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Showing posts with label Steve Mitchelmore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Mitchelmore. Show all posts

Sunday, 4 April 2010

New Josipovici . . .

News of some new Josipovici via This Space . . .

"The quality of today's literary writing arouses the strongest opinions. For novelist and critic Gabriel Josipovici, the contemporary novel in English is profoundly disappointing — a poor relation of its groundbreaking Modernist forebears. This agile and passionate book asks why.

Modernism, Josipovici suggests, is only superficially a reaction to industrialization or a revolution in diction and form; essentially, it is art coming to consciousness of its own limits and responsibilities. And its origins are to be sought not in 1850 or 1800, but in the early 1500s, with the crisis of society and perception that also led to the rise of Protestantism.

With sophistication and persuasiveness, Josipovici charts some of Modernism's key stages, from Dürer, Rabelais, and Cervantes to the present, bringing together a rich array of artists, musicians, and writers both familiar and unexpected—including Beckett, Borges, Friedrich, Cézanne, Stevens, Robbe-Grillet, Beethoven, and Wordsworth. He concludes with a stinging attack on the current literary scene in Britain and America, which raises questions not only about national taste, but contemporary culture itself." [Yale University Press]

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Thursday, 17 September 2009

Nick Cave . . .

Between the years 2000-2005 I lived in Brighton, on the south coast. Well, in ‘Hove, actually’. Most days I would see, and literally bump into Nick Cave, who lived just up the road from me (in a much bigger house, obviously). It became quite a regular occurrence, this habitual bumping into Nick Cave. If I was walking down the esplanade on a bitterly cold Sunday morning, there he would be, a vision in black, walking towards me. If I was standing in the queue at the supermarket, I would feel this presence behind me and there he would be, in the same queue, towering over me with his basket of organic goods. If I went to my local café for a coffee, there he would be with his children and wife, reading the paper or talking on the phone. If I went for pasta at the cheap Italian restaurant on Western Road there he would be, eating and drinking wine at the next table laughing and joking with the fat owner. It got to the point where we would politely acknowledge each other, and I imagined to myself in some act of vainglorious pride that he must have been thinking ‘Oh, there’s that pasty little lad again’. In fact, I admired Nick Cave for this, his normality, his ‘everydayness’ . . . I admired it a lot.

Anyway, I live in London now, and don’t bump in to Nick Cave anymore. Here’s a review of his latest book by Steve Mitchelmore.

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