Book jacket porn – Daisy

“But one Saturday night they ran out of kicks – so someone jumped  in the pool… with no clothes on.”

I feel the … didn’t quite deliver what I was hoping for there. Obviously in 1961 skinny dipping was impossibly DIRTY and usually a prelude to full-on wife-swapping…

Those ellipses are addictive. Anyhoo, this is a deliciously simple-yet-splendid example of the 1960s pulp genre. A cover that also involves the book jacket holy trinity: illustration, nakedness and the promise of absolute filth within. The swinging yellow font and pared down use of colour definitely gets me going somewhat, but I especially heart the fact that the naked lady in question is somewhat imperfectly rendered – surely not many girls have hands that large? Her face looks strangely wonky. And why is she on the phone behind an ornate chair in front of a bowl of fruit atop a pillar (is the latter symbolic of the Roman-level of depravity contained within? Or did it just look nice? Who is she phoning? We shall never know). What we do know is that according to Google, Sim Wenner (which in itself sounds like it could be an anagram of a bizarre sexual act) has also written a book called Ass on the Line.

That is all.

– Miss Crow

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by a flaccid, smug biopic

Let us briefly talk about the rich vein of material there is in the lives of the Beats. Alan Ginsberg—spent time in the bug house, homosexual but tried to ‘convert’, at 21 had to sign the papers to lobotomise his insane mother; Jack Kerouac—bisexual, alcoholic, a mother complex that would poleaxe Freud, married his first wife as a condition of her parents posting bail after he got mixed up in a murder charge; Neal Cassady—bisexual (hey, there’s a pattern here!), car thief, roué, body found by train tracks in Mexico in 1968; William Burroughs—homo(some might argue bi)isexual, 60 year heroin habit, shot his wife in the head in a prank gone awry.

And that just scratches the surface for the principles, and does not even mention the colourful criminals, vagabonds, wastrels and wasters who were around the periphery of the movement.

It is an astounding achievement, then, for directors Rob Esptein and Jeffrey Friedman to take these fecund, rich biographies and sculpt them into the excruciatingly dull pile of crap that is Howl. The film, as you will be aware if you’ve read any of the fawning Sunday supplement pieces on Hollywood’s Flavour of the Month, stars James “Did you know I’m doing a PhD in my spare time?” Franco as Ginsberg. The action revolves around a reading of, and obscenity trial after publication, of his poem “Howl”, interspersed with Franco talking to camera (a recreation of an interview Ginsberg gave in 1957) and animation that illustrates the poem.

Oh, where to begin? Let’s take the trial. Most viewers predisposed to Howl will know the outcome of the obscenity charges (not made against Ginsberg, but his publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti). But taut, courtroom drama can be made even if viewers know what happens—Inherit the Wind, for example. Howl’s courtroom snatches, however, are dreary, earnest, with lamentable perfomances—particularly a sleepwalking David Strathairn as the buffoon of a prosecutor. The prosecution witnesses—such as Mary-Louise Parker’s frigid and pinched anti-obscenity campaigner and jowly Jeff Daniels’ conservative university don—are predictably set up as priggish fall guys.  The greatest point of interest in all the courtroom scenes is defending attorney Jon “Don Draper” Hamm’s amazing five-pointed handkerchief, a luminous thing of beauty.

The animation starts interestingly enough but quickly falls into dreary, cliché 50s jazz iconography. Although there are cocks in the animation. Lots of massive big cocks. Did I mention the cocks?

The most ball achingly bad section is the Ginsberg/Franco interview. You can tell Franco has listened to the tapes obsessively, and he has the mannerisms down pat. But it’s all surface and tics and pauses—you can never believe he is Ginsberg. The only energy in Howl comes from the flashbacks when Franco is reading the poem out for the first time in a San Francisco gallery. It is shot in black and white, hepcats are passing around jugs of wine, just grooving to Ginsberg’s words, Daddy-O. Watch those 20 minutes if you’re ever subjected to the DVD, ignore the rest.

—Raven, Esq.

Book jacket porn: The Bellamy Trial

There is a particular penchant for book jackets from the 1920s-60s here at R&C, as you loyal readers are well aware. This particular treasure was uncovered at the Book Bear, West Brookfield, MA, a massive warehouse full of second-hand books (you know the place, right down Rt 9, a few miles from the Salem Cross Inn). When you’re next in West Brookfield, take a look.

But look at this little beauty, isn’t it delicious? You can practically smell the dust. The Bellamy Case was originally published in 1927, and it was pretty much the invention of the courtroom drama—the entire book takes place during a murder trial (which makes me wonder, when is an Amanda Knox novel coming out?). It was loosely based on the Hall-Mills murder case, probably the most sensational trial in early 20th Century America until the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. In 1922 the bodies of Eleanor Mills and Episcopal priest Edward Wheeler were found in New Brunswick, New Jersey with gunshot wounds to the head, Mills’ tongue cut out, love letters between the two ripped up and scattered over the corpses. Yes, it seems someone objected to the, um, private homilies the good Rev. Wheeler was giving to his parishioner Mrs Mills. The prime suspects [spoiler alert!], Wheeler’s wife and her brothers, were acquitted and the crime was never solved.

This particular edition came out in 1944, which you can see from this on the inside front cover.

Two thoughts. One is that though this was printed under wartime restrictions in order to conserve paper, the stock is thicker, hardier and far better quality than any mass market paperback you’ll get today. Today’s books will only last 70 years if kept hermetically sealed.

Second is that the ‘Books are the weapons in the war of ideas’ motto coupled with the special form on the back that enabled people to post the book for a reduced rate to ‘any boy in the armed forces’ seems, in context, a bit unsettling.

Yes, yes, books are great, freedom of expression, yadda, yadda, yadda. Yet I wonder what I would think, if I was an infantryman freezing in the snowy Ardennes about to take on the Hun at the Battle of the Bulge, or a sniper firing potshots at Tojo on humid, mosquito-infested Iwo Jima, if I got this book in the post. A taut legal thriller about murder, adultery, and a corrupt, deaf, dumb and blind legal system? Yes, these are the ideals I’m fighting for! God bless America!

—Raven, Esq.

Radio Raven & Crow: In search of crafters

Hellair. Theese is tha Bee Bee Cee. Not really. We don’t know how to make a radio show in real life. If we could it would be like one of those lovely Radio 4 features with sound recordings for “atmosphere” and lots of interviews and voiceovers, except it would all be funny. So instead of that, here is the imaginary script of the first programme off our imaginary radio station. Goodbair!

*Raven & Crow jingle*

(Posh woman VO) “Welcome to Raven & Crow’s lifestyle features strand. Episode 1: Crafting!”

(Posh woman VO) “Craft has been the hit of the 00s, with club nights, fairs and festivals dedicated to the pleasures of making do and mending. With the recession in full swing, this programme went to investigate the rise and rise of being crafty and to discover whether the activity really is post-feminist, or just a way of taking being ‘indie’ to new, desperate levels…”

*Sounds reminiscent of a bustling community centre*

(Posh woman VO) “The WI Haggerston is one of the newest branches of the famous organisation, and the place where keen crafters come to visit. Milly Fiddling-Whiffer, who occasionally works in TV, but doesn’t really have to, was one of the first members to join. She explains why for her, making stuff that most people would just sling in the loft is a form of relaxation and actually, an art form…”

(VO Milly):
“Knitting is very much a relaxing pastime – I have myself never successfully learned to do it, though I do keep two balls of wool with needles stuck through them on my bookshelf, just for show – it impresses people. I come here to hang out with other crafters and talk about wool – my favourite at the moment is an electric blue 8 yarn so we’ve had a lot of jokes about that…”

(Posh woman VO)
“Chloe, 25, a freelance video artist with a private income, is another crafter who likes the idea that craft groups are the antithesis of cool, even though paradoxically, they now actually are achingly hip … “

(Chloe VO)
“Since the craft explosion of the 00s there are buckets of these up and down the country… it’s not true that all crafting groups are village halls full of… I don’t know… stony-faced spinsterish ladies with click clacky jaws talking about their hysterectomies. A lot of us are very worthy quasi-lesbians wearing glasses that were designed in Germany.”

*Background noise – click/clack.. (distant VO) “and I had a total prolapse in ’67… new lease of life” – click clack*

(Chloe VO)
“There tend to be a lot of art students and indie girls, probably wearing Mary Janes, sucking lollipops and doodling scribbly pictures of chaffinches. I once appliquéd a greater crested grebe and sent it to Morrissey.”

(Posh woman VO)
“Meanwhile, Helen Bonifuffler, of the Knitty Nit Wit organisation points out that it’s not a place just for ugly birds – sometimes there are even men in these groups – though they are probably all gay – but who has enough gay friends?”

(Helen VO)
“We love gays. If you do have a friend who can knit, gay or otherwise, get them to cast on. It’s a laugh. Any men you meet, send them our way. We’re like a pack of sex-starved knitters. I’m not joking, everyone here is really desperate. Celia had a boyfriend once but only for 2 days. That’s when she turned to macramé.”

(Posh woman VO)
“So there we have it. Crafting – not for making anything practical, but absolutely a fantastic hobby for anyone who hasn’t got anything better to do. Right – I’m off to poke myself in the eye…

*Sounds of clicking needles to fade*

Tune in next week for the next in our lifestyle features!

– Miss Crow

The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby by Tom Wolfe

Blimey! Another fine, admittedly somewhat cheeky, contribution from the celebrated artist Supermundane, who has delved into his mucky little collection of cover art and produced this fine example of eye-catching cover art.

We are very much enjoying the title of this tome, (which is in fact not, as you’d be forgiven for assuming, a Terry Southern-style free-fiction wig-out, or a pulpy chick-novella about the “permissive society” but a collection of Wolfe’s journalistic endeavours for Esquire and the New York Herald Tribune). Apparently Wolfe was a pioneer of pre-Lester Bangs hackery, and active in those heady acid-soaked days of the 60s when it was apparently all about freeform writing that didn’t conform to any pre-concieved notions of journalism, maaaaan – hence, one assumes, the ker-azy esoteric nature of the title.

Anyway, back to the visuals. Supermundane says of his offering: “Is this sexist? I can’t tell. It is using a lady’s ass to sell a book for 5/-, but there’s an honesty about it: creases left in, wildly unflattering pure polyester knickers/shorts and if a lady was to have a title of a book painted across their ass, ‘The Kandy-Kolored-Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby by Tom Wolfe’ wouldn’t be the first choice to show off your tiny, pert butt. This is practically a feminist statement.

My tube ticket bookmark tells me I managed to get through 134 of the 255 pages held within.”

So there you have it.

– Miss Crow

Prince Philip: Celebrating Ninety Years, selections from the exhibition notes by Sir Percival Llewellyn Eton-Hogg

From the Windsor Castle website:

“Forthcoming Exhibition – ‘Prince Philip: Celebrating 90 years’
The 90th birthday of His Royal Highness Prince Philip (on 10 June 2011) is marked by a special exhibition at Windsor Castle, the home of The Duke of Edinburgh and The Queen for nearly 60 years.The exhibition runs from 12 February 2011 to 22 January 2012 and brings together photographs, memorabilia, paintings and gifts selected from the Royal Collection, the Royal Archives and the Duke’s personal collection to illustrate key moments in His Royal Highness’s life. It also reflects Prince Philip’s many interests…”

1. Gilt bronze lamp, maker unknown. 2nd Century B.C., Western Han Dynasty

This exquisite piece, delicately shaped in the form of a maidservant, shows the extraordinary skill and craftmanship typical of the era of the Han, China’s second imperial dynasty. Presented to HRH on a state visit to China in 1996 by a group of British exchange students at Beijing University. The Prince thanked them and said: “If you stay here much longer you’ll all be slitty-eyed.”

2. HRH Prince Philip with Science Students by Antony Armstrong-Jones, 1st Lord Snowdon. Silver on gelatin print, 1996

A stunning  photograph showing the Prince Consort, his royal mein heroically captured by Lord Snowdon’s genius, with a group of students at a science fair at the University of Salford. The rather chubby 13-year-old chap at the far right later said to the Prince that he hoped someday to be an astronaut and ride in the Nova rocket, to which his Highness quipped: “Well, you’ll never fly in it, you’re too fat to be an astronaut.”

3. Culzean Castle, Ayrshire by Alexander Nasmyth. Oil on canvas, 1812

A typically dramatic depiction of one of Queen Elizabeth’s favourite Scottish castles by Nasmyth, unquestionably the finest Scottish landscape and portrait painters of the Romantic period. Presented to the Prince by the National Galleries of Scotland at a reception at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh in 2002. Later at the reception, Prince Philip remarked to an attendee who was a Scottish driving instructor: “How do you keep the natives off the booze long enough to get them through the test?”

4. Flintlock dueling pistols, manufactured by Wodgon & Barton. London, 1768

This pair of pistols was originally owned by Prime Minister William Pitt, 1st Earl Chatham, later used by his son William Pitt the Younger in a duel against the Whig politician George Tierney in 1798 (neither combatant was injured). The barrels of each pistol are inscribed with Pitt the Younger’s attributed last words: “Oh my country! My country!” and “I could eat one of Bellamy’s veal pies”. Presented to HRH at the bicentenary of Pitt’s death, 2006, by the trustees of the Hayes (Kent) Historical Society. The Prince Consort has always been a staunch advocate of gun rights, once opining vigorously against the anti-gun hysteria following the Dunblane massacre: “A gun is no more dangerous than a cricket bat in the hands of a madman.”

5. Woof, Woof by Damian Hirst. “Mistress Bowser”, formaldehyde, perspex box, 2004

The House of Windsor’s fondness for their pet Corgis is well-known. This particular piece by Young British Artist enfant terrible Hirst was commissioned by the Prince Consort following the lamentable demise of Her Majesty the Queen’s favourite, Mistress Bowser, after it was trampled by a herd of Highland cows at Balmoral. Hirst said he aimed to “preserve, Lenin-like, the noble Mistress Bowser for all eternity”. Leakage from the Perspex box was fixed by royal glaziers in 2008. Prince Philip, like the Queen, is a dog lover—and a dog joke lover. One memorable sally was to a blind, wheelchair-bound pensioner and her guide dog in 2002 when the Prince said: “Do you know they’re now producing eating dogs for the anorexics?”

Sir Percival Llewellyn Eton-Hogg, 23d Viscount Thornton-Cleveleys, Knight of the Garter, MA Oxford, PhD Cambridge, BMid Royal College of Midwifery, is majordomo for the Royal Collection, Windsor Castle.

Short parses

It is National Short Story Day, and the shortest day of the year (see what they did there?). How are you planning on celebrating? Personally, I’m doing it in the traditional Homeric way: slaughtering a goat to the muse Calliope, bathing in its blood then deflowering a troop of maidens. Of course, that’s how I shall be celebrating Christmas, as well. And the New Year. And Remembrance Day, although that will involve 11 bullocks being sacrificed at 11 am. Messy, yes, but a suitable tribute to our brave boys.

Anywho. The short story has gotten increasingly short shrift in the past, oh, 40-50 years, a general decline coinciding with the rise of the mass media. Why sit down to read a short story when you could fill those idle minutes watching Gilligan’s Island or The Beverly Hillbillies? Indeed [drones on insufferably for 1,500 words on the decline of  literature, the miasma of postmodernity and the dumbing down of society—Ed.]

But are we set for a short story revival? The Raven says yes. A bunch of short story only publishers have recently launched in the digital/e-book world and the e-book itself and mobile phone reading in particular, are suited to the short story. And the attention span of the young. Indeed [drones on insufferably for 1,500 words on how the internet and Facebook has scarred a generation—Ed.]

For what it’s worth, I’ll take you by the hand and guide you through a few of my favourite short stories/collections (do mind the goat’s blood as we go).

Herman Melville, “Bartleby the Scrivner”—The literary equivalent of a Seinfeld episode (“it’s about nothing!”), but profound. And yes, smartass, you could argue it’s a novella.

Wells Tower, Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned—This debut collection came out last year, and it’s full of down on their luck losers, roustabouts and Vikings. Yes, Vikings. Need I say more?

Lorrie Moore, Birds of America—The best collection from the best short story writer of English today, period.

Ernest Hemingway, The Complete Short Stories—Papa wasn’t just a macho poseur whose drinking and big game hunting compensated for his inability in later life to get the old Evenrude cranking, if you know what I mean. His early stories in particular are complex and subtle.

Flannery, O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find—Drunkards, freaks, an idiot man-child or two. It pretty much sums up the rural South.

James Joyce, “The Dead”—Hey, it’s Joyce! Has your pretentiousness alarm sounded, dear reader? His greatest story (THE greatest story?) is accessible, brilliant and sad, so eff you if it has.

Charles Dickens, “A Christmas Carol”—Yes, another novella. But still, ’tis the season. God bless us, everyone!

—Raven, Esq.

Literary Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics, a Miscellany. Volume the First: Drink

50

 Number of cups of highly concentrated Turkish coffee Honoré de Balzac drank each day during his 30 year writing career.

51

Age in which Balzac died, partly from hypertrophy (abnormal enlargement) of his left ventricle, due to excessive caffeine intake.

18

Number of whiskies Dylan Thomas had at the White Horse pub, Greenwich Village, New York on 9th November, 1953.

39

Thomas’ age when he died a few hours after leaving the White Horse. His last words were:  “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies……I think that’s the record.”

3 to 5

Thermoses of hot tea and sherry Carson McCullers would drink a day when writing. She called the concoction “my sonnie boy”.

12

Crates of Guinness delivered to Brendan Behan by the Guinness brewery for him to come up with a slogan. His suggestion, “Guinness makes you drunk”, was never used by the company.

13

Days William S. Burroughs spent in a Mexican jail for the “culpable homicide” of wife Joan Vollmer, after he shot her in the head while drunk in a game of  “William Tell” at the Bounty Bar, Mexico City in 1951.

91

Dollars in Jack Kerouac’s bank account when he died in 1969 of cirrhosis of the liver. His estate is currently valued at over $25m.

500

Words Kingsley Amis forced himself to write before he could begin his day’s drinking. He was usually finished by noon.

1

Months of consecutive sobriety Fred Exley reckoned he managed in his adult life. He said: “After a month’s sobriety my faculties became unbearably acute and I found myself unhealthily clairvoyant, having insights into places I’d as soon not journey to. Unlike some men, I had never drunk for boldness or charm or wit; I had used alcohol for precisely what it was, a depressant to check the mental exhilaration produced by extended sobriety.”

17.00

L’heure verte, or the perfect hour of drinking absinthe according to Paul Verlaine.

36 million

Litres of absinthe consumed per year by the French in 1910 – compared to about 5 billion litres of wine.

 75

Percentage of alcohol in absinthe, though its purported psychoactive ingredient is thujone, a byproduct of wormwood. Charles Baudelaire was committed to a sanitarium in Brussels in 1866 after months of excessive absinthe drinking.

– Raven, Esq.

The first BOBFOC (Body Off Baywatch, Face Off Crimewatch) in literature, a consideration

From The Woman in White, by Mr Wilkie Collins (below, and no oil painting himself), first published in All The Year Round: A Weekly Journal, 1859-60:  

“A little before nine o’clock, I descended to the ground-floor of the house. The solemn man-servant of the night before met me wandering among the passages, and compassionately showed me the way to the breakfast-room.

“My first glance round me, as the man opened the door, disclosed a well-furnished breakfasttable, standing in the middle of a long room, with many windows in it. I looked from the table to the window farthest from me, and saw a lady standing at it, with her back turned toward me.

“The instant my eyes rested on her, I was struck by the rare beauty of her form, and by the unaffected grace of her attitude. Her figure was tall, yet not too tall; comely and well-developed, yet not fat; her head set on her shoulders with an easy, pliant firmness; her waist, perfection in the eyes of a man, for it occupied its natural place, it filled out its natural circle, it was visibly and delightfully undeformed by stays. She had not heard my entrance into the room; and I allowed myself the luxury of admiring her for a few moments, before I moved one of the chairs near me, as the least embarrassing means of attracting her attention.

“She turned toward me immediately. The easy elegance of every movement of her limbs and body as soon as she began to advance from the far end of the room, set me in a flutter of expectation to see her face clearly. She left the window— and I said to myself, The lady is dark. She moved forward a few steps—and I said to myself, The lady is young. She approached nearer—and I said to myself (with a sense of surprise which words fail me to express), The lady is ugly!

“Never was the old conventional maxim, that Nature can not err, more flatly contradicted— never was the fair promise of a lovely figure more strangely and startlingly belied by the face and head that crowned it. The lady’s complexion was almost swarthy, and the dark down on her upper lip was almost a mustache. She had a large, firm, masculine mouth and jaw; prominent, piercing, resolute brown eyes; and thick, coal-black hair, growing unusually low down on her forehead. Her expression— bright, frank, and intelligent—appeared, while she was silent, to be altogether wanting in those feminine attractions of gentleness and pliability, without which the beauty of the handsomest woman alive is beauty incomplete.”

– Raven, Esq.

Upon the engagement of William and Kate, a verse

You got engaged today
You are posh
You can ski
One of you is royal
One of you has a pretend job in PR you never have to go to
One of you has a receding hairline
One of you has dreadful taste in millinery and kitten heels
I wonder if you ever have really filthy rampant sex
Somehow, I doubt it

– Anon