Wrapped up in Books

I have a miniscule two months left here in Korea and so the preparations to depart have begun. Actually the talk of preparing to depart has begun but I must start somewhere.

Before I deal with the unpleasant tasks associated with departing my apartment (ie packing, disguising all the mold that's growing on our walls), I have decided that my first goal will be to catch up on my reading. As I mentioned in an earlier posting, I have a pretty decent collection of books but only about half of them have been enjoyed (not that I enjoyed Gabriel
Garcia Marquez's Chronicle of a Death Foretold, mind you, but I did manage to get through all 120 boring pages of it - I think I'll be taking that one into What the Book just before I leave). The rest have sat in limbo on my book shelf, some for the bulk of my time here. A few I've started but put aside in favour of other books or my pursuit of sloth.

But what to read first? I could go in chronological order but that leaves all the the stuff I'm interested in reading to the end. Reverse-chronological, then, might seem ideal but I don't want to leave the possible duds for last either. And alphabetical order simply won't do at all - I keep my books filed from A to Z but I don't want to have to read them that way too.

There is nothing else for it then but to have a random draw. Here are the results of yesterday's draft:

1. Orhan Pamuk's My Name is Red
2. Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men
3. Grham Greene's Complete Short Stories*
4. Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
5. Walter Benjamin's Reflections
6. Raymond Williams' Television
7. W.G. Sebald's On the Natural History of Destruction
8. Patrick Suskind's Perfume
9. D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers
10. V.S. Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas

(* denotes a title I've already started but abandonned along the way)

There are also a pair of bonus titles thrown in for good measure just in case I manage to read them all. One is Kristina's copy of Blindness by Jose Saramago and The Thousand and One Nights (aka The Arabian Nights) that she gave me for Christmas but I've been thinking about putting off until my trip to Southeast Asia in March.

I will update future blog postings with my progress - and possibly a the odd review of my reading as well.



Living abroad has meant a life outside of quotation marks

- Geoff Dyer, Unpacking My Library (probably misquoted)

Defending Hugo Chavez (or Taking a Blowtorch to Freedom of the Press)

James Brown, Gerald Ford, Saddam Hussein: there won't be any famous people left at this rate. Still, for my mind Hugo Chavez's coming-out party as an adversary for freedom of speech trumps any number of a-list celebs kicking the bucket.

It seems the Fidel it's okay to like is vindictive to people other than Dubya. RCTV, a Venezuelan broadcasting company, is likely to lose its license because it backed a plot to overthrow Chavez three years ago and the Prez is out for revenge. The overthrower becomes the overthrown.

Journalists everywhere are critical and it even looks as though Hugo's most ardent supporters are losing faith in the lovable old scamp. Yes, a free press is essential to a free nation but I'm not convinced that a TV station that supports staging a coup d'etat is one that puts much value on freedom.

two questions: (a) just how much freedom of speech do citizens enjoy in countries that topple democratic governments? and (b) why do free speech issues always revolve around defending the freedom to be a jerk?

New Posting Below...

Just in case you're disappointed by once-again seeing yesterday's revelatory posting on the name-sharing, wife-killer Down Under (amazing no one bought the provocation argument, isn't it?), there is a more recent piece for your reading pleasure down towards the bottom of this page. A confessional of sorts, writing it was a bit of a humbling experience and one I needed to digest before I could commit to posting. But now it's up with chronology relegating it to the depths of this space. Perhaps where it belongs.

Does it help if I claim I was provoked?

Catching Up with the Other Paul Margach

Seriously, this isn't me...

That's the last time I ever Google myself.

"Hitler Heard My Footsteps!"

My Grandfather passed away just over two weeks ago and, being in Korea, I was unable to be there to be for the funeral. I wrote a short tribute which I posted on another site but you have to open an account of your own in order to access it. Since I now have this more accessible blog, I thought I'd add it here:

* * * * * *
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
"Hitler Heard My Footsteps!"

The great thing about Grandparents - my Grandparents, at least - is that they're just like your Mum and Dad but without all the bad bits: arguments, yelling matches, the horror that is being fourteen. They're always pleased to see you and happy to hear from you and you don't quite take them for granted as much. They love you just as much as your folks do and you know that they'll always be proud no matter what.

The trouble is, I never got to tell my Grandpa just how proud I am of him.

Proud that he never grew tired of getting to know the people that came in and out of his life. What would be a forgettable, blink-of-the-eye encounter for most of us was bread and butter to Bill's life. How many waiters and waitresses, doctors and nurses, barbers and bakers, neighbours and strangers did he get to know over the course of his life? And, crucially, did he ever forget any of them? Family dinners were invariably littered with tales of these people he'd meet and I, for one, often had trouble keeping up - but he never did!

Proud that he always did what was right. What could've been going through his young mind as he departed Canada in 1939 to serve in the Second World War, his loving parents knowing all too well the horrors a quarter century earlier? In more recents times he showed an admirable determination to stay as healthy and as active as possible even if it meant altering his diet or exercise regimen. Some stubbornly refuse to admit that they might be slowing down; Bill harboured so such illusions and did what he could to live a long and healthy life.

Proud of the sense of humour that never left him. My fondest memory of my Grandpa was sitting on his lap and asking him how the war ended: "Hitler heard my footsteps," he replied and naturally I believed him. Around the same time he concocted a fictional dog named Sport who never seemed to be around whenever we'd visit ("He's out having a run" was the usual explanation). Again, I never doubted him for a second; how could I ever second guess my Grandpa?

And proud, finally, that he lived such a wonderful life. You've done everyone proud.

Am I the New Carrie Bradshaw?

There are a handful of people out there who actually believe I am well-read. Not to toot my own horn too much but they have good reason for thinking so: one look at my bookshelf here in Bucheon and you'll find Sherwood Anderson, Roland Barthes, Walter Benjamin, John Berger, Jorge Luis Borges, Andre Brink, (Greg has my Calvino), Bruce Chatwin, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Graham Greene, (traded in my Elfride Jelinek), (lent Kat my Kundera), D.H. Lawrence, Cormac McCarthy, V.S. Naipaul, Michael Ondaatje, Orhan Pamuk, W.G. Sebald, John Updike and Raymond Williams (how will I ever get all this home?). To probably misquote Borges: "Some boast of the books they've written, I boast of those I've read." For me it's merely a case of owning them that gets me bragging; the task of reading is clearly secondary.

Still, I have read most of them (53% counts as most, right?) and so it pains me to have to admit that my writing still smacks of a pathetic Sex and the City rip-off. If the bloody-obvious hasn't already smacked you in the face like Carrie receiving the cold shoulder from Mr. Big (again) then take a quick look at the "But have we? Have I?" section of my "Is Teaching English the New Unemployment?" posting - and for that matter take note of the title - and do your best not to wince quite much as Miranda having to listen to one of Samantha's stories.

Just a few minutes ago, Kristina - perhaps wanting to hand me an olive branch after pointing out the Candace Bushnell connection - asked me if whenever I get into a writer do I begin to take on their personalities. "Well obviously not!" I erupted. "I'm not influenced by Sex and the City!" It's nice to know that reading nothing but Borges the last ten months has paid off so fruitfully.

A dozen years ago I was consciously trying to ape Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole and now it seems this diary/confessional approach of mine has come back to bight me (is there a possible SATC reference I can use here? Please write in your suggestions). The lit-snob in me refuses to pick up a copy of Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude because of the hideous "Oprah Book Club" logo emblazoned on the cover but my cred takes a hit when my prose sounds like something Frances Mayes wouldn't cliche to death.

I guess there is a back-handed compliment, however: I write like a successful, published author. I'm still a long way off from penning the sort of beauteous ramblings that my beloved Sebald was able to do so effortlessly but maybe there was a time when everyone thought there was a bit too much Pearl S. Buck in him as well.

Is Teaching English the New Unemployment?

A student in one of my conversation classes this week informed me that Korean artists and writers try to get jobs in North America. "Do you know where North American artists and writers go?" I asked her. "They come to Korea."

Setting up this sucker in some haste - no doubt shamed into action by Kat's recently created blog - I realised that I already said everything I wanted say in the "About Me" section to your right. But what - if anything - does all this say about English teachers in general and why they all want to write a bloody book?

First off, my generation (that is if I'm part of a generation at all: given that I was fourteen back in 1991, I've never felt much like an Xer and "Y" is so vapid and inane they couldn't even come up with a decent name for themselves - it's not as though the Baby Boomers are called Generation W, is it?) has never stopped dreaming. Granted our dreams may be less noble and idealistic than those of our folks but the hippies eventually grew up and became venture capitalists - not so much selling out as waking up. But have we? Have I? Every single person I knew a decade ago with even the faintest trace of creativity is still gamely plugging away at their craft, holding out for that ellusive pay-off. Some of us continue to wait.

Meanwhile, there's nothing quite like a bit of the expat experience to put off the inevitable - be it getting a real job or going toe-to-toe with that dream artistic project. As opposed to McJobs, teaching carries with it a level of respectability and the work isn't particularly taxing (correction: it isn't at all taxing). As such, I have the perfect environment for creativity to blossom but where idleness conspires to make it stagnate.

(A chicken and egg scenario: did I create this blog only to realise that I have an emerging sense of artistic ennui or did this malaise spur me into a blog?)

If nothing else, being over here gives us the chance to feel a little bit special. That is until we spot another English teacher who's also planning to write a book.

This Week's Best Bowling Score: 145
Personal Best: 183