Call for Moominpapers

Posting this for a friend - wish I'd thought of it! I'm basically the departmental Groke. Here's a scene in which the new university managers meet a Moomin:

And this is my response:

I've loved the Moomins for many years. I had a couple of books as a child, but never saw the comic strips or TV series. As a kid, I knew there was something special about the emotional sophistication of these fat herbivores - going back to them later I realised that Jansson had created a nigh-on perfect set of characters through which to explore anything from fascism (the comic strip in which Moominvalley is invaded by bullying exercise fanatics) to depression (take your pick) but which never lectured or moaned: there's at least as much joy at simple things and egalitarian community values as there is worry. 

Call for papers

Moomin collection

The Moomins, created by Tove Jansson, have delighted and enlightened adults and children for generations, and have been translated into several languages. In all, nine books were published , together with five picture books and a comic strip, between 1945 and 1993. The Moomins have since been the basis for numerous television series, films and even a theme park called Moomin World in Naantali, Finland. 

At the centennial anniversary of their creator’s birth, a new film has been released and more of Jansson’s works are now being translated from Swedish into various other languages, including, finally, her work for older readers. This has put the Moomins back on the map, and created a second ‘Moomin boom’, which is, in itself, worthy of analysis. Her works have often been regarded in terms of potential autobiographical readings – an approach perhaps encouraged by Jansson’s much-famed ‘island’ lifestyle – but the time is ripe for revaluations and reconsiderations. This collection therefore seeks to extend the work already done in the field, and to take into consideration as many of the different variations, and incarnations, of the Moomins as it is possible to cover in a book-length study, it aims to have an open focus, and to begin conversations about The Moomins, their roles, impact and influences as children’s characters, and their status as ambassadors of a greener, more bohemian, lifestyle.

I am seeking contributions of 5000 words and envisage that the collection will comprise entries on the books, comic strips, theatre productions, TV series (Soviet & Japanese) and film, and even the theme park. At present I do not have a publisher for this book but will be approaching Palgrave, Bloomsbury et al once I have some more contributors and potential chapter abstracts to submit. Themes might include (but are not limited to):

Ecological elements

Philosophical aspects

Gender

Narrative structure

Grief and loss

Legacy (commercialisation)

If you would like to contribute, please send an abstract of not more than 500 words by October 30^th 2015 to Dr Nicola Allen at: N.allen2@wlv.ac.uk

Books in… and it's only Tuesday.

Oh dear. A bit of an avalanche this week.

Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse - after a recommendation by a Twitter contact. It's a set of essays on cultural criticism, mostly exploring the relationship between history and other literary forms - Vico, Croce, Derrida and Foucault make significant appearances.

Brian Baker, Masculinity in Fiction and Film: Representing Men in Popular Genres 1945-2000. My PhD was about masculinity in 1930s Welsh novels, so I need to catch up on subsequent developments.

Eric Linklater, The Impregnable Women. It's an invasion novel and a re-telling of the Lysistrata story (women go on sex-strike to end a war). Unfortunately for Linklater, he published this tale of a French invasion of Britain in… 1938. So much for foresight.

Ben Goldacre, Bad Pharma: more good quality scientific muck-raking from the good doctor.

Jonathan Meades, Museums Without Walls: another blast of polemic from one of the best cultural and architectural critics in the business.

Barry England, Figures in a Landscape. Ben said it was good. It won the Booker in 1969 and it's a 'horrors of war' novel.

Philip Pullman, Galatea. Pullman's rather deranged-looking fantasy novel for adults. Nazis! Zombies! He doesn't like to talk about it. He also doesn't like to talk about 1972's The Haunted Storm, but I don't have £750 spare to buy a copy of that. My friend Mark has it though, picked up for pennies in a charity shop as usual…

Finally, two new Moomins reprints: the comic strips Moomin's Winter Follies and Moominvalley Turns Jungle. Because they're charming and wise.

Vignettes of democracy

Two tit-bits from the world of politics: 

Cameron spoke to the Conservative backbench 1922 committee for about 20 minutes tonight but not one asked him about hacking scandal, PA reports.

A Conservative source said Cameron was adamant he would not apologise for trying to get the media onside in the run-up to the general election.

Right. So the only Tory Party body dedicated to holding the leader to account didn't bother raising the only news issue of the month, despite Cameron's former press secretary being arrested, and evidence that his aides deliberately kept him in the dark to avoid incriminating him. Mother of Parliaments everyone!

Meanwhile, Cameron has clearly decided that presentation is far more important than the principle that politicians shouldn't be pushed around by the press. Getting the Murdochs onside for political advantage is far more important. What an example to us all. How confident do I feel about his leadership? Er, not very.

Meanwhile, I'm reading the Moomins cartoon strip, volume 6. Here's how I'm feeling:

Mind what you say (or Tweet)

The original Twitter idiot has had his appeal against conviction for sending threatening messages rejected.

Paul Chambers, frustrated by repeated airport closures, Tweeted something unfunny about blowing up Leeds airport unless it reopened. Only his few Twitter followers received the message, and everyone knew it was a joke. Certainly Leeds Airport authorities didn't pay any attention.

But someone reported it to the police, and he was convicted. His appeal was based on the fact that it's obviously a joke. The judiciary disagrees and upheld the conviction (he hasn't tweeted it yet).

In solidarity, here are the words of another notorious terrorist and threat to national security.

'Come friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now'.

(John Betjeman, poet laureate).

This is ridiculous: it wasn't a bomb threat, and the authorities should be able to distinguish between terrorism and weak humour. When I say 'I could murder an Indian', I'd hope passing Plod can work out that I mean could eat a curry and not kill a human being. Apparently not. I really don't see how the medium through which Chambers' message was distributed made a difference.

Anyway, my day is improving. Not getting enough work done, but I have received another big stack of books: the Moomins novels I didn't have (Moominland Winter, Moominsummer Madness, Moominvalley in November, Tales from Moominvalley and The Exploits of Moominpapa; the other two beautiful big illustrated Moomin poetry books (Who Will Comfort Toffle? and The Book About Moomin, Mymble and Little My, Paul Mason's Live Working or Die Fighting: How the Working Class Went Global (also out of solidarity: he manned a picket line at the BBC and deserves support, and his reports from Gary, Indiana on Newsnight and in the New Statesman were exemplary), and the hard-sf novel du jour, Rajaniemi's The Quantum Thief.

(Thanks to Adam for correcting 'nuclear' to 'friendly' - I did know that really).

Papering over the cracks

I've had an appalling day. Two extremely long meetings, in one of which Zoot Horn suggested that I close down Plashing Vole as part of our recruitment strategy. I don't what the addled old hippy's getting at, but be assured that I'm rooting through my files for embarrassing pictures, Zoot my old mate.

Then a 90 minute lecture with far too much material to keep the audience's attention - had to be done, but even I was bored before the time was up. Then another seminar in which only two students had read the material. Too morally weak just to throw them out, I droned on for 45 minutes before giving up, exhausted.

There is some joy however, and it comes in the form of printed and folded sheets of paper. Specifically:

A beautiful reprint of Tove Jansson's The Dangerous Journey comic strip and poem (finely translated by Sophie Hannah).
M. Wynn Thomas's magnificent examination of the interaction between literature and nonconformism in Welsh culture, In the Shadow of the Pulpit;
Steve Bell's new collection of nasty-minded political cartoons, If…Bursts Out;
a second-hand copy of Bruce Sterling's Distraction - near future dystopia. I'm currently reading Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story, set in a post-literate post-hegemonic dysfunctional United States. It's good, but not as clever as it thinks it is (and rather nationalistic in an ironic sense. We're apparently meant to be horrified by the idea of Chinese hegemony. Having lived under US hegemony for my entire life: meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

Oh yes: and the new Orange Juice boxed set. Mmmm

Now I'm off home to eat junk and do nothing.

Weekend compendium

Hello all. As I've had to come into the office to press one button on our electronic administration system, I thought I'd say hello.

Last night I went into the nearest metropolis to munch sausages and drink beer with friends, before seeing the Mighty Hotpants Romance perform: imagine a raucous mix of 50s girl-group vocals, X-Ray Spex guitars and deadpan lyrics delivered in broad Lancashire. A winning combination, I'm sure you'll agree. Tonight's entertainment is a party at an illustrious professor's house, to celebrate his transfer to Princeton. I'll be the one at the back looking through his bookshelves.

Meanwhile, I should apologise to the Royal Mail. Not all of my birthday cards and presents were stolen. Most of them were just a few days late. I'm charitably going to assume that my dad's card has been lost, rather than not sent at all.

Finally, I had a very incongruous reading experience yesterday. I went from the last chapter of Motion's biography of Philip Larkin, featuring his death, to the last volume of Moomins comic strips (sadly, there are some printing errors which detract from the pleasure). From dying poet, trapped in his downstairs loo piteously mewling 'hot, hot' as his face pressed against the pipework, to jolly Scandinavian creatures gambolling in the forests.

The Moomins

Very much not a Moomin.

Book news

A mixed bag today (and no, the book diet isn't over, these are long-ordered things, mostly second-hand):
Agnès Poirier's Touché: Why Britain and France are so Different. I like her writing in Libération (very unpleasant website design) and The Guardian anyway, and I'm running a course on British Culture next year (heaven knows what I'll to fill in the other 12 weeks), so an critical friend's view (often very amusing) is always useful.

Final Crisis. Though not the magnificent graphic novel or comic strip I thought I'd ordered, but the crappy novelisation. What a ridiculous thing to do - turn a piece of complex visual art into a chunk of lumpen prose. You shouldn't do it the other way round either.

Warday - just another addition to the post-apocalypse genre.

Finally, magnificently, the final volume of the collected Moomins comic strips from the 1950s. Drawn and Quarterly of Montréal have done a wonderful job with these. The strips are beautifully written and drawn, and the books are works of art in themselves. If you've never read the Moomins books, there's a secret gaping void in your life.

One of those perfect days

Just a quick hello as I have a quiet five minutes. I've spent the day with Neal, Dan and Georgie, Dan's social worker. Well, girlfriend. We had a wander round my mother's lovely garden, pursued by hens, and then around the Dorothy Clive garden, nodding sagely while Dan and Georgie named various flowers and stuff. I took a few good pictures, including several of a very obliging rabbit, and ate wonderful ice-cream. I'll post some when I get back to the office. 

Then it was off to a antiques craft village (Dagfields Farm), where I managed to spend £30 on books in very little time, despite not having a working cash card yet… it's hard to resist two beautiful 1895/1896 pocket editions of Tennyson ('Locksley Hall' and Other Poems, 'The Spinster's Sweet-Arts' and Other Poems), another Left Book Club edition (Ruth Gruber's I Went to the Soviet Arctic, 1939), Susannah Radstone's Sweet Dreams, about sexuality and gender in popular fiction, a Moomins book I now realise I already have, a good Faber edition of Selected Poems of Louis MacNeice, John Christopher's The Year of the Comet and an M. John Harrison novel I hadn't previously seen, The Committed Men. 

Best of all, I hardly scraped the surface of the place and will have to return again, and again, and again…

'Just imagine having a job for pleasure'

… is the inscription on the back of Moomins Book 4, the front cover of which I reproduce below.

I love my job - teaching is brilliant when it goes well. Being paid to read books is pretty much all I've every wanted from life, but the constant hostility from management (who, let's not forget, should exist to further the needs of students and teachers) is wearing and depressing. Moomins cheers me up.

Brown paper parcels tied up with string…

Happy Bastille Day - how I love sharing a birthday with a purge of the idle rich.

I went straight to work from my parents today, and was greeted by two wondrous things. The first was a massive pile of parcels: seemingly all the books I've ordered recently have come in the same delivery. OK, it looks like I've bought myself a load of birthday presents, but I'm still childishly excited by opening parcels and smelling new paper.

One of the books was To Hell With Culture: Anarchism and Twentieth-Century Literature edited by H. Gustav Klaus and Stephen Knight, the latter of whom was one of my PhD external examiners. Funny that to buy the book at its cheapest (£25 second hand), it had to go from Wales to India and then be sent to me… Coincidentally, Knight wrote the definitive 'biography' of Robin Hood, and another of the books which arrived today was Adam Thorpe's revisionist Hodd. The others were the massive pile of OUP sale books (on medieval literature, modernism and the Victorians), Kiberd's new book on Joyce's Ulysses, and most wonderfully, the fourth volume of the Moomins strip cartoons. Just as a physical object, Drawn and Quarterly (PDF sample on that page) have produced a thing of beauty.

The other weird and wondrous thing this morning was receiving an email from Hilary Wright. It took me a few minutes to work out that this was my sister, returned from honeymoon and starting a new life with a new name. Regardless of your views on marriage and surnames, it felt like a significant moment even to those around her: I have a sister but after 26 years, her new position in the world and new relationship to us all are aurally and visibly announced.

Yet more foolish book purchases

After an afternoon in the art gallery tearoom swapping gossip, I've returned to buy books. I've balanced today's purchases: the fourth volume of the Moomins comic strip reprints, and Declan Kiberd's new book on Joyce, Ulysses and Us: The Art of Everyday Living.

I've also organised a new phone contract - much more expensive this year - and resisted my natural urge to get an iPhone (I'm a long-term Mac user). Self-denial!

'When we are safe inside, nothing dangerous can happen to us'

While eating my lunch, we were booted out into the cold for a fire alarm - the second one this week. Shivering, I read a little more of Moominpappa at Sea. I was talking about it to Mark last night, pushing my argument that it's a children's book dealing with the psychological effect of the end of paternalism and traditional masculinity - it's Freudian and Butlerian. It struck me just now that even the title is beautifully double: Moominpappa is literally at sea - occupying a (phallic) lighthouse in the middle of the feminine, attractive but dangerous sea - to recuperate his masculine duty. Moominmamma seeks only fertile soil, halfway between the extremities of suicide (the sea) or dictatorship (the lighthouse). Psychologically, Moominpappa is 'at sea'.

If you aren't persuaded, try these quotes:

One afternoon, Moominpappa was walking about in his garden feeling at a loss. He had no idea what to do with himself, because it seemed everything there was to be done had already been done or was being done by somebody else.

Moominpappa aimlessly pottered about in his garden, his tail dragging along the ground behind him in a melancholy way.

The family stopped what they were doing and said 'Yes. Of course. Yes, yes'. Then they took no more notice of him, and got on with what they were doing.

They were always doing something. Quietly, without interrupting, and with great concentration, they carried on with the hundred-and-one small things that made up their world. It was a world that was very private, and self-contained, and to which nothing could be added. Like a map where everything has been discovered, everywhere inhabited, and where there are no bare patches left any longer.

(later)

The family got on his nerves at times - they could never stick to the matter in hand. He wondered whether all fathers found the same thing… He must try getting in the right mood, like his father-in-law used to do. All her life, his mother-in-law had gone round dropping things everywhere or leaving them behind and forgetting where she had left them. Then his father-in-law would turn on something in his brain.

Mark points out the Freudian link between 'melancholy' and a drooping 'tail' (and the solution is similarly phallic: the key to it all is literally a key, and it all reminds me of the many novels about male unemployment - these are the symptoms of masculine roles being removed. Moominpappa responds in the classic ways: toying with starting a forest fire to stage a rescue, spying on a family unit which seems to function well without him, contemplating home improvements to impress them, then moving them to a seemingly solid and stable old role - the lighthouse keeper, necessary and isolated. How different is this to the single father who kidnaps or kills his ex-wife/children?

Moominpappa looks for older models - the lighthouse keeper, his father-in-law, to regain a sense of male purpose, while Moominmamma quietly realises that this is a stage he needs to go through, without accepting the reactionary nature of some of these ideas. What strikes me is Tove Jansson's empathy (she lived on a little island too): she makes it clear that this aimlessness can be destructive, without ever suggesting that Moominpappa (or men) are monsters. Instead, they can be understood. All this - and it's a children's book, teaching them, very quietly, that their parents have passions, depressions, and problems, while never suggesting that adults are always right (Little My always pricks Moominpappa's pomposity). Moominpappa and Moominmamma seem to be closely based on Jansson's parents. The passages about the terrifying pull of the sea when Moominpappa is depressed is brilliant, really encapsulating the temptation of oblivion.

Thankfully, Moominpappa finds a key, and learns from the absent lighthouse keeper (God?) how to find a role:

Something clicked inside Moominpappa's head. Of course, everything was as clear as day. This was the place where the lighthouse-keeper came when he wanted to be entirely alone. A place for thought and meditation. And it was here that he had left the key so that Moominpappa should find it and take over the lighthouse. With great ceremony and the help of magic forces, Moominpappa had been chosen as the owner of the lighthouse and its keeper.

However - all this sounds like wish fulfilment, and so it transpires: the self-imposed duties of this so-symbolic role being to oppress Moominpappa. I haven't finished yet, so don't know what will happen, but I'm sure a balance will be struck. I'll let you know.

I am enjoying it too, by the way.

My visit to the post room brought great joy: Richard Overy's The Morbid Age: Britain Between The Wars, Byatt's The Children's Book (with a major protagonist from Stoke) and Pryce's From Aberystwyth With Love, which I'll take to All Tomorrow's Parties with me tomorrow. All have stunningly good cover designs too.

Every day is cloudy and grey

I've got a lot of marking to do today, so I've rewarded myself with treats. Having managed 40 lengths in 27 minutes (backstroke), I had a cinnamon swirl. I'm listening exclusively to The Pastels because I have the office to myself and I damn well like Scottish indie lo-fi, I'm reading Moominpappa at Sea and I'm going to see Serious Money tonight.

Actually, Moominpappa at Sea isn't very comforting. My PhD is about failed masculinity in 1930s Welsh political novels, and many of the same themes are emerging in this Moomins book. Poor old Moominpappa finds that his existing model of masculinity and paternalism is all over - they don't need him to protect him, so he gets depressed. He thinks about starting a forest fire, then moves the whole family to a lighthouse (very phallic) on a remote island so that he can refound the family on conservative lines. Moominmama seems to know that it's a phase she'll endure and seek to mitigate - I'm sure he'll learn the error of his ways in the end.

I hope I haven't just ruined the Moomins for you. They're amongst my very favourites.