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Previously by this blogger:
The 18 short stories in this volume were generated by computer software. The source text was found on blogs on the internet and in classics by authors such as Shakespeare and Borges, bringing their own subject matter and treatment, yet finding themselves re-ordered into new narratives by a machine and the author. A short introductory preface outlines the cultural history and context to mechanical methods in art. Includes links to the source materials and references for further reading.
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Caledonia Books is a secondhand bookshop in Glasgow that’s easy to find in an Internet search. It’s also easy to plan for visiting because it’s near a Subway – check out my old post about secondhand bookshops in the vicinity to see how to get there. But there’s not many photos available to give you an idea of the stock and layout. So here’s a gallery!
What you’ll notice is the regular comings and goings of people popping in for a chat with the owners about anything from daily life to world news. There’s a front-room feel to the place despite the size. Chat with the owners yourself and you’ll find yourself directed to the nearby Thistle / Alba Musick if they haven’t got what you want (the arrangement is mutual).
As ever, click on individual photos to enlarge.
You may or may not know that behind the scenes of this blog, as well as reading, there’s a lot of writing going on, in a sense. I’ve previously posted on generating text to edit into books. There aren’t any books that I know of that are about or directly relevant to this writing method. However, in this gallery I want to show some books that I’ve found stimulating. Most have little or nothing to do with programming. All are annotated at the bottom. Click to view.
Incidentally, observant readers of this blog may have suspected that a post or two may have been generated and edited. My software tool doesn’t work well with small source texts, but sometimes I like to conduct trials for new code mods. I shall neither confirm or deny anything!
Until December last year, I’d always assumed from online reviews that Thistle Books was too small to take seriously. It seemed unlikely that there could be much to a bookshop that shared its premises with a music bookshop. For a long time I also managed to walk past it without realising. I recently overcame these errors to find an intelligently stocked gem. Thistle is one of those shops that comes up with things you’ll rarely see on the secondhand market. It also comes up with things you’ve long considered exploring. Note that the shop will direct you to nearby Caledonia Books if you can’t find what you’re looking for (which is a mutual arrangement). Although there are lighter reads, Thistle’s USP is affordable gravitas. Here’s a glimpse inside:
I have secondhand bookshop days out in Glasgow. My first stop is always Kelvinbridge. There’s a range of bars and cafés where you can browse your purchases. The easiest route to Thistle is to go to Kelvinbridge Subway, cross the bridge, head for Otago Street, and it’s 2 minutes walk down there. Crucial point: look for the signed alleyway on your left. See my old post about secondhand bookshops in the area for more gen. After Thistle, I go to the nearby and equally excellent Caledonia Books – gallery forthcoming. Here’s a map:
This is a companion volume to a well-known collection of Surrealist texts called What is Surrealism? The latter was edited by Rosemont, so it’s easy to assume that the former is a dry and academic set-by-step guide. What you’ll find instead is a passionate insider’s account.
Rosemont was a friend of Breton’s and a founder of Surrealism in America. And he was every bit as abrasive as his French hero. In this volume he attacked what he perceived as various groups of critics, artists and academics who were making careers out of a movement they failed to understand. He charged rival movements with misrepresentation, particularly Existentialism.
However, Rosemont’s partisanship is equally evident in his lack of criticism. He didn’t tackle the near absence of women in the group’s self-promotion. Nor did he question the sexual objectification of women in Surrealist art and literature despite writing his book in the midst of a prominent and rising feminism in his home country. Then there is his survey of Surrealist groups outside of Europe that reads like a package tour in which you’re barely off the bus before you’re back on it again.
But for all the shortcomings, Rosemont gives a clear, structured, and concise history. The book emphasises how the movement was a revolutionary one steeped in Marxism without being Marxist, shot-through with Freudianism without being a form of psychoanalysis, and inter-twined with the French Communist Party without subscribing to it. The popular idea of Surrealism is that it was a load of weird paintings, especially those by Dali. The word Surreal is usually used to denote something slightly odd. Rosemont shows how superficial these myths are.
He explains the theoretical underpinnings and developments. He sets the founders, adherents, dissidents, and part-timers in their chronological and geographical context. Curiously, despite Breton’s avowed and supposed inflexibility, there is a strong sense that his allowance of Dali, Picasso and Duchamp to come and go as peripheral members was often a concession to raise the profile of the group.
Above all, dialectic recurs throughout. Hegel’s spirit haunts the book as Rosemont tackles dualisms such as art and everyday life, each time pointing towards their boundaries collapsing. Indeed, the transformation of life through art is an ideal that’s been lost in the public imagination, not only of Surrealism, but as a whole. Art has arguably become the very bourgeois spectacle that Breton abhorred. The outlook given in the book suggests that Breton would horror at today’s professionalisation of creativity that uses Surrealism to keep its audience in its place with ‘education programmes’.
It’s hard not to feel sad about how a literary and art movement became co-opted into the bourgeois entertainment industry. On the other hand, that co-optation can at least be evidenced as something that changed as a result. For it’s also tempting to see Surrealism as little more than a bourgeois entertainment beneath a veneer of revolutionary rhetoric and theory. Neither Breton nor Rosemont explained how poetry readings in salons and expensive consumer items in galleries improve anyone’s living conditions.
But then, magical thinking is often a central feature in art and literature. Surrealism was exemplary in this with its obsessions over occultation. And that is Rosemont’s achievement. He successfully championed Surrealism’s marriage of convenience between magical and whole-system thinking that is almost entirely absent in today’s market-driven and social-agenda arts that cage everything in their path with knowing scare-quotes.
Hoax is the story of Clifford Irving’s infamous attempt to fabricate and pass off a Howard Hughes autobiography as the real thing. The authors were Sunday Times journalists, and in similar fashion to Philby, has that 1970s newspaper sensational quality. This added to the period feel. Howard Hughes was a huge public figure, hence he was a lucrative target for a publishing scam.
Irving had already primed himself. He’d written a biography of the colourful art forger, Elmyr de Hory. He later wove into his pitch to McGraw Hill that he’d sent a copy of Fake! to Hughes, who apparently loved it and enquired as to whether there was a Hughes biography planned by anyone. The hook was in.
The forgery itself was eased by Hughes’s reclusiveness and eccentricity. Irving enlisted Richard Suskind as his researcher. He also enlisted artist friends to help forge written letters. And as with the Hitler Diaries, there was an audience and publisher whose hunger for the product was strong enough to overcome doubts.
Most of the material was cribbed from existing archives and an unpublished manuscript fleeced from James Phelan. As the book progressed, Irving was pressed for proof that his interviewee was genuine. This is the point at which I would have to get into plot spoilers.
I’m less interested in giving a review of this specific book than some thoughts on the kind of book it is. It’s a kind of morality tale about public interest. So, as with Philby, there’s plenty of censure of Irving’s character. In fact, the more he’s portrayed as a failed author, the more his escapades make apparent how simplistic such an account is. And then there’s the salivation over getting the kind of potential riches that the book’s subject, Hughes, had as the inheritor of an oil industry portfolio and as a Hollywood director.
It’s all rather yesterday’s news. Yet when compared with the minutiae of the lives of the over-abundance of public figures today, the tale is on a grand scale. How strange that a recluse unwillingly attracted monumental attention that the social mediati would kill for.