August 6: the count of monte christo

I am a high-brow reader. Not very high-brow in many other aspects of my life, as you may have gathered. But I rarely read a piece of popular fiction. Maybe for reasons of snobbery or maybe because I don’t like to be drawn through the sensibility gutter. Too much of that, which is unavoidable, happens in everyday life. However, I find myself reading Le conte de Monte Christo by Alexandre Dumas pere. It is 1500 pages and I’ve got 150 left. It can’t be bad to have pulled me through. The plot is terrific. A man unjustifiably put in a prison on a deserted island off the coast of Marseille and left to rot. Another prisoner connects with him, having scratched his way through the dirt for years. This remarkable man teaches Edmond (our hero) everything he knows: languages; style; learning of all sorts. He dies and Edmond substitutes himself for the corpse and is thrown into the sea from which he escapes. A hoard of treasure on the island of Monte Christo had been revealed to him by his former prison-mate. Edmond finds it and becomes inestimably rich. He spends years on the sea, honing his life skills and then heads for Paris to revenge the four men who betrayed him. He kills them off one by one.

The problem is that the character of Edmond Dantes is an absolute; totally inhuman. He is so clever and refined and rich; he is a kind of superhero. His revenge is thoughtless. It ruins the family and children of all the betrayers; people who are innocent. Dumas does not see that his character is a problem. He could have examined the nature of absolute revenge in this long book, but that doesn’t interest him. Unfortunately the novel remains on the level of a teenage fantasy. Still, it’s a good yarn and has been adapted for the cinema many times, each time taking out scenes where Edmond is particulaly unpleasant, as well as skirting round moments where the ethics of 1842 do not match ours (less of an issue for me; sometimes they show up the sham of some of our ethics).

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September 20: me at my most sophisticated

On the TV channel SkyArts I read a little trailer for a documentary. It was a biographical programme about the famous and influential 20th Century poet T. S. Eliot. It said something like: The fascinating story of the life of T.S. Eliot, the man responsible for the poems that would inspire the Broadway musical Cats. I suppose they thought this would get more viewers in than the man who wrote the seminal modernist poems The Wasteland and Four Quartets. Barnard Castle was built during the Norman conquest and was was owned by the Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III. It was also, of course, the day trip venue of Dominic Cummings, advisor to Boris Jonson during the Covid period. Andre Previn, despite having spent his life devoted to Classical music as both a conductor and a composer, seems to be mostly remembered for his appearance on The Morecombe and Wise Show.

You cannot know how posterity will channel you or how others will see you. Of course, circumstances constantly force you to behave in a way suitable to the moment and away from your natural instincts and inclinations. Jobs push you away from yourself, make you act on behalf of the company you work for or more in keeping with your job title rather than your personality. It is a miracle that we ever emerge unscathed from the combat with the world. This act of shifting away from yourself for the sake of the circumstance is perhaps the most sophisticated act we have to perform as an individual. I consider myself fortunate that it is rare that I have to abandon myself to represent some other entity. Many people – mostly people with fancy jobs – just drift away, and when, later in life perhaps, they try and pick up that old lost self, they are not quite sure what it is thay are holding in their hands anymore. As I say, I’m lucky. The closest I get to abandoning my self is when I am just nodding along and pretending to listen to a dull interlocutor. That’s probably when I’m at my most sophisticated.

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