts, trousers, mascots, and even suits in the colour. And of course they turned all the carrots orange, like I’ve previously mentioned.

But despite all this, they have a country with fantastic civil liberties (in how many parts of the world can two brothers marry and be on the drug user’s list?) and they’re rich too. We could learn something from them.

Just don’t think boiled, baked and fried vegetables are a good idea, okay?

PS: I’ll be posting the Poem of the Week soon. And that essay on The Essence of a Good Tale that I’ve been talking about. It’ll be really philosophical—indeed, I plan to hand it to my philosophy teacher in September, in lieu of doing whatever weird summer work they’ve chosen.