tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32589326567341692132024-03-13T22:25:48.561-07:00mike in mono eyesvears@outlook.commike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-21315527392534646022018-09-03T11:13:00.002-07:002021-09-14T11:39:24.643-07:00Carrowdore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Some many years ago, a different time, a different world, I bought a little literary magazine with the bold name of <i>Rhinoceros</i>. With never-realised ambitions of filling it with my terrible poetry, I kept hold of this bit of Belfast on my shelf to remind me that I dreamt once. It is from here that I now borrow from a piece by Douglas Carson, <i>Persons from Porlock: The Story of Grave</i>. The reason? This summer I realised one much smaller and worthy ambition - to pay my respects to <a href="https://mikeinmono.blogspot.com/2010/02/highfield.html" target="_blank">Louise MacNeice</a> by his graveside in the County Down village of Carrowdore.</span></div>
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<span>Meanwhile, he wrote a radio play about everything that distracts the artist from his work - including, finally, death. It was called <i>Persons from Porlock</i>.</span></div>
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<span>Early in August, 1963, MacNeice was recording sound effects in the caves near Ingleton. It rained and he was soaked. He caught pneumonia, and retired to his cottage in Hertfordshire.</span></div>
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<span>His explanation cracked</span></div>
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<span>and threw the words awry:</span></div>
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<span>You're not going yet?</span></div>
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<span>I must; I have to die.</span></div>
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<span>-<i>This Way Out</i></span></div>
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<span>His sister took him to London, to St Leonard's Hospital. He did not respond to antibiotics. On Friday morning, 30 August, Dan Devlin saw him: "He was very ill, very cold, his face the colour of an Irish winter sea and sky." ('Introductory Memoir in W R Rodgers' Collected Poems)</span></div>
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<span>That evening, <i>Persons from Porlock</i> was broadcast. The hero was a painter, Hawk - an alter ego of MacNeice. He wandered from his calling, seduced by family, money, drink and women. Then he became a potholer. He found himself again in underground cathedrals. He explored them and painted them, and finally died in them. He vanished in an underworld like Orpheus.</span></div>
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<span>MacNeice died on Tuesday, 3 September.</span></div>
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<span>George McCann made his death mask. He recited Kallimachos:</span></div>
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<span>"They told me, Heraclitus - they told me you were dead".</span></div>
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<span>The funeral service was at St John's Wood Church. McCann said,</span></div>
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<span>"In the pub afterwards, Louis unheard now and unseen still with us, we held a hurried wake."</span></div>
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<span>The body was cremated, and arrangements were made with the rector of Carrowdore.</span></div>
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<span>What happened next is uncertain. The story goes that when the courier reached Belfast, he realised he had left the urn in Britain: a suitable replacement was secured and filled with ashes from the Irish morning papers.</span></div>
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<span>On 10 September, the hearse set out from the McCann's home in Botanic Avenue. The mourners arrived late at the graveyard - a strange group, with no pomp and no dignitaries. The service was conducted by Archdeacon Quinn and Carrowdore's rector, John C Bell, who read MacNeice's poem, <i>Autobiography</i>:</span></div>
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<span>Gently, gently, gentleness...</span></div>
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<span>The congregation sang <i>Who Would True Valour See</i>. The poet, W.R. Rodgers, remembered:</span></div>
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<span>-W R Rodgers, <i>Collected Poems</i></span></div>
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<span>The Irish wake was in Botanic Avenue. Leading Ulster poets, writers and artists were there, and a strong contingent of poets from the South. There was plenty of Irish whiskey.</span></div>
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<span>Louis would have enjoyed his wake.</span></div>
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<span>Meanwhile, according to the legend, his ashes had been found and were dispatched to Belfast. They were carried to Carrowdore in the dark. He was scattered in starlight by friends on his birthday.</span></div>
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-65116944691596613122018-04-22T08:31:00.004-07:002018-05-08T12:22:00.680-07:00Every utterance is given to the endless music<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-34205555839898594302017-09-18T12:39:00.004-07:002021-09-14T11:48:30.176-07:00Suffering in Silence<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>This entry is a digression from: <a href="http://mikeinmono.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/wittgensteins-birmingham-notes-1913.html" target="_blank">Wittgenstein's Birmingham Notes, 1913</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> When
Wittgenstein arrived into Birmingham for the second time, almost exactly a year
since he last stayed at Lordswood House, the moods of suicidal despair which
had plagued him during his holiday with David in Norway, had forced him into a
resolution of sorts. He had decided to cut himself off from the man he loved
and from all the chatter and distractions of Cambridge life. At the end of the
week he planned to Norway and live a wholly ascetic life in devotion to the
study of Logic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span> As a
male heir of Karl Wittgenstein<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[1]</span><!--[endif]--></a> a threat to take
one’s own life was to be taken seriously. As a role model Karl had been less
than exemplary. Even after his death at the beginning of 1913, his intimidating
expectations of great purpose in life were still plaguing his three surviving
sons. Kurt would go on to shoot himself in the last days of the war while the
Austrian troops were in general retreat. This was either because he wished to
avoid the dishonour of court martial after he refused to pointlessly sacrifice
his men, or, as the other version states, he shot himself when his troops deserted
him, leaving him to be captured or killed. But Kurt’s suicide was by no means
the first in the family.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Karl’s eldest two sons had already taken their own lives. In
1902 Hans disappeared. It was reported as a canoeing accident in Chesapeake
Bay, but the family eventually accepted it as suicide. Nevertheless, somewhat
fanciful rumours circulated that he had actually faked his death, and fled into
obscurity to escape his Wittgensteinian identity. Hans was the eldest son and
bore the greatest expectations from his father who insisted that he follow him
into business and engineering. But Hans had no intention nor inclination to
follow in his father’s footsteps. Described by his sister as ‘peculiar’, Hans
may have been on the autistic spectrum. He was incredibly mathematical in his
outlook and extremely talented musically. Music was, in fact, his greatest love
and the career his wished to follow, but Karl would have none of it to the
point of strictly regulating his access to instruments. His suicide was a
stubborn defiance against Karl’s plans for him. There was also a report that
Hans was homosexual. If the truth of his sexuality was vague, his brother
Rudi’s was less so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Exactly
two years after Hans’s disappearance, Rudi Wittgenstein walked into a bar in
Berlin, ordered some food and a glass of milk to which he dissolved some
crystals of potassium cyanide. He asked the pianist to play a mournful song as
he drank the deadly concoction. Two minutes later he was unconscious and beyond
saving. Like Hans, Rudi was passionate about music, and also photography and
theatre, but in Berlin he was studying chemistry. Unlike Hans, however, the
story of his demise centres on his sexuality rather than his career choice. It
seems Rudi had been out-ed as gay when the sexologist Dr Magnus Hirschfeld
published a case-study which implicitly identified him. A year before Rudi had
gone to the Scientific Humanitarian Committee for help with his sexuality, but
when the organisation published its year book, to his horror he felt
Hirschfeld’s piece contained too much detail about him. Compromised and
betrayed, Rudi decided there was only one course of action: to end his life<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> <i> For his
father Karl, the pain and humiliation were unspeakable. No sooner were the
burial rites concluded than he hurried his family from the cemetery, forbidding
his wife from turning to look back at the grave. In future neither she nor any
member of the family would be permitted to utter Rudolf’s name in his presence
again.</i><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[2]</span><!--[endif]--></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> In
Birmingham the local press of October 1913 showed that suicide was not
restricted to the noble young men of Viennese society. If Ludwig Wittgenstein
had read the papers on his last visit, he would have discovered that cutting
one’s own throat was the local style of self-annihilation in 1912. A year later
the papers reported poison to be the popular choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> As he
was arriving into New Street Station to meet David Pinsent, not far away in the
Wagon & Horses pub on Edgbaston Street, William Pethard<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[3]</span><!--[endif]--></a>
of Small Heath ordered a glass of brandy to which he added his owner deadly
mixer from a bottle of oxalic acid. He then took out an envelope and wrote,
“Goodbye; sorry for what I have done. Can’t stand the worry any longer.” He was
later joined in hospital by Benjamin Hardiman<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[4]</span><!--[endif]--></a> of Ladywood who,
having reached for a glass of whisky, had instead drank nitric acid. Already in
hospital, however, lay Charlotte Betterley<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[5]</span><!--[endif]--></a> of Duddeston who
had been admitted on Sunday after a row with her husband which had culminated
in her downing a bottle of disinfectant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> If
these attempts to end it all, planned, mistaken or spontaneous, had not been shocking
enough, one of the biggest local stories of the week was the investigation into
the Smethwick Poisoning Mystery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> Robert
Anderson Carter was described as ‘excitable’ by those who knew him a little.
Those who knew him better added that he was inclined to melancholic moods and
had often spoken of being tired of life. He had in fact attempted suicide once
before. He might have been described today as having a bi-polar condition.
Carter, 35, lived in Smethwick, and worked as a deputy to the registrar of
births and deaths, Fred Stevens, 44. Their relationship went beyond work as
Stevens had taken Carter in to share his home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> On the
afternoon of 26th September Stevens called into the workplace of Herbert
Griffiths, a tailor’s salesman in Birmingham. The two knew each other and decided
to head off to the Colonnade Hotel [above] for a drink, and then another at the White
Horse on Congreve Street where they were joined by Carter for more bottles of
beer. With some business to be conducted in an antique shop on Broad Street,
the trio headed there, then for a final drink that afternoon at the Crown Inn [below],
beside the Church of the Messiah. Feeling peckish now Stevens, Griffiths and
Carter drove back to Smethwick. After dinner Stevens and Carter had words.
Stevens being the boss, had pointed out a mistake Carter had made in one of their
ledgers. The relationship must have been fraught for it seems to have
been a final straw for Carter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jdz90af74m8/WcAZp2tMQdI/AAAAAAAABxI/zZ8n9B35mvYwVvOIywIjZZso8zAxDUvTgCLcBGAs/s1600/broad%2Bst%2B-%2Bcrown%2Binn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="748" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jdz90af74m8/WcAZp2tMQdI/AAAAAAAABxI/zZ8n9B35mvYwVvOIywIjZZso8zAxDUvTgCLcBGAs/s320/broad%2Bst%2B-%2Bcrown%2Binn.jpg" width="311" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> With
dinner out of the way, Carter in a bit of a huff announced he was going out. Stevens
and Griffiths then left half an hour later for the Red Cow Inn, also on
Smethwick’s High Street. After drinking in a hotel in Soho, Carter decided now
that he would join them, but first he made a stop at the pharmacy run by Horace
Oakley where he convinced the chemist to sell him a bottle of tablets containing
perchloride of mercury. Carter claimed they were to be used in photograph
development. At the Red Cow more beers were imbibed until 11.30 when the party,
now joined by the pub’s pianist Frank Cruise, returned to Stevens’s house,
Carter returning with a bottle of whisky, and they ‘commenced to have a time of
jollification’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[6]</span><!--[endif]--></a> At first
everything seemed quite merry with everyone enjoying a drunken sing-song, but
then Stevens and Carter had words again and the latter’s mood changed for the
worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span> Stevens had clearly heard it all before from Carter as he
refused to believe his threats to take his own life. He even dismissed warnings
from Herbert Griffiths about the poison in Carter’s possession. When Carter
swallowed four of the perchloride of mercury tablets, Stevens, presumably in an
attempt to show him up as a dramatic liar, or perhaps for a much darker reason,
took two of the tablets and swallowed them. Griffiths, and this surely must be
a decision only someone without the full faculty of reason under the influence
of alcohol could make, put one in his mouth and immediately felt a dreadful
burning sensation. Sobriety must have kicked in at this point as he spat it out
and the family doctor was sent for. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nUhDBe3lSns/WcLRboIH6uI/AAAAAAAAByM/l5NGxZSDsSw711pTn2Xl7LF1A8JUWWgdQCLcBGAs/s1600/Carriage%2Bof%2Bthe%2BInjure.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="864" height="288" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nUhDBe3lSns/WcLRboIH6uI/AAAAAAAAByM/l5NGxZSDsSw711pTn2Xl7LF1A8JUWWgdQCLcBGAs/s320/Carriage%2Bof%2Bthe%2BInjure.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> When Dr Kendal arrived at the house he found the two men in
agony. Carter who was laid out on the couch was falling in and out of
consciousness surrounded by vomit. Stevens was also in a bad way but managed to
survive the experience. Carter however was clearly dying, and despite the
doctor’s attempts to restore him, a magistrate and his clerk were summoned to
take his deathbed deposition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> W.C. Checkley, Deputy Coroner, led the enquiry at Smethwick
Town Hall. There were conflicting testimonies from the witnesses. Their dubious
claims of sobriety that Friday evening were undermined by differing versions of
events produced by their inability to recall clearly what exactly had happened.
Rumours spread throughout the neighbourhood. Rumours which Checkley called
unfounded. The jury returned a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b8ExFOJtQKo/WcAgpEXrb6I/AAAAAAAABxk/l_i_jwXbmmgiOF7y7dfRTacm6DJkDHp6QCLcBGAs/s1600/Smethwick%2B-%2BGazette%2BTuesday%2B16th%2BOct%2B1913.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="1027" height="116" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b8ExFOJtQKo/WcAgpEXrb6I/AAAAAAAABxk/l_i_jwXbmmgiOF7y7dfRTacm6DJkDHp6QCLcBGAs/s320/Smethwick%2B-%2BGazette%2BTuesday%2B16th%2BOct%2B1913.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> The police were not convinced that Stevens’s intake of the
poison was an accident and charged him with attempted suicide. The case was
referred to the Registrar General, Sir Bernard Mallet, who summoned the Clerk
of the Birmingham Union’s Board of Guardians (who had supervisory powers over
the registration) for interview at Somerset
House. Stevens was immediately suspended from his job as Smethwick’s Registrar by Mallet. On Wednesday 15th October the General Purposes Committee
of the Birmingham Board of Guardians discussed the case at their regular
meeting. The committee, under the chairmanship of Althans Blackwell and vice-chairmanship
of Frank Juckes<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[7]</span><!--[endif]--></a>, heard
selections of the evidence presented to the Police Court and subsequently recommended
that Stevens should not be reinstated despite his case having been dismissed by
the magistrates. The evidence, and no doubt the rumours, had been enough to
condemn him in the committee’s eyes. If not guilty of a crime, he was ‘guilty
of conduct quite unbecoming a person holding his responsible position’.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8" title=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[8]</span><!--[endif]--></a> With Carter dead
and Stevens out, it was left to the acting Deputy Registrar, W.E. Curtis, to
record the demise of his predecessor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span><div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span><br clear="all" />
</span><br />
</span><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><!--[endif]-->
<br />
</span><div id="ftn1">
<div class="MsoEndnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
See Alexander Waugh, <i>The House of
Wittgenstein: A Family at War</i> (Bloomsbury, 2008), pp22-27<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn2">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Waugh, p23<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn3">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[3]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Birmingham Daily Post, Tuesday 7<sup>th</sup> October 1913<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn4">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[4]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
ibid<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn5">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[5]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Birmingham Daily Post, Monday 6<sup>th</sup> October 1913<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn6">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[6]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Birmingham Gazette, Wednesday 15<sup>th</sup> October 1913<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn7">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[7]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
Frank Juckes (1857-1926) was a Justice of the Peace, Guardian of the Poor,
chairman of the board of Birmingham Union (1912-13), governor of Birmingham
University (1912-1913), City Councillor (1911-1912), Freemason, supporter of
the Moneyhull Colony and Prisoners’ Aid Society, chairman of the visiting
committee of the prison, and, by trade, a printer. It was the company he
founded, Frank Juckes Ltd, which printed <a href="http://mikeinmono.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/nikolai-bakhtin-nicholas-bachtin.html" target="_blank">Nicholas Bachtin</a>’s only publication in
his lifetime, <i>Introduction to the Study
of Modern Greek</i> (1935).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div id="ftn8">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Michael/Desktop/that%20sprawling%20ink-blot/1%20Chapter%20Masters/6%20Suffering%20in%20Silence.docx#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 107%;">[8]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> </span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Birmingham Union: General Purposes
Committee Minute Book 1912-1914 (Library of Birmingham Archives GP/B/2/8/2/1)</span><span style="color: orange; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<br /></div>
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-79132084652369038842017-02-17T14:51:00.000-08:002017-02-17T14:51:28.040-08:00Goodbye Wittgenstein - Birmingham & Linz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-40966832630867632252017-01-01T14:06:00.002-08:002017-01-01T14:06:38.014-08:00The Pervading Climate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-1219149896331694002016-11-28T12:52:00.001-08:002016-11-28T12:53:33.950-08:00The Linz Residency: Wittgenstein's Schooldays 1903-1906<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-28539042192554180362016-11-25T04:05:00.002-08:002016-12-11T09:05:43.005-08:00The Linz Chapter<div style="text-align: justify;">
An excerpt from <i>The Linz Chapter</i> at the launch of Kristallin #38: Goodbye Wittgenstein - an exhibition at Salzamt, Linz in Austria. I was very honoured to be included in this group show together with Emily Warner, Pete Ashton, Trevor Pitt, Thomas Philipp, Verena Henetmayr and Andre Zogholy.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxBWcx09u7foWT73nMAdwpaPEyLY646k6bfcePcL1zc9ryzt4hHvOVswSBCI4IV9wiydZijd6RY2EPGkj3t' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Thanks to Pete Ashton for the video</div>
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-86263157759684322692016-08-07T13:34:00.004-07:002016-08-07T13:34:37.987-07:00Of Human Bondage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-92058789185620872392016-07-19T12:24:00.002-07:002021-09-14T11:56:06.199-07:00Goodbye Wittgenstein<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Goodbye Wittgenstein<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">25 July – 5 August 2016<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Goodbye Wittgenstein</span></b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> is
an international exchange programme between artists and academics from <b>qujOchÖ </b>in Linz, Austria and artists
selected by <b>A3 Project Space</b> in
partnership with<b> BOM</b> (Birmingham Open
Media), UK. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Participants
in the programme take the relationship between the Austrian born philosopher
Ludwig Wittgenstein and David Hume Pinsent from Birmingham as a starting point
for a series of projects that will happen in Linz and Birmingham during 2016. The
projects respond to Wittgenstein’s early text ‘Notes on Logic’ which was
dictated by Wittgenstein in 1913 during a visit to see David in Birmingham.
‘Notes in Logic’ is notably the predecessor of what is considered to be one of
the most important philosophical texts of the 20<sup>th</sup> Century,
‘Tractatus Logico Philosophicus’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">The
first phase of the Goodbye Wittgenstein programme is a visit to Birmingham from
qujOchÖ artists Verena Henetmayr, Thomas Philipp and Andre Zogholy who will be
in residence at BOM from 25 July to 5 August 2016. Using BOM as their base they
will be enacting and documenting a series of public interventions at places
that are connected to the life of Wittgenstein and Pinsent, including; Town
Hall Birmingham and the original sites of Selly Wick House, the family home of
the Pinsents on Lordswood Road in Harborne and the Berlitz School of Language on
Paradise Street where Wittgenstein dictated “Notes on Logic” to a German
speaking stenographer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">The
residency includes public events at BOM on 28 July and 4 August and will
culminate in a presentation of their interventions at Stryx as part of Digbeth
First Friday, 5 August.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Related
Events:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Wittgenstein and the Linz / Birmingham
connection<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">28
July, 6.30 pm <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">BOM<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">free<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Artists
Verena Henetmayr, Thomas Philipp and Andre Zogholy from qujOchÖ<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">w</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">ho are participating in the Goodbye Wittgenstein
international exchange will talk about the development of their projects.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Writer
Mike Johnston has written extensively about Wittgenstein’s relationship with
Birmingham and will talk about his visits to see Pinsent between1912-13. Along
with artists Emily Warner and Trevor Pitt, they will talk about the projects
they are developing for their forthcoming residencies at Atelierhaus Salzamt,
Linz in November 2016.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Clayton
Shaw will talk about a set of placements run by SAMPAD that took place at Ars
Electronica Festival, Linz for artists and practitioners working with young
people who have a desire to enhance their skills and knowledge of the use of
digital products and technology within their work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Darryl
Georgiou will talk about working at the </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">Future</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">lab as part of his artist residency at the Ars
Electronica centre </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">i</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">n
Linz, Austria during July - September 2014.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">The
presentations will be followed by the chance to informally network and build
more connections between Birmingham and Linz.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Logic, Love & Kaiserschmarrn<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">4
August, 7.00 pm <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">qujOchÖ
will talk about their work at the interfaces of art, politics, society,
technology and science. They will show what it feels like to enter a </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">wellness zone</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">together </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">with the famous French </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">philoso</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">pher Michel Foucault, how to burn </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">21</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> million pounds on a Brazilian beach and why
almost no one in Austria knows anything about ‘Sound of Music‘. Moreover they
will serve super sweet Austrian Kaiserschmarrn & Zwetschkenknödel to the
audience. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Goodbye Wittgenstein, qujOchÖ<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">5
August, 6.00 pm as part of Digbeth First Friday<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 115%;">Stryx
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;">Artists
Verena Henetmayr, Thomas Philipp and </span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" lang="DE" style="line-height: 115%;">Andre</span><span face=""arial" , "sans-serif"" style="line-height: 115%;"> Zogholy from Linz, Austria will present outcomes of
their residency at BOM including traces of their interventions in public spaces
in Birmingham connected to the relationship between Ludwig Wittgenstein and his
close friend from Birmingham, David Pinsent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-43899826639965007042016-05-05T12:53:00.002-07:002016-05-10T11:29:54.379-07:00Roads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-71387147428228151342016-03-16T13:20:00.002-07:002021-09-14T11:58:21.415-07:00The Model of Paradise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Quotes from Steven Gartside, <i>Model Forms: Sculpture / Architecture in 50s & 60s’ Britain</i>
(Henry Moore Institute, 2002) [Henry Moore Institute Essays on Sculpture – 37]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>If nothing were missing, there would be no reason for the model’s
existence. Thus, the viewer is invited to play a role of speculation, tracing
threads towards an imagined end.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">We see in the photograph above anonymous officials
considering the model before them of John Madin’s proposed Civic Centre for
Birmingham which in 2016 is currently being demolished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The model is part of a curtailed language structure – an
expression of the context of its time. It is also part of a communication
system that is ultimately only partially effective. It could even be said that
the model comments on the practice of architecture and sculpture, by operating
as a meta-architecture or a meta-sculpture. To produce a model is the process
of making the unformed formed. What exists in the mind, and through a
collection of other expressions, has to be turned into physical form, but not
necessarily the final form. It is here that the central act of translation has
to occur; with the caveat that this is not all there is.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The model is <i>an acknowledgement of a position within the
process of production. The viewer is presented with something that, out of
time, has no official / real state.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Madin’s model is an ideal and the final building its shadow.
The distortion in the transformation / correspondence to reality was brought
about by spending cuts at Birmingham City Council in the 1970s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>In theory, the model allows for the production of a state
of grace – the object unfettered by the everyday limitations of ‘real’
existence.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>If the model is an object, then what kind of object is it?
Its existence, when viewed in isolation, has a certain uniqueness – complete,
yet incomplete, a model form of something else, without context or mitigating
circumstance. There is a kind of freedom in the model – one primarily connected
to its indeterminacy as an object. Its freedom denies a conventional system of
value, because the object is removed from systems of consideration. The level
of the indeterminate is extended by the possibility of relating the model
either to origin (thought) or to eventuality (finished work.)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Madin’s model has made the officials appear like seated
gods judging the fate of the world far beneath them. However, their presence
in the photograph is also a ‘reproach to idealisation’ by giving it a real,
human context – completing the symbol.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: medium;">In this way the model can move towards a fictive state – a
narrative begun by the maker to be completed by the viewer. This allows the
viewer a way out of a destructive endgame, one that fails to move outside the
model as an incomplete project. To encourage the viewer to imagine a range of
likely outcomes for the final work could be seen as bypassing the conditions of
museum purpose. It is, perhaps, the same as the use of narrative in history
paintings – the object is finished, but it is difficult not to make the image
move on in the mind. Narrative impulse is strong, and can be the perfect
complement to indeterminacy.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>Context provides architecture with the experience of dirty
realism – the messy fractures in control that everyday experience brings. In a
mass of schemes and developments, only a few can escape relatively unscathed
from the compromising realities of use. Space is transitory, place has a
central core of permanence. Idealised space is fine, non-existent space invents
its own rules. In the production of actual space, time is crucial. The marks of
time are not those of material against environment. Time is about the loosening
of control – idealised space being replaced by real space. Model forms allow us
to take a step out of that. Not a step backwards, rather a step outside time – an
immersion in space, or spatial concepts. The relief is temporal, as the dirty
realism of everyday life waits to exert its presence with slow, even power.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-16826743250486273622016-01-03T04:18:00.001-08:002016-01-03T12:39:41.800-08:00Holywood, Co. Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-29907325309825681382015-12-09T11:08:00.003-08:002021-09-14T12:00:04.638-07:00A Walk around the West Midlands: parts 3&4, Bromsgrove to Blakedown to Stourbridge<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It was May 2014, the
weather was perfect and the fields were full of new growth; the crops were
coming on nicely. But first there was the Oxfam bookshop in Bromsgrove to check
out. I came away with two purchases: Owen Hatherley's <i>A Guide To The New Ruins of Britain</i> and Basil Spence's book on the
building of his cathedral, <i>Phoenix At
Coventry</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The path from
Perryfields to Dodford is known as the Chartist Walk because Dodford was the
last of the movement's plantations. This was the Chartists’ trading route to
the market at Bromsgrove. Their other was north to Stourbridge which would be
my next destination after Blakedown. The beginning of the path at Perryfields
takes the neo-Chartist down the side of an unsentimental apple orchard, along a
fenced-off alley enclosed by pines. From this tightly enclosed path the sound
of traffic built up until I found myself on one side of a footbridge over the
M5. I took a moment midway across to take in the angry energy of all that metal
hurtling along; never fast enough, nobody ever wanting to be there, all
convenience and fear. The field ahead promised something else entirely. The
line of the path could not have been clearer. A strip of barren earth ascended
the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many feet must have
tread this path to the point where crops could not grow on the compacted soil
even if the farmer wanted them to. It was the end of winter when I first made
this journey, but springtime when I managed to complete it, having only made it
to the woods on the other side of Dodford on the first attempt. What had been
immaculately ploughed fields in March were now sprouting growth on either side
of me in May. I was no longer on city time but moved with the seasons.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A buttercup meadow
brought a gentleness of mind. I was beginning to feel that Dodford was an idyll
of a sort, that Chartism in the village had indeed created the New Jerusalem.
But, in reality, the project had only survived a few years. Now the beautiful,
simple cottages which had been built for the plantation were now much
sought-after property. Luckily one of them, Rosedene, is now in the hands of
the National Trust, although access is limited.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Through patches of
bluebells in Nutnells Wood, I had my lunch by a pond at Henley Brook. As thousands
of tadpoles swam about, I sat on an abandoned concrete pipe and rested a while
before crossing a bridge in a beautiful shaded twist of the brook’s course.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Up Barrow Hill to
find the tumulus, I took the bridlepath down the other side as with so much
growth, a proper view of it was not possible until I reached the bottom of the
field. An angel cloud hung above it. The neolithic dead were being watched
over. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Soon I felt lost but
was not lost. I lost faith in my intuition and relied too much on signposts which
failed to materialise. After wandering in the opposite direction for a while, I
took out my compass and rechecked the map, taking note of the line of pylons.
Soon I was secure again in my direction. The next official footpath was narrow
and completely overgrown but I hurled myself through it with relish, knowing
that I had found my way.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The entrance to
Blakedown is gained by traversing the dam of Ladies Pool, and through the
paddocks on the other side. The day was now hot and dry. The poor horses looked
overwhelmed in their coats, and I was in need of refreshment and found some at
the local post office. This itself was a journey back to a more dishevelled
time. It reminded me of caravan holidays in the 1970s and hunting for paper
bags of cola cubes and polystyrene gliders in Northern Irish coastal villages.
I could feel my legs were aching for home so I trained it back to Moor St and
returned in a fortnight to continue the walk.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The journey from
Blakedown was at first a pleasant stroll past an old watermill to the
authoritatively-named village of Churchill, over a hill to Common Farm, a sharp
right turn cutting across the border from North Worcestershire into
Staffordshire, then trekking northward along a very muddy Roman road to Norton
Covert and then finally entering the western fringe of Stourbridge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Conscious of walking on an ancient highway,
especially when it is reduced to a narrow trek and ankle deep in liquid mud, I
couldn't help wondering how a centurion would have managed in sandals. And how
faraway from home he must have felt. Places gain importance from their
approach, and next time I'll arrive in Stourbridge by train and won't think
much about it, but coming in by an ancient track, however dubious its
authenticity, is magnificent. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Roman road took
me to Norton Covert which, to put it crudely, is a big hole at the edge of
town. In fact it is an old sandstone quarry where building material was
extracted in the nineteenth century to construct the expanding town of
Stourbridge. Nature has long since recaptured it, and because man has dug
through strata for industrial purposes it has become a place of geological
interest and beauty. Paths along the edge allow views of the canopy and steep
paths down into the pit invite the curious. By this stage of my walk my legs
were afraid they would not make it back up again, so I vowed to return one day
and carried on.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Roman road
continues from Norton Covert along the western edge of Stourbridge becoming a sandy
lane called, unsurprisingly, Sandy Lane. This particular leg of my journey ended
by heading into the town centre for coffee, grub and books; my usual
nourishment. I found a lovely old edition of Tom Sawyer to give to my son when
he's a bit older, then headed off on the train back home.</span><span style="color: orange;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-49617836148506043032015-10-28T12:12:00.001-07:002021-09-14T12:02:52.369-07:00A Dream of a City beginning with A (part 2)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xLNEIC2lfYI/VjEdZt7m5PI/AAAAAAAABfY/q9CXJNDEgfU/s1600/ebb7633f5f247f6f09854467884a4c3f%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xLNEIC2lfYI/VjEdZt7m5PI/AAAAAAAABfY/q9CXJNDEgfU/s320/ebb7633f5f247f6f09854467884a4c3f%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Along Tamaki Drive, I hear the universal sound of the marina; cable banging on mast. There are boats everywhere, preparing, it seems, for a mass exodus in a flotilla of wealth. Masters of land, explorers of the sea. Plunderers of the deep and the shallow; businessmen with professional fishing gear. Some people are taking their pleasures very seriously. Working hard, playing hard. Got all the gear, Being seen getting all the gear.</span><br />
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<span>Fishing was not an activity which ever grew into more than an occasional pastime for me. As a child I clambered over rocks with my crab line every summer and all day sat contented beside rockpools while, nearby, salmon left the River Bush for the adventure of the North Atlantic, negotiating the headland of Portballintrae by swerving the dangling lines of hopeful young men up from the towns. The smell of fish was everywhere, all day all summer long.</span><br />
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<span>Even at that age I went the extra mile for solitude and clung to the rockpools where the stillness of the water allowed visibility of the curious world within, until one year my father bought me a wee mustard coloured rod, and I prized myself away from the hermetic world of rockpools to casting off from the harbour. Mostly this ended in entangling the line around the spool and rod in a hopeless mess. I never caught anything until one day a fish accidentally swam into the hook. I felt the strain on the rod and carefully reeled it in with nervous excitement. But instead of the fish gorging on my wily bait, it had managed to impale the hook in its eye. Certainly it did not feel like a proper catch. In fact, I felt distinctly awful that it had been cruel fate rather than any sporting skill which had given me my first, and last, catch.</span><br />
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<span>Now I imagine sharks gliding past my head like repugnant memories waiting to pounce. I gaze at them as nonchalantly as I can muster. The other fish avoid their dead, predatory eyes. Here in the tank at the aquarium, all is balanced in a precious and precarious harmony. Another shark passes overhead. Beside me, my son presses his face against the glass fearlessly. His eyes are alive with wonder as he sees this world for the fist time.</span></span>mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-64731380513751781912015-10-08T12:07:00.005-07:002021-09-14T12:04:21.699-07:00A Walk around the West Midlands: parts 1&2, Cotteridge to Barnt Green to Bromsgrove<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For a long time I was
feeling an urge to escape the city, to wander beyond the orbit of its motorway
collar, and explore the surrounding countryside. It would not have to be far,
just a bit beyond the city. Of course, I had been there many times before but as
a car passenger driven around on aimless days or enforced diversions from the A
roads in and out of the city; occasional expeditions to car boot sales, or pub
lunches. But I had never actual <i>been</i>
there. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From my home in Cotteridge,
Birmingham, I summoned up the courage to pass through Kings Norton, with all
its memories, and head south, late in the autumn of 2013. Masshouse Lane took me
to the gracefully named Primrose Hill, past dilapidated council houses of the
1920s, past a cemetery and into the first sign of countryside. It is difficult
to get muddy in a city unless you are somewhere you shouldn’t be, even some
canal towpaths are gaining the urban respectability of tarmac. Immediately I
realised my work shoes were wholly inadequate as the mud came over the top. And
this was the first field; a city boy squirmed with embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The dominant animal
at the edge of the city is not the cow or sheep or pig, but the horse. These
elegant, four-legged investments are dotted around the fields, quietly
contemplating their indifference to solitude. There are also numerous riding
schools on the outskirts. One need not go short of opportunities to part with
good money to sit on top of an animal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The city oozes out
its wealth past the slum-clearance estates, and out into what is only <i>regionally</i> Birmingham, i.e. as viewed
from London, or <i>narratively</i>
Birmingham, i.e. when it suits me. My destination for this initial leg of my journey
was to be Barnt Green, a satellite village due-south of the city, just past
Longbridge. This was once the home of the atomic spy Allan Nunn May whose
father was a brassfounder in the city, that is to say, he <i>owned</i> a brassfoundry in the city which allowed him to live way beyond
the consequences of its noxious factories. Incidentally, Nunn May was not the
only atomic spy ever to reside in Birmingham. Klaus Fuchs began passing the
details of his work to the Russians when he lived in Edgbaston.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The atrocious path from
Primrose Hill came out to a road edged with trees and swampy pools. It was the
first road I had been on in years where I could walk down the middle
undisturbed by traffic. It felt good. It felt glorious. Already my wellbeing
was improving. To mark the occasion I took some blurry photographs of discarded
objects with my phone.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It wasn't long until
I was back on an obscure public right of way - a narrow, overgrown path running
up the side of a house. Clearly no one had walked there for some time. I had to
stoop under branches as I stumbled forward, alerting a large, protective hound
only inches away; growling and barking behind the fence immediately to my
right. Once past the house and another of the many swampy pools I would grow
intrigued by, the path joined a lane taking me to the top of Wast Hill. There
was a slight view of the now distant city behind me and my first panorama of
the comparatively sparse valley in front. The path turned right and descended
pleasantly through woods beside the Wast Hill Autism Centre, then there were a
couple of muddy fields to cross before crossing a road and onto the next path. I
was acclimatizing to having wet feet and called it stoicism.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The path had a
Richard Long appearance of a clean line swooping down toward the end of the
Wast Hill Tunnel. From there it was a steady trek along the Worcester canal to
the Bittell reservoirs where Bruce Chatwin’s father would go boating. My map
was old, very old, having been purchased from the Hogg’s Lane car boot sale for
twenty pence, and did not even feature the M42, the southern part of the collar
around Birmingham. This ensured confusion and for a short while I was lost on
my way into Barnt Green. As I staggered on, I was delighted to be welcomed by three
little piggies who came squealing to their gate. They had no problem with the
mud, and I was beginning to get used to it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzvqZ3NDe7_CG48cYFet7bpKr60ooS-feetmZPlztacUBOLTRmtU4FKf9tYXgvIJLF1xWbX7xNjibNRi-0dZw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The next leg of the
journey was straight down to Bromsgrove, mostly continuing along the Worcester
canal. It felt liberating to emerge from under the bridge of the motorway. I
felt a surge of pride to be beyond that suffocating collar.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">At the moorings of
Alvechurch a prehistoric crane was dangling a barge over the works. Alvechurch
is one of the hubs of the canal tourism industry, but today I wasn’t stopping.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Further south Network
Rail had pinned notices onto trees to the east of the canal. With news of the
HS2's go-ahead, it is hard to look at the fields without a projection of what will
be in store for them. It is an image of the future which is hard to bear while
standing in such pleasant surroundings. I think it was this, combined with a
drop in blood sugar, which prompted a sense of pointlessness and despondency
about my journey. And this was only the second leg! I wasn't walking anymore, I
was marching at a pace with my eyes at my feet. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Not until the canal disappeared
into a tunnel, and I was left alone to find my way through Shortwood, did I
recognise a new feeling of excited isolation, the awe of the environment and
the enjoyable illusion of adventure. A city boy living out a fantasy. The wood
had an atmosphere of <i>Twin Peaks</i>. The
damp, the quiet, the piles of lumber. I climbed to the top of the hill and the
edge of the wood. The re-emergence to the canal was hidden by a clump of trees far
below. A cold wind whipped around me as I made the slippery descent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The canal path did
not last for long. As I negotiated a dual carriageway, the canal was making its
way to Tardebigge, the spiritual home of the reborn canal network. Instead I
was veering along footpaths toward Bromsgrove. A Dyno-Rod truck sat grazing in
a field alongside a couple of tired old horses and an impressive collection of
digger scoops. A wider collection of farm machinery and materials was revealed
further down the path. It was very impressive. A mausoleum of agriculture.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Right turn to
Bromsgrove, along quiet country roads punctuated only by the genial whirl of a
cycling club passing by. Their friendly waving indicated a bond between those
who like to get out in the middle of nowhere for the good of their health. Or
so it was in my imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">From this way in, the
edge of Bromsgrove is Aston Fields, where the railway station is located. The
actual centre is another mile westwards. I had walked far enough for that leg
but I returned in the spring of 2014 to take up the walk to Blakedown. </span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: orange; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-18932304029708955852015-09-26T11:32:00.003-07:002015-09-26T11:33:04.449-07:00Chad Valley<br />
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-71873926365204437632015-09-18T12:09:00.001-07:002015-11-08T14:13:39.602-08:00Bann Estuary / A Seafaring Yarn<br />
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-9461550940938547252015-08-09T01:01:00.001-07:002021-09-14T12:06:42.796-07:00Linz: a fantasy<span style="color: orange;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I know Linz is a city because I live in Birmingham, and I believe I see city form.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Can I describe Linz without knowing the German language?</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I begin with the correspondence.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I remain aware of my presence in Linz no matter how extensive this correspondence, the quantity of pairings.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>It is hard to establish anything at all, but I am not fooling myself. As far as I know.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I have not travelled all this way to be in the same city. What's the point in that?</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I know Birmingham is a city because I live there.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I used to live in Belfast, and that was a city too. It was where I learnt of the city form.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Belfast is still a city, even after my departure.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Birmingham was a city before I got there.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Linz was a city before I got there.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Linz has had an airport for at least as long as it takes to build an airport and establish "airportness".</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I have some faith in what some others tell me. Some of these tell me having faith in others is the fibre of humanity. A fibrous humanity is a goal.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Perhaps I have too much faith in what others tell me. Perhaps I have too little. It is hard to say with certainty. It is beyond me.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>The importance of dust is that it establishes that the object on which it lies has existed before I have seen it for the first time. However, Linz airport is very clean.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>The people who work in Linz airport can explain many of the facts associated with being in an airport, of being, in particular, in Linz airport. They are versed in "airportness", in "Linz airportness". They speak with a degree of authority. I should at least have <i>some </i>faith in something of what some of them say.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I make a guess (an educated guess?), this is not day one of Linz airport. It has established itself, at least earlier today, almost certainly before the plane took off from Birmingham airport.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Birmingham airport, Linz airport - that is one correspondence.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>They correspond, but they are also different. <i>I know</i> they are different places. The plane did not just take off, circle Birmingham and then land again. (<i>I know</i> all about circling Birmingham, having circumnavigated the city on foot.) I watched the ground as we climbed away, and, although I lost sight of it as the plane disappeared into cloud, when we emerged again several hours later and our destination certainly looked like a city (it had city form) - it ticked many boxes - and in ways it looked like Birmingham, there were also many ways the destination most certainly did not look like Birmingham. As the plane descended further I could see cars driving on the right-hand side of the roads. There was also a whopping big river running through it. Birmingham's rivers do not impress anyone suspended in the air. Just these two observations affirmed that at least the flight had been, to a certain degree, value for money.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I had faith, I admit, that I had boarded a plane for Linz, and frankly, there was no noticeable reason why it should have landed anywhere else. No bad weather, no hijacking, no passengers took sick, no observable technical failures, no announcements from the captain to the contrary. In fact he stated quite clearly we were descending into Linz.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I took the captain's word for it. Although, I never actually saw the captain. The voice on the speaker stated he was the captain. He, in fact, announced, 'This is your captain speaking...' <i>My</i> captain? Temporarily I had a captain.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>To be in the hands of such a man of authority, of such technical skill, of such professionalism, surely should inspire faith. If the captain says it is Linz, then it is Linz. However, after we passengers exited the aircraft, the captain's authority remained on board. On leaving the aircraft we stepped into post-modernism.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>But what is Linz? What is Linz-ness?</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Is there a conjunction of Linz-ness and Birmingham-ness?</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>Perhaps, here and now, I am that conjunction.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I brought some Birmingham-ness with me on the plane, embedded in my psyche like a stowaway. I hope to bring some Linz-ness back with me, hidden in a similar compartment. Perhaps I will declare at customs, 'I have nothing to declare but my Linz-ness!'</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>If I do not give myself over to madness, what words can be relied upon to decompress Linz-ness into a string of sufficient length as to resurrect the memories being formed as I wander the streets of Linz, if this is indeed the city of Linz, and if I ever make it out of the airport?</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I have never made it out of several airports, namely that of the cities of Dubai, Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. I have never actually stepped foot on actual Australian soil, only on Australian transit lounge floorboards, which is just not the same, nor run my fingers through Arabian sand. I have never burst through the bubble of the airports and into their cities, absorbing their individual city-ness and forming memories to be later decompressed from uttering their names. When the plane descended toward Sydney airport, I caught a glimpse of the Sydney Opera House with its unmistakable shape. A shape so unique that it inspired certainty. From that point on I firmly believed I was suspended in the air, hurtling through the sky, above the city of Sydney, even though I could clearly see cars driving on the left-hand side.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>The ease with which misinformation can be contrived in a digital format worries me. It regularly keeps me awake at night. The faith which a computer requires in its user, is a little too much for my palate. For instance, as an object sways through compression and decompression, data floats away like the ash from burning paper. However, if I am prepared to make a leap of faith, I could go down the list of arrivals and departures on the digital monitors of "Linz airport", and tick off the cities in which I am <i>not </i>standing. This could provide the education in an educated guess.</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>So if I am prepared to make a leap of faith regarding the arrivals and departures board, why not go the whole hog and ask someone and <i>believe </i>them? Well... Where would it end?! If I were to go round believing people all the time I would end up without a shirt on my back; on my knees before God begging for esoteric solutions to practical problems; seeking consolation in the words of a priest; telephoning the numbers at the bottom of advertisements...</span><br />
<span><br /></span>
<span>I close my eyes, take a deep breath, walk through the automatic doors, and ask a taxi driver to take me to the <a href="http://www.cusoon.at/cowboy-museum-fatsy" target="_blank">Cowboy Museum</a>.</span></span><br />
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-8853545001740651682015-06-02T11:56:00.001-07:002021-09-14T12:07:48.186-07:00A Dream of a City beginning with A (part1) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I imagine an Auckland in which I have come to live.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I imagine a small house. Discreet, in the middle of an inner suburb, near public transportation. I hope I own it, but I seriously doubt that. Let's say I can afford it, given the efforts I expect myself to undertake.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span>
</span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I imagine a small plot of land. Very small. A patch really; given over to a small indulgence of self-sufficiency which would be easily matched by a quick trip to the store, but nevertheless it is naively and amateurishly cultivated in a loving way. It is a gesture to good intentions which hopefully will grow into a peace of mind one day. I struggle to find the time to attend to it however, such are the demands of work.</span></div>
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</span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I imagine saying hello every morning and evening to curious neighbours. I shrug off their wariness. They'll get to know me in due course, and they'll become relaxed, reassured I'm a safe pair of hands in their neighbourhood. I will help them if I can, and ask their advice from time to time, perhaps about civic matters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I dream of discussing the various merits and drawbacks of R and LISP with Greg Chaitin at a mathematics conference, of sitting languidly in Albert Park and watching a group practising Tai Chi, of reading William James and Gertrude Stein over coffee in the library, pondering phenomenological sameness and daring to formulate my own theory of poetical decompression. The incompatibility of pattern in post-modernism initially flummoxes me, but to press on is exciting. Elegant solutions come to me in dreams. Only in dreams. Rationalism takes a strange turn and poetry blossoms there, in a dream of Auckland.</span></div>
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-45121434879730944202015-04-18T09:40:00.001-07:002015-09-28T12:17:47.771-07:00He Is Hiding Without Flesh<br />
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mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-44111127019690767822015-02-15T12:06:00.001-08:002021-09-14T12:09:18.068-07:00Nikolai Bakhtin, Nicholas Bachtin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="color: orange; font-size: 13pt;"> </span><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Serge Aleksandrovich Konovalov (1899-1982)
was not yet thirty years old but already he had been elected to the Chair of Russian
at Birmingham University. Although, it seems his main qualification was
actually being Russian. His father, a businessman who had served as Minister of
Trade and Industry in the Provisional Government under Alexander Kerensky, had moved
his family to England in the wake of the October Revolution, allowing Serge the
opportunity to study economics and politics at Oxford. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> He was of imposing appearance, discreetly
elegant in manners and dress. Dignity, courtesy, and great personal charm are
among the qualities attributed to him. He was very tall and powerfully built. A
man of natural caution and reserve, he sometimes gave the impression of being
aloof, but this was probably due to shyness and a natural reserve.</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> [<i>Slavonic
Studies at Oxford: a Brief History, </i>p18]<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Konovalov had a reputation for
‘formidable’ diplomacy, and it was a shrewd decision
to ask the secretary of the Slavonic Society to accompany him to Paris to
rescue ‘the most brilliant man of the Russian émigration’. Not only could she speak both French and Russian, but her
style of approach might just be what was needed to entice an antagonized philosopher
out from the shadows of a dilapidated Parisian tenement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D-mYqG8Uru4/VN-YLRe4V5I/AAAAAAAABMA/0p810S4JUfI/s1600/Francesca%2BM%2BWilson%2Bportrait%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D-mYqG8Uru4/VN-YLRe4V5I/AAAAAAAABMA/0p810S4JUfI/s1600/Francesca%2BM%2BWilson%2Bportrait%2B2.jpg" width="227" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Francesca M. Wilson</span></td></tr>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> His interlocutor was Francesca M. Wilson
who, it can be said, was formidable in her own right. E.R. Dodds referred to
her as an ‘untiring worker for the unfortunate’. After putting
her teaching career on hold, she had worked with the Society of Friends helping
victims of the violent upheavals of history in France, Corsica, North Africa
and Serbia during the First World War and then in Vienna during its aftermath.
In September 1922 Wilson travelled eastwards to administrate a relief outpost
of the Society of Friends in the village of Pasmorowka, a small corner of the
Russian Empire in present-day Kazakhstan. She later published a memoir of her humanitarian
work, <i>In the Margins of Chaos </i>(1944) in which her colleague Marjorie
Rackstraw explains the background to the Russian famine:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">In 1920 there was a
poor harvest, and in 1921 there was no rain at all. Most of the seed never
germinated. The blades that struggled up were burnt by the sun. The peasants
have a proverb that you must never see the floor of your granary. But during
the years of war and revolution all the reserves were used up. The Red Army had
to be fed, and the towns too, and requisitions had depleted all stocks.
Transport difficulties aggravated the situation. The railways are in a shocking
state. Food got held up for weeks and the people fleeing the famine died by the
thousands waiting for trains at the railway stations. And it takes days to get
food out to country districts by ox-wagon or sleigh. Then there was our
intervention and blockade - that made everything twenty times worse.</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> By 1922 the peasants had become too weak
to plough the fields, and yet again the harvest was a poor one. Without doctors
there was no distinction between dying of starvation or disease. It was
estimated that three million had died of typhus alone. Wilson's work in the
field was being hampered by an unpleasant translator who aggravated the people
whom she was trying to help, so Francesca immersed herself in learning enough
Russian to function on her own. Combined with her capabilities in French, these
skills would later prove useful in her journey to Paris with Konovalov. Perhaps
he was being cynical by using Francesca Wilson to lure his prey out into the
light. The man in question was no straightforward victim of the Revolution, and
he was desperate, hungry and prone to violent outbursts. However, the man who
appeared from the darkened staircase was not at all what Wilson had been
expecting:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">I made myself a
picture of an elderly Russian with a pointed beard, pale, studious, remote and
grave... Though at that time he was pale and thin, his broad shoulders and
massive frame made him look more a man of action than of thought.</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CxxrdBDq-Ao/VN-WfYuh6rI/AAAAAAAABLs/EbNTHuZXhsc/s1600/Nicholas%2BBachtin%2B1935%2Biv.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CxxrdBDq-Ao/VN-WfYuh6rI/AAAAAAAABLs/EbNTHuZXhsc/s1600/Nicholas%2BBachtin%2B1935%2Biv.jpg" width="328" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nikolai Bakhtin in 1935</span></td></tr>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Wilson's first impression of Nikolai Bakhtin
as a man of action was essentially correct. In 1916 Bakhtin had abandoned his
studies in Petrograd to become an Uhlan Lancer in the Tsar's forces 'when
someone told him he would look dashing in the uniform's jodphurs', but after the Bolshevik revolution he was forced to seek refuge
in the Crimea where he encountered his former commanding officer who persuaded
him to take up arms once again, this time as a White Guard in the Civil War, a
decision he would come to regret. In 1920, he was forced once more to flee as
the White Army retreated south. Briefly he became a sailor in the
Mediterranean, then, while drunk one night in Constantinople, he joined the
French Foreign Legion. After three and a half years of fighting in North Africa,
Bakhtin was invalided out with severe wounds to his right arm and hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> In 1924 Bakhtin settled in Paris where he
became part of the substantial émigré intelligentsia. French regulations regarding work and
accommodation made it a hard experience, though he did not make it any easier
for himself. After walking out or being sacked from several minor jobs, he kept
starvation at bay with contributions to <i>The Link</i>, a literary supplement to <i>The Latest News</i>, a Russian
émigré newspaper. Edited by his friend from St Petersburg, Georgy Adamovitch, <i>The Link</i> was published for just five
years from 1923 to 1928. Later he contributed to <i>Numbers </i>which first<i> </i>appeared
in 1930 and existed for only four years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Born in
1894 in Orel, Nikolai Bakhtin was the oldest of five children. His younger
siblings included his brother Mikhail, and his sisters Ekaterina, Maria and
Natalya. Their parents were liberal-minded and interested in culture. His
father was manager in a bank established by their grandfather, accordingly the
children were given the best education affordable. To say the young Nikolai was
precocious would be an understatement. He read Nietzsche's <i>Birth of Tragedy</i>
at the age of eleven, and frequently he would wake in the small hours of the
morning to absorb Kant and Hegel. At school he became the leading figure of an
intellectual circle under the influence of the Russian Symbolists, and this
circle had itself evolved from a group who would assemble in the toilets to
sing revolutionary songs. His schooling was conducted in Vilnius where the
family had moved to in 1905, and when they moved again to Odessa in 1911
Nikolai remained to complete his education. It was around this time that he
began writing poetry and became interested in Dmitri Merezhkovski's trilogy of
historical novels concerning the conflict between paganism and Christianity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">Merezhkovski and his
wife, the poet Zinaida Gippius, were living in Paris as exiles from Tsarist
Russia and ran a salon called the Green Lamp. Although regarded as conservative
and decadent by the exiles of Bolshevik Russia, these symbolist writers were
part of an earlier generation who had established a Russian cultural base and
influence in the <i>fin de siècle</i> Paris
of Diaghilev and Stravinsky. So when Bakhtin found himself in the same city, he
became a regular visitor to the Green Lamp. Merezhkovski and Gippius admired
Bakhtin greatly, regarding him as ‘a kind of prophet announcing a new
conception of life’. Certainly, Bakhtin
impressed those who heard his lectures and they included the most famous names
of the émigré intellectuals. Despite giving this positive impression on his
audiences, Nikolai Bakhtin was destined to remain in obscurity throughout his
life and beyond. Where Nikolai had the freedom and possibilities of the West
including studies at the Sorbonne and Cambridge, it was his younger brother
Mikhail, working in the difficult circumstances of internal exile within the
Soviet Union, who became the famous philosopher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> Because Russia Abroad was entirely formed
by its awareness of the other Russia left behind it became by far the more
traumatized of two unhappy twins split at birth. Unable to accept the forced
break with Russia, many of the exiles and émigrés suffered nightmares of
disinheritance and dangerous thoughts of reconciliation and self-sacrifice. A
striking feature of memoirs and stories from between the wars is the recurrent
sense of Soviet Russia and Russia Abroad as always aware of the other and
thinking similar thoughts, whether or not they were actively watching over or
intervening in each other’s lives.</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> [CHAMBERLAIN, p250]<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">Despite their
separation, Nikolai and Mikhail came to remarkably similar conclusions
philosophically; both made the journey from classicism to the philosophy of
language. Together as young students they had paid for tutoring in Ancient
Greek which was not taught at their school. Their German governess had given
them their passion for the myths of Greece. They were intense intellectual
sparring partners and this was the source of the importance of dialogism in both
of their philosophies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">One day in a
Parisian bookshop, Nikolai came across a copy of a work by Mikhail on
Dostoevsky. He had not heard from him since the early 1920s. During the Second
World War, Nikolai learnt of Mikhail’s arrest in 1929 and assumed he had
perished during Stalin’s purges of the 1930s, but Mikhail had actually survived.
In the 1970s, he received a package from Birmingham, it was a collection of
Nikolai’s papers assembled by his friends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">Francesca Wilson and
Nikolai Bakhtin’s initial meeting did not go well. It acquainted her with
Bakhtin's periodic gruffness. Nevertheless, she persuaded him to come to Birmingham,
and when he arrived Francecsa got to know the warmer side of his character. Soon,
in fact, they became lovers. Until the end of his life Francesca and Nikolai
were very close. So in May 1928 Bakhtin arrived at the door of 35 Duchess Road,
Edgbaston, with his worldly possessions, mostly books, wrapped in newspapers.
He was by no means the only Russian staying at Francesca’s house. She had
adopted several boys and girls, all Russians who had been living in exile in
Paris, and then there was the housekeeper and the odd lodger here and there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JsFEXbTTIyw/VN-sMr0q97I/AAAAAAAABNE/2etAtA_pckg/s1600/Duchess%2BRoad%2Bold.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JsFEXbTTIyw/VN-sMr0q97I/AAAAAAAABNE/2etAtA_pckg/s1600/Duchess%2BRoad%2Bold.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">During
the first months of Bachtin’s stay in Birmingham we were a trio, as a Russian
schoolboy, Sim, was living in my house at the time. Sim was as greedy for
knowledge and experience as Bachtin had been at his age and questioned him
endlessly on his philosophy and his adventures. We often went little walking
tours in Shropshire and Wales and Bachtin told us about the Foreign Legion… Sim
and I realised that in Morocco Bachtin had relived the days of the Iliad and
Odyssey.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">[Francesca M Wilson in BACHTIN, p12]</span><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">Bakhtin
stayed for five months before he returned to Paris to study at the Sorbonne and
the Ecole des Langues Orientales. His decision in 1916 to seek adventure in the
army had curtailed his studies before he could take his degree. Life in Paris
was made easier when, in 1929, Francesca decided to buy a flat at 2 rue Rubens
in the 13<sup>th</sup> Arrondissement. By 1931 their romance had ended, but they
remained intensely close over the years. Nikolai met Constance Pantling who was
teaching in Paris. They married in 1935, but it was not destined to be a happy
marriage. Francesca later described it as a ‘shipwreck’. However, when
Constance was dying in 1959 she exclaimed that it had been Francesca’s
influence over Nikolai which had made it so difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">By 1932
Nikolai had completed his studies in Paris and was able to move to Cambridge to
undertake a Ph.D. in classics. His thesis was ‘on the origins of the
Centaur-Lapithai myth in thirteenth century B.C. Thessaly.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> In Terry
Eagleton's novel <i>Saints and Scholars</i>, the philosopher Ludwig
Wittgenstein retreats to Ireland with none other than Nikolai Bakhtin. Together
they take up residence in a remote cottage in a thwarted attempt to live the
simple life. They are unexpectedly joined by an injured James Connolly, who has eluded his executioners through authorial intervention. Like Connolly, Wittgenstein is also on the
run. However the great philosopher wishes to escape the parasites who feed off
his work, and the obliging Bakhtin has joined him because he is 'ready to go
anywhere with anyone.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Although
Wittgenstein did indeed live for a time in Ireland, he was not joined by
Bakhtin, nor of course by Connolly. Nevertheless the novel does illuminate a friendship
between Bakhtin and Wittgenstein which did exist. Their pairing in Connolly's
eyes resembles 'a monk and a clown.' Later the fantasy is extended when
they are joined by Leopold Bloom, who has wandered off in despair as Molly has
left him for Stephen Dedalus. Connolly and his lieutenant, Molloy, keep the
party in stasis as they await the reinforcements who, like Beckett's Godot,
never come. There is more of the shadow of Beckett cast over <i>Saints and
Scholars</i>. As the situation ends, Connolly's final thoughts include, 'You
must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">Bakhtin had met
Wittgenstein at Cambridge and the two became good friends. In Katerina Clark
and Michael Holquist's biography of his younger brother, Mikhail, they make it
clear that 'Nikolai was the most significant "other" whom Mikhail
ever encountered.' They were intellectual equals, and Wittgenstein filled the
absence of Mikhail in this respect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ludwig Wittgenstein</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> What I do know and what in itself would
call for attention to the friendship is that Wittgenstein indeed loved Bakhtin,
was unusually happy and gay in his presence, and never dropped him as he easily
did others. His was the rare case of Wittgenstein taking a person as he found
him. All this in spite of the fact that they were poles apart in outlook and
character. Bakhtin was given to extremes of passion and an uncontrolled
exuberance of feeling and expression. He always seemed on the verge of
erupting, like a volcano. He suffered from many irrational fears and
obsessions, loved expansiveness, was a great gourmet. Unlike Wittgenstein,
Bakhtin, though childless, could take delight in children, even in cats. They
did however share a kind of childlike innocence, and lacked everything
commonplace.</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">[Fania Pascal in LUCKHARDT, p25]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Nikolai Bakhtin left Cambridge in 1935
to take up an appointment at Southampton University where he worked for three
years, and was then offered a similar role at Birmingham University by George
Thomson (1903-1987), who had succeeded E.R. Dodds as Professor of Greek.
Thomson was known as a brilliant and serious man. He had been a member of
Maurice Dobb's communist circle at Cambridge, joined the Party in 1933, and while
others moderated their views under the light of the purges, Thomson was known
as a Stalinist. He could be severe with those who did not share his outlook but
charming to those who managed to breach the ideological wall around him.
Despite this, he too was a friend of Wittgenstein.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bXye9GzVdPk/VN-b8TyBehI/AAAAAAAABMY/FbS0x7L690A/s1600/thomson%2Bportrait%2B1946.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bXye9GzVdPk/VN-b8TyBehI/AAAAAAAABMY/FbS0x7L690A/s1600/thomson%2Bportrait%2B1946.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">George and Katharine Thomson in 1946</span></td></tr>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Thomson married Katharine Stewart, a
distinguished musician, in October 1934. With Thomson’s new wife, Wittgenstein
reprised the musical technique which he had developed with his close friend,
David Pinsent, back in 1913, of whistling Schubert’s Lieder to piano
accompaniment. Pinsent and Wittgenstein had last performed this at Lordswood
House the night before they parted, never to see each other again. With
Katharine it became a regular Thursday evening ritual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Dobb himself was not a stranger to
Birmingham. He was known to have been a guest at <a href="http://mikeinmono.blogspot.co.uk/2010/02/highfield.html" target="_blank">Highfield</a>, the bohemian home
of Lella and Philip Sargant Florence. Thomson moved nearby to the Florences at
84 Oakfield Road in 1940, but at the time of Wittgenstein’s visit to the Bakhtins
in 1938, he was living in Goodby Road, Moseley.</span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Nikolai and Constance moved into their
flat on Wheeleys Road in April, and Wittgenstein visited in the autumn. It was
the first of a handful of visits to the Bakhtins in Birmingham which we know
about. The existence of this particular one is established in a letter to
George Thomson's mother-in-law dated 28th October 1938, reproduced in Ray Monk's
biography, <i>Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty
of Genius</i>: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> <i>Dear Mrs Stewart,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> I must apologise for an untruth I told
you today in Miss Pate's office. I said that I had seen Mrs Thomson recently in
Birmingham; & only when I came home this evening it occurred to me that
this wasn't true at all. I stayed with the Bakhtin's a few weeks ago in
Birmingham & I </span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">tried <i>to see
Mrs Thomson & we had a talk on the phone; but I wasn't able to see her.
When I talked to you this afternoon what was in my head was that I had seen Mrs
Thomson at your house before she went to Birmingham. Please forgive my
stupidity.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Yours
Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"> L.
Wittgenstein</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Around
this time Wittgenstein was experiencing 'great nervous strain' brought about by the situation at home in Vienna. The Wittgenstein family were
under great pressure from the Nazis to hand over their foreign currency in
exchange for an acceptance of their racial status as non-Jews. This was an
attempt to guarantee the safety of Ludwig’s sisters, Hermine and Gretl who had
chosen to stay in Vienna. The trip to see Bakhtin was perhaps some relief from
the stress he was under. It was also his first stay in Birmingham since he said
farewell to <a href="http://mikeinmono.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/wittgensteins-birmingham-notes-1913.html" target="_blank">David Pinsent</a> in 1913.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JY2vG_4ufa0/VN-qJX3VSNI/AAAAAAAABMo/LvcWRt43kP8/s1600/Fania%2BPascal.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JY2vG_4ufa0/VN-qJX3VSNI/AAAAAAAABMo/LvcWRt43kP8/s1600/Fania%2BPascal.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fania Pascal</span></td></tr>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Some of Wittgenstein's other visits to
the Bakhtins in Birmingham can be pieced together from Fania Pascal's <i>Wittgenstein:
A Personal Memoir</i>.
Fania and her husband Roy Pascal had moved from Cambridge to Birmingham in 1939
when Roy was appointed the Chair of German at the university. Their home was at
17 Rotton Park Road, Edgbaston. The Pascals had both known Wittgenstein at Cambridge
where Roy, like George Thomson, had been a member of Maurice Dobb's circle. Fania
Polyanowska had studied literature and philosophy at the University of Berlin where,
in 1925, she befriended <a href="http://mikeinmono.blogspot.co.uk/2010/05/birmingham-and-atomic-bomb.html" target="_blank">Rudolf Peierls</a>, the future pioneer of nuclear physics
at Birmingham University. Fania married the charming and gentle Roy Pascal in Cambridge
in 1931. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Ei3qWoWuvU/VN-q340vbpI/AAAAAAAABMw/3nE4hks6FSE/s1600/17%2BRotton%2BPark%2BRoad.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7Ei3qWoWuvU/VN-q340vbpI/AAAAAAAABMw/3nE4hks6FSE/s1600/17%2BRotton%2BPark%2BRoad.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Pascals' home on Rotton Park Road</span></td></tr>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> Fania gave private tuition in Russian to
Wittgenstein and Francis Skinner who often accompanied him to Birmingham. The
lessons had ceased in 1935 when Wittgenstein travelled to the Soviet Union
looking for a new life for Skinner and himself. He returned shortly afterwards
having changed his mind. It would seem that the Soviet Union was always seen as
somewhere to escape to, be accepted and start again, but it lost its appeal
when the possibility approached reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> In her memoir Fania recalls a letter
written to her by Skinner from the Bakhtin household. This was August 1940.
Unfortunately the Pascals had not been in Birmingham when Skinner and
Wittgenstein were visiting Nikolai and Constance. They were picking fruit in
Pershore, a very practical activity in wartime. As Fania writes of knowing
Wittgenstein up to 1941 and recalls a visit to their house when he 'was an
orderly in a hospital' (Wittgenstein worked first as dispensary porter then a
technician from October 1941 to April 1943), it would suggest that
Wittgenstein's last visit to Birmingham in which he saw the Pascals was in late
1941. Whether it was during this visit or a later one to the city in 1943,
Wittgenstein spent time with Nikolai Bakhtin which played a part in the
development of the <i>Philosophical Investigations</i>. They had many
discussions over the years, often late into the night and often
"interminable" according to Constance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> G.H. von Wright, in his 1982 book on
Wittgenstein, points out an error in the printed preface to the <i>Philosophical Investigations</i> which
differs from the original typescript. It is a reference to a time with Bakhtin
when they read the <i>Tractatus</i>
together. In the printed version it would seem to have been 1941, but according
to von Wright, it was really 1943. In Fania Pascal’s recollections of
Wittgenstein she admits to not being good with dates, so perhaps his last visit
to the Pascal household when he was an orderly in a hospital, was later.
Perhaps the original typescript was wrong and the printed version was correct
and Bakhtin’s and Wittgenstein’s reading of the <i>Tractatus</i> had been in late 1941 when he saw the Pascals for the
last time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> The two phases of Wittgenstein’s
philosophy, or his two distinctly different philosophies, which culminate in
the publication of the <i>Tractatus</i> and
the posthumous <i>Philosophical
Investigations</i>, coincided with the two periods in which he made visits to
Birmingham. In 1912 and 1913 he was studying under Russell, exploring the
nature of logical propositions, then in the later period of 1938 to 1943 he was
concerned with mathematics and the philosophy of language. When he dictated his
<i>Notes on Logic</i>, he was sowing the
seeds for the Picture Theory of Language which would become central to the <i>Tractatus</i>. Then came the First World War
and the death of his ‘first and only friend’, David Pinsent, and when the <i>Tractatus</i> was eventually published in
1921:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> <i>He
thought he had got all the answers right, so at that point he gave up the
subject. For a number of years in the 1920s he was an elementary school
teacher; then he worked as a monastery gardener; then he helped design a house
for his sister; and it was not until the end of the 1920s that he took up
philosophy again… In this period he produced a completely different philosophy
which… approaches language as a natural human phenomenon, something that we
find going on all around us, a complicated, overlapping array of human
practices.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">[Anthony Quinton in
MAGEE, p109]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> A noticeable difference between the two
philosophies is the social function of language. In the first period, language
analyses the world, and the possibility of language analysing itself is
considered. In the second, language breaks out of these purely rational
constraints and consists of social games whose rules define community but are
also ever changing as communities change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">[Language] <i>can function only if there are rules that
are accepted by more than one person, so that any one person’s use of the rules
which guide him in speaking is open to correction and improvement by another
person’s observations.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> [Anthony Quinton in MAGEE, p109]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> The apparent reductionism of his earlier
work is abandoned to embrace the evolving complexity of the social functions of
language. It is therefore worthwhile considering Wittgenstein’s own sociability
as his second period of philosophy develops. His network of friends in
Birmingham gives us some idea of this, and his relationship with Nikolai
Bakhtin is particularly telling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;"> The ‘interminable’ discussions between
Bakhtin and Wittgenstein were not just about Wittgenstein’s philosophy.
Together they would also read Pushkin in Russian. For Bakhtin, Pushkin’s work
is ‘a poetry that can reveal itself only through direct experience, defying
translation and imitation and remaining for ever circumscribed by its own perfection.’ For Wittgenstein it was also an opportunity to utilise his Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wrscBiWtJNM/VN-rXtAX7nI/AAAAAAAABM4/u0bJbRXcWQE/s1600/DSC_3894.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wrscBiWtJNM/VN-rXtAX7nI/AAAAAAAABM4/u0bJbRXcWQE/s1600/DSC_3894.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nikolai Bakhtin's home on George Road</span></td></tr>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">The old road from
Birmingham to Worcester, thence the new world, remains in fragments. Bakhtin's flat at 27 Wheeleys Road lay on the
wrong side of the Edgbaston Conservation Area. The border was the boundary
wall. Only the gateposts frozen in redevelopment cement give any clue to the
existence of the boarding house. Of his other residences in Birmingham, two
still exist – 37 George Road and 36 Frederick Road. However his final home in
Cambridge Cresent has disappeared. He died there suddenly of a heart attack in
1950, in the middle of a heatwave and having just returned from a holiday in
the Southern France. There is no grave for Nikolai Bakhtin in Birmingham. His
body was cremated, and no flowers were requested. His wife Constance survived
him for another nine years; housebound with multiple sclerosis in a foreign
city. Bakhtin never published his great on-going work on the nature of language
nor his incomplete autobiography. His essays and lectures were compiled by his
friends for publication by the University of Birmingham in 1963, and his work
sank into the shadows of obscurity while that of his brother, Mikhail, and his
close friend, Ludwig Wittgenstein, formed those very shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">I know that when people talk of death of
senseless, they are not speaking of the one who has just died but of external
things: of all that he might have done and attained, that he has left undone
and unattained.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">But at such times as I have felt in myself
the power to force my way through the external chance and meaninglessness of
events I have realised that death is not something alien, exterior and violent:
that an end, annihilation coming by chance from without, is only possible for
inanimate objects. For the living it is not simply an end but always a
fulfilment. It does not come to him from outside but grows within him; all his
life it is maturing in him, nourishing and strengthening itself on his joy, his
wisdom, his pain and ascending slowly like the sun from the depths within him.</span></i><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US">[from <i>In Praise of Death</i>
(BACHTIN, 1963)]</span><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This blogger outside Nikolai Bakhtin's home on George Rd.</span></td></tr>
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<b><span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">Bibliography<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">BACHTIN,
Nicholas, <i>Lectures and Essays</i>
(University of Birmingham, 1963)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">CHAMBERLAIN,
Lesley, <i>The Philosophy Steamer: Lenin and
the Exile of the Intelligentsia</i> (Atlantic, London, 2006)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">CLARK,
Katerina & HOLQUIST, Michael, <i>Mikhail
Bakhtin</i> (Harvard, 1984)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">DODDS,
E.R., <i>Missing Persons</i> (Oxford, 1977)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">EAGLETON,
Terry, <i>Saints and Scholars </i>(Verso,
1987)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">MAGEE,
Bryan, <i>Men of Ideas</i> (BBC, 1978)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">MONK,
Ray, <i>Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius </i>(Vintage, 1991)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.3pt 56.65pt 85.0pt 113.35pt 141.7pt 170.05pt 198.4pt 226.75pt 255.1pt 283.45pt 311.8pt 340.15pt; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;">
<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">PASCAL, Fania, <i>Wittgenstein: A
Personal Memoir</i> in <i>Wittgenstein:
Sources and Perspectives</i> edited by C.G. Luckhardt (Harvester, Hassocks,
1979)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">ROBERTS,
Sian Lliwen, <i>Place, Life Histories and
the Politics of Relief: Episodes in the Life of Francesca Wilson, Humanitarian
Educator Activist</i> (Doctoral thesis submitted to the University of
Birmingham, April 2010)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">VON
WRIGHT, Georg Henrik, <i>Wittgenstein</i>
(Blackwell, 1982)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US" style="font-size: medium;">WILSON,
Francesca M, introduction to BACHTIN, Nicholas, <i>Lectures and Essays</i> (University of Birmingham, 1963)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""tahoma" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;">WILSON,
Francesca M, <i>In the Margins of Chaos</i>,
(Murray, 1944)</span><o:p style="font-size: 13pt;"></o:p></span></div>
mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-11809398866627137152015-02-15T06:42:00.002-08:002021-09-15T08:34:51.997-07:00Scarecrows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Wittgenstein shook his head grimly. 'No, Russell, that's where you're wrong. Abstract knowledge isn't innocent. It's poison: dark, violent, implacable. It isn't merely sealed from life, it terrorizes it, it preys on flesh and blood.' He strained forward, the tip of his nose quivering faintly. 'Do you know where this terrible will for knowledge will end up? Mark my words, it will end with a scarecrow in a field.'</i><br />
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from Terry Eagleton's <i>Saint and Scholars</i></span><br />
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</div>mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-86213182066658286332015-01-15T10:34:00.001-08:002021-09-15T08:36:04.293-07:00The Voice and the Sound<br /><span style="font-size: medium;">
The laugh, the laughter<br />
The laughter, the voice<br />
The voice and the sound<br />
of words never spoken,<br />
<br />
Never spoken without music<br />
Revealed with music spoken within,<br />
<br />
She never spoke without music.</span><br />
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-24068373450700014982014-10-26T09:43:00.003-07:002021-09-15T08:37:02.572-07:00Death in Autumn - Key Hill Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Key Hill cemetery, autumn 2014. The old cemetery, the General Cemetery as it was once known, where the dead lay siege to the castle, was built in 1836 and designed by Charles Edge. It is the last home to the great and the good of a bygone Birmingham, located north-west of the city centre between the Jewellery Quarter and the Middleway. Among the residents are two Joe Chamberlains no less.</span></div>
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Two empty beer cans lie back on the S-shaped, slatted green bench overlooking mature trees and row upon row of broken tombstones and monuments. Their engravings have faded over a century and a half of weathering and fingers caressing away the names of the dead in acknowledgement and grief. Until they join them. Some have been caught in the middle of being forgotten and remain for the present as partial names; a letter here and there, disappearing into deeper strata of history. Many tombstones are flaking away as if nothing but a page. <i>And the words left the Earth.</i> Angels have lost their features too. Who would send a cherub out in this weather? Their faces have worn away into a state of absolute anonymity; such is the sacrifice of keeping watch, of remaining vigilant. </span></div>
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The paths are covered in golden leaves to soften your step and the green glow of lichen guides you on through the rows and columns. Not a living soul about, this is one of the quietest places in the boisterous city until the tannoys the Jewellery Quarter station cut through the cool, crisp air lest any of these good people miss their heavenly connections. The buildings of the Jewellery Quarter sit high up at the back of the cemetery on brick-enforced embankments. They loom over the graveyard like an imposing castle. The dead lie at its foot. Remember us, they moan. The castle quarrels. The dead be silent, it demands. Castle business, castle rules.</span></div>
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3258932656734169213.post-75123493784667296242014-10-19T13:04:00.000-07:002018-05-13T11:36:34.732-07:00In search of Dowery Dell Viaduct<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mike in monohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17617596479364031762noreply@blogger.com1