On submission and resistance to AI-generated literature   To great writers, finished works weigh lighter than those fragments on which they work throughout their lives. For only the more feeble and distracted take an inimitable pleasure in conclusions, feeling themselves thereby given back to life. For the genius each caesura, and the heavy blows of fate, fall like gentle sleep itself into his workshop labour. About it he draws a charmed circle of fragments.                                               – Walter Benjamin 1                      Many years ago I used this paragraph as the epigram to something of identical length – perhaps a short story or prose poem – as an alibi for its brevity and as a dig at the use of epigrams, a device as I saw it for co-opting the incontrovertibility of the one to win credence for the other. It was weightless until it dropped into memory when I read a similar point made by one of Benjamin's keenest readers in an intellectual memoir prompted by the objects in his workplace: The studio is the image of potentiality–of the writer's potentiality to write, of the painter's or sculptor's potentiality to paint or sculpt. Attempting to describe one's own studio thus means attempting to describe the modes of and forms of one's own potentiality–a task that is, at least on first glance, impossible. How can one have a potentiality? One cannot have a potentiality, one can only inhabit it.2 One can sense the weight of potential in the open notebooks on show, a place the reader inhabits examining the details. Potentiality is a subject embedded in Agamben's thinking and extends beyond practicalities, but what struck me in the photograph is that there is no computer in sight, not even a typewriter. Agamben makes no explicit mention of his working methold, but it's there to see. The clutter is a neat copy of the working mind as it seeks a completed work. The working method is also something I noticed on the cover of a very different but equally absorbing intellectual memoir whose cover has a cropped version of this photograph accompanying an interview. Peter Brown says his books are written by hand. And recently I heard that Peter Handke is the only author Suhrkamp allows to submit work handwritten in pencil. He wants to move slowly, allowing sentences to come from a great distance. His collection of notebooks pictured below provokes an overwhelming sense of potential.  The pleasure of writing by hand in notebooks is not in what one writes but in its opening onto possibility, the potential to become something complete. I write one sentence and a world opens. This is not possible on a computer because everything one types can be deleted in a moment (and usually is), whereas one is driven forward by the pen and potential is maintained despite striking out a typed or handwritten sentence; even an eraser leaves the ghost of a pencilled word. On completion, however, the world closes. As readers we know of Agamben, Brown and Handke only because of completion, and yet the presence of books like the self-portrait and Handke's The Weight of the World suggests Benjamin is right about the unique experience of potential, especially in light of these authors' prolific output, as if so many books are attempts not to add to the pile but to move in the opposite direction, towards potential. Writing longhand may be a resistance to completion and conclusions, very much against the grain of cultural demand. Image from The Goalie's Anxiety   Technology now at hand enables completion without the need to work through potential. Much anxiety has been expressed about the threat of the new generation of large language models (LLMs) to destroy livelihoods in the short term and to erase the social role of literature in the long. One professional writer says "We're screwed. Writing is over. That's it. It's time to pack away your quill, your biro, and your shiny iPad: the computers will soon be here to do it better." Meanwhile, the Society of Authors has staged a protest about copyright infringement and the Guardian has run a discussion of an AI-generated story by various professional authors in which worries about the lack of a human connection are expressed.  On a more philosophical level, it raises questions about the role of the writer in the writing process. The learning-theory guru Donald Clark reckons these are due only because we are "trapped in the late 18th [Century] Romantic view of authorship, the unique, divinely-inspired, creative spark of the individual". This has led to the Society of Authors appropriating the mystique of authorship to make it a respectable profession like carpet weaving or quantity surveying, while their public statements read like a corporate drone has written them.3 LLMs are really only the logical terminus of genre fiction that dominates book culture, the last thing the Society would march against.4 The scholar of digital literature Hannes Bajohr confirms AI is the genre author's secret sharer because it is designed to produce "normalization": Their output is convincing precisely when they are supposed to spit out what is expected, what is ordinary, what is statistically probable...And just as there are assistive marketing AIs for expectable marketing prose, there are now also assistive literature AIs for more or less expectable literature....Genre literature is virtually defined by the recurrence of certain elements, making it particularly suitable for AI generation. Like AI, genre writing minimises the creative workload for the author – each sentence an epigram – and allows easy digestion by the reader. This is has always been the ideal for the "feeble and distracted" to give themselves back to life without ever leaving it. Bajohr tells of the popular German writer Daniel Kehlmann's attempt to generated a story using a language model AI, which failed according to Kehlmann because it did not "seem good enough to be published as an artistic work rather than merely as the product of an experiment on an artistic level". "But" Bajohr asks "what does 'good enough' mean? Measured against what aesthetics?" When Kehlmann speaks of 'experiment', he seems not to have experimental literature in mind, but rather the scientific meaning of the word: a controlled observation whose outcome supports, weakens, or refines a hypothesis. But it does so...only within the framework of an existing paradigm – new paradigms are precisely not what scientific experiments establish. Experimental literature, on the other hand – at least according to its avant-garde self-image – does not want mere refinement, but ideally questions the paradigm of literature itself. Clark focuses on a "robot artist" that is at the forefront of challenging the paradigm of "the human-centric view of creativity as a uniquely human trait" in which: vast pools of media representing the sum total of all history, all cultural output from our species, has been captured and used to train huge multimodal models that allow our species to create a new future. With new forms of AI, we are borrowing to create the new. It is a new beginning, a fresh start using technology that we have never seen before in the history of our species, something that seems strange but oddly familiar, thrilling but terrifying. Examples are provided of "historical dawns that hinted at this future" such as the Library of Alexandria, "open to all containing the known world's knowledge" and latterly Wikipedia. The difference, he says is that AI is "much more profoundly communal". The examples remind us that AI is only the latest form of technology without which cultural production communal or otherwise would not be possible. Similar concerns were not expressed when a quill on papyrus became a fountain pen on mass-produced paper, or when a pen became a typewriter. Everything was positive moving forward. But of course there was concern following the invention of printing press and the subsequent availability of translations of the Bible into the vernacular, and this example immediately exposes the deeper issue lurking in the concern for AI-generated art. It is the ghost haunting Clark's assumption that art equals encyclopaedic knowledge, containing creativity within the boundaries of humanism. This is continued in his claim that we have entered a new era of artistic production defined by Nicolas Bourriaud as postproduction in which "art and cultural activity now interprets, reproduces, re-exhibits or utilises works made by others or from already available cultural products". If this seems familiar it's because it is the standard practice of postmodernism, with all the insoucient optimism that goes with it, and Clark does acknowledge that postmodernism shares with postproduction "themes of challenging originality and embracing plurality". The difference here is that this "moves us beyond simple curation, collages and mashups into genuinely new forms of production and expression". It cannot be pinned down to one word and we should "let the idea [of AI's 'outputs'] flutter and fly free from the prison of language".  Such optimism about new technology and the arts is nothing new: In the last twenty years neither matter nor space nor time has been what it was from time immemorial. We must expect innovations to transform the entire technique of the arts thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art. This part of Paul Valéry's essay The Conquest of Ubiquity from 1928 was used by Walter Benjamin as the epigram to his famous essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction in which he sees such technological innovations as enabling a change in human perception, in this case the inexhaustible repetition of previously immutable works of art presented in limited arenas are injected with time and change, removing the aura surrounding them and brushing aside "outmoded concepts, such as ... eternal value and mystery", thereby empowering a perceptual and political revolution. What may be less familiar is the continuity of all three thinkers with the art production of a much earlier era. "The artistic representation of sacred subjects was a science governed by fixed laws which could not be broken at the dictates of individual imagination" writes Êmile Mâle in the book subtitled Religious Art in France of the Thirteenth Century. Every artist had to learn the rules of representation. He must know that the circular nimbus placed vertically behind the head serves to express sanctity, while the nimbus impressed with a cross is the sign of divinity which he will always use in portraying any of the three Persons of the Trinity. He will learn that the aureole (i.e. light which emanates from the whole figure and surrounds the body as a nimbus) expresses eternal bliss, and belongs to the three Persons of the Trinity, to the Virgin, and to the souls of the Blessed. He must know that representations of God the Father, God the Son, the angels and the apostles should have the feet bare, while there would be real impropriety in representing the Virgin and the saints with bare feet. In such matters a mistake would have ranked almost as heresy. Other accepted symbols enabled the mediaeval artist to express the invisible, to represent that which would otherwise be beyond the domain of art.5  If this programme reads like the precise opposite of secular freedom and the unpredictable products of AI, that's because it is, but it is also determined by tradition and normalisation (in which anything goes becomes a programming command). Both bring forth the old and proclaim the new, appropriating an aura even in the act of discharging it; "nothing was left solely to inspiration", as Mâle says of Dante's Commedia. AI's rampant productivity also mimics capitalism's hothouse demand for new markets, 'growth' and human submission. From expressing the invisible via religious art to escaping the prison of language via AI, there is continuity in utopian claims, for the promise of deliverance whether heavenly or humanist. The continuity is consolidated in Meyer Schapiro's revisionary account of church art in the eleventh and twelfth centuries when he says began "a new sphere of artistic creation without religious content" anticipating modern art because it was "imbued with values of spontaneity, individual fantasy, delight in color and movement, and the expression of feeling". We can't help but regard medieval art as entirely symbolic and devotional, and Schapiro cites commentators who have sought to attach religious symbolism to the most mundane features. He explains this with Hegel's comment that "in an age of piety one does not have to be religious in order to create a truly religious work of art, whereas today the most deeply pious artist is incapable of producing it."  This suggest that the basis of artistic production and what we are drawn toward is the "truly religious", however sublimated.6 This may be confirmed by the vast archives of scholarly material on the arts and popular culture communities devoted to billion-dollar movie franchises. Anxiety about the meaning and worth of art in the here and now is embodied in modern review culture. The reception of Daniel Kehlmann's bestselling novel Die Vermessung der Welt when published in translation as Measuring the World is a good example. One reviewer sought the incontrovertibility of paradigm-shifting European modernism to win credence for the crowd-pleasing entertainment by announcing without evidence that Kehlmann was "already being compared to Nabokov and Proust"; a claim that became its own evidence. Unable to recognise what it seeks, the visual arts has developed an aura as an investment commodity for the super-rich,7 and as sentimental ornamentation for the rest, while novels are evaluated by entirely extra-literary criteria: the public profile of an author, the number of sales, whether they have won a literary prize, and sometimes even by the number of pages. AI, however, may provoke a turn away from such inanities. ***   For a long time I thought writing was a job of work. I'm now convinced that it's an inner event, a 'non-work' that you accomplish, above all, by emptying yourself out, and allowing what's already self-evident to percolate through.                Marguerite Duras 8 When Benjamin predicted the overcoming of auratic art, he defined the aura as "the unique phenomenon of a distance, however close it may be", and if distance has now become taboo in contemporary literature, it is with the advent of LLMs literature that the unique phenomenon is drawn back into the foreground. Invariably, distance is presented as the "inaccessible" and experienced entirely on the reader's side and is used as a critical barb directed at the "self-indulgent" author but, as Duras' remark suggests, it is also experienced by the author (at least by those who disavow the agency of the name).  It's a curious thing, this intimate experience of distance and our need for the guarantee of a human presence in the background. Like road signs and adverts, genre fiction provides an a priori guarantee and must be why supernatural horror and stories of gruesome crime provides comfort to so many, much as the story of Christ's torture and death on the cross brings comfort to Christians. In 2004, I was drawn to write about the promotional phrases on two posters on a bus shelter, not to seek the identity of copywriters but because of their automated effacement, the empty space onto which the words open and how difficult it is to speak about. There is someone speaking and yet nobody is speaking; assuredly, this is speech, but speech that does not think about what it is saying, always says the same thing, and is incapable of choosing its audience or responding to their questions.  This is not one of the Guardian's guests responding to the soulless anonymity of an AI-generated story but Socrates talking about the phenomenon of writing, paraphrased here by Maurice Blanchot.9 Socrates proposes that language of this sort should be avoided in favour of a living speaker one can interrogate. He recognises its similarity to "the pure speech that gives expression to the sacred", such as at the oracle of Delphi. In this regard, somewhat mysteriously...writing, as an object, appears to have an essential proximity with sacred language, whose strangeness it imparts to the literary work, while also inheriting from it its boundlessness, risk, and incalculable force beyond all guarantee. Like sacred language, what is written comes from no recognizable source, is without author or origin, and thereby always refers back to something more original than itself. What is strange about literature? What risks does it take? In what way is it close to the sacred? These are the questions dilating the void beneath contemporary art and literature. They cannot receive answers because we have no means to formulate a response. To ask them invites weary contempt. For Heidegger, this is because literature has gone peak-Socrates to become a functional technology reducing the world and its inhabitants to a resource to be exploited. Strangeness, risk and the sacred have become marketing phrases. He traces the retreat of the sacred in the poetry of Hölderlin. In his time the "default of God" was distance – "the age [was] determined by God's keeping himself afar" – whereas now the default is absence and the "radiance of divinity is extinguished in world-history". The ground upon which humanity stood is no longer ground but an abyss: "The age is desolate not only because God is dead but also because mortals scarcely know or are capable even of their own mortality." Poetry offers a mode of truth-revelation more originary to commonsense correspondence between word and thing. Heidegger separates the hammer from the hand. For him, poetry is a means of building new ground, but in order to so "it is necessary that there are those who reach into the abyss", who seek to be capable of their own mortality, and in doing so enable others to experience and endure the loss and absence of the sacred, to recognise the disenchantment of the world: "How could there ever be for God a residence fit for God unless the radiance of divinity had already begun to appear in all that is?" 10 Heidegger was not alone in recognising symptoms in poetry. A few decades earlier Mallarmé claimed that literature was "undergoing an exquisite and fundamental crisis" as free verse flooded over classical forms following the instability of runaway industrial growth, and soon after Benjamin showed how even the everyday wisdom passed on in storytelling had succumbed to the novel in which "no event comes to us without already being shot through with explanations".11 Nowadays poetry is difficult to identify as anything other than prose in an affectation of format, a prejudicial identification for sure but one made possible because of the dominance of functional prose. This would explain why it has a minor presence in literary culture, not refuted by the growth of boilerplate expressionism on social media. Readability has become unreadable. If the novel then functions only as information by other means – events shot through with explanation – and has in the process neutralised the potential for the unveiling of poetic language in Heidegger's sense, thereby creating conditions for literature identical to those summarised by Hegel for religious art, we might wonder if literature is even possible in our time. Duras' conviction that writing a novel is non-work is not far from LLMs that can produce a complete work without indeed any work. Both disrupt our notion of creativity and both open onto distance. The similarity may help us to understand why in all its richness and variety of contemporary art and literature, and in its excited amplification in criticism, it nevertheless appears very much after the Lord Mayor's Show, forced and straining for glory; "pyrotechnics against a night sky of nothingness", as EM Cioran put it.12    Duras was not alone in the manner of her discovery. As Holly Langstaff recounts in her outstanding book how Blanchot at first agreed with Heidegger that poetic language was a vehicle of truth grounding human existence, but through his own experience as a literary critic in the day and as a novelist at night, his mind was changed. If the critic's task is to evaluate a literary work and to communicate this to the reading public it "requires there to be something particular about the work that sets it apart from the everyday". A paradox arises in the demand to bring to light that which is bound to the dark, but it is inevitable that the critic and the everyday reader will seek to utilise the experience of the night and to communicate it in some way, to itself if not also to others, and indeed Blanchot argued that this is also necessary to the work. Yet what sets the reading experience apart and why it maintains almost mystical prestige in an otherwise non-literary culture is that the essence of literature is perpetually removed from such utility. Critics invariably point to specific details to shine a light on a novel's dark, such as its ingenious plotting, its psychological insights, its geographical and chronological span, the knowledge we absorb of other people and cultures, its relation to similar books or an account of the author's career thus far, or simply how good, bad or indifferent it makes them feel. But the light merely illuminates itself. In reading, and for the writer too, as Duras says, something escapes rational translation. This should not be news to any keen reader because it is the fundamental experience of reading a novel, the longue durée of curling up with a good book. Blanchot calls it La Part de feu, the fire's share, as in the swathe of a forest sacrificed by a firebreak so the rest can survive. This is the determinate sentence of literature. However, there is what Langstaff calls slippage between the two modes of language that Heidegger saw as a great danger as it "results in the forgetting of Being which is characteristic of modernity" leading to everything, including literature, becoming a resource to be exploited. This is related to Blanchot's criticism of word-by-word and line-by-line paraphrasing of poetry but praise for the critic who respects the fire "while maintaining his reader in a state of pure ignorance".13 How familiar this is to the reader of the broadsheet book reviews! Literature haunts us because it is a confrontation with the "unsayable emptiness" of the fire, what Blanchot refers to elsewhere as "the outside", "the neuter" or, from Heidegger's es gibt, "the there is". He sees literary writing as a suspension of the empirical world, its negation, an inhuman interruption of human control and understanding. While this may be seen as nihilistic, and certainly not humanist, Blanchot sees it instead as an affirmation of the unknowable, which can be creative as well as destructive, "a radical nihilism which", Langstaff says, "is no longer nihilism in the sense of nostalgia for values, but an embrace of the impossible".14 In the final part below, I'll turn to the writing of the impossible.   ***   How many efforts are required in order not to write—in order that, writing, I not write, in spite of everything.                   – Blanchot 15   In the first part of this inadvertent series, I responded to Alice Oswald's "manifesto of likeness" in which the Oxford Professor of Poetry calls for rhapsodic poetry to stitch the profusion of the empirical world together against lyric poetry, exemplified by a poem generated by chatGPT, because it not does not emerge from a "situated self" and "is not about things which are". In doing so, she says, it exposes us to "a mighty contagious absence". While Oswald's criticism presents a powerful case and appears to be humanism's definitive resistance to the advent of AI-generated poetry and prose, it does so by addressing a technology whose essence is and always has been precisely this absence; the absence of things which are, or the presence of that which is situated elsewhere, or indeed nowhere. Absence draws us to to books; an absence we sense in the world and turn to books in the hope to fathom and resolve, an absence, however, we meet again in the infinity of prose, at once mocking and soothing our finitude, an absence we go on to explore and reinscribe in writing. Absence is contagious. Happy talk of novels opening "another world" is a symptom of this meeting; another world in which nothing dies, in which nothing can die.16  A confounding dualism is inherent to literature: it is nothing and is nothing without it. So behind our literary evaluations and debates is our relation to this nothing, this space of absence.  In an exceptional essay,17 Lars Iyer traces the origins of the relation back to ancient Palestine and the messianic hope offered by an apocalypse in which the coming messiah will end the dualism between God and the world. Despite the horrors associated with apocalypse – whose etymology can be traced to "an unveiling or revelation" – the faithful "can look forward to the coming vindication of the persecuted, to the divine redemption that brings an end to suffering and death". Hope lies in apocalypse. We can see the residue of this in the aura given to the book, the decapitalised version is its modest disguise of the divine Word, and the hope we invest in its promise of a revelation, however vulgar or diminished. "But what happens", Iyer asks, "when the putative messiah actually arrives and fails?" What happens when Christ dies upon the cross leaving the world order unchanged? And so we might ask, what happens when the book fails not only to resolve absence but augments it? Iyer cites Jacob Taubes' argument that St. Paul dealt with the crisis of a failed apocalypse by turning it inward. From now on it would take place in the individual soul, which for Taubes meant opening: an inward messianic realm of freedom, of faith, which not only suspends the Mosaic law, the legal framework of the Roman Empire but also the Hellenistic metaphysics of law, which is to say, [the] general sense of worldly order and structure. Paul rejects all earthly, lawful, orderly authority in the name of faith.18  The freedom offered in the literary, reliant on our suspension of disbelief, has its DNA in Paul's rejection of worldly authority. The supposedly opposed genres of Realism and Fantasy can be seen as the culmination of our bad faith in what opens for us. What opens in Paul's theology is "very close to what [Taubes] calls called Gnosticism". For Paul, like the Gnostics, the cosmos is ruled by demonic powers; Satan is the prince of this world. For Paul, like the Gnostics, the aim is to achieve a kind of gnosis, or knowledge, that allows you to hold yourself back from full participation in the world, which remains ruled by the wicked 'powers and principalities'. For Paul, like the Gnostics, very little can be said about God. As Taubes writes: The negative statements about God—unrecognizable, unnameable, unrepeatable, incomprehensible, without form, without bounds, and even nonexistent—all orchestrate the . .. Gnostic proposition that God is essentially contrary to the world. This suggests that Paul's faith is a relation to an empty transcendence, lacking determinate content and contesting at every turn the works that support the order of the world. God is what Hans Jonas called the 'nothing of the world', understood as the antithesis of worldly power.19 We go to books to understand and cope with the world, and of course to escape its demons for a while, and in doing experience a cover version of messianic promise which is, however, only ever an empty transcendence. Literature becomes the nothing of the world. No wonder modern readers have an almost identical relationship with religious faith as they do with books; a short walk from gush to disgust. 20   Novels generated by LLMs, however bad judged as works of art, reveal the essence of literature. This is the fear: every book is revealed as an excess of nothing.21  This would explain why fragments haunt great writers, as they maintain a relationship with that which is in excess of the world without falling into generic form and as such disrupts the use of literature as an everyday resource. They cannot make use of them. The writer in the centre of a charmed circle is only ever a writer in potential, the book only ever a book in potential. While this presents a roadblock, it may be key to resisting AI-generated and genre literature, which are, it has to be restated, identical; they cannot be told apart. Literature may be possible only by maintaining its potential within the work. But what does this mean in practice? Giorgio Agamben's essay On Potentiality discusses the aporia raised by Aristotle of why the senses cannot themselves be sensed in the absence of external objects. Aristotle's answer is that sensibility is not actual but only potential, which raises the question of what it means to have a faculty like sight. We tend to see our faculties as modes of power, and Agamben links this to "that part of humanity that has grown and developed its potency to the point of imposing its power over the whole planet". But Agamben interprets having a faculty as having a privation and potentiality is "the mode of existence of this privation". We would not be able to see light were it not for darkness, and darkness "is in some way the color of potentiality". To be potential means: to be one's own lack, to be in relation to one's own incapacity. Beings that exist in the mode of potentiality are capable of their own impotentiality; and only in this way do they become potential. They can be because they are in relation to their own nonBeing. In potentiality, sensation is in relation to anesthesia, knowledge to ignorance, vision to darkness.22 Presence is in relation to absence. Applied to literature, and Agamben says Aristotle draws his examples from "the domain of arts and knowledge", we are returned to Blanchot's writing set apart from the day and Heidegger's poets reaching into the abyss for a relation of finitude to the infinite. Our faculty to write is considered much like the power of that has imposed itself over the planet. So if we are to resist AI-generated prose and its threat to human creativity, we must first recognise that its apparent inhumanity is and always has been part of us and part of writing. This is why it is indistinguishable from genre fiction. Agamben ends by asking how we might consider the actuality of the potentiality to not-be. "The actuality of the potentiality to play the piano is the performance of a piece for the piano; but what is the actuality of the potentiality to not-play?". Aristotle answers: if a potentiality to not-be originally belongs to all potentiality, then there is truly potentiality only where the potentiality to not-be does not lag behind actuality but passes fully into it as such. This does not mean that it disappears in actuality; on the contrary, it preserves itself as such in actuality. What is truly potential is thus what has exhausted all its impotentiality in bringing it wholly into the act as such. This may be how to question the paradigm of literature, to move in the opposite direction, towards potential.     Notes 1 From One-Way Street (not sure of translator). Click on the back button to return.  2 Translated by Kevin Attell.  3 The author Matthew Teller resigned from the SOA following its "outlandishly opaque statement" on an Israeli raid on a bookshop in Jerusalem.    4 According to the Verso Books blog, "Romance novels are said to account for nearly 40% of all book sales in the last decade".  5 Translated by Dora Nussey.  6 In the Talk Gnosis podcast, Jonathan Stewart claims "we have this deep yearning for the divine":  "Even if you're not a spiritual person…consciousness is almost structured in a way where we want to have the divine. Doesn't mean that there is a god, but to be a happy, adjusted society and an adjusted individual, you have to acknowledge this and work with it in a healthy way.  You don't have to be religious, you can get it through good art. Because people aren't aware of this religious drive within us...we assume we live in the most secular society in human history [but] we live in the most religious society that has ever existed in human history. We act in religious ways without really knowing it, with no way to funnel it, no way to integrate it into our lives. The rationalist is missing all this." 7 We see this in action on the BBC's Fake or Fortune series, and Clark claims value for the robot artist's products because they sell for six-figure sums. 8 From Suspended Passion translated by Chris Turner. 9 In the Oxford Literary Review, Volume 22, Number 1, translated by Leslie Hill. 10 From 'Why poets?' in Off the Beaten Track translated by Julian Young and Kenneth Haynes.  11 I used Benjamin's essay The Storyteller in The last novel, a discussion of JM Coetzee's The Death of Jesus. 12 In A Short History of Decay, translated by Richard Howard.  13 From 'The Myth of Mallarmé' in The Work of Fire, translated by Charlotte Mandell. 14 Blanchot's atheism is discussed by Stefanos Geroulanos in An Atheism that Is Not Humanist Emerges in French Thought.  15 From The Writing of the Disaster, translated by Ann Smock. 16 The Morning Star in Knausgaard's novel of the same name is a symbol of the book and an allegory of this meeting, at least as I argue in my review.  17 The Opposite Direction: Taubes, Bernhard and the Gnostic Imaginary was a paper given to the European Graduate School in 2023. 18 I wrote about a biography of Taubes in A modern heretic.  19 Iyer's paper cites my blogpost The withdrawal of the novel in which I write about Willem Styfhals' book on Gnosticism and postwar German philosophy. 20 Larkin's poem A Study in Reading Habits is a prime example of the latter. 21 In my post A measure of forever, I wrote about how a combination of plainness and excess renewed my interest in novels. 22 In Potentialities, translated by Daniel Heller-Roazen.

On this day last year I began posting every day for 39 days to commemorate 39 years since I began reading books. I dug out a folder of book lists I'd kept since 1986, chose one book from each year that I'd not written about before and wrote what ever the book suggested to me. Most of it came easily but a problem arose when I reached the mid-nineties. I discovered there were no paper records of what I'd read from 1996 to 1999. This threatened to end the project just as it was gaining momentum. I was dismayed because I have never stopped making the lists. Where had they gone?  It turned out that technology had disrupted the tradition. I had saved Word documents onto a floppy disk and had not printed them out, and now had no means of accessing the contents. Salvation arrived when I realised I could search old diaries for mentions of books I had been reading. I could also check the inside pages of books for dates of acquisition written on the inside cover – a practice I stopped along with writing a diary soon into the new century. Perhaps it would have been better for my self-esteem to have stopped the project too. This Space has never had many visitors so I thought adding quantity to quality would change that. It did: the viewing figures plummeted. I had hoped the book blogging community would respond with surprise and enthusiasm, perhaps with its own OuLiPo-like projects, or at least showing an interest in certain books discussed along the way, but of course there is no book blogging community (not anymore). In consolation, I discovered that committing to post every day was its own reward. The relentless schedule gave shape to otherwise empty days, reminding me of the cycling routine I once kept traversing the rolling hills of the Sussex countryside such as the one below. The reason why the days were empty and I was able to commit to the work was also due to technological disruption and will be the subject of a forthcoming post. The exponential growth of artificial intelligence in the last eighteen months has wiped out the job role I had had for fourteen years in an industry in which I have worked for thirty. This is why I have added a variant on the 'Buy me a coffee' button to the top of the page. In the twenty years of writing This Space, I have neither used advertising nor asked for support, so please try to ignore the stain on the page.  Meanwhile, if you need an essay, thesis, non-fiction book, short story or novel proofread for a very modest fee, do get in touch. A fellow worker wrote that I am "the best proof reader l've met and he finds everything". (Of course, 'proof reader' should be one word and the 'and' would be better replaced with an em-dash or semi-colon.)

For me, fiction is a space of plainness and excess.             Amina Cain When TS Eliot read Dante for the first time, he noted a discrepancy between his enjoyment and his understanding, leading to the famous claim that "genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood". He warns potential readers against two extremes: believing one has to master the theology, structure and historical context of the Commedia to appreciate its poetry or that knowledge is irrelevant to further enjoyment, which is why he thinks many readers' enjoyment is limited to the local thrills of Inferno. The warning holds today as we remain uncertain about the role literature plays in our lives: is it a repository of instrumental knowledge, cod liver oil for the soul, or pure escapism? "All three" is the public answer, except the distinctions are never clear and never overtly discussed despite fueling an entire literary culture, manifesting in, for example, the Guardian's Where to start with series in which pellets of one are slipped inside morsels of another. (Dante started with a dark wood lacking a branch of Waterstone's.)  In the months before I read the sentence in Amina Cain's A Horse at Night, I had stopped enjoying novels. I picked up several hailed as modern-day masterpieces and, despite their mutually incompatible variety, there was no spark. I bought and borrowed more seeking to break the cycle. Nothing worked. It would be easy to deceive myself into a rhetorical enjoyment, such as one reads every day in reviews, and I have often done that myself only later to reflect and regret, but I couldn't deny something was missing. Be assured this isn't a prelude to announcing the death of the novel and a call toward the tethered blimp of non-fiction, as I maintain faith in the indefinable potential of formal adventure. So if my loss of enjoyment was not the dulling of age, I wondered if there was a common absence. A answer came in that sentence. Eliot defined his enjoyment. He called it "poetic emotion". The quotation marks are his own as the phrase refers to his earlier essay on Hamlet and its definition of the Objective Correlative in which "a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events" elicit a particular emotion. This suggests literature must stick to generic templates through which a skilled writer can provoke a response immanent to the work, and Eliot more or less confirms it by reckoning Hamlet an "artistic failure" because Shakespeare did not find an objective correlative for Hamlet's behaviour that he superimposed onto the "cruder material" of earlier plays: "Hamlet (the man) is dominated by an emotion which is inexpressible, because it is in excess of the facts as they appear." He dismisses the emotion as adolescent. However, if we go back to the essay on Dante, Eliot mitigates the mixture of autobiography, lyric poetry and allegory comprising the Vita Nuova because it is a recipe "not available to the modern mind", the one that assumes biographical detail is an exposé of a personality. Instead, in Dante's case it is a report of personal experiences that were important not because they happened to Dante but because they had "philosophical and impersonal value". We might ask in response: when did a change occur that makes such a recipe unavailable to us? Perhaps it was changing in Shakespeare's time and that is precisely what makes Hamlet an excessive play. For Dante, the inexpressible and excess of facts took the form of Beatrice, a childhood love who becomes a personification of the divine and leads to a religious commitment. For Hamlet (the man), the opposite is the case. What presents itself to him is not an undoubted human presence and its gift of beatitude but a ghost he may have hallucinated and yet whose demands press upon him. Can he trust the experience? If it is false, how can he trust himself? If it is genuine, how can he trust the world? If Eliot thinks Hamlet's angst is adolescent, it may be because such introversion is now firmly embedded in the modern mind (as embodied by a certain J. Alfred Prufrock) and so easily dismissed, whereas in Shakespeare's time it was only just emerging and out of joint with what was firmly embedded then and responsible for the plays Eliot judged as "assured" artistic successes.  Vita Nuova and Hamlet are anomalies in literary history (anomalies define literary history), and what they both exhibit and what they both emerge from is excess and deprivation. The combination plays out differently in each: for Dante, the excess of emotion caused by Beatrice's presence and the deprivation experienced when she withheld her greeting and then when she died is transfigured into a mystical apocalypse and a key to salvation. His new life will be one of praise. For Hamlet the excess of ambiguity and subsequent deprivation of trust leads to behaviour that nowadays might be considered signs of a breakdown. What they also have in common is a meeting of the personal and the other-worldly. William Franke says the Vita Nuova is modelled on the New Testament gospels in which the experience of the apparent son of God remains central to the life of the writer. Beatrice was Dante's path to God and lyric poetry was his witness, the only proper means of communicating the revelation, with the prose commentary grounding the divine in everyday experience. The phenomenon of transcendence that Beatrice was for Dante became possible "only by the instrumentality of the lyric, specifically by virtue of its powers to express registers of personal experience in which subjective response and feeling are constitutive parts or aspects of objective events, not secondary and less real". Franke compares this to Christ's beatitudes that "lend themselves...to liturgical recitation and serve as kernels inviting supplemental elaboration in the form of illustrative narratives or parables and edifying doctrinal discourses". Hamlet does not have this resource and the very different form the play takes from Dante's little book indicates stages in a long process in which lyric poetry and literary prose finally become divorced, as described by Robert Alter, cited by Franke. The progressive narrativization of verse specifically in the refashioning and transmutation of biblical poetry into epic narration...describes a natural evolution starting from poetry, as the original form of literary expression, and moving to prose as its extension and elaboration. The process follows the incremental secularisation of Western society and the decline of the effects of revelation. It may explain why certain phrases in Hamlet have become embedded in everyday life in the same way as lines of poetry have (and so the apocryphal story of someone complaining that the play is full of quotations), while passages of novels, the exemplary form of disenchantment, have not (and indeed why poetry and plays have become minor forms in literary culture). Of course, novels are often common reference points, but nobody has lines running through their heads or recites passages off the cuff. They neither lend themselves to recitation nor to the rituals of performance. By becoming wholly extension and elaboration, prose has freed itself from its roots in lyric poetry and in the process that which exceeds the everyday, divine or otherwise. The lyrical state is a state beyond forms and systems.                                        EM Cioran So it was when I read Amina Cain's sentence that I recognised the problem. Plainness and excess has become prosaic. Plainness has become unimpeachable by making the everyday consequential in itself, though this has constantly to be renewed with critical hype – Dirty Realism was all the rage when I got into reading – and yet the residue of lyric and its promise of something other than the everyday remains: revelation has become a ghost in popular features such the 'twist in the tale' and the resolution of a plot, while in more refined circles, the possibility of revelation is present in the value afforded to 'experimental' writing which seems to promise that "under the myopic scrutiny of a good close reading" as Catherine Liu puts it "an obdurate, clam-like text [would] give up its iridescent pearl of gorgeous meaning". Meanwhile, excess is converted into maximalist world-building breezeblocks telling stories spanning continents and centuries, packed with history, adventure, romance, horror and fantasy. Each, however, remains undisturbed by the excess of its own presence, the incomprehensible revelation that with one sentence, however plain, however excessive, something has been added to the world, in the world as a product of a culture, yet not completely of the world. The surprise of distance. This has an effect comparable to that which Beatrice had on Dante and the ghost had on Hamlet; comparable but distinct, as it goes unnoticed. You can see the return of the repressed in "lyrical humanism", the form Lee Rourke diagnosed as the default mode of 'literary fiction', poised uneasily between popular and elite culture. With 'poetic' prose, it seeks to enchant a world without transcendence, standing in for that transcendence, and while it is ultimately empty, drawing the contempt of popular authors, it comforts the reader as much as the cushions on their conservatory armchair. (Dirty Realism is lyrical humanism in black and white.) We overlook its origins because the reception of contemporary novels follows Eliot by using contemporary mutations of the objective correlative to contain the terms of evaluation.  The sparkless cycle was broken when in a desultory search I picked out Thomas Bernhard's 1967 novel Verstörung, unfortunately translated as Gargoyles (it means Disturbance or Derangement) and began to read it for the first time in 25 years. I had regarded it as an also-ran among his novels, perhaps because the first of its two chapters is a plain story. A doctor's son home from college is listening to his father describing his rounds in a handful of small Austrian towns. There was a schoolteacher in Salla who he found dying and then a child in Hüllberg who fell into a tub of boiling water. The visits wear him down and the death of his wife and his daughter's suicide attempt hang over him. Despite this, the son's presence gives him cheer and he speaks of the restorative effects of nature. They prepare for a walk along the local river but are immediately interrupted by an urgent call to attend an innkeeper's wife in Gradenberg who has been bludgeoned by a drunken miner. The son accompanies the father to the inn and then the hospital, where she dies.  Crime, sickness, psychological distress and death pervade the region with son and father like Dante and Virgil on a travelogue through Hell, only without Dante's contrapasso placing the suffering in God's design. Purgatory of sorts is suggested when they reach the father's friend Bloch, an estate agent. The father finds some equilibrium by discussing political and philosophical issues with him and borrowing the big books of European thought from his library: Pascal, Kant, Marx, Nietzsche. He says Bloch resists despair by "seeing his life as an easily understood mechanism" he can adjust as necessary to practical ends. The son, a student of mining, agrees: "It was worth making the maximum effort to shake off a tendency to despair". Next they visit a wealthy industrialist who also seeks to make the maximum effort, in his case by shutting himself up in a hunting lodge to write on a literary work on a "purely philosophical subject". Father and son enter the lodge and walk on wooden floorboards through dark and barely furnished rooms. The son wishes to scream and throw open the shutters, but makes the effort to check himself.  Throughout the first half then the tension between mind and body, between self and world, is held in place by the firebreak between the observer and observed. The son is part of the world, partly outside. The plain act of description maintains literary sanity, with its correlative in the story being the father's commentary on the cases in the sanctuary of the car as they drive towards the summit of the purgatorial mountain. It is here that they meet Prince Saurau on the outer wall of Hochgobernitz Castle perched high above the surrounding countryside, a paradise of sorts. It is also where the second chapter begins and is what led Italo Calvino to call Gargoyles one of the great novels of the 20th century.  The Prince greets the visitors and immediately begins talking about the three applicants for the job he had advertised that morning, commenting on their dress, their demeanour, their background, their family, the towns they come from and, leaping from one subject to another, doesn't stop talking for the next 140 pages. He is enraged by the "idiotic bureaucratic rabble" that runs the Austrian state who have "expropriated" everything. He repeats variations of "expropriated" several times, and then "empty" several times. "Everything is empty!". In his analysis he comes across as intensely sensitive, lucid perhaps, and in the repetitions on the edge of madness. As is familiar in Bernhard's novels, the conditions cannot be separated. If the Prince hasn't descended entirely it is because the repetitions of words and phrases coalesce to maintain him in an oscillation above his abyss, even if it is an oscillation in which anger, loneliness, alienation, distress and despair comprise its dynamo. The Prince's compulsive repetitions form a lyricism in the absence of meaning, a revelation of sorts. Gershom Scholem called it the nothingness of revelation: "a state in which revelation appears to be without meaning, in which it still asserts itself, in which it has validity but no significance. A state in which the wealth of meaning is lost and what is in the process of appearing...still does not disappear." It is a state we recognise in the process of reading Gargoyles. A more straightforward reader may interpret the condition as purely medical and the novel merely a case study, while admiring Bernhard's skill in capturing the symptoms. Lyricism has its place in these conditions, as Cioran observed: It is significant that the beginnings of all mental psychoses are marked by a lyrical phase during which all the usual barriers and limits disappear, giving way to an inner drunkenness of the most fertile, creative kind. This explains the poetic productivity characteristic of the first phases of psychoses. Consequently, madness could be seen as a sort of paroxysm of lyricism.  [Translated by Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston] Except the condition enabling such a diagnosis is not an uncontaminated onlooker: rationalism could be seen as a paroxysm of psychic catalepsy, the checked scream in recognition of the eternal silence of infinite space beyond the shutters of science, unwilling to confront the utter mystery of conscious existence. Pascal's famous line is the appropriate epigram to Gargoyles. With this in mind, we may turn to German Idealism and the intellectual history of the deus absconditus to recognise that the Prince is in a "delirium of loss" whose theological ground is set out by Alina Feld in Melancholy and the Otherness of God. The unhappy consciousness is "torn between finitude and the infinite, between the fallen and the ideal, between the human self and transcendent God". And while this condition appears to be conclusive, the form it takes remains part of the possible paroxysm, with catalepsy its cure. The lack of satisfaction in rational codefication is why we turn to novels, to its excess of the world, to writing that has an openness to an apparent outside, made apparent by writing, however deceptive. What is revealed in reading Gargoyles, and by extension in all novels, is a relation to what does and at the same time does not exist. The Prince's disturbance of this novel in particular is a disturbance of the novel in its generic safety and its readers seeking knowledge, cod liver oil for the soul and escapism. It is the revelation of the novel as an other-worldly presence in our lives, a measure of forever, an enjoyment beyond our understanding.

In order of being read. Giorgio Agamben – What I saw, heard, learned… One night, along Venice’s Zattere, watching the putrid water lap at the city’s foundations, I saw that we exist solely in the intermittence of our being, and that what we call I is just a shadow continuously bidding farewell and saying hello, barely mindful of its own dissipation. All the machinery of our body serves solely to provide that break, that inversion of breath in which dwells the I—the intercessor of its own absence, unforgettable, neither living nor speaking, but the only reason we’re given life and language.   [Translated by Alta L. Price] This book has 72 pages. On each of the first 61 there is a single paragraph. Reading them in sequence is like springing from stone to stone to cross a river. Sometimes one gives way.  The final 11 pages have a negative version of the title and whose content is comparable to Blanchot's A Primal Scene? in The Writing of the Disaster. Holly Langstaff – Art and Technology in Maurice Blanchot The unprepossessing title disguises a brilliant and beautifully written analysis of the subject, and perhaps timely given the step-change in Artificial Intelligence currently wiping out sources of income (including my own). What I learned is that Blanchot's vision of literature is much more radical than I had previously allowed, no doubt enchanted by the romanticism of Blanchot's keywords without facing up to their implications, all due to an unyielding humanism. He may have welcomed the AI-generated novel because it undoes instrumentality and exposes us to "the abyssal non-foundation of art" in which we might find "something profoundly affirmative ... where nothing is predetermined, neither by an all-powerful God nor by the teleological progress of history". In February, I wrote about AI-generated poetry as criticised by Alice Oswald. Wade Davis – Into the Silence: The Great War, Mallory and the Conquest of Everest There are hundreds of pages in this book telling the story of a generation of amateur mountaineers in the years before, during and after Great War that have a resonance similar to Max Aue's fictionalised account of the Babi Yar massacre in Jonathan Littell's The Kindly Ones. The reader also enters into the silence. Thomas Bernhard – Gargoyles At the midpoint of the year I became seriously jaded with reading. Everything was routine and a chore. I bought books assuming the author and subject matter would guarantee the old spark of new life, only to set them aside after a handful of pages. They piled up like a gambling debt. Then, in desultory scanning of bookshelves, I picked out Bernhard's second novel. It had never been a favourite but I hadn't read it for many years and fancied bathing in Prince Saurau's speech that usurps the novel halfway through (the novel should be reissued with a better translation of the German title Verstörung as 'Disturbance', in part to refer to the Prince's state of mind). Before that speech arrived, however, it became one of my favourite novels of all time (why do people use that stupid phrase?), and not just of Bernhard's, which are among the best novels of all time. Someone on Twitter puts it well: "Though his style got more refined, the melancholy and poetry of his earlier works were never matched again, not even by him." Soon after, I would read a book that helped me to appreciate why melancholy and poetry sparked new life. But first, something completely different. Nicholas Rooney – Talking to the Wolf: the Alexander Dugin Interviews Alexander Dugin's reputation goes before him and I began to read these interviews as a means of bypassing received opinion. Once started, I didn't stop. There are over 500 pages covering philosophy, theology and politics. His focus in theology is often on the need for a relation to eternity: The distance between us and eternity is growing and it demands more and more effort in our life in order to return to eternity. So we go out of eternity and fall. Time is a kind of radical sin and not a kind of progress; it’s something completely opposite. We should make time something other than it is, and that is precisely why when Christ was baptised the river Jordan went in the opposite direction. So that is precisely what we need to do. We need a kind of revolution of time. We need to direct time in the opposite direction. Eternity is also a topic for Tancredo Pavone in Gabriel Josipovici's interview-novel Infinity in which the composer speaks a fusion of profundity and bullshit. Whether 'also' should appear in that sentence is up to the reader of these conversations to decide. The question must be why I enjoyed them almost as much as Gargoyles (so not completely different after all). When Dugin turns to politics, his deeply conservative opinions do not preclude proposals for a multipolar world order. This was unexpected and hopeful, which must be why he is demonised by the unipolar West. William Franke – Dante’s Vita nuova and the New Testament: Hermeneutics and the Poetics of Revelation Some years ago Lee Rourke, a fellow scourge of Establishment Literary Fiction, identified the default mode of the contemporary novel as 'lyrical humanism'. As he has written for the New Humanist, I assumed this was because lyricism appeals to a residual irrational and thereby religious inclination in secular society and, contra Mallarmé, he seeks to purge literary language of anything beyond functional utility. I may have assumed too much, but reading Bernhard's Gargoyles and especially Prince Saurau's gloriously disconsolate aria, I realised that I am travelling in the opposite direction. This is not a religious turn but faithfulness to an experience that cannot be conveyed by a chronicle of facts. For Dante the experience was the incarnation of eternity in time in the form of Beatrice, conveyable only in lyric. William Franke's book helped to appreciate the prose 'explanations' in the Vita Nuova alternating with the lyrics were necessary to avoid the latter becoming absorbed by a literary and rhetorical tradition rather than the voice of an individual recording a unique vision. In this way the Vita Nuova becomes a contemporary gospel, risking blasphemy in doing so. Prince Saurau's speech may be its recurrence in a secular time, hence its paradoxical glory. I have written before about the Vita Nuova in Dante on the Beach. Gabriel Josipovici – A Winter in Zürau and Partita I wrote about this two-book edition in October, so all there is to do here is to reiterate the gift of the first part is its case for formal adventure in writing and of the second its enactment. It is one Josipovici has made throughout his career, but never with such focus. He makes clear that what distinguishes Kafka is that his experimentation in the Bohemian countryside was not a means to impress critics, not a noodling with sentences, not playing with genre, but a means of relating to "ultimate things" borne on a deeply felt existential anxiety. Mark Bowles – All My Precious Madness The blurb I contributed to this wonderful novel is deceptive in that Mark Bowles is like Thomas Bernhard only in the narrator Henry Nash's exultant anger with the social and political conditions in which we live – more or less unheard of in the British novel – and the triangular relationships, as set out by Thomas Cousineau in his book on Bernhard, in the form of Nash himself, his father and Cahun, the ghastly representative of the professional managerial class. It may be described as the Bildungsroman of a Critical Theorist, only with the rebarbative prose of that movement replaced by luxurious sentences, something else he has in common with the great Austrian.

"A novel is a kind of lazy way of writing a short story, a short story a lazy way of writing a poem" said Muriel Spark, adding by explanation: "The longer they become, the more they seem to lose value". We might wonder then if the most value is to be found in the shortest novels, the shortest short stories and the shortest poems, such as Christian Stevens's Hummingbirds / don't know the words and Giuseppe Ungaretti's Eternal. However, these may be still too lazy for Muriel Spark. A single word instead then? A single letter perhaps, maybe even a punctuation mark. Such logic leads to a blank page as the least lazy and most valuable form, or no page at all, or even better, the space from which the page has been removed. But perhaps Muriel Spark is only cheekily inverting the common assumption that, as a lisping Kingsley Amis might have said, more means worth. If she is, it is only its inversion: the longer a work becomes, the closer it comes to such value in the abyss of prose. Collecting poems or stories into a book draws attention to the spaces between entries that invoke a value effaced by the writing. [1] What can the writer do? The question creates the tension in Blood Knowledge, the story opening Pretty Ugly, Kirsty Gunn's latest collection. Venetia Alton is a writer of bestselling historical romances reflects upon a happy marriage and two successful careers, a beautiful home and garden, with children having flown the nest to find their own happy and successful lives. She publishes a novel every two years, alhough she admits they write themselves: It was a case of doing the research, compiling the characters, and the contents would play out in the same way with every title: Tough times into good. Happy ever after. Wars could rage in Renaissance England, French coasts beset by 19th century piracy and highland estates overcome by rebellion...but all would come right in the end because it was what happened at home that counted; it was a story after all. She sets all this against a disquiet often expressed to Richard, her husband, as a wish to build a different life elsewhere, perhaps abroad, but dismissed by him as "silly". How could it be better than here? She cannot say, not out loud anyway. She turns instead to writing on scraps of paper and hiding them from view. The scraps work in the opposite direction to the novels as they contain evidence of a rebellion against the genre she has lived, that she has been expected to live, as a wife and mother, and as a novelist. What counts for her is the space around what is present to everyone else, a space that cannot be addressed, cannot become part of a happy ever after story. And yet of course it it has been addressed, here. Venetia's secret was made public the moment it was written down, even if it remains forever hidden in a drawer. In keeping with the oxymoron of the collection's title, writing is an open secret. If the ostensible value here is Venetia affirmination of her sequestered self and as such appearing to submit to a familiar genre of contemporary critical discourse – it may be no coincidence that Venetia shares a seven-letter Latinate first name with Clarissa Dalloway and that her husband is also called Richard – its native value is that it pulses with the secret of storytelling, its blood knowledge, a secret nevertheless we have to keep. [2]   Notes [1] The reader's demand for the work to efface the ambiguity of value is revealed by the reliably execrable Hadley Freeman in her review of a book "described in the press release, rather untemptingly, as a short story collection". [2] It has become a pattern that, when I write about short story collections, I write about one story only despite such collections tending towards variety. It happened first with Thomas Bernhard's Goethe Dies, then Enrique Vila-Matas' Death by Saudade, followed by Sam Pink's Blue Victoria, and most recently Gert Hofmann's Arno. This appears to be a critical cop-out and/or implicit criticism of the other stories in the collections. Instead, however, I hope it is best to avoid the value-free impressionism I remember from reading reviews in the NME in the 1980s in which tracks of LPs are summarised with adjective-noun combinations – "the upbeat freedom of X, the trenchant melancholy of Y" – as if that helped anyone. In this case, it is ironic that I'm reviewing a book published by Rough Trade, which as a music label gave us records by The Fall, The Smiths and Robert Wyatt, each of which I bought at that time and still own.