2 - Meditations

In my ongoing quest to fill the void of sporting activity that graduate life tends to entail, I decided, almost a year ago, to devote some of my energy to the gym. Three evenings and one morning each week, I get to wander around in silence counting reps in my head and generally relieving the stresses of the contemporary working day. At the same time, I am exposed to terrestrial television's early-evening line up of quiz shows - Pointless, The Chase and Eggheads, which allows me to exercise both mind and body. Or something.

As part of this pursuit I have been known, occasionally, to browse the various fitness forums offered up by the internet. One day, in among all the insecurity, in-jokes and odd pieces of actual good advice, I came across a thread dedicated to so-called "mental gains" - specifically, recommended reading for the man or woman with the goal of physical perfection. Suggestions ranged from the Bible to the rather out-there teachings of "iceman" Wim Hof. But by far one of the most popular works, and one that caught my eye, was the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

Marcus Aurelius was emperor of Rome from 161-180 AD, although for the first eight years he shared power with Lucius Verus. Meditations was written in Greek over the last ten years of his reign, and commits to paper (papyrus? wax?) his stoic world view as applied to the full spectrum of the human experience.

I had been assured prior to reading that this book would change my life, along with my fundamental understanding of the world around me, my role within it and my duties towards it. So it would be safe to say that expectations were, ultimately, set impossibly high. Not to say that there aren't some brilliant words of wisdom to be found. Marcus Aurelius' attitude to the world of work resonated in particular:

"What art and profession soever thou hast learned, endeavour to affect it, and comfort thyself in it; and pass the remainder of thy life as one who from his whole heart commits himself and whatsoever belongs unto him, unto the gods."

Did the Romans even have jobs in the modern sense? Probably not, and yet these words would not be out of place at a careers talk in the present day. Equally, his advice on the natural world and mankind's responsibilities in that area still hold up.

But ultimately my main issue with the writing was that it was just too... earnest. Following this philosophy would entail assessing every single action of your life, determining whether it serves a higher purpose, and eliminating any aspects that do not. It's a mindset I absolutely apply to lifting weights, but I can't really see it taking root elsewhere. Combine that with an 18th century translation that hadn't bothered to explain any ancient Greek terms that are untranslatable and Meditations became something of a burden to read. Perhaps that was the point: the teaching of stoicism is, essentially, to suck it up and get on with life. But the world would be a much more boring place if that was all anyone did.

2/5

I've also decided that this blog should stay true to its roots, so each book will be paired with a musical counterpoint. I feel like Aurelius would have loved Gesaffelstein's Pursuit, for all its clinical efficiency. Good workout music too.

1 - Distraction Pieces

Like, I suspect, the majority of Brits who were teenagers in the mid '00s I was first introduced to the work of rapper Scroobius Pip through his seminal collaboration with Dan le Sac, Thou Shalt Always Kill. Though I now think it comes across as trying a bit too hard with its sanctimonious tone and early trash-rap mood, at the time it seemed to fit in perfectly with the world view of a generation of indie and emo kids who thought they had the arts all figured out. "Thou shalt not make repetitive generic music" seemed to us the most brilliantly witty indictment of the admittedly pretty awful pop music that permeated the airwaves of the time and kept what we considered real music out of the spotlight.

But music moved on, and so did I.

Then, about five years on, I rediscovered him and found that there was a vast back catalogue of great material that I had missed out on. While the that same world view that I never quite agreed with remained, it was applied to the gamut of the human experience, in particular as it pertained to modern British society. And I realised that the man had a brilliant talent for words.

So when I saw, thanks to the occasionally good Kindle recommendations emails that Amazon bombard me with, that Scroobius Pip had written a book, I was interested. When I saw that it was in fact a series of interviews with various creative types on such varying topics as politics, the arts and science, I thought it could be worth a look. And since, as one Amazon reviewer pointed out, it was currently on sale for less than the price of a pint, I decided it would be a good way to kick off the first year in which I attempted dry January.

As it transpired, Distraction Pieces is in fact a collection of transcripts from Pip's iTunes podcast of the same name. For those who have been regular listeners, there is not much new here. But as I said, I had never been a particularly close follower of his work and wasn't even aware that the podcast existed.

The ordering by theme, rather than interviewee, keeps the book flowing and introductions to each section by Pip himself help to give more of an insight into his own views, as the guests are allowed the lion's share of each conversation. Bringing together an interesting mix of personalities ranging from Frank Turner, Amanda Palmer and Killer Mike from the world of music, Romesh Ranganathan and Rufus Hound from comedy and writers Alan Moore and Jon Ronson, Pip provides merely the occasional nudge to steer his interviews into various directions. Police brutality, the creative process and the role of the arts in modern society are all covered, as are death, independent cinema and magic.

While it would perhaps have been more interesting to see a few guests with opinions that conflicted with those of the interviewer, Distraction Pieces remains a brilliant insight into the minds of some of the more highbrow creative types around today, their view of the world around them, and their view of themselves.

As a teenager, I thought I had the arts figured out; now I know that isn't the case at all. But it is reassuring to see that the artists themselves are still trying to figure things out.

4/5. Not sure if I'll do ratings, but that's what this gets.

Reading

Somewhere along the line, I fell out of love with reading.

As a child, I couldn't get enough. With a foundation, like the majority of British kids, in the works of Roald Dahl, I progressed to the classics between the ages of around seven and fourteen, encountered a brief dry spell, and then immersed myself in modernism over the course of my A Levels like any good pretentious aspiring arts student should.

But the next five years were about to drive me into the ground.

While I didn't dedicate every waking hour of my life to the library (hardly any in fact since I preferred to work from my room), a degree in French and German followed by an MA in Translation Studies ensured that there was little time available to read for pleasure. So I simply stopped.

In fairness, I did actually enjoy a lot of the books I studied. Subject to deep analysis, the short stories of Franz Kafka reveal themselves to be just about the most perfect use of any language ever. Thomas Mann proved with Mario und der Zauberer just how beautiful German can be in the right hands, while Peter Weiss's Die Ermittlung showcased its brutality in gut-wrenching detail and Ulrich Plenzdorf's Die neuen Leiden des jungen W. its potential for humour. The poetry of Baudelaire allowed me to feel every inch the stereotype of an arts student that I aspired to be, and an academic reading of Asterix revealed more dimensions than my ten-year-old self could ever have imagined.

Then again, a lot of what I read had less of an impact. I am reminded, by its presence on my bookshelf, that I once studied a book named Flugasche by Monika Maron, and yet I cannot recall a single detail of its content. Stripped of its post-colonial context, Maryse Condé's La coeur à rire et à pleurer reads like an airport paperback, while Die heilige Johanna der Schlachthof is Brecht a painfully long way from his best. Renan Demirkan's Schwarzer Tee mit drei Stück Zucker has not even been deemed consequential enough to warrant its own Wikipedia page, and for good reason.

And then there were the works I actively disliked. Nobel Prize aside, Elfriede Jelinek's writing in Women as Lovers is post-modern neo-realist rambling at its absolute worst. The second half of Goethe's Faust proved so impenetrable that I struggled for the majority to decipher even the superficial meaning of the smog of classical allusions and forced weirdness. While I never read Mein Kampf in its entirety, the passages I did encounter, for all their tedious egocentricity, left me wanting to punch a hole in the wall and Hitler in the face. And yet the worst of the worst would have to be Georges Bataille's Le bleu du ciel, the only book I have read so utterly depraved that I found myself genuinely offended by its content. Worse still was that it was dropped from our curriculum. After I had already read it.

Looming in the background to all this like a vast, oceanic undercurrent, was the endless, soulless, hard academic theory. Hours spent poring over regional breakdowns of French by-elections from the 80s in an attempt to work out exactly how many people jumped ship from the Communist Party to aid Mitterrand's drearily efficient rise to power. The inscrutability of political theory in general. The black hole for enjoyment that is film theory in general. The pretension of literary theory in general. The theory of translation, in which the same debate has been raging with little progress since the turn of the 20th century, and which has provided absolutely minimal influence on my emerging career as a translator.

Needless to say, reading came to be something of a chore, and one that I only picked up again when I found myself with a 75-minute daily commute to and from London. This allowed me to tick off a few works I'd had my eye on, but was never a long-term solution and before too long I found myself driving to work, living in a house with plenty of other forms of entertainment in a town with plenty of yet other forms of entertainment.

I did not read many books in 2016. In 2017, I aim to read 20. I will probably review most of them on this page at some point. Stay tuned!