Sunday, July 08, 2018

Romance of Tasmania

Till Ethics Tear Us Apart ...

Success is nice, but it's failure like Jozef Imrich that draws us to the flame so we can get close to that landscape to taste it.  F. Scott Fitgerald is in many ways the Jim Morrison of early American literature.   Sexy, beautiful, and gets fascinating as his demons/alcoholism takes over the body and mind.  The two sides of Fitzerald is the young successful, brilliant prose writer, who was at the top of his profession and world.  Over a short period things crashed into the ground, and me, being me, is fascinated with the ruin that is Fitzgerald.  The truth is, once a writer, always a writer.  
“If you can fall in love again and again,”Henry Miller wrote as he contemplated the measure of a life well lived on the precipice of turning eighty, “if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical… you’ve got it half licked.”

How to Grow Old: Bertrand Russell on What Makes a Fulfilling Life




 The 103-year-old pianist BBC

 What Is the Sun Made Of and When Will It Die? Quanta

A Woman Declared Dead Was Put in a Morgue Freezer – Until Someone Noticed Her Breathing

 A nameless, four-acre island is the world’s largest island-in-a-lake-on-an-island-in-a-lake-on-an-island. 
↩︎ Condé Nast Traveler

NEWS YOU CAN USE: Your Guide to Ankle Sprains: Causes, Treatments and Recovery




A music video for today's World Cup games: "Total Football" by Parquet Courts, from their new album—produced by Danger Mouse, incidentally—Wide Awake!.


SQUATS HELP: What are the causes of, solutions to back pain?

VIAGRA: It’s not just a boner-pill anymore.




The results don't prove your coffee pot is a fountain of youth.



The Bank Robbery, from Tri-Quarterly Magazine 35, Winter 1976 – Minute Stories

The Bank Robbery, by Steve Schutzman

The bank robber told his story in little notes to the bank teller. He held the pistol in one hand and gave her the notes with the other. The first note said:
This is a bank holdup because money is just like time and I need more to keep on going, so keep your hands where I can see them and don’t go pressing any alarm buttons or I’ll blow your head off.
The teller, a young woman of about twenty-five, felt the lights which lined her streets go on for the first time in years. She kept her hands where he could see them and didn’t press any alarm buttons.
Ah danger, she said to herself, you are just like love.
After she read the note, she gave it back to the gunman and said:“This note is far too abstract. I really can’t respond to it.”
The robber, a young man of about twenty-five, felt the electricity of his thoughts in his hand as he wrote the next note.
Ah money, he said to himself, you are just like love.
His next note said:
This is a bank hold up because there is only one clear rule around here and that is WHEN YOU RUN OUT OF MONEY YOU SUFFER, so keep your hands where I can see them and don’t go pressing any alarm buttons or I’ll blow your head off.
The young woman took the note, touching lightly the gunless hand that had written it. The touch of the gunman’s hand went immediately to her memory, growing its own life there. It became a constant light toward which she could move when she was lost. She felt that she could see everything clearly as if an unknown veil have just been lifted.
“I think I understand better now,” she said to the thief, looking first in his eyes and then at the gun. “But all this money will not get you what you really want.”
She looked at him deeply, hoping that she was becoming rich before his eyes.
Ah danger, she said to herself, you are the gold that wants to spend my life.
The robber was becoming sleepy. In the gun was the weight of his dreams about this moment when it was yet to come. The gun was like the heavy eyelids of someone who wants to sleep but is not allowed.
Ah money, he said to himself, I find little bits of you leading to more of you in greater little bits. You are promising endless amounts of yourself but others are coming. They are threatening our treasure together. I cannot pick you up fast enough as you lead into the great, huge quiet that you are. Oh money, please save me, for you are desire, pure desire, that wants only itself.
The gunman could feel his intervals, the spaces in himself, piling up so he could not be sure of what he would do next. He began to write. His next note said:
Now is the film of my life, the film of my insomnia; an eerie bus ride, a trance in the night, from which I want to step down, whose light keeps me from sleeping. In the streets I will chase the windblown letter of love that will save my life. Give me the money, My Sister, so that I can run my hands through its hair. This is the unfired gun of time, so keep your hands where I can see them and don’t go pressing any alarm buttons or I’ll blow your head off with it.
Reading, the young woman felt her inner hands grabbing and holding onto this moment of her life.
Ah danger, she said to herself, you are yourself with perfect clarity. Under your lens I know what I want.
The young man and woman stared into each other’s eyes forming two paths between them. On one path his life, like little people, walked into her, and on the other hers walked into him.
“This money is love,” she said to him. “I’ll do what you want.”
She began to put money into the huge satchel he had provided.
As she emptied it of money, the bank filled with sleep. Everyone else in the bank slept the untroubled sleep of trees that would never be money. Finally she placed all the money into the bag.
The bank robber and the bank teller left together like hostages of each other. Though it was no longer necessary, he kept the gun on her, for it was becoming like a child between them.



Christina Stead recommends a “Romance of Tasmania”
Melbourne University Press edition of The Escape of the Notorious Sir William HeansIn a letter to poet and dramatist Ettore Rella that appears in Talking into the Typewriter: Selected Letters (1973-1983), Christina Stead recommends a long-forgotten novel by Australian writer William Hay first published in 1918:
I have just finished a a truly remarkable novel that probably will not come your way: The Escape of the Notorious Sir William Heans (and the Mystery of Mr. Daunt) [which Hay subtitled “A Romance of Tasmania”] (that is the title) by author William Hay — British-born Australian author (died in 1945), writing about the penal settlement days in Tasmania (one of our worst convict settlements, that of Port Arthur). Given to me by friend-novelist Patrick White: he so greatly admires it that he “keeps buying it and giving it away.” This magnificent writer is a most serious deepdyed scholar, student of the epoch and his work is a sort of epic, an Inferno, not the usual horror-story of beatings and killings in prison (though he mentions it once or twice) but the story of an English gentleman sent to the Tasmanian penal settlement for “abduction”; and his life there — he is relatively well-treated, because of his station and his manners and dress which he keeps up with difficulty but without decline, until his escape; and this finickiness is an outward sign, not of vanity, but of his resolution. After two failures (accidental misfortune) he does escape and his escape with the help of some others (an aboriginal woman, a “lady” woman and even her husband, a prison architect) over the “goblin hills” (high dangerous heavily wooded and “paved” with the skeletons of previous escapees who could not find food in that unfamiliar bushland) is a real heart-teaser, you can hardly stand the tension; but it is also, one at once recognises, an ascent from Avernus. (But alas poor Sir William, all his friends are in Aervnus; and he goes to live in Dieppe — the closest he can get to England, the country that tossed him out to prison and exile.) It is done with great thought, painful solitary thought and the sensitivity of a “gentleman” — for the writer was, too. The women are beautifully, delicately treated. One of his wonders is his extraordinary use of the human face as a stage for conflicting emotions — often all at once! And for this play, these plays, his wonderful adjectives. Very fine writing…. No more on that. I would have you read the book, if you ever got a copy from me. I’ll look around. Should be able to get it here in sacred Erewhon [she was living in Australia].
Here are a few extracts to illustrate the strong prose and narrative drive of this remarkable novel.
On faces:
It is strange how the world will give a man a second chance — especially if he be a good-looking one. This perennial instance of man’s patience is no more evident in our male clubs and criminal courts than in the cabinets of the women. Sir William Heans’ crime — his sin — which we shall touch on most briefly hereafter, and the committing of which had pushed him from the places that he loved into exile and boredom in a wild island at the bottom of the world — his sin seemed like to have been forgiven him by certain of his new acquaintances…. This had not arisen from a rumour which had arrived with him … but from the far more potent argument of his good health and handsome face.
…
Steel-hard was Mr. Daunt; vigilant, regretful, deadly, a little sharp, a little careful, a little old. You would hardly have known him for other than a gentleman, in very difficult company, keeping himself on the civil side, except that upon the bottom of his face there was a smile-like contraction of the muscles, such as people have, they say, who have expired of thirst. It seemed involuntary. Perhaps he was trying to smile kindly. But that was not the significance of it as seen in conjunction with the vigilant eyes.
And the first moments of Sir William’s escape through the streets of Port Arthur:
He passed several people, and the face of one which he saw advancing right on him gave him a heavy pang. It was that of the small police sergeant who a year ago had ushered him into the waiting-room of Franklin’s audience-chamber: the man like a half-drawn knife. He was in smart cords and clawhammer and eyed him and his saddle with just a ghost of steely interest. He passed, however, without stopping him, and Sir William, on his part, threw him from his vision with a remarkable calm. Near the end of the street, he passed also, very down on his luck, a fellow with whom he had played at Fraser’s: a man who was remarkable for staring at each of the company in turn, and for long intervals, and saying never a word. He was aware that this gentleman stopped and stared after him disturbingly….
About the cart, as he looked, came the troublesome fellow on the restive horse. Heans stood there for a moment and stared steadily at this rider. He was a handsome man, with quite a Byronical air, a fine thin face, and prettily groomed whiskers. He came nobly and abstractedly along the road. He seemed younger than Sir William had supposed: not more than thirty to thirty-five years. Sir William did not think that he was particularly observed by him; nevertheless, he turned away with an unquiet heart-beat. A few yards on along the footpath was Six’s curio shop, and before he quite knew what he had done, he was standing before it, and looking at the prints and pieces of brass and copper. He there endeavoured to win back his calm of mind. Immediately, over the white glass behind, he saw Henry Six himself, his head a little bowed and the newspaper in his hand. For a flash Heans hesitated, but decided to wait again till the rider had passed by.
He waited five-six minutes. A horse with a vehicle passed down, but no hoofs passed up. He waited another three, four, five. Six continued to read his paper. No horseman went by. He now stole a glance southward. He immediately felt a sense of relief, for he could not see his sheep-like follower among the stockmen or by the wagon, and believed he had gone at last by his right-hand turning. He was mistaken, however, for on turning to look behind him, he recognised not the rider, but not far down his fine roan, held by a tout before a warehouse. Here were Six’s brass and copper baubles, here was poor Six sunk in his paper, and yonder was the horse, now singularly familiar even to its green forehead-band. Sir William examined each for a brief while; shifted his saddle to his left arm; and continued slowly up the north hill.
The Escape of the Notorious Sir William Heans (and the Mystery of Mr. Daunt) is also available on the Internet Archive: Link

Cocky Doodle who?
Delightful news from the city-bound Centennial Parklands in Sydney this week that small families of the endangered Yellow-tailed Black-Cockatoo have been sighted in the city in recent years at a time they have been declining across eastern and southern Australia.
According to an honours student working with the parklands to investigate the cocky Cockatoo, 12 individuals were tracked with solar powered GPS transmitters over a year revealing that their lifestyles and food preferences explained how they could survive in an urban environment.
“We’ve been able to confirm what many have suspected – that pine cones make up a large proportion of their diet, so it’s no wonder why they love visiting Centennial Park!” the honours student said.
And, in keeping with PS-sssst’s long-standing commitment to the wonderful world of aptonyms, it should be no surprise to learn that the student – Jessica Rooke – is perfectly positioned to know what she’s talking about.
According to our dictionary, a “Rook” is a European crow, Corvus frugilegus, noted for its gregarious habits.
What do they say about birds flocking together?
Well done, Jessica.

Posted by at