Death Comes for the Archbishop

(by Willa Cather)

A series of disappointingly empty episodes in old New Mexico, where the priests are as mixed a bag as anywhere else.


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Dead Souls

(by Nikolai Gogol)

Gogol was no Dante. He could not legislate in his novels. But he pinned sinners more lethally than most and the wild scheme to buy and sell the dead, today, looks a lot like dealing in derivatives.

The dead souls were peasants who had passed on between official census, and hence you incurred their holding costs (tax) till they were officially designated as dead at the next census. The protagonist, Chichikov, would acquire those dead souls, thereby assuming the tax burden of them, but he would mortgage them as live souls till the next census.

Priestley wrote “On the gothic tower of romanticism, Gogol is responsible for the gargoyles.”

Merrily they roll along...

Merrily they roll along…

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Dead Man

November 3, 2014 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | Drama Film, FILM, THUMBNAIL REVIEWS |

(dir. Jim Jarmusch) (1996)

Johnny Depp rides again, or should it be sails, into the sunset, only this time, weird works.

"Stupid White Men"

“Stupid White Men”

[As Depp Indian films go, this is as good as The Lone Ranger is execrable…] Continue Reading →

The Count of Monte Cristo

(by Alexandre Dumas)

A turgid but absorbing boys’- own revenge yarn.


Where will I hide the dirt?

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(by Samuel Richardson) (1748)

The Varnished Culture mentions this merely to brag: longer than War and Peace (it’s the longest novel in English at approximately 984,870 words), this account of virtue chased and trashed is the novel’s version of continuous cricket: mad in detail, slow in execution, passionately related. Told in letters, very long letters, the correspondents spend what seems a year recalling a year but a crowded year. Take this book to a desert island; it will endure and also make a crackling blaze.

Coleridge nailed Richardson’s “close, hot, day-dreamy continuity” and Priestley (in Literature and Western Man) commented: “The whole fantastically elaborate business of Clarissa and Lovelace, over which so many eighteenth-century readers wept, could only exist in an over-heated evangelical -erotic dreamland.” 

Walter Allen, in The English Novel, was a little more brusque: “…Richardson was mad – mad about sex, and I doubt whether it is possible for the critic who comes to Clarissa after reading Freud to deny that the novel must have been written by a man who was, even though unconsciously, a sadist in the technical sense; the loving, lingering, horrified, gloating descriptions of Clarissa’s long-drawn-out sexual humiliation at the hands of Lovelace, the rape that is constantly threatened and constantly deferred until, when it occurs, it has an additional horror simply because of its long postponement, provide an element of quite inescapable pornography…”

Are these reactions in fact overreactions, testimony to the length and depth of Clarissa?  Mark Kinkead-Weekes, in his Samuel Richardson: Dramatic Novelist, considers that “Clarissa is the finest novel of its century“* and cautions against casting Miss Harlowe as an angel and Lovelace as a demon: “Clarissa’s tragedy is an exposure of a materialist and acquisitive society; of the moral decay of both the aristocracy and the ‘middle class’“** – a “struggle for Clarissa to come to terms with her fear of sex, her readiness to cast herself as a victim, her melancholy, and her morbid longing for death – or her spiritual pride, which is for Richardson at the heart of it all.”+  Lovelace’s “gaiety, his apparent candour, his wit and charm, even his rakehell insouciance and energy…[pose] a trap for the unwary and superficial here…For in [the] opening volumes we see him mostly through the eyes of Clarissa…“^

[*Page 1. **Page 124. +Page 488.  ^Page 142.]

“O-ho charmer, how came you there?”




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A Confederacy of Dunces

(by John Kennedy Toole)

Lovingly wry story of modern misanthrope, Ignatius J Reilly, a protean and monolithic loser who falls in love, sort of. “Oh, my God, their tongues are probably all over each other’s capped and rotting teeth”.

The happy couple incarnate (Infrogmation)

The happy couple incarnate (Infrogmation)

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(by Kenneth Clark)

Really a compilation of scripts for a television series, this book, much ridiculed and parodied over the years (remember Monty Python’s “Are you civilised? Have you been civilised recently?”), is a wonderful, personal, informed view of humankind and culture from classical times to the then present (1968). Elegiac, nostalgic, pessimistic; almost everything in the arts since has borne out Clark’s view that “we can destroy ourselves by cynicism* and disillusion, just as effectively as bombs.”


Raphael’s School of Athens, Vatican Chambers – An early version of celebrity voyeurism, featuring Plato, Aristotle in the centre, Euclid, Pythagoras, Michelangelo, Averroes, et al…

[* A cynic being a “man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.” – Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan.]

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Chomsky and Dershowitz

(by Howard Friel)

Hysterical (yet deeply researched and readable) tract, designed to prove that Chomsky is Yahweh and Dershowitz is Satan. The author is obsessed with extrapolating individual examples of injustice (of which there are many) and rendering them into a damning case against Israel, without apparently considering the existential threat invoking these crimes and misdemeanors.

[Peter notes: recently I received a comment from somebody called Hans, who said: “Obviously you’re a shill for the Israeli worldview.”  I mulled this one over, considered my usual response of either offering a grovelling apology or expression of gratitude for being noticed, but I find neither apposite in this case, nor can I let this one go:

  1. A ‘shill’ is a fraudster or confidence trickster.  I’m trying to review a book as best I can, pro bono publico;
  2. I re-read my comment and find it difficult to divine a preference for the Israeli position (unless you are to be tagged a pro-Israeli propagandist if you don’t side with Hamas);
  3. My suggestion was based on a skepticism of ‘black-and-white’ positions where Palestine is concerned, which, I suggest, is that taken in the work under review;
  4. I will need Hans to explain what he means, precisely, by the “Israeli worldview”.  I hope he is not referring to the The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, because I doubt there is any monolithic Israeli position;
  5. If Hans can inform me of his position vis-à-vis Chomsky and Dershowitz, I will be pleased to be instructed; (and for completeness) –
  6. No, despite my dodgy surname, I am not Jewish; I have not visited Israel, on my own or as a guest of B’nai B’rith or anyone else.

…and a Mr Campbell has recently added: “Those Gazan children throwing rocks at the Israeli tanks invading land that the UN says belongs to Palestine …are a real existential threat to Israel. In a pig’s eye.”  Talk about an unscrupulous argument!]

Prime real estate for settlement...a Hamas terror tunnel in Gaza

Prime real estate for settlement…a Hamas terror tunnel in Gaza


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November 3, 2014 | Posted by Peter Jakobsen | Classic Film, Drama Film, FILM, THUMBNAIL REVIEWS |

(dir. Roman Polanski) (1974)

Superior latter-day film noir, replete with sophisticated non-plot (something about diverting public water for private purposes), has Faye Dunaway getting away with scenery-chewing, due no doubt to difficulties with character (‘She’s my daughter! She’s my sister! She’s my daughter…’).


Faye emoting in a ravishing kind of way

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The Cantos

(by Ezra Pound)

The commonplace book of a madman, lines of breathtaking beauty (e.g. Canto IV, LXXIV, the closing fragments) jostle with crude, didactic ravings against usury and Jews. A pox on he who gave Pound an economics book! Or convinced him to attempt a poetic epic without structure, a theme or any cohesive idea at all. Still, it’s a lunatic mess well worth skimming.


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