The following is an extract from my actual diary:
13/Sept/2004
Yesterday and today I have felt sure of the signs of approaching autumn. Autumn – inexpressible bliss! Autumn always comes like something long-forgotten, the very home of the heart.
I went out at about one o’clock to buy some shoes and groceries. I went to the shoe shop on the same road as the station. It appeared to be cheaper than the chainstore I visited previously, and now, of course, the shoes I purchased in that place, in a sale, no less, are worn through and useless. They cost me about seventy pounds, if I recall correctly.
This shop was not a chainstore. The proprietor was a foreign gentleman. I could not quite place his accent, but he was certainly European. It seemed like a real shop, not a corporation, and the prices were reasonable, so I purchased a pair of black patent leather shoes for thirty pounds. Since this was almost all the money I had, I paid a brief visit to the bank, and then walked down to the riverside, to try out my new shoes and to catch a breath of early autumn. But, unfortunately, I knew that I had much work to do – the g— project I have mentioned – and I could not linger. Am I the only person, I wondered, who finds it hard to bear, not to be able to walk along the river bank and dream of coming autumn because of work? I was not born for this. I am too easily overtaken by dreams to be of much use in this world.
On the way back home I popped into Waitrose to buy some mushrooms, a grapefruit, some cheese, some soap, some pasta and some pasta sauce. A gust of cold air followed me in through the automatic doors.
I worked through until about six forty five, at which time I was beginning to feel horribly depressed, as it was becoming clear that it would be impossible to meet the deadline for the project, and it seemed equally clear that full-time work will always be a cause of terrible unhappiness for me, because it does not leave me enough time for my own writing.
Still, there is no other course than simply to do the work that is in front of me.
D— came round and discussed the project, as a result of which I phoned L— and told her I was worried about the deadline. She seemed sympathetic, and I was much relieved. I could feel the tears in my own voice.
Usually I would have immediately sat down to write, but exhausted after the oppression of work and the partial lifting of that oppression, I needed another walk. I took myself along by the river. It was dusk. As I passed Oak Lane Cemetery I smelt a scent I had long forgotten. It was a particular kind of warm smell I had only known to emanate from wet patches of grass in autumn, and was something like the odour of urine. Perhaps it actually was urine. But, in any case, smelling it I felt again autumn’s inexpressible bliss. And what is that bliss? But I’ve already said it’s inexpressible. I associate it with certain things. Autumn has its own smell, and not just that of urine. There’s a particular freshness to the air, a particular blue to the twilight. I associate autumn with softness and gentleness – the softness of dead leaves and warm clothes. The pale blue air makes me think of some French comic book I’ve never read – an old detective story, perhaps. But most of all, I think I regain something of the softness of the child I was. How can I hope to put it into words now, at half past twelve at night? Why should I try?
Yesterday I smelt bonfire smoke on my walk. L— dug out his old cassettes from somewhere. I saw Images by David Bowie among them. I’ve been wanting to hear it again for a long time. So I’ve been listening to it over the past few days. Since when? Yesterday? Two days?
P— sent me a song he’s made with the lyrics I wrote – There’ll Always be a Place For You In My Heart.
Just a quick one. I answered your last question – kind of – as an entry in the blog. I hope you don’t mind.
Q.
Ah… Hello…
Well, there is editing yet to do before I sleep, so this will be brief, but no, the novel in question is not Worms. I do actually consider Worms to be wildy uncommercial, and it’s not even finished yet. I have a finished novel called “Remember You’re a One-Ball!” that I thought was a page-turning thriller with a bit of surrealism and a deeply misanthropic message… Okay, with some fairly uncommercial elements, but realistic in style, well-paced, with human interest and so on. But apparently it’s just too horrible. Actually, I must admit I’m quite flattered. And, although I didn’t agree with what she said in the e-mail, she did at least give me the bad news in a flattering way.
It’s just frustrating! I’m really hoping this novel might get me a major publisher and go some way towards eliminating the need for a day-job. You know, it’s a bit like having two full time jobs, and I seem to be the type who needs his sleep. Well, if your boyfriend’s a writer I’m sure you’re familiar with all this, so I won’t go on about it.
Anyway, I am very glad you’re enjoying Worms. I think I have mentioned that I have grave doubts about it, but it’s just something I needed to do, I think – a kind of experiment.
I do know how your boyfriend feels. I feel like that myself. If I’m not making money out of this it must be because I’m a deluded egomaniac… That kind of feeling. I continue to write out of sheer perversity.
Well, thanks for dropping by. Goodnight.
I also found this story and picture beautiful, autumn leaves have a special place in my life,going back to when I was in primary school, (i am now 52 )
this was heart-rending. i should like to read more excerpts like this.
Hello, and thank you both for dropping by. I think I like all the seasons for different reasons, but autumn is perhaps my favourite. I’m afraid that the other entries in my blog probably tend to resemble rants. I suppose that’s one thing that blogs were made for, but it can become tiresome after a while, so I put this entry in, from my real diary, for a change of tone. Anyway, thanks again. Bye for now. Quentin.
Hello. Well, it’s a shame I can’t see it, but if you do get a place to post images later, let me know.
I’m getting used to the crack in my houhin, I think. I used it this evening.
Didn’t sleep last night. This deadline is keeping me awake. Not that I worked all night. I just couldn’t sleep for worrying. Ho hum.
Q.
I wanted to make an addendum to my above comment. It wasn’t heart-rending specifically of because what you said, but because of how you said it. As a writer too, I know that this is an important distinction. Also, I thought it was very strange that you associate the smell of urine with autumn. In the wooded southern United States of my childhood, autumn had a crumbly, moist-paper, mushroomy smell to it. But in the southwestern desert of the US, there is no smell at all. We have been burned clean and dry from scent, sterilized by unrelenting sun and high temperatures. This week we gleefully anticipate temperatures below 100F.
-Emily
The mob is screeching outside my window. I wish they’d go away.
Your story of the ant reminds me a little of a story called At Kinosaki, or something like that, by Shiga Naoya. The narrator is recuperating after being knocked down by a train or something, and he sees three things that make him change his attitude towards death. One of them is the sight of bees disposing of the dead body of one of their fellows. It makes death attractive to him. The living bees are very busy and agitated, the dead one still and quiet.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get any rest before I die.
Hello Emily. Thank you. I did, in fact, interpret your previous comment in the way you have described above. I realise in its material circumstances my life is not as bad as it might be. With regard to the smell of autumn, I never really consciously associated urine with autumn until I passed the cemetery the other day. I suppose the association seemed novel enough for me to record it in my diary. I should add that it is a kind of warm smell that rises from rain-soaked patches of soil, and might not be urine at all. On that score I have a theory. I think that soil – especially if it is in a park or other public space – has a tendency to absorb all sorts of things, particularly the products of dogs, and that when it rains the combined smells of the various elements absorbed into the soil is released.
I am, in fact, quite interested in smell, particularly in strange combinations of smell that are only to be found in particular areas, perhaps at particular times of the year. Such smells are easily forgotten, but when you encounter them again, they revive such vivid memories, it is almost like time travel.
I’m also interested in synaesthesia. Well, I don’t know much about it, apart from the word itself, but I do experience it a great deal, especially when I’m writing. I tend to translate sensations into colours in my head, hence the smells and sensations of autumn become pale blue, even if there isn’t a blue thing anywhere in sight.
I have only really experienced autumn in Britain and Japan. The autumn of the two countries is comparable, though not identical. I have also lived in Taiwan, but they really had nothing resembling autumn there at all.
I particularly value autumn at the moment because climate change will probably mean the loss of such yearly cycles. I find that infinitely sad.
Quentin.
PS – Yes, mushroomy is a very good way to describe autumn!
I’m completely stunned. Of course I had to look up the word synesthesia to see what it meant, but how interesting that you would be interested and affected by this phenomenon. For as long as I can remember, I have experienced a mild form of this strange perception, and never knew it had a name. For instance, letters and numbers have a very strong color value for me (one is white, two is yellow, three is green, four is purple, five is blue and so on). The smae goes for the entire alphabet. I have never found anyone else any specific set of color and letter/number associations. Smells have also been closely associated with color for me; in my writing I often considered color as simply another way of describing the way something smelled. I guess I never considered that this might not translate so well to other people’s brains. I have a very well-developed sense of smell. I think it is a sense that human beings often under-appreciate. For this reason, I have been awarded the official title of Milk Sniffer- my boyfriend is forever thrusting cartons of milk beneath my nose for me to discern whether or not they’ve gone sour. On a recent visit to New Orleans, he was constantly remarking with distaste about the smell of urine and vomit that hovered with the gnats in the French Quarter’s runny sidestreets. My own experience with these smells was not nearly so antagonistic. While I naturally wouldn’t want my home to retain these smells since, informationally, we interpret them as “unclean” smells, to me the smells were the signature of the moment, verifying my reality, my place in time, my existence. Smells are just another way of receiving information about our environment. I agree with what you said about the sense of smell being like a time machine. Like you, I have always been fascinated by its power to refresh a memory. I am reminded of this bottle of skin tonic I purchased one heady teenaged summer in Italy, the summer that a grown man fell in love with me for the first time. After I returned home to the terrible incarceration of school and parents, all it would take was one whiff of that tonic, and I was back in Italy, blonde and barefoot, someone’s lovely secret, washing her face in a luxurious tiled bathroom at 4 am. I don’t think I ever actually used that cleanser again. It was more precious to me as a magical memory elixir. It was a pale green smell, lightly astringent and vaguely flowery. It was a young, fresh smell, probably the perfect smell for a clean teenage girl. Although I’ve no way of knowing it, I would be very much surprised if the same smell was not irrevocably linked to me in that man’s mind. This is a nice thought.
As soon as you described it more, I could almost smell the urine-like smell you talked about. “Rain-soaked patches of soil” is what did it for me. I know exactly the smell you are talking about and it is in fact urine-y, although I don’t know if it’s actually urine. It’s a hot, damp smell. In Texas, it would smell like that after a summer rain, when the air was sticky and your hair would cling to your neck. I grew up in the woods, and this smell would be so pervasive, it was like the musk of the earth. Perhaps it’s associated with mold? Or maybe you’re right-maybe it’s just urine.
Here’s another example of how it is for me. There is a specific smell people have after they have been out of doors in cold weather and come back inside to warmth. I notice it most in rural areas. It’s a strange grey odor, heavy and musky, and people-y. It doesn’t smell like body odor or oily hair, but it makes me think of dark, crescent-shaped sweat-stains underneath armpits. Even if the people are freshly washed, the smell occurs. It’s an earthy, red-cheeked, freshly-pounded smell. It comes in with the overcoats, gets stamped off the boots. Does that make sense?
Also interesting that you lived in Japan. It’s something I’m considering.
Emily
Ha ha. You’re so right! I mean in your assumptions. Well, I’ve got to let off steam somewhere, haven’t I? And my original post on the subject wasn’t insulting. I have a right to lament my fate, so, I suppose it’s okay.
Talking of synchronicity, inspiration and so on, your cherry-skull imagery reminded me of a story by… I can’t remember now. I think it was Sakaguchi Ango. Anyway, it’s a very good story in The Oxford Book of Japanese Short Stories, which is highly recommended.
What medium is your piece? It sounds interesting. I like that kind of intersection of fertility and decay. I return to it often.
Well, really must do that darned and dash editing.
Q.
I’m about to go to bed, so won’t answer at length right now. This is a silly question, but, do you have a favourite smell? At the moment mine is probably the smell of my tea-burner. Boring, I know. I’m not sure about the cold weather one. I’ll keep a nostril open for it in the coming season and let you know. Quentin.
I’d like to hear your impression. Dick Van Dyke is famous in England for doing the worst Cockney accent ever. But there are some people who can really pull it off. The chaps out of Spinal Tap did a very good job. Mike Myers is not bad, either. I’m not a big fan of Gwyneth Paltrow, but she’s done a pretty good English accent on occasion. I think Keanu Reeves must be hot on Dick Van Dyke’s heels, though, with the accent he did in Dracula.
But, I can’t talk, as I can’t do any accents whatsoever. I can’t even do a Devon accent, and I come from Devon.
British politics is terrible. I went along on a protest march a while back, when Bush visited Britain. The march was over and some people were going home. I walked into Charing Cross Station and some old gent in a suit rounded on a young man who was carrying his banner home and said, “Have you ever done a days work in your life? Have you?” The poor boy didn’t know what was happening. I really didn’t see what his question had to do with anything, but that’s the conservative old guard in Britain. Strange people. Dry as tinder.
It’s such a shame we never had a proper revolution in this country. God, we even helped French aristos to escape the guillotine! Madness.
Only one smell? I can’t pick just one. I’m afraid that this list will probably offend your tender English sensibilities however, and you’ll end up thinking that I’m rather gauche. But, I am what I am.
Emily’s Favorite Smells
1. Boyfriend’s hair.
2. Marijuana
3. Fresh coffee
4. Burnt matches
5. Bookpaper
The cold weather smell has more to do with the way people’s bodies smell after they’ve been out in it.
What’s your least-favorite smell?
Emily
It is horrible. I kind of regret using it, but I don’t feel able to delete it now. Anyway, I do think it’s important that we see the actual results of what is done in our name. Someone’s death is not a political event. It transcends politics, and can show us how utterly petty the politics that caused the death are.
I really seem to be getting more squeamish and, for want of a better word, sensitive about these things as I get older. I think ten years ago the photo would not have bothered me in the same way, but now I can hardly bear to look at it.
Anyway, as usual I’m writing this last thing at night. Goodnight,
Q.
Hello Emily. I have just come back from the pub. Nice to read your message. No, I think your list is rather fine, actually. I can relate to most of it. Especially bookpaper. Least favourite smell? I’m afraid it will be something rather disgusting. The problem is, I can even appreciate quite disgusting smells sometimes. Let me think…. bad breath. That’s rather uninspired, isn’t it? Okay, how about this… vomit! Also, I live quite near a rugby stadium, and whenever there’s a rugby game the town is thronged with people who have come to watch. After they leave, the streets are full of litter and the whole place smells of stale alchohol. I don’t like that smell much.
Quentin.
PS. I very much liked your Jehovah’s witness post. I’m afraid that if I answered the door with just a bed-sheet around me it might not have quite the same effect. I’d like to think that it would, though.
Hello Emily,
Thank you for taking the time to read it. The last part should, according to the editor, be up at the end of this month. I’m very glad you have enjoyed it so far. I kind of like the idea of zuihitsu, which is a form of Japanese writing a bit like an essay, in which you basically just write wherever your thoughts lead you. I believe the two characters that make up ‘zui-hitsu’ literally mean, ‘following the brush’. I find there to be very few forums for this style of writing within Western publishing, but I wrote that particular essay very much in that style.
I suppose I emphasise the dark side of Japan in that essay partly because I was asked to write about Japanese horror, and partly because I really was very depressed in Japan. I do get very depressed now, too, and it’s hard to measure severity, because I find depression more qualitative than quantitative, but I think I have generaly brightened up immensely since my return to these shores. I think it’s largely a social thing. It was just very clear that I had no roots in Japan. My existence had no ‘inevitability’ about it for anyone there, I feel. I was superfluous, in other words.
I think Japan is very safe, though. The one problem is, figures on rape, domestic violence, sexual violence, and so on are perhaps not very reliable. But in terms of statistically visible crime, there is really next to nothing. I don’t think it’s a good idea to work in the hostess bars there, though. Many girls from my univeristy did, as it’s an easy way to make extra money, but there’s a worrying ambiguity about the roles of the waitresses. Of course, officially you’re not supposed to sleep with customers, but I believe it’s comission based. The more drinks you can get them to buy, by providing charming company, the more commsion you get. And charming company often means flirting and giving some sad businessman the illusion that he is attractive and interesting. And, it seems that, unfortunately, some of these people take it all a bit too literally.
Yes, I’m fascinated by dark sides, too. Unfortunately, for me at least, one of the dark sides of Japan was bound up with a kind of boredom that was the product of floating in an absolute spiritual vacuum. I find it quite interesting that Momus should be so enamoured of Japan. While I do think there are good things about the place, it’s hard for me to imagine it being anything other than very lonely and disappointing for most foreigners. If you’re lucky and you find a niche, it shouldn’t be too bad. But what kind of niches are there? Photographing geisha if you’re very lucky. (I met a man who did that.) Being a foreign ‘celebrity’, which means being famous for being foreign, which is a bit like being put in a zoo. That kind of thing. Otherwise, you might like Japan if you’re male and particularly shallow and hedonistic and find that you can sleep with a whole succession of Japanese girls who want a trophy foreign boyfriend.
I suppose I’ll have to balance things out – a little – and write about what I liked in Japan some day. Ho hum.
Q.
Am about to lay my head upon my pillow, but in what way are you thinking of going to Japan? I would offer advice, but I’m perhaps not the best person to do so, as Japan turned me into something of a curmudgeon. If you’re interested I’ll post a link to an article I wrote on the subject. It’s up at Horror Quarterly at the moment.
Quentin.:insane: 😮
(Have just discovered the smilies).
Hello Emily. Guess what? I’m not feeling too great at the moment. I got an e-mail from my publisher with some bad news about my novel. I shouldn’t really be saying this in public, but surely no one reads this far into the comments section?????
Anyway, she says… no, after all, it’s probably not a good idea for me to post it here. Basically my novel was too horrible for her to recommend it to an agent. That kind of thing really makes me wonder about myself… Am I such a deeply negative person?
Well, if I am, you can clearly take my comments about Japan with a pinch of salt. In a way, I’d rather you did, really. I do feel bad about not having anything good to say.
I know a funny story about Koontz. Once again, this is probably not the place to relate it.
I could be a sad businessman, if only I had the stomach for business. Which is to say, I do rather identify and sympathise with the sad (or dull) part of the equation. I’ve never had much in the way of charm myself.
Synchronicity? I believe in it in some contexts – like swimming pools. No, I’m just being silly. Synchronicity is an idea that very much appeals to me, but my grasp on reality is so tenuous that I haven’t really had the confidence to say I believe in anything since I was a child.
Well, I must lay down my head to sleep, I think. To-morrow, unfortunately, is another day.
Goodnight.
Q.
I can often appreciate bad smells, too. Smells are informational, and they can intensify your your ability to experience Awareness of Now. I’ve heard that James Joyce was particularly fond of bad smells.
My least favorite smell would be the smoke from manufactured cigarettes. It smells so noxious and chemical, like poison gas. Pipe smoke and even hand-rolled cigarette smoke don’t bother me too much. The smell of bleach is pretty bad. And you’re right, bad breath is HORRIBLE! Uninspired or not, it’s true. A few weeks ago, a girlfriend and I went out for drinks and dessert, and then skipped dessert entirely because the waiter’s breath was so repulsive.
I’m glad you liked the Jehova’s Witness post. People in Arizona think I’m such a weirdo. Consistent underappreciation is a bowl of cold gruel.
I read your post on self promotion, and the link to the review of your collection. What a review! I think I’m going to have to look for that book now!
-Emily
Q,
What novel did your dunce of a publisher lack so much vision about? Surely it wasn’t Worms. By the way, the latest installment was such a delicious treat- I will post comments there when I have more time. A lovely surprise for my day off. Do you think your publisher reads this blog? If so, I would like to take a moment to address her.
Dear Madam,
I will not be so presumptuous as to suggest that I know how to do your job better than you do, but as a member of the reading public and a buyer of books, I would like to suggest that you are underestimating our good tate in literature by not publishing Mr. Crisp. The world is in desperate need of writers with a passion for the music of language, writers with new or unique perspectives that force us to actually consider things, or ourselves.
Sincerely,
Emily
Um, I hope that doesn’t get you into trouble. I’m just fed up, you know? My boyfriend is also a writer and he encounters the same problem. Talent goes unnoticed while tripe lines the shelves of chain bookstores. He suffers from the false impression that if he were truly a genius he’d be a millionaire by now. It does no good to point out to him that all the millionaires are generally shitty writers. Take heart, Q. I think you’re brilliant.
Emily
Hello Emily. I’ve just come back pissed from some kind of jazz evening. Now, I understand that pissed means something different on the other side of the Atlantic, but trans-Atlantic communications being what they are, perhaps you will understand me, anyway.
I shall have to swallow an aspirin before I collapse into bed, I think.
Tell me about Arizona. It’s a different world to me. When I hear the word ‘Arizona’ I immediately think of desert and heat haze. Am I very far off the mark?
I’m afraid there’s very little to tell about where I live. I believe England would probably fit inside Arizona several times over. (Can’t be sure on that. Have to consult a map).
I come from Devon originally. You may have heard of Plymouth. That’s in Devon. It seems so incrongruous that the Pilgrim Fathers would have set out from Plymouth. It’s like a joke.
I’m afraid I’ve been indulging in those horrible manufactured cigarettes this evening. You’re right – hand-rolled ones are better.
I don’t know if I am underappreciated, simply because I don’t really know how much appreciation I deserve, but I certainly feel underappeciated much of the time.
I suppose it’s inevitable in a world where the likes of Justin Timberlake are worshipped….
Sorry, pissed, rambling nonsense.
Quentin.
Q,
Well, I assume from the diplomacy of your response that you’re opperating on the off chance that your publisher (I’m sure she’s an entirely competent lady with a dazzling smile to boot) may read this blog. Although I certainly meant what I said, and by no means am I issuing a retraction, I would like to apologize if I was inappropriate and rude. I was only trying to be funny, and would never wish to make things more difficult for you. I am a boorish American. It’s in my blood.
Anyway, all writers are egomaniacs, just so you know. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Embrace it.
I began a new piece last night: one bit made me think of you. Perhaps it was inspired by the article about Japan! A detail from a photo of a cherry-blossom tree reveals tiny rotting skulls in the center of each flower, with painted black stamens snaking out of the eye sockets and mouths. Giant art-deco circles threaten to blot out the whole thing. 3-D cardinals are wired to the cherry tree. Tonight, I might make the tree bleed. I haven’t decided. Doesn’t it make you happy to know that you can participate in art simply via inspiration? This must happen all the time without us even knowing: art begetting art or something. Don’t you think that’s beautiful?
E
That is to say that I’m not intoxicated (unless you count pot), but I am very angry and disillusioned tonight. See, after your gloomy death entry, I wanted to write you this cheery, uplifting thing, but I just haven’t got it in me. So the best I can offer is a nice, lukewarm cup of commiseration,with a skin forming on the top. Yum.
Arizona sucks. Don’t fucking bother, I say. I mean, there’s the Grand Canyon, and the Petrified Forest, and you can go snow skiing in Flagstaff. But Phoenix, supposedly the 5th largest city in the US (they’re real proud of that here), is completely without a personality. And if you are at all partial to moisture, then I’d recommend skipping a vacation to Phoenix. Your lips crack. Your nose bleeds. You have to drink ridiculous amounts of water. Going outside in the summer to do anything is like performing a task in a convection oven. Also, if you oppose fascism, then Arizona may not be the place for you. White, mind-controlling Rebulicans rule all. Soccer moms. People with enormous, gas-swilling SUVs, outfitted with tiny, flickering television sets implanted into the headrests so that their children can receive extra hours of brainwashing.
HOWEVER: We do have really amazing sunrises and sunsets. I saw both today. The sunset was better, because the moon was swathed in a bank of pink clouds- it was so unusual.
Interesting that you mention the Pilgrims. Brave. Disenfranchised. They didn’t like what was going on in England, so they were like, “Fuck it. We’d rather start over, and maybe die trying.” And they had such a good idea, and we fucked it all up. I’d be a Pilgrim now, except people don’t have anywhere left to go. I’m pissed because I AM underappreciated and I DO know it. And you are too. Anyone who can write as beautifully as you can, and who worries about being published is underappreciated. I’m not trying to kiss your ass (conversely, I’m not trying to make you feel worse), it’s just the state of things. It’s unjust. So, I’m pissed on your behalf. You’re welcome.
I hope the jazz helped you. Sometimes it helps me too. And any input on Japan would be welcome, because I’m looking for things that are going to enrich and deepen my life, not make me into a curmudgeon. At least not more of one than I already am. I’m going to read about it now…. Sorry to be such a grump.
Emily
P.S. I try very hard to live in a fantasy where Justin Timberlake and other such individuals do not exist. It’s surprisingly easy. You should try it. It’s better.
I finished the piece! It turned out really well! It’s a painting/collage. I took some photos of it, but don’t have a place to post them, so I cannot put a link here.
Anyway, I began work on a sister piece for it. I’ve been painting nonstop for like 4 days. Speaking of Japanese Short Stories, I just went on a scavenger hunt through your blog to re-read The Seventh Night. I also read in a comment about how you broke your teapot- funny: around that same time, _ broke my favorite coffee mug and I had to glue it back together. It’s missing a few tiny pieces but it doesn’t leak.
E
Hello Emily. It’s very nice of you to want to cheer me up. Please don’t worry about it, though. When I started this blog I never intended to post such personal entries, but there’s something irresistable about the blank screen that seems to draw such things out of me. This might sound pretentious, but I also think I’m working through something. I don’t know if that means I’ll ever arrive at any worthwhile destination, but… It’s so difficult to express what I mean directly. I try to do it in indirect ways.
Well, I think you’d do well to get a job with the Arizona board of tourism, if there is such a thing. …No, I’m only joking.
Shall I tell you about Twickenham, where I live?
Twickenham is in the south west part of Greater London, away from the centre. It is famous for its rugby stadium. The high street is a drab, undistinguished place with all the usual chainstores. However, if you walk in the other direction, towards Richmond, you will find parks and a beautiful stretch of the River Thames.
Since I came back from Japan I have noticed two things about my native country: It has a sense of history, and the people are very aggresive. I do get people abusing me in the street from time to time in England, and I do sometimes fear for my physical safety. I have never been in fear of violence in Japan, wherever I went. The red light districts made me a bit nervous, but I didn’t feel like I was going to get stabbed or anything. Ever. In Twickenham, I don’t even like walking along the high street at night. Binge drinking is recently a big issue in this country, and the streets are full of people vomiting and looking for a fight. Most evenings there are police sirens and broken glass.
In terms of a sense of history, Japan, even though it does have a long history, I found to be so tacky it was like wandering in Disneyland or something. It just didn’t seem ‘real’. It seemed like a polystyrene film set. That’s a generalisation, but… When I came back to England, everything seemed very real and solid and covered with the grime of centuries of history. Even the drab, undistinguished high street of Twickenham.
The house where I live is in a little cul-de-sac. Opposite the houses is the wall of a cemetery. Often, when I lay in bed trying to sleep at night, I can hear the foxes in the cemetery screaming. I think they’re having orgies in there.
Well, that article on Japan I mentioned is quite long. It’s in three parts. If you’re interested, http://www.horrorquarterly.com/japaneseeye.asp">part one is here, and http://www.horrorquarterly.com/japaneseeye_2.asp">part two is here. Part three should go online soon.
Don’t worry. There are good things about Japan, too. Momus likes Japan very much. That reminds me, I did an interview with him in which he talks about Japan a lot. Personally, I think there’s a touch of rose-tinted glasses, there, but perhaps I just where gloom-tinted glasses. Anyway, I might post the link to the interview, too. Watch this space.
You read the review of my book, then? It’s probably easiest to get it direct from the publisher, Tartarus Press. Of course, I’d be pleased and flattered if you did decide to search it out. I must warn you that it’s quite expensive, though. There’s the vague possibility that it will come out in paperback, in which case it will be cheaper. Or you could wait for my next collection, Rule Dementia!, which should be coming out in the next few months. That’ll be a fairly cheap paperback. But if price is no object, then go for the hardback. It will be a collector’s item. I’m not boasting. All the books that come out from Tartarus Press are collector’s items.
Well, sorry to talk shop.
I’m so glad to hear that you’re not a Justin Timberlake fan. Bless you!
The Jazz? Well, it wasn’t really high quality jazz. But I had a fairly good evening. Got drunk on red wine. I almost went up to dance, but decided against it when I saw the dancefloor with only a few smooching couples.
The venue was a converted violin factory that is now someone’s home. They projected the film Brighton Rock onto the wall while the music played. It looked quite interesting.
Well, I really must get up and have my breakfast and so on.
Quentin.
Q,
I hate that kind of oppressive anxiety. It keeps me up at night sometimes too, and makes sleeping like floating just beneath the surface of a dark pool you’d much rather sink to the bottom of.
I don’t know why people drink hot milk. Without any to coffee to mix it with, I have to say I don’t suggest this as a rememdy. I’ve tried it and it’s vile.
My favorite crazy English people came in yesterday. I talked to them for some time, so I could study and practice my rather impressive impressions of them. They have the worst politics I could ever imagine, and they’re all jazzed because their daughter gets to meet the Queen. Anyway, take care, and good luck with your deadline.
E
http://www.horrorquarterly.com/interview_detail.asp?ivID=59">The Momus Interview Link I Promised With Sutff About Japan In It
Quentin.
I’m putting this response here just because it’s easier to find (I hope). Rather, I think it will be easier to reference or return to once you do find it, since it is in the wrong place.
I can’t really do accents either. If I could pick one to do, it would be French. If I could do a good French accent, I’d pretend to be French all the time. I’d never talk like an American again. I’d be intolerable.
Also, you left out on of the worst, quasi-attempts at a British accent in the history of movies, and that was Kevin Coster as Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. Also, what about Madonna? She has a really bad one all the time now just because of Guy Ritchie.
“Dry as tinder” is the perfect way to describe the old Brits with the nasty politics I mentioned. The gentleman is actually seems like a pretty nice guy- but maybe that’s because his speech is so mumbly and garbled that I have trouble making out all the racist and class-ist remarks. And the woman covers almost her whole eyelid in black eyeliner, and wears too much jewelry. She’s a viscious thing, like a rabid lapdog. They call each other Mr. and Mrs. C. One day I when they had a little too much to drink they told me how glad they were that Princess Diana was dead because they thought she was trashy. Of course they put it a little more politely (because they’re English) and a little more garbled and mumbly (because they’re English). They also hate Fergie and Black People.
Speaking of politics (and revolutions), Americans are whipped into a frenzy with the debates and all. I actually had a nightmare about Dick Cheney the other night. Is the rest of the world as scared as we are?
Take it easy.
E
NICE?! Ew. I am not “nice”, Q. “Nice” is contemptibly prim and status-quo. In fact, my not-niceness is evinced by the fact that I was woefully unable to be cheeful.
Anyway, I’m not worried. I think experiencing the entire spectrum of human emotions, including the more unpleasant feelings, like rage and disillusionment and despair is essntial for artists. It would have been presumptuous to try to cheer you up anyway.
I imagine the place where you live to be like the background illustrations in a children’s book. Even the name “Twickenham” sounds like something from a fairytale. Of course, the illustrator might have to edit out the drunken rugby fans, and orgiastic foxes. My brother lived in Wolverhampton, England, for a while, and from what I understand, it was a rather rough area. It’s intersting that you live by a cemetery. Do you go in there often?
I’m very glad for this information about Japan. If this is true, then perhaps I will hate it, for one of the same reasons I hate Phoenix- its plasticky newness. It is very importantto me to be in a place with a sense of history. This is why I love New Orleans. There is something deeply comforting in being surrounded by longstanding evidence of civilization, I think. But there is something more spiritual there too, something that connects you to the past in a tangible way; to be able to stand on a street corner and touch the cornerstone of a building that for hundreds of years people have been passing by and touching, to be aware of it, this is such an exquisite thing. It is like a time machine, or like being able to touch the energy of your ancestors. Maybe that just sounds crazy. But Phoenix is sprawling and new and uniform. I get lost all the time because everything looks the same. New buildings appear overnight, almost like a computer program being modified. Indeed, we often compare it to the world in The Matrix. Xeriscaping (rocks instead of grass in people’s yards). Cactii. White people.
I live along a street lined with houses that look just like mine: Spanish-tile roof, stucco, cactus outside. Lots of people on this street have little kids, and in a few weeks, the whole street will be decorated for Halloween. Then, I will post some photos of my crazy neighbors’ Halloween yards.
Jazz and red wine are a good combo. Jazz and a joint are better I think. No hangover, and you can still think through it. But a cold beer and the blues can wash any bad day away.
Emily
Of course not. What a horrible photo!
E
Q,
Your article about Japan was completely fascinating. I can’t wait for the last part. The eloquent dismantlement of your argument about sadisitic art- indeed everything you had to say about sadistic art was poetry.
I read a book about an American woman who went to Japan to be a kind of a modern concubine, and the guy killed her. It put me off Japan for a little while. But dark sides are like stray cats aren’t they, showing up with their ribs showing through their patchy coats, mewing, swirling between your feet when you’re almost through the front door….
Anyway, thanks for letting me read. I enjoyed very much.
Emily
Oh, yes. I agree entirely. I do not believe that there is anything to be gained by shielding ourselves from reality. I try to consider how indignant I would feel (were I able) if I got killed for some petty political bullshit reason, or because some greedy rich guy wanted to get richer. Injustice pisses me off bigtime, along with unreasonable people. To be a meaningless casualty in a war without a cause! We waste ourselves. It is the ultimate human tradgey.
It reminds me of something I wrote in my paper-and-pen journal this summer. I had spent the day reading by the pool, and watching some ants. I had accidentally killed one, and its smashed carcass was right in the flow of ant traffic. I expected it to cause a ruckus; I’d seen nature programs of ants clearing their nests of dead ants, seeming to look after their dead. And yet the busy ants passed right by their broken brother as though they did not register him at all. If their path was obstructed by the body, they simply went around it after a brief inspection with their antenae. It made me unexpectedly angry. I wanted to see the ants react, to see that they mattered to one another. But they continued to stream by. I felt like smashing them all, stupid, remorseless species.
But then, one ant happened upon the body, and his reaction stilled my open palm. After a prolonged inspection with his antenae, this ant broke away from the flow of traffic. Indeed, he seemed to be staggering, crawling in meandering loops and circles without any obvious direction. Was it possible that this ant had gone mad? Mad with grief? With fear? With self-awareness? As long as a watched, the ant staggered and did not rejoin the others in the endless flow.
We are like that I think, stepping over our broken brothers and sisters, looking only one direction. And then there is that link (or threshold) between awareness and madness.
Peace.
E
Q,
Gee, if I get a job working for the Arizona Board of Tourism, you need to do the same thing for Japan. Thanks for teaching me about zuihitsu though. I enjoy this kind of writing myself, but didn’t know it was a kind of writing because, you’re rightabout Western publishing. If it isn’t a Dean Koontz book, or a book that’s already been made into a movie, Americans have no interest in reading it. Following the brush- how beautiful! I like that.
It sems like there are lots of beautiful, old ideas and traditions embedded in Japanese culture. Are they so deeply embedded that you really have to dig to find them? Are the people so terribly lost? Is their history so far removed from them? What if one were to stay in a less-metropolitan area? Perhaps I could sexually liberate all those poor repressed women, perhaps I could make dull Japanese businessmen see what is interesting and beautiful in themselves – and leave it burning it within them. I believe that every person has something beautiful or special about themselves. But I don’t think I’ve got the mettle to be a liberator. Maybe it would eat my soul and I should just go to New Orleans.
Do you believe in synchronicity? I do. The thing is, you are the only person who says “Watch Out” about Japan, but this advice comes at a time when I have been appealing to this gods for guidance. Interesting. I appreciate the “gloom-tinted glasses” because they’re one of my favorite accessories.
Anyway, thanks for a different perspective. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t have any roots. I want to speard like a moss, or a layer of dust, and cover something. I want to assimilate and be assimilated by a community- but not something ugly and empty. I only have one soul and do not wish to squander it.
Emily
Anonymous writes:Love the way u describe Autumn!
Thank you.