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Book review: “The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil,” George Saunders

A friend of mine recommended this book. Actually, he kept recommending it, every time we met and started talking about books – “Reign of Phil” would crop up and the improbable setting of the story would be described again. So when I finally got round to reading it, encouraged by “Gappers of Fripp” which I enjoyed immensely, I thought that I’ve got this story pretty much covered and that there will be no surprises in this book. Wrong.

The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil” does two brilliant things with its title: it discloses a major part of its plot, and it delivers a promise of some final resolution. So that’s another quasi-spoiler for me – not only did I know the geopolitical peculiarities of Inner and Outer Horner beforehand, I also knew that Phil’s reign would be brief and frightening. But I still managed to enjoy the story, and found it just frightening and heartwarming enough.

This is what would happen if political satire met Stanisław Lem on neutral grounds of children’s lit. “TBAFROP” is set in countries unlike any other, and populated by creatures whose anatomy suggests intense cybernetic experiments gone wrong, but it manages to feel close to home and very, very relatable. I loved the ease with which I could come to terms with how the places and their inhabitants were described: the fact that their passions, vices, drives and histories are universal made the process actually very palatable.

This is a short book about ambition, weaknesses and power. It’s funny at times, serious and frightening as well. There’s a bit of grotesque, a lot of satire – and some good-humoured preaching in it too. Saunders managed to distill all these sentiments, flavours and actions into a book that doesn’t feel big at all, and yet leaves a big impact.

Not all works well as the story progresses. Curious readers can still access the website for the book and compare the out-takes with the finished product – a testimony to the difficulties that arise when a small story like “TBAFROP” tries to tackle such complex issues. The whole idea seems sketchy from the start, and glossing over several of its aspects may be a flaw that not many readers are willing to forgive. And as for the way it ends – to borrow Heaney’s phrase, “since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,” the ending will appear rushed to some and well in place to others. Personally, I found it fits quite well.

But in the end, it’s a marvellously complex piece of writing. Like one of its protagonists, it refuses to fit within the borders of one genre or mood: parts of it are firmly in satire-land, whilst other parts invade the realms of fantasy, comedy and morality tale. It’s brief and frightening, but it manages to find a voice that most readers will be willing to listen to – and tell a story that can be re-told again and again, until another person picks the book up to learn something about themselves, their fears and ambitions.

Which, I guess, is what good literature can also be about.

 
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The Art of the Pitch

A thought that turned into a fun experiment today: prepare a pitch for anything.

I got really excited thinking up a sales spiel for a ball pen. Not because I believed the ball pen was good (I’ve never even seen it, it was hypothetical). And not because I like sales so much – it’s how I work, but not how I want to live everyday.
The reason is this: a sales process is art. In some cases it’s painful to watch, and in others just cheesy. But the right kind of sale seems to me to be a thing worth pursuing, and going through the spiel and the pitch might be a valuable step in the process.
Even if it rarely gets you there. Even if you would go through this only to remind yourself of the futility and theatricality of a pitch. Even if your heart wasn’t in it, as you sold an imaginary thing to a random person. Even if (crucially if) the purpose of this spiel is just to get it out of the system.

If Mr Burroughs is right about language being a virus –  

If Mr Durden is right about finding things out after work – 

If you are right about being fed up with sales that don’t connect, don’t deliver or convince –  

Maybe it’s necessary to get through a lot of the bad ones before you start having good conversations.  And maybe it’s the bad ones you need to simulate and practice, so that the good ones are free to happen for real.

Think about this: a group of people meets every month. They draw names of objects from a hat – or draw the objects themselves. They have 5 minutes to prepare their spiel. After 5 minutes, they will choose a “prospect” from the group and try to sell. Instructions to the salesperson: be as over-the-top as you like, use the oldest tricks in the dustiest books, con, cajole, say the first thing on your mind – without filtering. Instructions to the “prospect’ – be reasonable, object, ask sensible questions, interrupt and try to break the pitch mid-way, refuse to agree to stuff you don’t like (just as you would in real life). Others are free to look and comment (if feedback is asked for afterwards). The spiel is max. 3 minutes. After that, the next pair is on.

What doesn’t happen is a productive, healthy sale.

What will happen is this: you will get the TV salesperson out of your system, and be comfortable around your worst possible performance. The time limit, the random product, the simulated prospect – all are carefully chosen to ensure you do your worst. And this may bring about a positive change: you may become more relaxed and open to what the other person is saying, more inclined to keep eye contact, more aware of the body language and everything else that happens as you yammer away…

Repeat every month. And in between those grotesque anti-sales carnivals, make sure you leave the tricks behind and feel free to focus on finding out the important stuff about selling. 

(Oh, and don’t tell me you don’t really work in sales.) 

 

 

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Home Is Where Your Cat Could Well Be

The flat has two bedrooms and three cats, and (usually) two people in it. We are cat-sitting for a week, and enjoying it so far – maybe because it’s only the first evening, maybe because my allergies haven’t kicked in yet. Or maybe it’s because you just can’t NOT enjoy it.

I don’t mean “not enjoy cats” – I bet this is perfectly possible. What’s on my mind is the thing that, for all its crowded boroughs and in-yer-face attitudes, London is missing: a thing I can only call “presence.”

At the moment, all three cats are in various stages of nap. We’re making out way through our separate bottles of wine, slowly but diligently. Two laptops run in two corners of the dining table, with Prince and word processors and web browsing. There is not much happening, and yet the room feels full and busy.

Either of us can walk across the room and try to do something to any of the cats. Or the cats can become interested (or feign interest) in anything that happens around our laptops, glasses or feet. There will be time for one more meal for them, maybe, and then off to bed (for us) and for nightly runs and cavorting in the dark (them).

It doesn’t have to be a cat. Dogs, mice, any kind of pet or person you’re comfortable with – that does the trick. The thing about the right kind of presence would be that you’re OK with sitting in the room and not interacting – and switching between not-interacting and interacting, whenever any party feels like it. 

The cats are well used to one another, and their grooming and playful fights rarely come as a surprise. We are used to them, and they to us. But that alone is not enough; something more is needed between “used to” and “OK with whatever happens next, even if nothing happens.”

“It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. “It means to establish ties.”

Taming could be one word for it – one aspect of whatever it is we’re enjoying now. But that leaves out the “wild” part of the deal, which also happens every now and then: the cats still freak out at a sudden noise, we still choose to enjoy the wild human side every now and then. And the “ties” idea doesn’t really do justice to the temporary, non-committal relationship we have with those cats: their owners pay for their food and vet care, they make sure everything’s OK for us and them to enjoy this week together.

No, there’s something else – the people who tamed these cats enjoy it, but we enjoy it as well, to an extent, without the “ties” being there.

Could it be the “glance full of mutual understanding” that Levi-Strauss writes about? This is closer to what it feels like, for sure. It’s not like we’re regular people for these cats, and we are pretty regular towards each other as humans: and yet it seems we share the room and the evening on equal terms. So where does this come from?

Back again to the wild side. Wild because of London, but this could work anywhere, and probably the reason people and cats feel OK is similar here and in Marazion in Cornwall. The relationship between the wild and the spectator is probably the exact opposite to the “glance full of mutual understanding:” you watch to figure things out, to determine risk and safety, to establish relationships, categorize, size things up. This used to happen outside your home, and stop whenever you came back into the house. Except that it doesn’t any more, not in London – not in a world of house-shares and housemate castings, not in a reality where “part ownership” is something to aspire to.

Home is where your wi-fi connects automatically, she said as we set up to do some work here. This is as good a definition as any other. Seth Godin writes about “safety zone” no longer being equal to the “comfort zone” – but another important shift is taking place, the ever-widening gap between “house” and “home.” Ask the renters, the houseshare crowd, the backpackers, the wandering English teachers: home is a thousand different things. And establishing ties is just one way to deal with a world that’s increasingly wild by default.

So maybe what I’m feeling now is more important than I thought. Maybe the very fact that 99% of flats and houses available to rent in London tonight would not permit that kind of setting – me, her, three cats – maybe that’s more dark and symptomatic than I give it credit for.

There will be time for those ideas, soon. Now the night falls, and the cats – arranged in a nice triangle across the living room – enter the nether regions of nap. This minute is home.

Maybe that’s all there ever is to it.

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Two kinds of free: the price(s) of free language learning

free language learningFree foreign language learning is either a worthy ideal or a cheap trick played on customers – depending on who you ask. But isn’t there another way of looking at language learners – and at the notion of “free”? Once again, answers can be found in some unexpected places.