In a race between the Tortoise and the Hare...

Have a read of this:

It was a pleasure to burn it was a special pleasure to see things eaten to see things blackened and changed with the brass nozzle in his fists with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world the blood pounded in his head and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history with his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black.

And - breathe.

How quickly can you devour a book? If you are reading something at the same time as someone else, do you feel an unspoken pressure to be the first to finish; to show that you can consume the most amount of content in the least amount of time? Do you consider yourself the consummate reader for being able to finish a book in a few days, or perhaps a week if it's heavier tome?

I know, without a doubt, that you are out there, my friends. And that you secretly revel in the art of your speed read. 

For I am one of you. 

And I have experienced the showdown of a silent speed read, eyes and printed word, mind and internally whispered word barely touching fingertips as you race to the end of the page, then wait smugly, casually for your contender to finish.

Putting articles to one side, let's focus on the reading of fiction; the picking up of a book, or e-reader, in which a writer has built a world and story through their words, and put those words in your hands to be read and absorbed. If you've experienced "that deeply intimate bond made when a writer's voice gets inside a reader's head" (Julian Barnes, A Life with Books) then presumably you've experienced what it is to lose yourself in a written world, and become intimately acquainted with its populace. 

This is one of the joys of reading fiction. Much as a film pulls you into a story, so too does a (good) book, whether a simple piece read to pass the time, a classic, a dystopia to learn about the perils of today, anything. And, "the true reader reads every work seriously in the sense that he reads it whole-heartedly, makes himself as receptive as he can." (C S Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism). To absorb yourself, you find yourself unconsciously tuning out the world around you, what you are hearing, touching, smelling. The ink (or pixels) on the page become a gateway to the writer, with each word and punctuation mark deliberately chosen by them to describe, 'work out loud', share the world that has emerged within their own minds. 

And yet, I often find myself guilty of speed reading my way through. Of ignoring the rhythm with which the writer has written, skimming over the words that they - and their copyeditor - have undoubtedly pained and fretted over. The experience often becomes one of impressions, where you get a blurred feel for the story, rather than a sharp focus on the voice of the writer. 

The paragraph at the top of this post. Here it is again, with Ray Bradbury's punctuation and paragraphing included (taken from the first page of Fahrenheit 451). Read each word, feel each comma, and hear the words spoken in your mind, as though being read to you by someone else, read with a passion and with emotion, with music in their voice. Resist the urge to skip or skim words, to get to the end of the italicised text as quickly as possible.

It was a pleasure to burn.
     It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and charged. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the sky red and yellow and black.

The pace of reading, compared to the first paragraph, is tangible. The impact on the feeling it makes considerable. The story emerges in full technicolour, with its sounds, smells, colours. You can feel the sharp coldness of the brass nozzle, see the numbers '451' etched into the helmet, hear the flames erupt around the house. 

And that is the art of the slow read. For those of us used to speed reading, it is an art that we often have to consciously remind ourselves to do, and to practice. To battle against the urge to finish the book as quickly as possible at our own pace, and to have the pace dictated to us by the writer instead. To feel each word as a connoisseur of art feels each brush stroke, or of wine feels each subtle taste, or of music feels each layered instrument's timbre and each note's resonance. And to lose ourselves in amongst the ink and paper (... or pixels and hardware) for a little longer that we would have otherwise done.

Learning the hard way

"It's Tony."

"What? What about him?"

"He said he wants to speak to you. Urgently."

"Shit. What have you told him?"

"Just what you told me."

"Jesus, why the hell-"

"You're a former customer of his. He deserves to know. If word gets out, it could be bad for business."

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Right. Okay. I'll call him first thing."

*********

"Is that Tony?"

"Speaking."

"It's me."

A pause. "You know what you did wrong?"

"Listen, Tony, it's fin-"

"Tell me. Tell me what happened, and tell me what you did wrong."

"It was just one of those things, alright? I've been careful - on the wagon - for months. It's not going to happen again."

"Tell me."

"It was a party, okay? One of the old gang was getting married. Things got a little out of hand, is all. You know how it is. We started early, finished late."

"How late?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters. How long were you going for?"

"It was a long one. Overnight and into the next day. That's all you need to know."

"Jesus Christ, did you forget everything I told you about using, and keeping things clean? About being sensible? What were the conditions I gave when I agreed to start supplying to you?"

"Only in short bursts. Never overnight. Avoid long sessions at all costs."

"You're damned right only in short bursts. This stuff can be fucking lethal if you, well, for want of a better word, if you 'overdose'. What happened when you came down?"

"Was fine at first. Monday morning... Let's just say things were messy Monday morning."

"How messy?"

"... Was sore. Sensitive to light. Nearly fainted. There was a white spot in the eye."

"Of course there was. Then what?"

"I went to that specialist clinic round the corner. They checked me out. Said it's been a close call. If I hadn't come in straight away, things could have gotten bad. They gave me meds. Said I need to take this seriously; make sure I use the meds every hour. Through the night too. Said I need to go cold turkey. And need to stay clean at least a month before I can even think about using again."

"Cold turkey, eh? Did they at least give you a patch?"

"What?! No! You're telling me I could have had a patch?!"

"Well. At least it'll be a lesson to you. I'm guessing it's been a rough few days."

"Barely slept. Been clean three days. The meds, they're, they're brutal."

"You're coming in to see me Saturday."

"Oh come on Tony, it's fine. Listen, I've learnt my lesson, it won't happen again."

"Shut, the fuck, up. You're back with me now, you hear? I'll supply you privately, keep an eye on you.You will come in on Saturday. I will check out any permanent damage you've done yourself, you dumb fuck. Clean you up. Get you back on track. If you're going to keep using, you're going to be using my product, and you're coming in for regular checks."

"Yes, Tony. Cheers. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Tony hangs up.

*********

Moral of the story? Never - and I mean, never - sleep with your contact lenses in. Bad things will happen. Oh, and always keep your optician sweet.

In the name of l'art de vivre. My last confession was this morning.

I, am not, a writer.

Oh my god. Yeah. That, that felt pretty good. Whoo. 

***********

Alright, a question to you out there. Dream job. Go. Now. Shout it out. 

No, literally, shout it out. I want to be able to hear you from my hovel in north London. Freak out the tired, zombie-like people around you. Talent and money no issue, top of your voice, dream job, scream it. 

If you actually just pelted out your dream job, you may need to spend some time reflecting on from whom you take your commands, and why. Ever heard of Zimbardo's prison experiment? The film The Wave? The concept of free will? Look them up. Seriously.

My dream job? "Writer". Journalist, author of fiction, ruminator of all things intellectual and philosophical, documenter of deeds done. Any one of them would do. I would love to have the raw talent to write well. But, beyond that, I would love to also have the arguably sexier and gut-wrenching discipline that it takes to practice and work at your writing; that constant desire to better that which you have done before.

That's right. If there's a single fantasy that needs to be revealed to be nought more than an insecure old man with a bag full of parlour tricks cowering behind a curtain, it's that of the genius creative talent who doesn't need to work at their craft. (As a related but also completely tangential aside, Dorothy's ruby red slippers - not red in the original The Wizard of Oz text. I know, right?)

Last year, I suggested, "All of us are writers".

I take it back. I was wrong. We are not all writers.

I know people who are writers. They may not have had anything published, but they think like writers, they write like writers. They have the thought processes that mean they see the world through a writer's eyes, they can construct whole worlds through their words, make you feel something. And they work at it. They work at it because they want to be better, because they habitually worry that they're not good enough. They work at it by writing, and rewriting, and dissecting other people's writing to learn from them.

No, we most certainly are not all writers.

But, we do all write.

I am incapable of constructing a compelling story, or a multi-layered piece of genius. I will never be a journalist that changes the world or causes revolutions through my words. My personal / blogging writing voice is completely self-indulgent; it's wordy, unstructured, my meaning is often obscured by hyperbole. I don't have a clear picture of who it is that I'm writing for other than myself. I almost certainly break all the rules of good writing, I'm not particularly talented, and I sure as hell don't have the discipline or drive to truly work at improving any of these things.

But, fuck me, I love to write.

At the end of the day (hello idiom; George Orwell would be turning in his grave) that's what matters, right? And if I enjoy the process of writing, the worst thing I can do is disappear so far up my own ego that I become too scared to do that very thing that I revel in for fear of not being good enough. The same rings true for those that get a kick out of playing an instrument but aren't musicians, or like to draw but aren't artists. As one of my brothers once said after I mentioned I get no pleasure out of playing the piano for other people, "Then play for yourself." He's a wise one, that boy.

So, perhaps rather than l'art de vivre (the art of living), we should be talking about joie de vivre (the joy of living). For, in the dawning hours of this morning, the confession came to me: "I am not a writer". And this, my friends, may not be the art of writing. But it sure as hell is the joy of writing. 

What's your poison?

My friend, good morning. Is it not a fine day? By the way you approach me with a purpose in your eyes and a slight hesitation in your step, I assume both I and my services are not unknown to you, although I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance.

Please, take the empty seat by me, we are in no rush and we should make the most of this rare sunshine. Would you would like a cigarette? Ah, by the way you flinch I see this is not one of your vices. Alas, despite the warnings and the array of other less harmful pleasures at my disposal, this is one I can't seem to shake.

Perhaps you have heard of me from another of my clients, a friend of yours perhaps? You shake your head. No, you are right. If a friend had passed on my recommendation, you would not be so nervous.

Please, be at ease. I am not a member of that fine establishment, the police, nor a member of that other fine establishment, the press. I pass no judgment on my clients, and am but here to serve and please.

Perhaps you are in a hurry, your shoulders have not eased, despite your acceptance of my offer to sit.

And so, to business.

What is your pleasure? I have a number of drugs and drinks, although I see by your healthy and fit appearance that it is unlikely that this is what you're after, unless you are seeking to try something new? Ah, you flinch again. I commend you; to imbibe in such poisons is not a pass time I would recommend, although thankfully for my business, others disagree.

Perhaps you have certain sexual desires that you would like to satiate? Again, I see you recoil at my suggestion, and I see by the ring on your finger that you are married, although this has not prevented some of my other, less moral clients from procuring my services.

Perhaps you have heard of my more specialised line of products? Yes, I see some of the tension has left you, and a smile is now hovering on your lips. Of course, these areas are a relatively new business for me, although the last year or so has seen them burgeon, bringing me new clients, a different class of clients to those I normally have the pleasure of meeting.

May I ask, is your pleasure the feel of the finely bound book? Again, a shake of the head. My dear friend, I normally am so good at finding the right vice for my clients, but you are that rare thing, a client who holds their pleasures close to them. I see in your coat pocket the outline of a tablet or an e-reader, although this doesn't of course mean that you do not like to also read books in their paper form, and this service I offer is doing particularly well.

By my wandering process of elimination, I can but assume you wish to either buy video games from me, or TV boxsets. Yes, I see. My apologies, I should have noticed the signs earlier, but the warmth of the sunshine has affected my usually sharp perceptiveness. I beg your forgiveness, but now I notice the slightly crumpled nature of your clothes, the way you squint in the weak sunshine, the pale tinge to your skin, the shadows around your eyes and the bloodshot look, no doubt caused by numerous late nights and long stints in front of a screen.

And so, is it a video game or a box set that you seek? You still give nothing away, which would make me think you were a seasoned gamer, adept at keeping your emotions at bay, rational in the face of pressure! But no, you are on edge, my friend, and do not have the presence of someone who merely seeks a new adventure on which to embark.

Rather, I would deduce that you have just finished a season, a season with a cruel cliffhanger no doubt, and are desperate to continue the story, to begin the next chapter.

And there, you have inched closer to me. Yes, I can help put you at ease. This is a vice I have not indulged in, myself. I have seen what it has done to some of my clients, and I fear the allure of it. I have seen what it has done to their conversation, to their health, to their social lives. Of all the ways I serve my clients, this is indeed the one I fear the most.

But please, allow me to run through my collection. I shall torture you through my time-wasting no longer.

I have all seven seasons of Dexter, the first two of Game of Thrones, all five of Breaking Bad and Mad Men. The three of Downtown Abbey, perhaps, or The Walking Dead. Homeland, The Killing, Boardwalk Empire? Also, the older ones for those late to the game and eager to catch up - The Wire, Prison Break, The Sopranos, Lost, 24.

"Just gimme the stuff, yo! Quit wastin' my time, bitch!"

...Breaking Bad it is, my friend.

It's probably time to go to your happy place

Going for what should have been a leisurely stroll along the south of the River yesterday, I found myself cursing the cold, my refusal to make allowances for London's post-apocalyptic climate by dressing in suitable clothing, the process of evolution that had led me to become self-aware enough to ponder my predicament, and the fact I appeared to be developing frostbite in areas of my body I wasn't aware existed.

It is easy in times such as this to dwell on those things that feed our misery. The seemingly never-ending snow dome that has clamped itself over London (and, of course, Britain). The fact that the cost of living seems to have suddenly become incredibly high. The unlikelihood of me being in a position where I own or am least paying off some sort of property within the next few years. The increase in reports and/or incidents of violence towards women around the world. The violence and misery that our fellow humans continue to inflict on each other in the name of various institutions, values and beliefs. Arsenal's profound ability to inflict despair on its supporters. A growing number of homeless people living in a different world at the foot of the modern office I work in. My ability to sandwich Arsenal between two development issues.

But, whilst attempting to create a duveted cocoon at an ungodly hour, shivering and snivelling and feeling sorry for myself and for the world but mainly for myself, I was reminded of my post from roughly this time last year, which remains the most viewed and commented-on post from this blog. It's the post entitled A pause to reflect and wax lyrical, in which I ruminated on how a part of l'art de vivre is surely recognising and reveling in the smaller things that bring us little bursts of joy and make us pause in appreciation of them.

So, for this post, written during a bout of (wo)man flu-ridden insomnia, I share nothing more than an updated version of my list of things that bring uncomplicated joy, a talisman against the cold, in the hope that it'll help me remind myself that this too shall pass and hopefully inspire you, dear reader, if you find yourself in a place where you are in need of some inspiration.

******************

Wearing my nose-ring. The way that the use of triplets in a piece of music manages to satisfyingly squeeze three notes in the space of two. Playing the piano with no audience but myself. Turning your face skyward and closing your eyes to feel the sunshine whilst walking. The way that sunbeams find their way through clouds and reach downwards, seeing clouds hanging so low in the sky it feels as though you could reach out and touch them, the sound of the wind finding its way through gaps so small you didn't know they existed. Always, mini daffodils. Being in awe of the creative talents of my closest friends and family. Finding out that someone has read something of mine and been moved or inspired. Watching my 88-year-old grandfather and 3-and-a-half-year-old second cousin dance to Run DMC's Tricky (yes, the same second cousin that featured in this blog's first ever post). Watching my 3-and-a-half-year-old second cousin playing with her 88-year-old great grandfather in a way I must have when I was her age, seeing my brothers play irreverently with our two second cousins, watching the younger of the two discover the world around her with a twinkle in her eye. The feeling of having an idea spark in your mind after reading something new. The feeling that the idea was there all along, waiting to be uncovered. Cracking the spine of a new book, writing perfectly on the second page of a notebook, book cover art. Sitting in a coffee house with nought more than a book, your music, and the feeling of space and time within you as the surrounding world speeds up. Spending a Sunday tucked in your room with nought more than a book, your music, and the feeling that the outside world and the cold are far away. Using words such as "nought" or "betwixt". Strolling as those around you rush. The sudden lifting of self-consciousness to be left with who you truly are at your core. Finding out that insane things like chess boxing and the live reenactment of films exist. Seeing a city you thought you knew through different eyes. Discovering things and places with someone you care about for company. Remembering and playing video games from your younger years. All those small, insignificant yet significant things that make you breathe a little deeper and smile a little smile to yourself.

Writing our lives into existence

I am an unashamed lover of my handwriting.

An opening that smacks of unabashed arrogance, and constitutes a brash and abrupt first sentence to be cruelly assaulted with, I feel. And so now, please allow me to retreat to the more wordy and ethereal meat of this post.

A few months back, a dear friend playfully teased that my handwriting "is funny, like a teenage girl's". This left-of field comment led to a profusely argued response on my part, that my handwriting is nothing of the sort but is, in fact, elegant, beautiful, italicised. The perceived attack on my handwriting was a perceived attack on me, and threw me into a defensive stance.

This blog has spoken before of how someone's handwriting can be intensely personal; on how a personality, mood and purpose can be found in the strokes of a pen that is absent from the generic fonts we see on screen. To read a handwritten letter or message by someone is to have them in the room with you, to know that they've sat down and scribbled or carefully inscribed the words you're reading. The few books I have that have personal messages written in the first few pages mean more to me than many of those that are my favourite, battered, well-read paperbacks. The letters and postcards I have from close friends will remain dear to me in a way an email or printed letter never quite could, despite the fact the content may well be just as heartfelt. Seeing letters from my great-great grandmother to her daughter, or a letter from the child-version of my father to his father, suddenly made them more real to me than any stories or photographs could.

And for me, connected to that love of handwriting - the feeling that to see your words drawn in ink rather than typed in pixels, and to see the way that you controlled and moved the pen across the paper, is to see yourself - is a whole host of other related phenomena. A fetish for stationary. A need to handwrite to learn a subject fully. The ability to throw away a laptop and take up a pen when stuck for ideas or suffering from writer's block.

And, not least, a slight nostalgia for the days of letter-writing. Again, there is something intensely personal in writing (and posting) a letter to someone. There's obviously numerous reasons to write, but let's choose a single instance that is arguably dying out: the letter that constitutes the written catch-up. That moment when you sit down to tell the story of your life as it was in the intervening time between the last letter and now. For the receiver, there's something exciting about receiving a handwritten envelope, recognising (or not recognising) the handwriting, and opening it. Reading the page or pages, holding the sheets that the writer has also held and written on. Reading the story of their recent life. For the writer, there's the process of writing, of selecting what to put in and what to leave out. The tone you adopt, how you tell your story. The thought that goes into the words, the crossed-out mistakes that you know the reader will be able to see.

And here, perhaps, is a sign of our changing times. The written letter, or even email, that constitutes the 'art' of the personal exchange of monologues as a way of story-telling and communicating feels to be disappearing.

Conversely, many of us are most likely writing to each other more than ever before, as we rely on texting, instant messaging, social media channels such as Twitter and Facebook to let people know what's going on in our lives, what's important to us, and to see what our friends are doing. We still construct our narratives in the same way those handwritten letters were constructed, but as just-in-time snippets rather than reflective monologues. We learn to read the tone of our friend's words as an identifier to who we're communicating with, rather than also the shape of their handwriting. We're in constant contact with those closest to us as part of a single on-going conversation that can be dipped in and out of without a single word having to be spoken. For those in the future that want to reconstruct life in 2013, there will an endless source of material from which they can draw: Tweets, emails, texts, blogs, photographs, videos. We can download our Twitter timelines or our Facebook activity for posterity, make them available for us and others to wade through.

But who would we find, when reading back over these words? The real-time messages we post either to many publicly, or to an individual privately - is that who we are? Is that who we become, simply through the act of writing? But then again, can the same not be said for handwritten letters, or even the diaries that we often rely on as sources? Is the memory required for a monologue letter or reflective diary not fallible, and perhaps less reliable than the real-time written conversations many of us are now parts of? Are any of these written lives a true reflection of who the writer is, or simply a persona they choose to portray? We write our lives into existence, whether through ink or pixels, whether through letter, diary, text, or blog. A distorted mirror on our lives, and our lives a distorted mirror of our words.

The love of the handwritten word then perhaps boils down to nought but a love of evidence that a real person wrote the words, and a connection with that person. And so, my friends, whether your handwriting be a beautiful cursive or a spider's footprinted trail, don't dismiss the power of it to tell a story all of its own.

"Not all those who wander are lost"

So, dear Reader, it is a Saturday morning. The weekend stretches before us much like a person in their older-years that has been practising yoga for a considerable portion of their lives and, whilst perhaps short on time, is able to amaze with their feats of flexibility.

On which note, thank you for taking the moment's decision to click into this link from whichever dusty corner of the web it snuck up on you. And then continuing to use the next few additional moments of your day to read the rambling text that has equally thrust itself before you, much like an unwelcome exhibitionist (a tautology, no?).

I am conscious that, since October, this blog has entered a winter of discontent. Posts on writer's block, rehashed pieces posing as original and fresh thoughts, rants about critical engagement with the news, and the difficulties of being in your twenties. It's a surprise you're still here at all, really, and for this I also thank you.

And so, a return to the blog of yester-season.

Which of the many topics that have been sitting as drafts in my Blogger account from the last few weeks shall I pick to elaborate on and enthral you with? An unabashed love letter to handwriting? The fallibility of memory as we reconstruct our lives through storytelling? The joy of rediscovering that you don't need to 'go for a walk' in order to appreciate the peacefulness that a stroll can bring? A comparison of the monologue format that is the letter that we used to use as part of a prolonged conversation over distance versus the instantaneous world of instant messaging and texting that many of us now use to keep in touch with loved ones and friends? So many topics that have sprung to mind and been captured in little snippets so as to not forget them, lying patiently to be expanded upon. All rather self-indulgent, but then the purpose of this blog is to explore those things that bring a sense of happiness to our lives. Self-indulgence may be a vice rather than a virtue to some, but a vice that this amateur joke of a writer advocates. In this context, at least.

Let's explore the draft post that sits at the top of the pile. The joy of the stroll. I shall do my best to keep it short and sweet. I have already taken up too much of your time, I feel.

Much like this time last year, I have found that the stark London weather has had an upsetting impact on my willingness to wander. The result has been a mind that has not been cleared of the clutter that inevitably builds up after a long while. Those 'wonderings and ponderings' that I often mention haven't been allowed to take seed, marinate, and explore which unrelated metaphors they can introduce to each other. My conversation and ability to express myself has equally been affected, not having had the time to think and reflect that I normally need (like the good little introvert that I am). The sense of peace I wrote about last summer whilst sitting by the sea, and which can often be easily recaptured by a walk by the river, or through a park, has gone AWOL.

And yet, in the short distance between the Tube station and my flat last night, after what has felt like a long week, both the peace and the 'wondering wander' suddenly made a welcome reappearance. The commute home on the Tube had been the same, the route I took was the same, I was surrounded by the same hurried and harried commuters, seeking to get home as quickly as possible. But then the self-awareness that suddenly roots you in your surroundings rather than in your thoughts pulled me from my unconscious introspection. Rather than being one of the commuters, speeding down the pavement, keys already in hand, my pace had slowed. Rather than aiming to get to my destination (and warmth) as quickly as possible, I was strolling, breathing a little deeper, mind at ease and at rest. Home wasn't going anywhere. There was nothing pushing me from behind nor pulling me forward. And so, for a journey that normally takes about five to ten minutes, I forgot about the time. I looked in amusement at those hurrying around me, smart phones in hand or to ear; my eyes lifted to the street landscape around me.

In other words, the languid stroll that I normally reserve for the long walks I make an active decision to go on had suddenly made an appearance during my everyday commute. And the sense of peace from those few minutes still hasn't left. I feel refreshed, at ease; the whirring of the busy mind has gone.

And so, my friends, this is my self-indulgent observation for today. We often feel as though we don't have the time to do the things we want to do. We come up with excuses, say we're too busy, there's too much to do. But if something as simple as walking a little slower between the Tube and home can have the same effect has spending three hours wandering around a park or the city, and if all it takes is a little mindfulness, this is something even the busiest person can indulge in. To wander, rather than to hurry. To ponder, rather than to harry. And thus, we return to the contemplation of l'art de vivre.

The Jazz Age of your twenties

Forget discovering the God particle, or the landing of the Curiosity Rover on Mars, or the fantastic piece of marketing that was that guy diving to Earth for a well-known energy drink. Forget the amazement wrought by the world that there's a place in South Korea where people dance with their forearms crossed, a flick of the wrist and a stance somewhat akin to having a missile lodged up your behind.

No, my friends, one of the great discoveries of 2012 was the 80-year-old writing of The Lost Generation. More specifically, of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"Great discovery" may be an exaggeration.

"Great discovery" may also be limited to the confines of my 'finally got round to reading' list. Because I am in no way belittling the contribution of Gangnam Style to the progress of humankind. If anything can remind us that we're all, deep down, human and partial to a cheesy song and dance, then I'm all for it.

Back to Mr Fitzgerald.

The Great Gatsby is one of those books you feel you should have read, and that you're sure everyone else has read, and you're a literary heathen for not having religiously consumed all the so-called classics ever penned and published. You know that it has something to do with America, and the American experience, and what it is to be American. You may even know that it was set during the Jazz Age. If you're incredibly lucky, you'll have the considered smugness that allows you to elaborate that the Jazz Age refers to a cultural shift in the 1920s where youth began to rebel against the Victorian morals of their parents and a generation that could allow the Great War to take place, where women began (in theory) to claim a greater role in society, where jazz got into people's blood and had them drinking highballs until the small hours of the morning.

What you may not know (I certainly didn't until I read the introduction to The Great Gatsby) is that Fitzgerald's first novel was actually This Side of Paradise (1920), followed by The Beautiful and the Damned (1922), and only then did the seminal The Great Gatsby (1925) launch itself on the world..

What struck me about the three novels, when read chronologically, was the development in not only Fitzgerald's writing style, but also the tone of messaging and story. And, upon chatting with a friend last year and reflecting on the difficulties of life in your twenties, it struck me that the experience you go through in your twenties is mirrored in this trio of books, and in the wider story of the Roaring Twenties.

Without talking too much about the plots of the three novels, This Side of Paradise is heavy with self-indulgent writing. It smacks of the arrogance of youth tempered with the foetal self-doubt caused by discovering what the real world is and what our place within it can and must be. It's full of self-discovery, the infallibility and rigidity of our principles in our early-twenties, and the determination to live by those principles. Fitzgerald is experimental in his writing style, with little thought given to the enjoyment of the reader. And this, to an extent, is how we are in our early-twenties. We have our beliefs of how the world will be, and as we leave university with our degrees (if that's the path we've chosen to take), we expect the world to fall at our feet in reverence of our glory, intelligence, and youth. 

But as you move to The Beautiful and the Damned and then finally The Great Gatsby, you are struck by the change in tone, the increasing absence of trills in Fitzgerald's language. Some of the arrogance of the earlier novel begins to fracture. The couple that feature in The Beautiful and the Damned, heavily modelled on Fitzgerald's high-profile life with Zelda, serve as the perfect illustration of the awakening of youth to the vagaries of life. That it can be a bore, that money has to be earned and budgeted, that endless parties can and inevitably do take their toll.

The Great Gatsby, with its starker, more matter-of-fact style, then brings you to the final realisation of your twenties, as you edge towards your fourth decade. That the assuredness of your early twenties has undoubtedly taken a hit. That there are sometimes personas we find ourselves adopting to achieve our goals, personas that don't fit with our image of ourselves. Then comes the realisation that sometimes those goals are not clear-cut, or perhaps no longer as desirable as they may have once been. That we look to our peers and wonder how they've achieved such dizzying success, whilst beneath that success is very likely a parallel set of questions and concerns. Is this what I want to be doing? Is this how I thought I'd be living my life? Is this what life consists of?

Having listened to and had conversations with friends of a similar age, this creeping realisation that hits in your twenties isn't unique. Having spoken to people in their thirties, forties, fifties, the questions don't seem get easier or answered. Rather, they seem to be swapped for a different set of conundrums, an ever-increasing palate of principles and experiences and complexities from which we need to draw in order to assemble a way of living that reconciles all we've learnt.

But that initial break within our Jazz Age decade can be brutal.

And it is here that the subject of this blog creeps in at the backdoor. We can so easily forget what it is that we enjoy, who it is that we are at our core, what it is to see the world through another's eyes, to be consumed by the day-to-day practicalities of our own lives.

Today I read two pieces that reminded me of the importance of developing our own 'Art of Living', our own awareness of the way we live our lives, the indulgences we allow ourselves; that the simplicity of youth can be combined with our increasingly complex experience as adults, and that the way we understand and empathise with others is a choice that we make.

One was a post from Open Culture, which was on a new university degree that looks at how the doodling and art and drawing more commonly associated with children can support our learning as adults. Another was the text of a commencement speech in 2005 by the late David Foster Wallace. In it, he reminds us of the ease that we can slip into our default setting of experiencing life with us at the centre of it, rather than making a choice to perceive how things may be from another viewpoint.

In our twenties, we seem to experience the trauma of realising that life does not flow as you wish it to. But we also have the joy of working out what it is that we enjoy within this bigger picture, and what it is we can draw from others and give back in return. To emerge from our Jazz Age with what we've learned but without leaving behind who we are.

Has/is your experience of your twenties (been) vastly different? Does this mirror that F. Scott Fitzgerald held up through his novels ring true for you? Are your thirties, forties, fifties, and so on any easier? Or does leaving the Jazz Age inevitably lead to a Great Depression, World War, a brief sexual revolution, and then increasing economic uncertainty...