On Education

Hail readers!

I have a most unusual proposition in store for you today: one not only concerning education (at which, as you are doubt familiar, I am most adroit) but also one of collaboration. That’s right; there’s a guest with us today, and he goes by the name Oli.

In any case, I feel I ought introduce him. His full name is Oliver Woolley, and I guess you could call him a friend, or perhaps ‘unfortunate acquaintance’. Yes; that would be rather more fitting, I believe. But, anyway: we studied at the same inclement school—he in the Sixth Form; I lower down—until he left for university. I do believe he intends to study philosophy. This, as you can guess, is quite unfortunate for him; nevertheless, he considers it more… intellectually stimulating, than literature.

Which brings me onto our pet secret: both of us are writers. You can just see what a troublesome pair we make, can’t you?

I tend to refer to myself as an occasional writer. I prefer reading and talking about a topic to writing about it, and honestly I often struggle to iterate the complexities of an issue within linguistic bounds, let alone write them down. I’m often stuck in a state of what linguists and psychologists refer to as ‘mentalese’—thoughts or ideas that form without words with which one can describe them. This has lead me to write poetry more than articles, and indeed to study philosophy—the love of knowledge. (Shut it, Stargazer!)

Monsieur Stargazer: for the record, Oli is referring to ‘philos’ (friend; from GREEK) and ‘sophia’ (knowledge) in that little etymology lesson.

In a roundabout way, allow me to use this as in introduction to our topic of education: for me, complexity is key to the issue. The world, the universe, existence itself—and everything we may try to learn about it—is incredibly complicated. There’s just so much to it, so much of it. So many relationships to understand, forces to calculate. Horizons to observe and progress towards.

We as a species have developed the ability to express ideas through language; translating mentalese, in this particular case, to English. We can not only define a horizon, but describe it in greens and reds, as rolling hills or cityscape, as an ever-distant hue of beginnings and ends, or the edge of the world. Even more abstractly, as a frontier of knowledge itself. And through words, we can teach and learn about horizons. Because there is much more to a horizon than the word alone.

This is education: teaching, sharing information and, more crucially, sharing an understanding of the world around us. It is a beautiful, wonderful, complicated thing. So why are we getting it so wrong?

The Purpose of Education

To discuss the topic of education in any meaningful manner, one must first understand the very purpose of such an endeavour. And, believe it or not, this is a topic debated. Some propose—as my friend so eloquently does—that education is the act of inculcating knowledge, from wiser folk to younger prodigy. Others yet propose education to be a question of… economics. Specifically: that education is meant to prepare the young for the world of work, and to transfer to them skills imperative in their financial success.

The more sceptical among us may take issue with such an economical approach to education; it degrades knowledge to a matter of mere supply and demand. Teach a man to fish only if we need fishermen, or he won’t make money and we don’t have a use for him. Perhaps more worryingly, we may say in the current climate ‘he won’t make money and therefore we don’t have a use for him.’

I believe it important to possess a fundamental grounding in economics in order to discuss issues that concern it. The question of supply and demand is somewhat more subtle than the simplistic need and money, as Oli makes clear. Supply and demand is more connected to the concept of allocative efficiency. Specifically, the idea is that ‘demand’ is merely consumer desire. Neoclassical economists believe economic agents (that is to say, you and I) act according to their needs and desires in such a manner that they are able to maximise their utility for given resources. Wiser economists are more aware both of the inherent complexity of the current economic system (do you really believe you’ll select the exact combination that grants you the greatest utility from a supermarket offering millions?) and of the fickle nature of consumerism (e.g.: Apple zealots).

Oli’s point on fisherman making money is extremely important: for the fisherman’s labour does indeed produce utility—in the form of fish. However, current economies don’t use labour and utility as tradable quantities; rather, they use a proxy, in the form of money. Fisherman do not earn a great deal of money, not because their efforts are in vain, but because the nature of the market (and the body of consumers that effectively runs it) leads consumers to devalue and disconsider the fisherman’s fruit.

It may be worth mentioning at this stage that the economic argument tends to negate any notion of our fisherman wanting to fish. Or, in a less clearly fruitful pursuit, he may wish to create art. But if his education has focused on financial viability, it seems he’s even less likely to paint than he is to fish. He may end up unhappy in his financially lucrative career, or lack motivation to work at all if he cannot do what loves: fishing or painting.

My point being, however, that the nature of the market is ephemeral; temporary; the antonym of immutability. It is dangerously naive to believe that a skill not in demand now will not be so in the future; or that, even, future economies will demand skills hitherto unknown to the present day. Programming is one such example.

So, if education even in the economic sense must be considered carefully, what do we say of preparing the young for the world of work in general?

It is my belief that education is not a process that ought fundamentally attempt to meet the desires of the market; but nor is this to say that it can be divorced from it. The fundamental skills of any examined life (the only life worth living, to quote that ancient philosopher)—writing, logic, critical thinking and what have you—are the foundations by which any satisfied individual relies on. Such skills as coding, or writing fiction, or engineering cars; these rely on such skills as much as, say, philosophy.

My key point is that these are the virtues that a successful education system needs impel. Specific skills—such as engineering—cannot be ignored however. These particular skills, though, are damned by their virtue: they are specific enough to possess direct application, but also specific enough to be left obsolete, like the Luddites of old.

The question regarding economics, ultimately, is to some degree one of choice. Education must never attempt to machine its charges into productive workers, but nor must it ignore their needs in the field of work.

So, we’ve established that on a pragmatic level education must reflect not only the current job market, but attempt to meet the needs of the future as well. To some extent this can be an organic process of incorporating modern interests and advances which youth are often a part of. But this is limited by the scope of the visionaries who have control of the educational system, who are sadly often neither educators nor economists. On top of all this, there’s the troublesome issue of agency itself; we’ve already acknowledged that agents are unlikely to select greatest utility for even themselves, so asking each youthful agent (read: naive student) who we are trying to educate to consider the needs of society as a whole seems unfair, ludicrous even. But of course, there must be a limit to the removal of agency, and we cannot force STEM subjects upon everyone who does not want them.

All these issues aside, one thing is clear: there are certain virtues—the ability to think clearly; to analyse accurately; to research, and to consider evidence; to be conscientious thinkers—that are the staple of any successful system. And if we cannot do this… all else will, to some degree, be useless.

In essence—if we can give them the very basic tools of learning from the world and making useful sense of it, at the very least, they’ll be good at whatever they may choose to do. Indeed, one could say that a working populace who excel in their chosen fields would be more useful to society than abundant mediocrity in STEM subjects. A good fisherman compared to a bad engineer, if you will. I bet the fisherman is happier, too.

Ultimately, the purpose of education can be interpreted as either to manufacture students and workers as a machine of utility, or to simply educate them in a sense of achieving worldliness, wholeness, akin to the Aristotlean concept of Eudaimonia (literally: ‘flourishing’; to become ‘virtuous’ in the sense of appropriate action). This brings us back to Socrates’ ‘examined life’ and an idea of ‘education qua education’, or rather, learning for the sake of learning. The education system needs to strike a balance between the two interpretations. I think we’re somewhat in favour of the latter.

The Powers that Be

The purpose of education aside (I believe we have reached a reasonable consensus) there are other matters that concern education. Such as: leadership.

The exam boards are a particularly British peculiarity. Whereas most other nations have marking undertaken by the school (though the curricular may be made by an agency) the UK differs in that the entire process of marking is done by a centralised, and—more worryingly—virtually unaccountable exam board.

Let’s take a real-life example. A few years back, (2010 to be precise) the Edexcel board had a conundrum: their science paper and marking system had resulted in vastly lower grades than average. B grade students ended up with Cs—and Ds. A grade students got Bs, A* students got Bs; tears were shed; anger unleashed.

Their solution? Cut down the grade boundaries by an average 20%. This had the wonderful effect of leaving students that got just 60% of the paper right… with an A.

This not only shows the UK system to be dangerously dysfunctional, but also disconcertingly arbitrary. What decides an A or a B? Why do boundaries vary by subject; by paper; by year? Is there some sort of reasonable objective standard by which we are judged… or are we merely separated into strata for the purposes of employment, class, and future?

In fact, one exam board is so dysfunctional that it produces two versions of its own paper and mark scheme every year. I am of course talking about AQA, with their ‘A’ and ‘B’ papers reminiscent of the two earlier exam boards of the north and south who combined for no discernible purpose other than to continue to disagree (but, like the couple from Modern Family, refuse to get a divorce). I believe they’re under strict instructions to get their act together, but the damage has already been done; equivalent qualifications in equivalent subjects from the same exam board have produced differing papers—if that isn’t an arbitrary goal post, I don’t know what is.

What concerns me is not merely the board’s incompetence; rather, the boards seem to operate under a very different axiom to both the majority of the pupils’ and teachers’ expectations. Most of the students, teachers—and the rest of the world—regard ‘doing well’ in education to be a question of… doing well. That is to say: understanding the subject matter; knowing the basics; applying one’s knowledge; and perhaps even bringing something new to the subject.

To the exam boards, ‘doing well’ has no objective meaning. To them, possessing a superficial understanding whilst regurgitating some facts (for example) is ‘doing well’ provided that you manage to superficially understand a tiny bit more than your peers. It is not so much a matter of being capable, as it is being in the top decile. This also conveniently allows them and the government to dictate what grades will be achieved year on year; for they can easily decide that instead of awarding an A, to, say, 20% of candidates—they’ll award it to 10%. If our former education secretary wanted grades to drop—definite proof of ‘toughening up’ the exams, or declining standards in schools (whichever best fits your narrative)—he would merely need to regulate the exam boards.

What the students actually learn is quite irrelevant to this process.

And this is where the teachers and students most disagree with the exam boards and government on education. Because, we say to them, education ought to be about learning. Former education secretary Michael Gove very publicly disagreed with this, instead focusing his policy on ‘toughening up’ of exams, removal of coursework, restructuring of A levels into more focused events of unnecessary stress (by removing January exams). And the story continues as the current government wants to abolish AS exams, talks of introducing SAT style papers as early as six months into the education system, and whittles away at coursework until only exams remain. Throughout all these changes and proposals, teachers and students alike have complained, rallied, reasoned with the powers that be, to let them know that they are missing the point of the system entirely.

But it is to no avail—whilst the narrative of a ‘competitive’ system can be woven from the grades and figures which Alex already proved arbitrary, they’ll listen to neither sense nor sensibility. Never mind that self harm, mental illness and stress-induced anxiety are on the rise in our youth. Never mind that children leave school clueless about how to vote or who to vote for; how to pay taxes or why they pay taxes; how to cook; how to perform basic first aid; how to conduct their own behaviour in public, in interviews, in professional positions; how to apply for a job or write a CV; how to cope with the stress of all of the above, or how to value themselves based on anything other than the grades they were given.

Yes—the system is failing them. But it is a fundamental issue with the structure of the system, not the minutiae of the courses our students are taking. It is the exam boards, the exam environments, the fact that they have to be taught exam technique separately in order to be recognised for their ability in a subject. The fact that their coursework efforts, whilst more stimulating and a more realistic representation of the world of work (as well as their own abilities), are considered less worthwhile than their performance on one particular paper on one particular day.

Britain could learn from countries such as France, where philosophy and politics are taught within the national curriculum. Students are resultantly more aware of their political position, and of how the education system functions as part of society. Perhaps then, when we are told by the education secretary that education is an economic tool to advance our position in the world as a nation, those within education will be heard to say it is a social tool of progressive thinking, and ought not be reduced to a sophists’ auditorium.

Money

Firstly, some numbers. A great many schools in the UK—mine in particular—operate on a budget of around £4000 per student. This allows schools to pay teachers competitive salaries; procure sports and science equipment; and equip their schools with modern tools such as computers and projectors.

What it doesn’t allow? Enough teachers. GCSE classes are understaffed; interested students are not given enough attention to help develop their interests outside the curriculum; and teachers are often subject to long working hours: 50 hours is typical for many, but some work even more than that.

Nor is funding quite adequate for all equipment—as the unfortunate business students discover when they struggle with the sluggish computers in the business department.

In short: yes, the education system needs more money. But this money needs to be spent where it matters. Building shiny new buildings won’t make students learn better; and if renovating and expanding existing buildings is cheaper, well… frivolity at its finest.

An unfortunate truth of the education system in its current state is that shiny new buildings increase both ratings and funding for a school (by increasing student capacity). The idea, of course, is to then be able to use the additional funding to the benefit of students. This is no bad thing in itself—but it perpetuates a system of misplaced funds. Just a microcosm of the larger picture of misplaced goals.

A Few Benevolent Suggestions

I, for one, would recommend the following:

• That any who are appointed to run an education system know and understand both the crucial tenets of any successful education (the need to inculcate reason, a desire for knowledge, and the skill of the written word) and also the practical requiems, both present and potential;
• To view the education system not as one designed to attempt to reactively meet the market, but rather, to lead it;
• To understand that to regard education as some sort of ‘filter’ for candidates is a pernicious idea.
• And also, to know that a great deal of funding is not necessary; but nor is this to demand unrealistic budgets from schools. Of notable concern also is how one spends the money…
• Exams can serve a purpose… but coursework, too, can be a realistic and feasible way to assess students.
• A test must measure a student’s understanding of a subject—not how well they’ve memorised the mark scheme, or their degree of exam technique.
• If exams are easily passed, assume either that students are good, or that the content itself is too trivial.
• A note from me: education needs to have the student’s learning as its core interest, not more arbitrary career-oriented targets that treat learning as a means to an end—or serve only to make the education secretary look competent.
• Note also that the number of ‘C and above’ targets result in teachers teaching to the test in order to scrape out a pass. Learning itself is made even less desirable in the process. The problem of ‘bad schools’ is a deep one, and cannot be fixed by arbitrary target-setting.

Conclusion

We have discussed at length. Perhaps we may have even bored you; apologies if this is the case, dear readers. Though education is not the primary topic of this blog of mine, I believe we have learned some important lessons—for future, for present, and in hindsight.

For all its numerous failures, our education system may at least be commended on what it does right. I do not presume to wonder what would have been had I not been so determinedly taught English, when I was but young; nor whatever would have happened had not generations of good English teachers (and libraries) not brought out this passion in words.

Let us consider that. We may think ourselves independent and impervious, but education is a process that shapes us deep inside; a fundamental feature of our early lives. It would be good if we didn’t screw it up.

Education in Britain has got us this far, and that is no mean feat. But it must continue to move forwards, and be a tool of progress for future generations. We all have something we can thank it for, so give a little back, look to the future, and help to foster a system of support, innovation and enlightenment—not one of solely economic benefit. I therefore fully support Alex’s suggestion of closing sentiment: let’s not screw it up.

If you wish either for me to write more on this topic, or if you have valued my friend’s contributions (and wish for more), contact me; feedback is always welcome. For the record, Oli is on Google+ and has provided an email address: woolleyoli AT gmail DOT com

Reviews, Reviews, Reviews

Hail readers! (Note: this shall be the default greeting from henceforth; and should you deem this too pretentious, or somehow overly grandiose, please address your concerns to Mr Stargazer’s Imaginary Secretary. Thank you.)

Firstly, I have news: the election (that is, the school’s mock election, not the real thing—duh) is finished. The votes have been declared. Voter turnout was weak (at only 60%); and the results are surprising in some regards, but terribly predictable in others.

My party, alas, had little popularity; reason has not a place in the game of glorious madness. The Tories have proven most successful. Other parties took a significant portion of the vote. I shall say no more of this, other than to quote that wise figure—Plato:

Until philosophers are given rule, or kings bear the virtues of the philosopher, men shall forever be ruled by madness.

—Plato, paraphrased from the Republic.

Changes to the Magical Realm

You may have noticed that I, Lord Stargazer of the Magical Realm (I do so love a good title) have endeavoured to deploy a new addition: the Goodreads Reviews. (See that peeking from the side? Yes, that’s it.)

This is a very new addition to our wonderful blog; and currently I am testing it, determining its suitability, and making changes. Essentially, it gives you a peak of my latest reviews—which, really, you ought follow; I am a most assiduous reviewer—and a link to which you may read them.

I have also considered the possibility of integrating it with a possible new page; entitled, curiously enough, the Reviews page. This may in turn replace the Information Centre, which has, alas, proven extraneous.

Exams

In addition to politicking, monsieur Stargazer will be most occupied with exams. There are rather many of them, and the first is less than a week away. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to keep this realm a-ticking as best I can. I do have a holiday in between the latter half; do not despair!

I may also make mini-updates with regards to my thoughts on the general process of examination, and specific issues with the exams. I never did like exams, and I’ve more than a few complaints to address…

In Conclusion

In short: keep following. In addition to new poems, essays, and other goodies, I have begun reading Throne of Glass by a certain Sarah Maas. Expect a review soon. Oh, and I also have one more piece of news: the previously mentioned Land of the Giants review won’t be forthcoming. Sadly, my thoughts on it were quite negative; I deemed it unfair to continue.

Very well; may the stars be with you…

Behold! The Master is Back

Hail, oh reader! I—Alex Stargazer—am back; and I’ve got a lot to announce, so stick with.

What Ya Been Doin’, Alex?

I’ve been in Bavaria. If that (for whatever reason) don’t ring any bells, it’s because it’s a part of Germany. The southern end, to be more specific. It’s quite interesting, really: it has a distinct subculture with, for example, unique architecture featuring a lot of wood, big houses, fireplaces...

Basically, it’s everything you’d expect of the quintessential European mountain country. It’s even got great sausages (don’t get me started...) and even has a wine growing region or two.

Most importantly for the burgeoning tourist, however, is the snow. I’m glad to say there was plenty of it, even if it did come a little late.

But: let us move on. You don’t read this to learn about German curiosities, do you? (Psst: they do nude. Watch out!)

Moving On...

Aside from surreptitiously peeking at unfortunate German guys, Mr Stargazer has also been busy setting up a blog tour.

Courtesy must, of course, be given to Sage Adderley: her no doubt tireless efforts will help bring the Necromancer to several blogs in the upcoming 8 weeks. To start off, there will be an interview tomorrow on Book Adventures with Emily. Since I am a possessive old soul, I shall be hosting this interview with myself here too—but don’t worry: she asks the questions!

In addition to this, I—ever the determined writer—have written a report on my business situation... and marketing efforts. The report will not be released to the general public (that’s you, in case you were wondering); but expect to see a few posts outlining my experiences—both firsthand and through other writer friends—on all things promotional in this strange world.

Finishing Off

‘Alex—aren’t you a bit rambly today? And don’t you have another essay to bore us with, or something?’ I hear you ask.

Fear not: I will a have an essay to bore you with soon. I’ll also have poetry awaiting, so you can self-reflect on how sad you all are :)

Until then, keep reading. For as I say: dark dreams give no rest to wicked souls...

The Day Before All Hallow’s Eve

Readers! Welcome to the Magical Realm of Alex Stargazer. Mr Stargazer’s book—the Necromancer—will be out tomorrow at Witching Hour. He will now try to convince you to pre-order it. Please nod attentively while he talks—he’s a bit long-winded, is Mr Stargazer, but he has found that you lot do (for some reason; the world is a baffling place) like his ramblings, so here we go...

Okay, Mr Stargazer: What’s It About?

The plot is much too complicated for poor old me to adumbrate. Mr Stargazer is very long-winded, you see; and he always did take KISS far too literally.

Since Mr Stargazer would feed me to a basilisk if I don’t write anything about this (yes, there are basilisks in it) I’m going to say that it has magic (plenty of that), undead (far too many of those), Necromancers (yes, plural), along with elves—cool, sexy, dangerous ones, not garden variety stuff—and ghosts (who’d have thought?) and faeries and dragons and... did I mention the flying zombies? No? Well, it has those too.

Most of all though, the Necromancer is about losing yourself to power—the power to change, the power to be eternal, and the power to kill.

Why Should Buy this Instead of... Fifty Shades?

Well, Fifty Shades doesn’t have flying zombies and talking trees. Also, all the other stuff tends to be written by adults (booooring!) instead of crazy teenagers. Did I mention that? Well, Mr Stargazer is sixteen. But don’t despair! He got the top grade in English. (Quick, change the subject: he’s muttering profanities...)

Anyway... are you listening? I don’t write for nothin’ you know. Mr Stargazer pays me with star dust. Worst employer in the world...

Anything Else?

The Necromancer is available for pre-order on Amazon and Smashwords. And it costs just three quid (five bucks for you Americans) so it’s not like you’d lose much. If you didn’t like it, that is. And you will like it, won’t you?

But I digress. If you like magic, elves,—and even a little romance—buy the Necromancer. You won’t regret it. Here: read an excerpt.

---

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE NECROMANCER

He enjoys fear, I think. He enjoys it: no man would dare surround himself with the things if that wasn’t the case. Once, he might have thought them macabre; but now, he arranges them in artful circles, as if to mock the Creator’s hand.

Perhaps there’s practicality, too, I think; for what better way to defend against his (no doubt numerous) foes?

And yet, I don’t believe it. We’re too far, here in these mountains forsaken by the he; and no one would be stupid enough to attack him in this Castle of the Damned.

There is a certain grandeur about it, I admit. There is something... majestic, in the way it cradles that giant of a mountain; a child enmeshed by motherly love. It is a tall thing, too: its roofs hang in seemingly impossible angles, daring those who would intrude; its windows are easily taller than Herculean heroes, and its tower—well, let’s just say it might be a very long flight of stairs.

I wonder why he bothers with the gate. Made from what can only be steel—though it drinks the light like the wraiths he undoubtedly has hiding—it is capable of withstanding (with adroit ease) anything a catapult can throw at it. (Not that you could ever get a catapult up here—those ravines would eat you and keep the bones.)

Speaking of bones, he does have a propensity for skeletons. I see them holding bows on the roofs, by the gate, and hidden carelessly behind rocks. Dragethir would have been more practical—flying is a useful ability here besides a drop into nothing—but skeletons did have a knack for defence which no other creature of their kind really possessed.

It’s a good thing I don’t have to fight them; for if I did, my plangent wails would find no solace among these inhuman giants of rock and ice. The wind would laugh as it buried my remains into forgotten memories.

(Assuming, of course, that the Necromancer wouldn’t turn me into his pet.)

I began walking. The wind promised me release from its inhuman embrace, though I was not foolish enough to believe it. Ice crunched under boots hardened by years of use. The cold battled against clothes enured in its merciless grip.

Dusk was falling; night was approaching. Then the dead shall rise.

A smile pulled against an alabaster face. My eyes—bluer than the streams which would gurgle here in summer days—twinkled with irony. The dead have already risen. It is now merely a matter of meeting their creator.

*

With every step, the dead parted. With every thought, their hunger strengthened. With every imagining of grisly ends, they seemed to smile all the wider.

Stupid creatures, I think; they know not what life means. Their master’s rule is absolute. (Or so I hope.)

I would have knocked, but I was spared the triviality; the door invited me in. The Necromancer knew I was coming. Of course he did: he knew everything. He was the master of these dead forests and lifeless rocks. That was part of his curse. He was the master of those who wielded no thought—he was, in a sense, master of nothing.

The castle wasn’t fully complete yet: there was a wall halfway through the right corridor, which lead to the pit. The Necromancer had strategic sense. No point in building the least vulnerable parts first.

Granite lay underneath; it was fashioned into large bricks, with a white cement in between. They were aligned perfectly (the dead were good at that), though they were ever so slightly curved upwards—it was more comfortable that way. Who says Necromancers don’t live the high life?

The doors promised entry to places unseen; the ceiling was made from a dark winter wood, and had engravings of deer... and other, less natural beasts. I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how good the craftsman must have been. The Necromancer’s tastes are stunningly well-developed; and the fear of death has spectacular purchasing power.

“Necromancer, where art thou? Your home is too vast for poor me to comprehend.”

“I’m in the throne room. And don’t be so theatrical—I’m the Lord of Histrionics here.”

I smiled. He sure did have a sense of humour. Narcissistic, too; even kings did not meet in their throne rooms for such personal matters.

The door—made from a single oak that must have taken a half dozen undead to carry—opened silently.

Black granite—cut to perfection—comprised the floor; rough granite the roof; and dark rimmed windows shone cold light onto the throne. It was a beautiful thing: a base of (you guessed it) granite held a carving of ancient trees. Gargoyles—posing as if to scare away admirers, though redundant in the face of his awesome power—gripped elegantly curved armrests.

When he rose, I saw enamelled red and gold on the backrest. It was an almost... modest feature. Who hid their gold? (Hint: those who have more than they can ever find use for.)

The Necromancer himself, of course, was the real pièce d’resistance. Robes of the night’s dark hand enmeshed unblemished skin; writer’s hands held an artefact of war; and hair forged of wrathful shadows graced crystal blue eyes. He has the stark beauty of Winter, I think; he is the envy of lustful men, and the terror in tremulous hearts.

I do not lie to you: he inspired desire. And I preferred the fairer sex.

“Not looking too shabby for a hundred and eleven, eh?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, don’t be a bore. You don’t want me to get bored. I might feed you the Dragethir—they enjoy their snacks, the big hungry bastards.”

This provoked a laugh. Even the wielders of unlife must have some from time to time. Raising all those undead is a tedious business.

The stronger ones are more fun.

Can you read my mind?

No, you are merely transparent. Come.

“Do you have less... vainglorious quarters?” I asked, reverting to speech.

“Naturally. This place does get a bit overwhelming.”

I followed him. We passed the main door (the only point of entrance—the stairs led up the tower) and then did the same with several smaller ones. Eventually, we stopped. Telekinesis was the Necromancer’s choice of opening doors; undoubtedly, pure physical means would have been indecorous for one of his power.

“You go first; I think you’d like exploring this room.”

“I don’t want the lion behind me.”

“The lion can jump you anytime he wants. Besides, if I let you go after, you’d have to close the door. And that’s not as easy as it looks.”

The door was indeed made from steel. It was difficult to notice everything in such constant darkness; a feature which the Necromancer probably felt added to the atmosphere. As if it wasn’t disturbing enough.

This time, he closed it with his hands.

A metallic smash. A ringing of unyielding steel against indefatigable stone. The Necromancer had used too much force—accidentally, it seemed. He is not in full control of his body, I realised. I knew why: he was Lichtr. A lich. And a recently transformed one at that.

It would have been a weakness, if it wasn’t such a damn strength.

*

I can see why the Necromancer wants me to explore, I think; for these books—with their minimalist covers of gold on black—would surely tempt those who have lived for as long as I.

But he does not know me. Four hundred years of tenacious life has taught me this: tempt the devil and he shall come. Enter a realm of darkest magic, and their seductive promises shall forever fester in your heart.

The rest of the room was beautiful too. Shelves of dark wood—now plated in silver by the light of a full moon—lay on a stone floor decorated by Northern warriors fighting deathly figures. They weren’t winning.

The windows were in the form of a triangular ark; a style perpetuated by ancient fortresses of the north. (They were deemed too overwhelming for lords these days.) I could see little more—I had not nearly the same capabilities of sight as he.

I had started to notice a chill. And I wasn’t talking about the one of death. (That would forever remain indelible.)

“Is a fire in order?”

“Yes,” I admitted without preamble. He may be dead, but he still remembers the plight of the living. Maybe he can be saved. I doubted it, but one could only hope. Certainly, he will not be salvageable once his magic truly eats into his soul, I think.

The Necromancer walked towards the fireplace. He attempted smooth elegance, but succeeded only in appearing unnatural. Once, he might have rivalled the most magnanimous of monarchs; but now death had inculcated a sense of... other. No amount of good looks could change the fact that his heart no longer beat.

A flash of blue. A taste of ionised air.

The fire was lit.

“I would have used fire, but you know…”

“That your kind no longer has that ability? Yes, of course I know. You are not the only Necromancer I have met; one finds many in four hundred years.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Four hundred? And capable of only telepathy and that dream power of yours?”

“Who says I was not merely being polite?”

“Oh please. Whatever you are, you must be very powerful to have lived so long; and clearly if that power could translate into fire… you’d have burned us all down by now.”

A clever one, I thought. I have met only one other like that, and he didn’t build his castle so big. Or maybe this one just has a bigger ego.

“Necromancer, we did not discuss about interviewing me. We talked about interviewing you.”

“Indeed. Let me begin by telling you by name: Neshvetal.” He smiled, ever so thinly. The orange glare of those flickering flames held no sway over the coldness that lay in his eyes.

“It is a harsh name,” I say.

“I had a smoother name, once; and I despise it now, for it fooled those who should have known better.” No fruit could temper the bitterness in his voice.

“You have talked about… your loss. In your dreams.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Perhaps not. Few do. Dreams are like that.”

“I shall have none now that I am Lichtr.”

“Everyone dreams, Neshvetal. Every time you gaze off into the distance; every time you see not the world around you, but something… different. Strange. But somehow beautiful.”

“You see beauty. I see death.”

“There is beauty in death.”

“She wasn’t pretty when I found her.”

“Tell me more.”

Again that bitter smile.

“Would you enjoy a drink?”

“You have drink out here? And for that matter, can you even taste it.”

“A little,” he replied; “and I have everything out here. I have my own flying footmen.”

Ah, the Dragethir. I have never seen a Necromancer with as many and as large. He has truly mastered their creation.

I wondered if he was lying about the drink. Liches weren’t supposed to taste anything. Then again: he was recently turned. And he was probably even more powerful than Anathós, who was rumoured to have enjoyed drinking the blood of his victims before Raising them. (One wonders if vampirism and Necromancy can coexist. I couldn’t say. I’ve only ever met two vamps. And they didn’t exactly want to chat.)

“Here’s the Amarús. I think it’s ten years old.”

He poured me the drink in the crystal he brought along. Its dark brown veneer made warm fusion with fire light; and if the Necromancer hadn’t been with me, I would have felt cosy.

“It tastes as good as it looks,” I complemented.

“There is... a mellow taste to it. I am reminded of those yellow things—what were they called? Fudge, ah yes!”

So he wasn’t lying, I realise. And the world of the living still has a place within.

“Did you know about the baby?”

He froze.

“Of course I did.”

“Do you know if he still lives?”

“My wraiths have been trying to find out. It seems so. Though it’s a she.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“I am dead now. Fathering is an instinct long gone.”

A hundred and eleven, I think, and still not a perfect liar. And such a classic giveaway, too: a twitch of a mouth.

“Would you live again for Araya?”

“Who wouldn’t? But even I—greatest of all Necromancers—have not the power to bring her back.”

“You’re very modest.”

“Do you know of any other Necromancers?”

“Fair point.”

“She died fighting, you know. The silvers tried lying to me... but they were a little too afraid of joining the dead to pull it off.”

“Do you keep them around?”

“I don’t like being reminded of past things. The future is what I want to see; I want to taste the sweetness of possibility, and to possess the knowledge... that I will be lord.”

“I don’t think Araya would have wanted you lord. You’ve twisted her memory into ambition; and now your own lies are fooling you.”

Blackness surrounded me. Snarling faces of utter hatred barred teeth of a thousand lost souls’ pitiful wails. Ice seduced my soul; death promised release in the servitude of evil.

“They say the wraiths devour souls,” said the Necromancer. “I think they really devour your mind, and leave your soul here to fulfil my wants.”

“I speak the truth, Necromancer,” I replied. Of course I feared the creatures—I knew the one closest saw his sister raped, and wanted me to feel that—but somehow I knew the Necromancer had taken enough criticism in his long life to rise to a little bait.

I am a prescient being; and rarely am I wrong. Though if I am, now sure is a bad time to die. (Isn’t it always?)

“Get rid of them, Neshvetal. Or put out the fire. No point wasting wood.”

He laughed, and the creatures vanished.

“It seems you can predict the actions of even the most fickle beings.”

“You are fickle, yes; but predictable, too.”

“I never could tell what Araya was thinking.”

“And that, my dear man, is the source of all this madness.”

“Begone, oh silly fool.”

“I have a better idea. Come with me.”

I never moved a muscle in that fateful time. Dreams are subtle in their awesome power.

*

We stood on the highest peak, on the coldest lake, and in the grip of most inclement howling storms.

There was no sun. There was no moon. There was only the perpetual light of imagined possibilities; a veil from which fear and wonder sprung as equal partners.

“Where are we? And for that matter, how the hell did we get here?” asked Neshvetal.

“I think you know.”

“Dreams.”

“It seems you’ve managed to learn something over all these years.”

Iridescent fire burst from dead hands. They caressed with teeth that could never bite.

“You do not control the dream; the dream controls you.”

“Wise fallaciloquence from the one who controls the dream, oh Master.” Yes, sarcasm was a favourite of his. And he was definitely mad: only lunatics don’t fear for their mind.

We gazed across the peak. It was a pointless exercise. Impenetrable mist obscured what could only be infinity. It was the arbitrator of existence; the incarnation of being; and the bequeather of knowledge.

I almost did not notice when it began to part. But it was there: in the eddies of wind; in the slowly approaching light; in the feel of a presence.

What a fantastic memory, I think. How perfectly he recalls those eyes of gold—and that unblemished shade of peach that is her skin! How truly she smiles; how utterly believable it all is!

“Neras.” She spoke little, but said much. No word could match for disapproval or longing; no utterance could convey the million contradictory emotions of a being like her.

“Araya, dear, do tell me more. I haven’t heard you in a while. Dying is so inconvenient, isn’t it?”

“I see you’ve kept your sense of humour. I can almost envision falling in love with you again. In fact... I still love you. I really do. But I hate what you’ve become.”

“I killed only the criminals. The rapists, the murderers... the monsters.”

“So that you can make them the monsters they could never become?

“Don’t answer me. You think you are right now, and maybe you are; but in time, you shall forget me. You shall not remember how I reprobated murder. How I always believed the ends do not justify the means.

“It shall consume you, Destres.”

It was with his truest of names that we left the dream world.

*

“And so the interview is over,” says he, while pouring himself another glass of Amarús. (I don’t why he bothered: the whole bottle couldn’t make him drunk.)

“Indeed, oh Lover,” I replied.

“You know too much for your own good, you know,” he says, before proceeding to down another glass.

“In all the ages that I have lived—in all the crimes I have seen, all the destruction that has been wrought upon this fateful continent—danger found me when I knew least.

“You do not know how very doomed the path you walk is, Neshvetal. No Necromancer has ever retained full sanity; no wielder of the dark arts could be called a hero and not a villain. Are you arrogant enough to think you will be different?”

“Perhaps I want to be bad. To wreak havoc and fear among those who did the same to me. Perhaps I am tired of being that hero.”

“Or maybe you’re no better than those Wraiths.”

“Leave, oh Master of Dreams,” he commanded.

And so I did. I would meet him again, that I was sure of. Question is: would he be on the side of the light, or the dark?

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.)

Poem of the Week; And Goings On

Dear readers!

Alex has been most lackadaisical in his blogging, has he not?

This is because Alex:

a) Is now in Romania, to which he arrived by travelling east on a midnight plane—his body clock is totally off, you see, and he has trouble sleeping;

b) Has had a mole removed on his back, which is uncomfortable and annoys him to no end;

c) Has been made busy with a problem in his external drive: specifically, nothing will read it.

Being plagued by such vicissitudes, I have been unable to entertain you lot. This will now change. I have written a poem—the one which was supposed to be the poem of the week—and I shall even deign to talk about my little town of Vaslui.

So What’s This Place Like?

Depressing. I don’t mean to sound all negative and downer; but I am finding quite depressing. This is partly because I am a little unstable with my various worries (exam results, moles, etc.) and am therefore prone to depression.

But, still: this place is quite underdeveloped. It’s not poor by the standards of a not-so-well-off country in a not-so-well-off county—but even coming from little Britain, I do find it depressing.

There’s more to it than that though. Heck, Barcelona—which struck me as underdeveloped when compared to the likes of Luxembourg, Bruxelles, Eindhoven, Paris, Hamburg, etc.—was one of the liveliest places I’ve seen.

I could blame it on the architecture. There are a lot of Communist-era flats: their hard concrete and decaying windows don’t exactly inspire me to sing YMCA, or whatever idiotic song they do for that nowadays. Neither do the pothole covered roads. Or the stray animals. Or…

You get the point.

It’s not like Romania as a whole is this depressing. My country home (located in a village I guarantee you’ve never heard of) is much nicer: it’s got lots of flowers around it, it’s got vineyards, multiple buildings over multiple levels, hidden gardens…

It’s a lot more peaceful too. For a town of 50,000, Vaslui sure as hell is noisy. You can’t sleep with a window open—the pneumatic drills and lorries will drive you stark raving mad.

Okay, enough on Mr Stargazer’s location. Time to read some poetry!

(Check out my latest photos on Vaslui. I’ll promise I’ll make better ones once I get to my little country home.)

What About That Essay?

The Essence of a Good Tale is almost complete. In fact, this Poem of the Week was written in part to give me some more… direction in the essay.

Poem of the Week: Essence

This poem was actually entitled ‘Void’ to begin with. Why?

My initial premise for the poem stemmed in relation to the place which—funnily enough—I call the Void. The Void is actually a place in a (very future) novel I plan on one day writing (which shall be entitled Biology, and would—hypothetically—be made a series called Biology, Chemistry, and Physics.)

‘Alex, get on with it…’

Yes, so. The Void is the place where nothing but consciousness exists. There is no life. There is no light. There isn’t even time. Or space. It is a pure place: in it, you are your truest self. There are no illusions, nor any false pretense.

(‘He’s getting all weird again, isn’t he?’ some of you are no doubt thinking.)

However, this poem isn’t really about that. As my fingers glided over the (most uncooperative) keyboard, something else was created. Something about the essence of art.

The Essence of Art

The poem is quite short; I shall break my usual structure of weird-quotes–weirder-analysis–weirdest-poem (it was lying in tatters anyway, the poor thing) and give you the poem directly.

Read the Cause of the Altercation

I honestly don’t think any analysis is necessary: the poem is quite clear; and its implications are debatable—better for you to figure out. Of course, if it’s really leaving your knickers in a twist, you could ask me to do it. You’d have to say Please—with a cherry on top.

Very well. Here endeth this blog post. Stay following, because that essay will be coming soon. I just need to fix my hard drive, get myself a proper haircut, see a doctor with this mole removal of mine, and maybe save the world.

All in a day’s work, right?

Poem of the Week: The Pianist

It is time for the Poem of the Week, and this time it’s another poem that was initially submitted to a literary magazine (of which I have made enough mention in the previous poem of the week).

This particular poem is called the Pianist: it’s cute, light, and has some nice metaphors. It isn’t my best poem by any means—most of my best have been submitted to the Foyle poetry competition, and are rather more dark on the whole—but I think it a pleasant read all the same. (Please tell me if this is not the case. Alex is not very good at ascertaining the merits of his own work; a curse bequeathed to all writers. Oooh, I’m starting to sound all weird and literary, now aren’t I?)

As part of my new strategy, I have decided to structure these analyses (is that the right word?) in the following format: weird quotes at the beginning; weirder analysis thereafter; and weirdest poem at end.

(Tsck tsck. I’ve used that word too often now—I’ll have to start using pseudo-synonyms like ‘strange’ and ‘odd’, which so don’t sound the same. Poor me. Poor writers.)

Weird Quotes

The Pianist
Is lost in the tones
Of his own melody.

—Quote I.

For no ordinary person
Can instil such
Emotion.

—Quote II.

All the sounds of music:
A song to the unheard listener.

—Quote III. (You getting the gist of this?)

He smiles: a quirk of a mouth
That has known humanity.
But he does not know all;
That is reserved
For my kiss.

—Quote…

(I would put more, but my weary bones tire from all this typing; and besides, to do so would make this a turgid piece, which would bore you. I think. Although some of you read the so-called ‘Classics’ willingly, so who knows?)

Weirder Analysis

Let’s start with Quote I, strangely enough. (You noticed I didn’t use weird this time. You clever devil!)

Now, we are told—quite didactically, I admit—that the Pianist is lost in the tones of his own melody. This is important: it suggests that art is something in which you can forget about the world—about your worries, your fears, and even who you are. You can become a being ensnared by the magic of art; forever living in the moment, and forever subject to the most fickle of emotional changes.

And once you’ve read the poem (which you will do, I’m sure—I don’t write these for nothing, ya know) you’ll see quite a few of these emotional changes. Art is not in stasis; even paintings have the suggestion of change—the idea that this is only a snapshot of a world, and that it is not a whole representation. (Though paintings do have with them other advantages, which I shall mention in my upcoming essay.)

In any case: you can forget about yourself in art.

The next selected quote (Quote II, under the Roman system), reveals something special about the artist himself: that he—and all others of his type—are able to instil their feelings to their audience, in a way ordinary people cannot. Basically, artists are not the same as everyone else; and by implication, therefore, art is not a learned skill.

The third quote is little off-on-a-tangent (I do love going on tangents) but it reveals that much art goes unheard, unseen and unfelt. This is not entirely without reason: published art assumes that it can be critiqued, and not all art is that great (sadly). Of course, the debate is rather more complex and multi-faceted than that—hence why I shall be discussing it in my upcoming essay.

(‘Boy, he’s really doing our head in with that essay of his,’ I bet you’re thinking.)

The final quote is also very interesting. (If you happen to be a bod like me.) The fact that he’s known humanity—through art—shows that art is perhaps… a reflection, of human emotion. And in a way, it is; and another, it’s so much more. You can guess this one: to be talked of in my essay…

(‘Oh Alex!’ you wail. Patience, my dear; patience is a powerful virtue. It also means I can keep you coming back for more. Aren’t I just so clever?)

The final line suggests that one must experience certain things to truly capture them; but yet, I do believe you can gain a great deal of understanding about a phenomena even if you have never known it: that is the power of art.

Stay tuned for that essay of mine…

Alex!

Oh, yes. Here’s the weirdest poem:

View Weird Poem on Google Drive

PS: This was written in and uploaded with StackEdit—if you are of a literary disposition, you should definitely check it out.

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.

Holland

Hello to Those Who Have Not Forgotten About Me:

As I have been blabbering on about in the past couple of days, I am now in Holland. Don’t look so surprised: I don’t lie. Well, not most of the time, anyway.

Moving on, I am here to talk about Holland—or the ‘Netherlands’ as it is sometimes (bizarrely) known. (Why do they call it that? I should look it up, but, well, I can’t be bothered.)

For those of you who—for some strange reason known only to you—follow me, you may be thinking: ‘Geez, I know he’s in a foreign country and all, but shouldn’t he be talking about bloody writing instead of this gobbedygoop? And what the hell happened to the poem of the week? Has he forgotten about us?’

Rest assured that I have not forgotten about you, dear reader. It is merely that I have not had access to the Internet; in the instance that I do (as in, now) I have immediately started writing you this weird post (for your personal viewing pleasure, of course). I could have read another article on hardware, or watched porn, or do all that other crap kids my age are supposed to do. But I didn’t.

The Poem of the Week, by the way, is delayed up to the point that I can give you an analysis. I am leaving Holland on Friday, so I should certainly be able to give you something after that. Hopefully, I can get off my lazy arse and do it prior to that, but I digress.

Anyway, I am in Holland, I have lived in Holland many years ago, and; I have some opinions on it. Indeed, some of my opinion is based on fact, instead of the usual anecdote that plagues such things. Point is: I have the view of both insider and outsider. I can tell you a thing or two about this country. And maybe you’ll pay attention and learn something—it could apply to your country, you know.

Alex, We’re Getting Bored…

Okay, I’ll lay out this post in the quintessential Good–Bad–Ugly structure. If you think that too cliche, well, get over it.

The Good

I’ll begin with a grammatically incorrect statement: this country rich.

And as I’ve said, I’ll be using fact as well as personal whingeing in this weird blog post/essay/update thing.

According to the IMF, Holland had a nominal GDP per capita of 47,633 USD in 2013. This puts it in 13th place on their list.

I can tell you that GDP per capita is not the most accurate measure in the world, for reasons which I shall briefly summarise (as you may be able to guess, a more detailed explanation would require too many words. And an econ degree):

1. GDP measures transactions, not wealth. Basically, GDP (Gross Domestic Product) is defined as ‘the sum of all pecuniary transactions officially recorded in a nation’s jurisdiction’. If a country has a propensity to consumerism (which this one doesn’t)—so if its citizens prefer to eat at restaurants over cooking their own food, for example—then its GDP will be higher than that of an equally wealthy country that prefers to spend its money going on holiday, let’s say.
2. GDP does not record the quality of services/products. It does not, for example, take into account the fact that modern cars fail less and look better than cars made 20 years ago—it only detects a change in the number bought.
3. GDP does not take into account grey economies. This will be of great pertinence to the likes of Spain and Italy, among others.

Okay, let’s leave the economics aside and say this much: this country rich. (Yes, I know I’m repeating myself. Shoot me.)

The roads are perfectly asphalted. The trains are fast, comfortable and generally run on time. Dutch houses are nice (unlike those of a certain country I know). The Dutch have short working hours, and go on holiday regularly. Their education system is world class.

So, Holland is rich. What’s new?

This Country Pretty

In continuing with my abuse of English grammar, I have started to use headings like this. You don’t mind, do you?

Anyway: the place is filled with greenery. There are lots of parks, forests, flowers (a national pride) and waterworks. You do know they had to build a massive dike to keep out the North Sea, don’t you?

Bikes

Another national object of pride. The bikes are almost as numerous as the cars (the latter of which are very expensive, due to the massive tax they stuck on them) and people here do love their bikes. Heck: I love my Dutch bike. I can’t stand the English ones anymore.

Orange Carrots

‘Alex!’ you say; ‘Aren’t all carrots orange?’

Well, they are now. But that wasn’t always the case. In fact, every carrot on the planet used to be white. Yes, white people. White. Not orange.

But you see, the Dutch farmers bred orange carrots because they had the same colour as that of the royal family. These carrots were very popular (they had some advantages over the vanilla white) and so they ended up killing the benevolent white carrots and replacing them with crazy Dutch ones. So there you go.

The Bad

Honestly, there’s not much to speak of here. They have one of the most democratic countries in the world. They have tons of civil liberties. They have money (though not nearly as much as the likes of Luxembourg and Norway).

It rains a lot. I suppose that is a disadvantage—though, mind you, I would take rain over infernal heat any day. But that’s just personal preference.

The Ugly

The Arrogance.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve seen other arrogant countries. France, for example. The French believe that although their country ain’t perfect (the cause of which is usually laid squarely upon the shoulders of the politicians. Grrr. Politicians.) it’s still better than pretty much anywhere else.

This arrogance usually expresses itself through the fact that some of them like to go in front of you in a queue, or through the fact that others refuse to speak English even though they clearly do understand some. Heck, some even pretend not to understand your French because it isn’t perfect.

You won’t see any such blatantly bad behaviour here in Holland. They’re too subtle a bunch for that.

My metaphor for Nederland (writers love metaphors, in case you didn’t know) is this a: an imperfect diamond suspended perfectly in diamond-hard ice.

Holland is a very nice country. But like the diamond, it is there to be admired; coveted; and never owned. In France, if you adhere to most French principles (good breakfast is croissants avec lait et chocolat, not bloody British sausages; and you have to speak ill of the politicians—even if you are one) then you can pretty much become French.

Heck, even here in Angleterre—we get it that we’re not the richest, and that our houses suck, and all that; but we are, on the whole, a pretty accepting bunch.

The Dutch are not accepting. Tolerant, yes; very much tolerant. But not accepting.

And don’t think that this is just my opinion. Holland got voted Most Unfriendly Country for Expats. (Though one is wont to question Forbes’ neutrality and criteria.)

The point is, after living here for two years and visiting the country multiple times after that, I’ve never once felt ‘Dutch’ or indeed ‘included’. A more accurate description would have been ‘weirdo foreigner on the sidelines’.

Don’t let this deter you from visiting though. It really is very nice.

Just don’t think you can easily become part of it.