I've been reading (and rereading) this, on and off, for a while now. I found the book through a review on The Guardian website, which said, in part:
"What unites the various aspects of Tallis's thinking is a profound reaction against reductionism. Whether he is writing on the "neuromania" that insists the brain is identical to the mind, or the nature of time, or skewering the improbabilities of Ian McEwan's Saturday, Tallis seems allergic to forms of thought that deny the fine-grained, paradoxical and profuse nature of reality."
I've been reading Len Deighton's Game, Set, Match trilogy.
Dark, realistic spy novels of the Cold War. No action set pieces, just intelligent, complicated, intricately plotted tales. The protagonist, Bernard Samson is a masterwork. I'm just about done with the first in the series, having devoured it on a recent trip to Boston and I can't wait to get on to the second. Perfect for the airport or the plane.
I've also been reading Hunter S. Thompson's, The Rum Diary. Soon to be made into a movie starring Johnny Depp in the Paul Kemp role and directed by Bruce Robinson of Withnail and I fame. Can't wait. ...There are certain writers that, when I think I've lost my way, or I need get grounded, I need a way back, are always there in waiting. Thompson is one. Hemingway, Ellison, Bukowski are there too. This is a book that was there when I needed it. Funny, honest, a book about getting lost, and a book only Thompson could write. And thank the Gods he did!
I've been thinking, I might start Shelby Foote's Civil War trilogy next. A massive, daunting undertaking for me. A good mountain to try and climb, one that might take all summer? Worse ways to fill the hours...?
I've been reading Patti Smith's National Book Award winning memoir, "Just Kids" about her time with Robert Mapplethorpe. It's an exceptional book. She's been criticized for embellishing her remembrances, but like her lyrics, I find the book has a dream-like quality, and these "embellishments" are so honest that I in no way see them as a cheat, or a lie. She paints such a romantic, bohemian, utterly free, anything-was-possible picture that only comes with the the achingly young and naive with nothing to lose, bursting with energy and searching for someplace to put it. They were both convinced they would one day be artists. They just KNEW. As poor as they were happy, they lived for art, and were completely and totally supportive of the other.
As with any great book, it's sent me out, wanting to know more about this or that. One direction was straight toward Rimbaud. When Smith boarded a bus for New York, having bought the ticket with found money, she had nothing but a suitcase and Rimbaud. I knew very little about Rimbaud, but based on her love of his work I went and bought the book I've posted here. Later, Jim Carroll lived with Mapplethorpe and Smith for a time and after Carroll died last year she referred to him as the American Rimbaud. Now how could I not search out all things Rimbaud after that?
They had no radio or TV. They had no money. But they had Dylan's rambling, epic masterpiece Blonde on Blonde. She talks about playing it over and over again while hunched over their canvases drawing and painting all night. I can imagine them, one hunched over some drawing paper sketching, the other hunched over the record player, flipping the disk. I imagine when I listen that they heard the same things I do in the songs. They got it. We get it.
Hard to believe now, but I knew something like it all once. Long dead and gone now, not nearly as... ...But for a while there...
For years Francis Ford Coppola has published Zoetrope: All-Story. Comes out about four times a year and each issue has a guest designer. This summer the guest designer is PJ Harvey.
It comes highly recommended. In the past I’ve collected the issues designed by Lou Reed and David Bowie
Word is David Fincher is going to stage the film version soon. All I needed to know to get me reading. I’ve yet to be disappointed. Highly recommended!
When I see that finished I’m going to climb Everest in the form of War and Peace.
I’ve been challenged and I see it best to try and not climb such heights alone. Let’s see if I can finally make the summit. Past attempts have been met with failure. This does not deter me.
In Defence of Wonder and Other Philosophical Reflections by Raymond Tallis
next. A massive, daunting undertaking for me. A good mountain to try and climb, one that might take all summer? Worse ways to fill the hours...?
I've been reading Patti Smith's National Book Award winning memoir, "Just Kids" about her time with Robert Mapplethorpe. It's an exceptional book. She's been criticized for embellishing her remembrances, but like her lyrics, I find the book has a dream-like quality, and these "embellishments" are so honest that I in no way see them as a cheat, or a lie. She paints such a romantic, bohemian, utterly free, anything-was-possible picture that only comes with the the achingly young and naive with nothing to lose, bursting with energy and searching for someplace to put it. They were both convinced they would one day be artists. They just KNEW. As poor as they were happy, they lived for art, and were completely and totally supportive of the other. 
. 
.
