With the regularity in which people, ideas, situations intersect in my readings and observations, I have often been taken aback. That, perhaps, the blessing – or the curse – of being widely informed! Regrettably; not deeply, rather tending to the shallow.
A case in point:
In David Edmonds’ book about the Vienna Circle that I have written on in the previous post, there is an examination of the difficulties many of its members had as they sought refuge from the Nazi terror that was taking over much of the Continent. Therein quoted were some fragments of correspondence between Karl Popper and Austin Duncan-Jones, Professor of Philosophy at Birmingham [pp 240-242 in the German edition read by me], in which the former was invited there as a guest lecturer.
The Shakespearean scholar, Professor Katherine Duncan-Jones, died in October. This I noted with sadness, not because I know her work – for which I am sorry because her ‘hatchet job’ on William S. – his character that is – sounds terrific and original – but because I know her to be the mother of Emily Wilson – and that means an awful lot.
The point is: I wondered about the name. And, lo and behold, the first mentioned Prof. Duncan-Jones is the father of the second said.
And all this means? Professors of Philosophy beget those of Literature beget those of Classics? Perhaps. Or that an academic career in the UK has, or once had, an awful lot to do with family and class? I don’t know. Mostly, just a very interesting generational chain of circumstance and one from which, in this familial instance, very many have benefited – and continue to.
The death of Prof. Duncan-Jones was reported upon by some of the more culturally attentive British media and noted by me in a Twitterthread (begun by Bee Wilson and retweeted by Emily), and The New York Times has now run an obituary.
The Murder of Professor Schlick: The Rise and Fall of the Vienna Circle – by David Edmonds.
An immensely interesting book just read in German translation. What begins as a lively intellectual romp of the highest niveau ends – as one always knows it will – in animosity and some enmity, in flight and exile and the tragedy of war and the holocaust and, for one, in his murder.
written by David Edmonds, pub. C.H. Beck (2021)
The Vienna Circle was a group of scientists and philosophers that formed in the first decades of the 20th century; meeting and publishing regularly in changing constellations and degrees of exclusivity, united by a shared antipathy to the metaphysical zeitgeist and in search of a more stringentphilosophy of science based on modern logic (inspired firstly by Ernst Mach and later by Wittgenstein’s Tractatus) and an empirical methodology (finding fulfillment only under the stringency of verificationism) – to become known as logical empiricism. Their ranks included people like: Otto Neurath, Philipp Frank, Kurt Gödel, Rudolf Carnap, Friedrich Waismann …and, yes, Moritz Schlick … And in their orbit: Wittgenstein, Karl Popper, Alfred Tarski …. Many were political, many Jewish or with Jewish associations of some sort and to various degrees.
pub. Princeton University Press, 2020
As the people, so not the place. It is an irony of fate (and for some just a matter of birth), that this exquisite group of argumentative rational thinkers should congregate in Vienna, a place that by the 1930s was being increasingly consumed by unreason, as the dark shadows of nationalism and antisemitism fell about them – from within and soon from without with the Anschluß into the German Reich in 1938. Edmonds’ book distinguishes itself in its conjuring of the growing atmosphere of, first, disquiet and then angst, often illustrated through vignettes surrounding the main players and their complicated and sometimes compromised situations.
Women don’t get the short shrift by Edmonds either. Notable is the tenacity of Rose Rand (born in Lemberg – now Lviv), as a young woman actively participating within the ‘circle’ (including the writing of protocols) during the early thirties as Austria imploded, sometimes helped and sometimes hindered in her émigré status as she struggled to keep her ambitions alive – making ends meet mostly through teaching and translating the works of others – first in England and then the United States where she died – alone, as she seems to have been most of her life – in 1980.
Rose Rand, 1949.Susan Stebbing, 1939.Tess Simpson
Rand didn’t leave Austria until 1939 and it was then – or so it is presumed- with the assistance of another woman: the philosophy professor Susan Stebbing. As apparent by the fore linked SEP entry, she, a formidable intellect who made major contributions to analytical philosopher – and an argumentative voice in the logical positivism debate.
And then there is the remarkable Tess Simpson. As the long time secretary of the Academic Assistance Council (AAC) and its successor the Society for the Protection of Science and Learning (SPSL), Simpson was instrumental in helping many of the Vienna Circle (amongst many others) find safe haven. [This organization continues their work to this day as Council for At-Risk Academics (CARA)] David Edmonds has previously written on Simpson for The Jewish Chroniclehere, and his 2017 Radio 4 documentary, “Miss Simpson’s Children” is (as I write) still available.
For me, alone an introduction to these three women made this book a wonderful read. But there is, of course, so much more.
Each aerial view of each mini-cavalcade of darkened Land Rovers led by outriders in royal blue and luminous yellow brings one near to all that topography of land clustered tight, then precisely coded, within the celebrated London environs of SW1; compressed there within its borders all the ruling powers of a kingdom.
The Postcodes Project – SW1: Belgravia, Brompton, Millbank, Pimlico, St James’s, Victoria, Westminster
A neck of the woods that I know well, albeit from from the vantage point of another SW (storied also but where real people live – or once lived) and from halcyon days long gone, but few I would say have ever journeyed these fabled routes, either actually or on the wings of imagination, as many have done in most recent times gone – as the late summer of 2022 turns to autumn, as a monarch departs the mortal world and another ascends to her place, as a Prime Minister goes and another comes, and as a Prime Minister goes and another comes. I am not repeating myself! Blink and history was there just waiting to be missed.
On Thursday, after 44 (!) days in office, Liz Truss announced her resignation, and today this found its formal conclusion in the requisite audience with King Charles III at Buckingham Palace and, shortly thereafter, Rishi Sunak, the newly elected [sic] leader of the Conservative Party, being invited by the King to be his Prime Minister.
From memory: After the wheels finally fell off Boris Johnson’s government at the beginning July, a convoluted process for the leadership of the Tories began with the whittling down to two contenders – Truss and … yes, Sunak! – and continued through the summer with a series of so-called “hustings”. Sunak was favored by conservative parliamentarians and Truss by Party members and, yes, the latter trumped the former. Two days after receiving Johnson and Truss (not in SW1, but Balmoral – for reasons which were sadly to become clear) and doing that which the monarch is anointed to do, the Queen died. Granted, an interrupted start extraordinaire but then Truss seemed to tout the powers of disruption. All very well, one could say, but did she not know that in times of global crisis markets and their makers crave at least the promise of stability. In a matter of weeks a complete economic framework, misguidedly constructed on a toxic mix of low taxes and high borrowing lay in shambles, and with it Liz Trusses job and reputation.
And so it was, this time round, in just a few days, and with Boris Johnson returning with fanfare from a Caribbean jaunt, the Tories heaped on the wearied Brits another leadership “election”! More skillfully modified this time round, with a set of rules that would, with any luck and some reason, circumvent interference from pesky Members. And in the end, so it did: Bojo knew when to fold, as did, albeit at the last moment, another penny pretender (called Mordaunt), and Rishi Rich was left holding the winning hand. Like democracy is a game of poker!
On Rishi Sunak, putting aside the politics, it should be said that he is the first Prime Minister from an ethnic background (okay, there is the Disraeli exception – not quite the same thing I would suggest) – his parents, of Punjabi descent, migrated to the UK from eastern Africa in the 1960s; married to the daughter of an Indian tech. billionaire (with modest beginnings); a practicing Hindu. In other words, a biography, irrespective of the advantages granted to him by good fortune, and fortune, that only a very few years ago would have made a rise to the highest echelons of power almost inconceivable. Meritocracy sometimes works it seems. A remarkable story in many respects, and that Sunak’s success should correspond with Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Light, and in this year that remembers the end of the Raj and the 75th anniversary of Indian independence, is highly symbolic and one of those strange quirks of fate.
Of the Booker fiction prize 2022, that is. I feel like I’ve been neglectful of all the other works that made it to the last or the last but one round. So here is the so-called long list and the short listed finalists. I have read but one – Elizabeth Strout’s Oh William!
I should say that the Booker website is an absolute treasure trove, including reading guides for the shortlisted books, quizzes that may (or may not) help one decide on what to read (or read not), information on the judges (Neil MacGregor was Chair this year), extracts, interviews and videos. And a featured list of works from Hilary Mantel as a tribute to her place in Booker history, in British writing – of their own history but not only.
The Booker prize for fiction 2022 was announced on a special edition of Front Row on BBC Radio 4 last night (The Guardian report here) and presented by the Duchess of Dings Bums … I mean the Queen Consort … (forgive me Camilla, for you are famously a real reader!) to the Sri Lankan author Shehan Karunatilaka for his novel The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida. I neither know the author nor his work, but I am secretly – well obviously not so secretly – pleased that it was not awarded (again) to a US publication. As I have said before, the US have enough of their own gongs and the anglophile book world deserves a space beyond those shores and the reach of a few powerful media conglomerates. On the later, it is also striking that Karunatilaka’s book is published by a small UK independent press – Sort of Books.
Everything you need to know about the winning book: what it's about, why it won, how the author wrote it and what the judges and critics said 📚🏆
Exploring the violent insurrections of 1980s Sri Lanka, The Guardian review from the summer suggests a work written in a magic realism tradition that blends the spiritual with the profane, sardonic humor with brutal reality, and which brings immediately Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children to my mind. It is 1990 and the Maali of the title is a photographer – and he is dead. But he is a soul that has not found peace, and with now one mission: to expose the crimes of the decade gone with the evidence that he amassed during his professional (and earthly) life.
From his Front Row appearance, Karunatilaka comes across as a humourful and very interesting man indeed, and his website informs on a really spectacularly successful life – and I mean that to mean a life well-lived. And besides, he loves cricket. And, I will be reading this book.
The British Government line for why they have maintained a relatively passive role in deciding the fate of the stolen Parthenon Marbles (I’ve always said “Elgin Marbles” – me thinks that ain’t exactly p.c. these days!) has always rested strongly on the reasoning that the spectacular artifacts were removed from the Acropolis and brought into the UK by Lord Elgin in the 19th century – that is, it was a historically private initiative, unhindered by the Greek officialdom and following international and diplomatic protocols in place at the time, and over which the Government had little to no influence then and presumably no legal liability now. In the light of this, a report in The Guardian a couple of days ago about research suggesting that the foreign secretary of the day, Viscount Castlereagh, was, in fact, very much involved in the initiative and in facilitating the import of the marbles, offers an interesting new angle in what must be one of the longest and most famous disputes concerning stolen antiquities.
My own photograph, British Museum, 2012.
The publication of these findings comes at a particularly timely moment it has to be said; coming on the back of a renewed campaign by the Greek government, partly inspired by the sudden change of stance by The Times at the beginning of the year and public opinion in the UK in general, and the British Museum showing signs of a willingness to explore compromise solutions (talk for instance of a so-called “Parthenon Partnership” and a new Parthenon Project.).
Staying at the British Museum: There is the matter of the Rosetta Stone – famously, the engraved artifact with which Jean-François Champollion went about his decoding of the hitherto puzzle of hieroglyphs. The physical object of course is one thing, but just as important, perhaps, is the way in which the astounding work of Champollion and others shone new light upon the richness of ancient Egyptian civilisation – their society, customs and belief systems. In recognition of Champollion’s scholarship there is a major exhibition Hieroglyphs: unlocking ancient Egyptat the British Museum through to 19 February 2023 (and I note an extended blog piece by the curator, Ilona Regulski). And another at the Louvre satellite in Lens, Champollion: La voie des hiéroglyphes (the webpage is only in French, but the objects can be looked at) until 16 January.
My (not very good!) photo of the Rosetta Stone, British Museum, 2012
Not quite as loudly as Greece, but Egypt too has called for the return of their “lost” heritage over the years. The loudest, though no longer in a governmental role, has been the renowned (and publicity savvy) Egyptian archaeologist Zahi Hawass who regularly pleads for the Stone’s restitution (as he likewise does for Nefertiti’s return from Berlin). In some ways this case is more complicated, in that the Rosetta Stone was amongst the many artifacts that were handed over to the British in a formal agreement as a result of the capitulation of Napoleon’s army in Egypt. Though one could conclude: Okay, so the French excavated, confiscated – maybe nicked – all this stuff and the Brits just help themselves to the spoils? What!
I admit to being a convert tending more to the ‘return’ side of the argument. Way back whenever I was amongst those (many, I believe) interested observers of the mounting controversies who just sort of presumed western museums (located in democratic countries, in more moderate climatic regions – both factors remain good – but not defining – arguments) had the space, financial and technical resources, expertise to best ensure the preservation of some of the treasures of world civilization. Unfortunately, it has to be said, many of these institutions (mostly led by an older generation and with the tacit support of their governments) have over decades been too reluctant to seriously engage with the claims made by the nations and peoples from whence many cultural objects have originated and, even when, have confronted the claimants with a sometimes patronizing, often impatient and nearly always paternalistic attitude. Ultimately, I think, one has to be prepared to accept the good will and intentions of those who seek restitution of their property and their right to make decisions that they deem in the best interest of the preservation and continuity of their cultural heritage. There are enough examples of how that may happen – with partnerships, exchanges, even new museums.
It seems, then, after years of bulwark tactics, the British Museum may be finally progressing towards an inclusive and respectful course of cultural and intellectual exchange. And it is not alone, for younger generations are taking on leadership roles at many other of the world’s great institutions; generations that are more diverse and with broader cultural visions. This, I think, is good news (something at a premium these days!) for the many nations that are reorganizing their cultural legacy in a post-colonial world.
The Nobel Prize in Literature for 2022 is awarded to the French author Annie Ernaux,
“for the courage and clinical acuity with which she uncovers the roots, estrangements and collective restraints of personal memory”.
Press Release 6 October 2022
A very short formal announcement I must say – and not as punctual as one is use to (presumably their winner could not be contacted; follows, she wasn’t sitting by the phone! is that a diss? hope so!). Here is the biobibliography (that’s a mouthful!) on the Nobel website (and as pdf). How delighted I am I need not say; for, on Ernaux, I have said enough in the past.
Since 1922 (it just had to be 1922!) the BBC has informed and entertained at home and abroad; during times of empire – its waning and its demise; in war and peace; through political turmoil and social upheaval. In these days of instantaneous communication and the new media that has evolved out of it, she navigates gingerly through troubled waters but, hopefully and with good will and chance, is in no real danger of sinking anytime soon – with or without the license fee, meddling politicians, the next app, or the next big thing.
With a timeline to be explored either by year or thematically, and thoughtful collections of 100 objects, 100 faces and 100 voices that have been accumulating over the year, the BBC proudly displays the first century of their being.
And from the beginning, women were there; in many roles, mostly unheralded, underpaid and pawns to the patriarchal structures of … Auntie Beeb! For me the name Hilda Matheson jumps out; she who shared with Virginia Woolf (who wrote of her disparagingly – that, enough to make one curious) the affections of Vita Sackville-West. Specific to her work with the BBC, this blog entry is very interesting, and illustrative of what the ‘girls’ were up against.
During my exploration of the celebratory website, links to the Radio Timeswere prevalent and it turns out that the Programme Index includes amongst its (searchable) historical listings also digitized copies of the Radio Times. One way (should the time allow) of appraising the societal history of the United Kingdom over the last century – thinking about how far it has come and imagining how far it could go.
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