Category: Wednesday’s Child

I just finished watching the last episode of a fifty-episode Russian television series entitled Zone.  This epic series was made ten years ago, and represents a kind of symbolic watershed in Russia’s political progress from the authoritarian horizontal of the 1990’s to the totalitarian vertical of today.  To make such a production in the country’s present climate would be just about unthinkable, as witness the scandal around Zvyagintsev’s 2014 film Leviathan, acclaimed in Cannes yet politically a much weaker statement than Zone. It occurs to me that, having sunk 50 hours of my time into this situation tragedy, I may...

A black pimp in a red velour hat by the name of Ben Okri – black is a statement of fact, pimp is an expression of opinion, conjunction of the two is my constitutional right, and the red velour hat, I admit, is only there for literary verisimilitude – has written a poem for a new art museum called the Louvre Abu Dhabi, which opens next week.  “A great story unites us all,” writes Okri, actually a British writer born in Nigeria who has won many literary prizes for his absurd twaddle, “beyond colour and creed and gender. / The...

My wife used to say that coming from Palermo to London is like falling from the calyx of a flower onto a bed of metal shavings, and with every passing year I marvel more and more at the accuracy of that description.  In reverse the shock of the change does not work as powerfully, probably because the brain, like eyes after a spell in darkness, needs time to adjust and take it all in – the sunlight, the smells and the smiles.  Each time I return, I can almost literally feel the mind thawing out as I hand to Mimmo,...

I no longer have a house in London, but the sense of homelessness that envelops me here like a shroud is probably nothing to do with entries in the land registry. It is more to do with November wind, swirling bestially inside my coat and making restaurant awnings flap like exploding grenades, with drizzling rain that stops and starts with a nauseating periodicity, with passing pedestrians who avoid your eye as they roll and unroll black umbrellas. London in November is like being a mourner at a funeral, and who ever felt at home in front of an open grave...

I was under the weather last week, and besides I thought the gentle reader might use a week’s rest from my compulsive ratiocination, so I did not post.  Weather is a big factor the closer one gets to Africa.  The sirocco arrives here bearing a fine sand dust from the Sahara that gets in everywhere, but worse than that, it makes one feel like a lemon squeezed dry, moscio, as the locals say, meaning flaccid, limp, flabby.  After a day or two, one finds oneself yearning for Siberia and the bracing touch of the bora. Sirocco makes people grumpy, irritable,...

“Ingsoc,” as the gentle reader may recall, was Newspeak for “English Socialism,” the ruling ideology in Orwell’s nightmare.  A modern version of that nightmare is already up and running in real time throughout mainland China under the official name of “System of Social Credit.”  Before long all mankind is expected to see the advantages of such a system, with most developed countries following China in implementing their own national versions of digital totalitarianism.  As I have written here on several occasions in the past, Russia, while behind China in this area of technology, is scheduled to launch a homespun analogue...

Last week a 51-year-old man was briefly in police custody in the northwest of England for passing leaflets to shoppers of the fair sex in a town square. “No offence intended,” read the culprit’s appeal. “You are simply a female that caught my eye, and I don’t have the time to talk right now.” “I am not looking for a girlfriend or relationship,” ran his argument. “I am looking for a possible private arrangement.” This was followed, in case any of his readers might mistake his intentions in some unexpected way – for instance, spitefully misconstruing them as honorable –...

Last month, those in the know were told by the good Dr. Thomas Fleming that “with valid passports and plane reservations, you now only need endure the rigors of international air travel and get to the Grand Hotel del Gianicolo.”  Quite so, but it has occurred to me that what the chosen among Pastor Fleming’s flock may need at the point of departure for Italy is a nice little epithalamium. I have written on a number of occasions in the past that a country is invariably defined by what its climate allows its people to cultivate, so that France or Italy...