Will Self at Maison de la Poesie

Just every now and then Maison de la Poesie plays host to one of the greats and let me be clear here, I love Will Self, not in that teenage fancy-him-do-you way, no (she lied), but I think he is a clever and innovative writer. I enjoy his novels hugely and eagerly devour his journalism. As a cultural commentator he has something pithy to say on a number of topics that interest me, and he likes walking the urban space and psychogeography. How many more boxes can the man tick? Oh, yes and he has his wild side. Shame he's already spoken for.

Last night he was in Paris to launch his recent novel Umbrella, Parapluie to you, which was published this week in French. He gave a brilliant reading along with the French translation that was suitably animated. It was interesting to note the translation now that my French is so much better. I noticed a few words that I would have put quite differently for the colour and vivacity of Will's English to shine, but that it to pick nits.

The novel, in which he nods to weighty Modernist predecessors (Joyce, Woolf et al), is concerned with disease (a real pathology - remember Oliver Sacks and the film Awakening), technology innovated by war and the individual. Its cover quote from Joyce that 'a brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella' is for Self the summation of the theme.  On the style, which has been criticised as hard, Will explained the use of the continuous present, the lack of breaks between the consciousness of one character and another and how he was pleased to have finally killed god, in the form the omniscient narrator.

To an embarrassing question as to why he was in Paris as the novel was published years ago, I expected a vicious answer along the lines of not in French it wasn't, matey and it's my job to promote my book, you [expletive deleted], but Will was in gentle mood, kindly explaining the author's role in nurturing his book baby.

Questions I would have asked if I hadn't been so tired at the end of the week: Just how pissed off were you not to win the Booker Prize, and If narrative is no longer in the novel and has moved elsewhere, where is it in text art?

I'd like to suggest that narrative exists in poetry (I like to think I can write a whole novel in a narrative sense in one poem) and that we might see a resurgence of poetry in our sound bite age where text is reduced to tweets and flashes and our attention span is ever shorter for reading, especially novels.

Will characterised this situation by berating well educated people who can no longer be arsed (my word) to read or interact with high culture because a novel can't be clicked on to explain it meaning and who think this is an acceptable position. He was scathing about those who'd rather read children's books.

Sound bites to chew over:

Progress is the upgrading of the world every five years.

All is steampunk - obsolete technology is all around us such as an umbrella.

The serious novel is a philosophical form. It has to say something about existence.

Close brushes

A very sad day in Paris today indeed. One on which by all rights I should become enraged and take to the streets. My present incapacity prevents me from doing this, so I shall use my mighty pen instead.

I have been reflecting this afternoon on my close brushes with terrorism:

Debenhams's bomb, IRA, Bristol, 18 December 1974 - I was tucked up in bed that night a mere three miles away.

Harrod's bomb, IRA, London 17 December 1983 - I was down the road in South Kensington eating lunch with friends when we heard the blast.

Planet Hollywood bomb, Islamic fundamentalists, Cape Town, 26 August 1998 - I left the restaurant just three hours before it detonated. The bomb was strapped to the bar the whole time we were there.

Bakerloo line bomb, Islamic fundamentalists, London, 25 July 2005 - I passed through Baker Street Station on my way to work on an earlier train, just fifteen minutes before the suicide bomber flicked the switch to his backpack.

Charlie Hebdo office shootings, Islamic fundamentalists, Paris, 7 January 2015 - in the next arrondissement to mine, a short walk away.

These are of course as nothing to the experiences of some people I know who have lived through wars or witnessed killings right in front of them, but they are my own small reminders that we cannot live untouched by world events. Danger is closer than you think.

No matter how much we might want to draw up the shutters and focus on other things, we can't. So for those of you heading to Place de la Republique this evening, light a candle for the dead and light a candle for the future, for all of us to continue to write, say and shout exactly what darn well please. Exercise the freedom that we hold so precious. Flex those muscles. Let me hear you roar.

Going to the hospital in France

A scary prospect, involving unusual vocabulary, but I have to report that despite the expected wait of several hours, Hotel Dieu,  was an oasis of calm and relative efficiency compared to the high levels of stress and tension one feels in UK Accident and Emergency departments.

The only total hassle is that there is no pharmacy in the hospital and given my sprained ankle I had to take a cab and have it wait for me while I got kitted out with ankle support, crutches and drugs. Pity.

But I did have a beautiful building to admire while I was twiddling my thumbs waiting for an X-ray. That's to be expected from the oldest hospital in Paris, next to Notre Dame.

Dylan Thomas - One last post for 2014

I spent the early part of the year re-reading and thinking about Dylan Thomas. Things trailed off the nearer we came to his centenary in October, I don't know why. I was sort-of-not-quite-then-not going to be involved in a production of Under Milk Wood, so perhaps I went into a bit of a sulk, or perhaps I just didn't want to compete with the rest of the media for attention, who after all reads my little blog? But it's Christmas time and, of course, how can we forget -  Mrs Prothero and the Firemen.

Dylan's A Child's Christmas in Wales is still as popular as ever, lovely new editions are published regularly, variously illustrated for both children and adult consumption. Mine is somewhere, but not here in Paris, so this post is from memory.

If you have never read it (or failed to hear Cerys Matthews reading it on the radio on Christmas Eve), do. It's not as corny as you might think and is packed with Dylan wickedness. It's heart warming and will make you laugh.

When I was a child I always fancied being an arctic explorer from Mumbles, or one of the boys snowballing cats in the back garden, putting rocks in the snowballs first (I hate cats, but that's another post), or Mrs Prothero's sister entirely un-phased by the fire, who descends the stairs and asks the firemen if they would like something to read.

Now there's a woman with the right priorities. Happy Christmas/New Year/Whatever. Opens new book and starts.

A Hammam on Boxing day

No better way to detox after a feast, than a trip to a hammam. Sitting in the steam, being scrubbed clean and oiled is heavenly.

I visited O-Kari, which is hidden in a tiny street in the 2eme, so hidden I walked passed it twice before spotting the brass plaque. It's not exactly cheap, but for a treat, well worth it. It's completely different to the mosque, being small and offers much closer personal attention.

I left with the smooth skin of a babe and a clear head. Highly recommended. Go with a friend of course, it's a social outing.

Inside at the Palais de Tokyo

The Palais de Toyko is huge and I mean enormous. It must be the biggest space for contemporary art in the city, so Thursday night and with my daughter in tow I finally made it there to Inside, which is a group show of wonderful work.

As you can expect, it's a little mixed too. Some of it will leave you with eye ache, such as the room of white sculptures, some will entrance, like the many wonderful videos, and some of it will leave you surprised and some unmoved.

But if you want to crawl inside an installation made entirely of Scotch tape, walk thorough a destroyed house, watch it raining inside and see a lot of beautiful drawing including street art down the staircase, then here are many, many things to enjoy.

It's not cheap at 12 Euros, but it kept us talking. laughing and asking questions for three hours, which is probably the point. Enjoy!

Jeff Koons at the Pompidou

I'm trying to work out what I think about Jeff Koons' work. I've seen it all over the place in the UK, US and elsewhere. He's ubiquitous and popular. But is it any good? Bring on the large red heart Christmas decoration. That at least is seasonal.

I don't know. Sometimes it makes me laugh as in the hilarious 1980s alcohol adverts.

Sometimes it leaves me cold. I'm not shocked by pornography. I think it rather dull to take pictures of oneself having sex. Perhaps I am odd. Perhaps not.  Be warned there's an over 18s room.

I'm not amazed by metal castings of inflatable lobsters and the like or the Incredible Hulk turned into an electric organ.

The 'classic' Michael Jackson and Bubbles ceramic sculpture is now housed behind plexiglass. Last time I saw it in San Francisco it was not. Why is this? Perhaps someone might take a hammer to it. Would that be a bad thing? It's really kitsch.

On the whole I'd rather not have anything here in my house, especially the scary kitten in a sock on a washing line. I suppose I should not be surprised then that the paintings of toys are indeed, in the words of my teenage daughter, 'pretty fucking terrifying.'

Make your own mind up. What do I know apart from, Jeff Koons,  meh! I came away with more than a sense of having been to a degree show where the marks were a little disappointing.