In my opinion, the relationship between Mrs Greenhalgh and Sir Anthony Tosh was more than just sexual. They were conspiring not only against Mr Greenhalgh (Sir Anthony was, of course, unmarried) but also against the religious faith of the Horsely Down community. Mrs Greenhalgh recorded the instances of Sir Anthony’s church readings in order to reveal to subsequent generations the part that he was playing in the propagation of a religious cult. In her faith she no doubt believed that these future generations would have long seen the light and would now have cause to praise Sir Anthony for his dedication. Instead of this, we find ourselves in a world in which the religious cult of which he was a part has – as far as I know – long sunk without trace.

If you are not compelled to read more, I have lost faith in you as a worthy reader. Go hence and bury your face in a novelette.

For more on Laven himself, your patience will be rewarded in due course.

‘animals breaking a rock into tiny pieces’

Is any further comment required? I can only hope that my humble blog offered this particular internet-surfer what they wanted. Somehow I doubt it, but one cannot be so hasty as to assume that one has a hold on the expectations of the contemporary web-wanderer. Perhaps this site is just the place for someone seeking information on/footage of/poems about rock-breaking animals. On the other hand…

Bläss himself was always unworthy of having his life laid out on the page. He was a middling writer, who lived a largely ordinary life, punctuated by a series of mildly interesting incidents, none of which I can recall at present. Now I can’t say I believe wholeheartedly in that wonky old concept we call ‘genius’; needless to say, Bläss is nowhere near the mark. Not even close. There are salmon steaks sitting in supermarket freezers that possess more talent than he ever did, whatever your spin on his lifestory.

And yet, much like the salmon steaks, the biographies keep on coming. Why so?

It is hard to explain. Sometime someone started something – and now no one can bring a stop to it. It was, I think, in 1957, when the first book appeared: a vague, meandering work, almost entirely without merit.

Almost entirely. There’s the rub. For there was, safely hidden below the surface, some sort of quality that attracted people -  or a person, at least – enough to inspire a second attempt at Bläss’s biography. What that quality was I cannot tell. Suffice it to say that it existed, and that it has kept biographers busy for over half a century.

Each new biographer of Bläss appears to approach the project with much the same goal in mind: comprehensivity. No one would seem to believe that Bläss deserves so many biographies. Not in the least. But each of them believes that Bläss deserves one truly great biography – and that their offering is it. Greatness, however, does not necessary lie in the style, or the particular way in which they have dealt with the substance of the man’s life or work. It lies, as I have stated, in providing the most comprehensive account possible. As if this uncertain quality that so many sense in Bläss’s life will only reveal itself to the writer prepared to uncover absolutely everything there is to know about the man.

To prove this claim one need only look at the length of Bläss biographies. The 1957 life came in under two hundred pages. In 1978, we get the first two-volume tome: five hundred and ninety-six pages in all. In the 90s, there were two multi-volume efforts, the longest of which ran well over a thousand pages. Last year. however, the first of ten projected volumes was publised. It was a mere four hundred pages, and followed Bläss up to his tenth birthday.

What spurs this desire to cover a man’s life so comprehensively? Clearly every biographer thinks that the careful approach will yield ever more fascinating details. And yet, to my mind, it doesn’t. Bläss is no less boring than he ever was. So we how know how many times he eat beef during the winter of 1924: so what? You may dig away as much sand as you like, but there are no guarantees that anything exciting will emerge. Plenty of new things, yes. But nothing remotely interesting. The man has many layers, maybe, but they all amount to the same thing in the end: mediocrity on top of mediocrity on top of mediocrity.

We can all learn from Effelwager, I think. A book is often a beautiful object, no doubt, but one can handle a book with too much care. The point, after all, is to read the damn thing – not to get to the end with the spine intact. What matter if a page rips, or if one spills wine on chapter four? So long as the words get through to the reader, what more do you need? The rest is preciousness: needless, pointless, preciousness.

Technology presents further difficulties. I have no great problem with the ‘kindle’, per se. But the name of it never ceases to worry me. It is redolent, I think, of comfort. It sounds like ‘kindness’ and ‘candle’. It is a warm, friendly word, which brings to mind a cosy armchair and a gentle, flickering fire. The perfect reading environment, some might say. Others, however, would disagree. Reading is not an act of kindness. It is not a gentle activity: something to while away the winter evenings. Reading is a matter of life and death. Reading, as Effelwager would have it, is a great battle. You versus the page. And may the best one win.

Alternatively, there is always ‘reading’. And what better reading material could one ask for at this time of year than a short review of contemporary ‘bruise artist’ Maria Von Uppelhart? Over to you, D H Laven:

It’s all very well arguing that artists ought to let the art speak for themselves, but when there doesn’t seem to be any art of which to speak, one does need to cast one’s net a little further. What happened next, however, did little to assuage the worst fears of the assembled company. Von Uppelhärt sprang from her throne, dropped her smart brown trousers and invited the nearest bystander to land a punch above her knee..

Read more here.

I would be most grateful if the following books could be made available to me sometime over the next few weeks, preferably accompanied by a few bottles of whisky and a copious supply of delicately spiced pastries.

A New History of Short-Lived Magazines and Journals by Fran Hoffgeiger [the long-awaited new edition of Hoffgeiger's seminal 1987 work, A History of Short-Lived Magazines and Journals, the first comprehensive guide to literary projects that lasted less than a year. Includes a fascinating chapter on the Swedish magazines Undergräva and Maskarade Åskådare, edited by the chaotic poet Rasmus Ranasson].

Article and Correspondence by Lucia Raus [see below]

Butterfly Winter by Lars Tillförlitlig [Well, how can one resist a novel whose first line runs as follows: 'My father celebrated his eightieth birthday by biting off the finger off his dead wife'?]

What’s the story, mourning jewellery? by Keira Lashnik [a bit of an obscure interest here, but I can't get enough of creepy Victorian hair jewellery at the moment].

Lastly, anything by Piers Jorgenstäd, Clemency Whittaker and Sergei Robadov.

If these ‘ideas’ have not reached this blog, where then have they gone? Underneath the Bunker (which continues to expand, albeit slowly, in all directions) is one answer. However, I have also been working on a larger non-digital piece of work. What this is I cannot say right now. Nor can I promise that I will divulge further details at a later date. All I can say is that another project exists, which has diverted my attention somewhat these last few weeks.

The inevitable question follows: for how long can my dear readers expect my attention to be diverted? Once again, I refuse to provide an unequivocal answer. I am not finished on this blog by any means, but one can hardly expect me to keep updating at the usual pace. Nor should this be expected of anyone. In our desperation for ‘new’ ideas and thoughts we overlook the wealth of information that is already out there. There are more than six hundred posts on this blog. Do not thirst for more when you might easily satiate your appetite on what is already there.

More on this, and other things, later.

As far as I can tell, Article and Correspondence will continue the trend set by earlier works. According to the press release, the novel takes the form – as hinted by its title – of a newspaper article, followed by correspondence relating to that article. Much like Papa He Is Still Sick, the narrative (such as it is) builds up through a series of multi-authored letters. Because these letters are public, rather than private missives, a shift in tone will nonetheless be expected, which should yield interesting results.

I will of course say more as soon as I know more.

Despite this, we are not friends – for I love you not. I shiver every time your shadow touches mine. I have come to resent your constant intrusions into my life and work. As for your influence on the world at large: of this I can hardly speak.

I used to see you a lot: now I see you everywhere. Why so busy Mediocrity? How does your schedule allow for such copious movement? Have you ever considered the possibility that we writers may not enjoy your company at all? Oh, you are generous with your time – and affable enough in person – but one fears the repercussions of such sociability. One can have too much Mediocrity, methinks.

Perhaps some sort of holiday is in order? I hear the Maldives are marvellous at this time of year. Mongolia, meanwhile, might prove a memorable trip. How about it Mediocrity? I’ll pay for half the air fare, if that’s what is keeping you back. Or is it simply that you cannot leave us alone? You love us, I know. You have a ‘thing’ for us. Our culture fascinates you. You must have your say, day after day, month after month, year after year. You will not be silenced, I see that: not in the long term, anyway. But a break, just a brief break…

You’ve left us before, or so they say. In ancient times you were always taking holidays. During the fourteenth century, I hear, you were hardly ever seen – at least, not in Italy. Nowadays, however, you appear to have developed something of a sense of duty. You think we can’t get on without you. Well, I believe that you are wrong. I think we can. In fact, I think we can get along just fine (culturally speaking, that is).

Go on, prove me wrong. Take a break and see what happens. Get on a boat, a plane, a horse, a hovercraft, a rocket, a train, a lorry, a tram: whichever mode of transport suits you (I see you on a train, personally speaking, or in a family car). Get on that bus, that ship or that helicopter and give us a chance to work outside of your shadow. It needn’t be long. I’d take a month. But it needs to happen, some way or another.

Are you listening, Mediocrity?

Sadly, the balance is not as it should be. Greater writers are ignored, whilst lesser talents take the limelight. This is as it has always been. Some of us are, however, continue to fight for change by aiming the beams of our torches towards the more shadowy corners of the literary world. I am one. ‘Writers No One Reads’ is another.

A word of warning. Not all of the writers they feature are completly unread. For instance, I’d hazard a guess that more people read Stefan Themerson than Egor Falastrom. For all this, the general message is both clear and correct. There is an untapped spring of esoteric european literature out there, where the water runs sweeter than it does in the great rivers of mediocrity that we call ‘popular culture’. Go forth, reader, and drink!