In response to a couple of requests, I’ve belatedly posted the published version of my review of Gil Merom How Democracies Lose Small Wars. Feel free to post your own thoughts.
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Category: Books and culture
What I’m reading
The Yellow Admiral and Blue at the Mizzen by Patrick O’Brian. These are respectively the 18th and 20th in the Aubrey-Maturin series. I particularly enjoyed Aubrey’s role as a paternalist squire preventing the enclosure of a local commons – almost the only time in the entire series where he is heroic and successful by land.
Blue at the Mizzen brings me to the end of the series, always an ambiguous feeling for me. There’s still a couple I haven’t managed to get hold of, including The Nutmeg of Consolation and The Hundred Days. Perhaps I should set up one of those Amazon wishlists
What I'm reading and doing
I’ve spent most of the weekend at our annual karate training camp. As a result, I’m both stiff and bruised, but still, a good time was had by all. The camp was at Tallebudgera, one of the most pleasant places on the Gold Coast. We stayed at the Recreation Centre there, which has been extensively, and expensively, upgraded since last year. The 1950s bunkrooms are gone. The new ones are much brighter and airier, and include their own bathrooms as well as what appeared to be Internet ports, though I didn’t have any capacity to check on this. The other main essential has been dealt with, as the centre now has a cafe. The high point of the weekend, after some rugged training on the beach was to walk past a tree full of rainbow lorikeets – I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many so close.
Although most of the non-training time was spent sleeping, I managed to get a bit of reading done, finishing Gil Merom’s book on democracies and small wars (on which more soon), Tiffin and Gittins How Australia Compares and Stephen Bell’s The Money Mandarins
, certain to be the standard work on the Reserve Bank for years to come.
What I'm reading and doing
I’ve spent most of the weekend at our annual karate training camp. As a result, I’m both stiff and bruised, but still, a good time was had by all. The camp was at Tallebudgera, one of the most pleasant places on the Gold Coast. We stayed at the Recreation Centre there, which has been extensively, and expensively, upgraded since last year. The 1950s bunkrooms are gone. The new ones are much brighter and airier, and include their own bathrooms as well as what appeared to be Internet ports, though I didn’t have any capacity to check on this. The other main essential has been dealt with, as the centre now has a cafe. The high point of the weekend, after some rugged training on the beach was to walk past a tree full of rainbow lorikeets – I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many so close.
Although most of the non-training time was spent sleeping, I managed to get a bit of reading done, finishing Gil Merom’s book on democracies and small wars (on which more soon), Tiffin and Gittins How Australia Compares and Stephen Bell’s The Money Mandarins
, certain to be the standard work on the Reserve Bank for years to come.
What I'm reading
The Small House at Allington
by Trollope. I’ve always found this the least satisfying of the Barsetshire novels, defying the conventions of the “happy-ending” romantic novel, but without the Romantic desperation of, say, the Brontes. When her fiancee, Adolphus Crosbie dumps her, as a result of the discovery that her expected inheritance will not be forthcoming, the heroine, Lily Dale, does not, as would be expected in a romantic novel, accept the man who truly loves her, but abandons all hope of marriage. But the introduction to the Folio edition, by Margaret Markwick, supplies the missing motivation, arguing that the real meaning of the text is that Lily had a full sexual relationship with Crosbie, regarding herself as his wife from the moment of their engagement. Hence, in line with romantic convention, she can never marry again.
Of course, Trollope couldn’t say this explicitly, or even in a generally-accepted code, but Markwick suggests that at least some of his Victorian readers would have got the point. By contrast, we expect, nowadays, to have such things spelt out for us.
What I'm reading
The Small House at Allington
by Trollope. I’ve always found this the least satisfying of the Barsetshire novels, defying the conventions of the “happy-ending” romantic novel, but without the Romantic desperation of, say, the Brontes. When her fiancee, Adolphus Crosbie dumps her, as a result of the discovery that her expected inheritance will not be forthcoming, the heroine, Lily Dale, does not, as would be expected in a romantic novel, accept the man who truly loves her, but abandons all hope of marriage. But the introduction to the Folio edition, by Margaret Markwick, supplies the missing motivation, arguing that the real meaning of the text is that Lily had a full sexual relationship with Crosbie, regarding herself as his wife from the moment of their engagement. Hence, in line with romantic convention, she can never marry again.
Of course, Trollope couldn’t say this explicitly, or even in a generally-accepted code, but Markwick suggests that at least some of his Victorian readers would have got the point. By contrast, we expect, nowadays, to have such things spelt out for us.
Fakes and fakirs
My recent posts on the Republican/rightwing campaign against science have led to reminders that this kind of thing isn’t confined to the political right – I mentioned this in a footnote, but the subsequent correspondence has raised some examples I can’t resist, as has a mildly spooky coincidence.
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What I’m reading
As a 19th century bishop is supposed to have said, there’s no better way to spend Sunday afternoon than curled up in bed with a good Trollope. I’ve just been given a beautiful Folio edition of the Barchester novels and am rereading them, beginning with The Warden which, despite some obvious defects, is probably my favourite.
What I'm reading
As a 19th century bishop is supposed to have said, there’s no better way to spend Sunday afternoon than curled up in bed with a good Trollope. I’ve just been given a beautiful Folio edition of the Barchester novels and am rereading them, beginning with The Warden which, despite some obvious defects, is probably my favourite.
What I did on my holidays
I went to the National Folk Festival in Canberra. This always gets me into the kind of utopian mood where you think that the troubles of the world would be over if only we would all be like brothers and sisters to each other[1]. And lately, it always seems to coincide with particularly bloody events in the real world, making me very reluctant to get out of this mood and back to reality.
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John Quiggin 