Time for a little old-fashioned phrase-coining.
No doubt, you’re all familiar with the term ‘gonzo journalism.’ The idea that the writer inserts his- or herself into the mix. HST started it; Tom Wolfe championed it (was he afraid of an ass-whuppin’? Izzat the real reason?).
Latterly, I’m readin’ a lot of history where the writer follows in the footsteps of some historical figure, or figures, of greater or lesser fame, and writes not only about said figure/s but relates, too, the writer’s own feelings.
Ladies and gennelmens, this is BULLSHIT.
Invariably, when one has finished reading this sensitive ‘discovery of self’ (one author – my personal vote for most fucking annoying – put it thus: “I wanted to travel across the land that the people had walked over, measuring its distance with my eyes and soul”) one is massively under-whelmed. Who cares? The fact is that Thompson worked - was so very popular - mainly because he told a good, good story. All we get from being subjected to this latter-day hubris, these ‘journeys of discovery,’ is the discovery that the writer is, in fact, a boring twat.
I give you “non-gonzo journalism” and I consign it to the rubbish bin.
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, October 29, 2009
nude
Well.
Movan' did not turn out to be be quite the joi i had been expecting. That Beatnik thang about the journey being more than the arrival: that's bollocks. And, to introduce a historical perspective, let me say that when i write my 'History of the Real Estate industry' it will be a one-word affair. And that word? A noun; plural.
Here's a thing: Though it grieves me, as a very competent historian, to do this, i must. I read this mos' excellent book one time and now i forget the source. So i can't tell y'all... I can't cite, and that's upsetting. And unprofessional. But it's such a great story.
So here's what happened: This guy, from the Ravensthorpe district on the south coast of Western Australia, goes off to fight in the First World War. He goes through a bunch of shit, but survives, and comes back a changed man (no surprises there). In the early 1920s he self-publishes a book about his experiences, in which he, firstly, shreds the British officer he had served under (the aphorism that WWI Tommies were bulldogs under the command of rabbits comes to mind). Thus far, standard fare, very popular in Aust. But then he lays into the Aust Army - critical of their lack of organisation and rationale on the Western Front. The Aust Army tries to ban the book but people are having too much fun.
So this guy has, in time-honoured style, upset the authorities, including his assault on the Aust Army at a time when pride in our fighting guys was at its peak (didja know we started celebrating Gallipoli in 1916 - just twelves months after the landing took place). And i like that. But it gets better. In a fit of pique the guy returns to the Ravensthorpe district, takes up a returned soldier's land grant some miles out of town and stop there the rest of his life, doing the minimum amount of farming to keep himself alive. And he strips off. He spends the rest of his life out there on his block, naked. The locals joke about how you have to sound your car horn when you go visit, so he can put a shirt on (1920s car horn - toot, toot!!). It's a great story, and when i relocate the book i'll tell more.
I completely endorse the notion that we are pygmies, standing on the shoulders of giants. It just gets a little ick when one realises some of those giants were starkers.
Movan' did not turn out to be be quite the joi i had been expecting. That Beatnik thang about the journey being more than the arrival: that's bollocks. And, to introduce a historical perspective, let me say that when i write my 'History of the Real Estate industry' it will be a one-word affair. And that word? A noun; plural.
Here's a thing: Though it grieves me, as a very competent historian, to do this, i must. I read this mos' excellent book one time and now i forget the source. So i can't tell y'all... I can't cite, and that's upsetting. And unprofessional. But it's such a great story.
So here's what happened: This guy, from the Ravensthorpe district on the south coast of Western Australia, goes off to fight in the First World War. He goes through a bunch of shit, but survives, and comes back a changed man (no surprises there). In the early 1920s he self-publishes a book about his experiences, in which he, firstly, shreds the British officer he had served under (the aphorism that WWI Tommies were bulldogs under the command of rabbits comes to mind). Thus far, standard fare, very popular in Aust. But then he lays into the Aust Army - critical of their lack of organisation and rationale on the Western Front. The Aust Army tries to ban the book but people are having too much fun.
So this guy has, in time-honoured style, upset the authorities, including his assault on the Aust Army at a time when pride in our fighting guys was at its peak (didja know we started celebrating Gallipoli in 1916 - just twelves months after the landing took place). And i like that. But it gets better. In a fit of pique the guy returns to the Ravensthorpe district, takes up a returned soldier's land grant some miles out of town and stop there the rest of his life, doing the minimum amount of farming to keep himself alive. And he strips off. He spends the rest of his life out there on his block, naked. The locals joke about how you have to sound your car horn when you go visit, so he can put a shirt on (1920s car horn - toot, toot!!). It's a great story, and when i relocate the book i'll tell more.
I completely endorse the notion that we are pygmies, standing on the shoulders of giants. It just gets a little ick when one realises some of those giants were starkers.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
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