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Wild Swans, can't remember the author off hand, but its about 3 generations of women in the same family from before the war, through the chinese revolution

Read that years ago. Communism sounnds like loads of fun hey?

 

 

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  • 10 months later...

Wild Swans, can't remember the author off hand, but its about 3 generations of women in the same family from before the war, through the chinese revolution

Read that years ago. Communism sounnds like loads of fun hey?

 

The Chinese version of it sure didn't sound like a blast

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  • 2 weeks later...

Got to give it to Mozzer, he might be a bit ill (still), but...

 

People are having a pop at Morrissey for apparently demanding that his autobiography be published as a Penguin Classic. Not a modern classic, but a classic classic, alongside Aristotle and Aristophanes. I'm all in favour of people mocking Moz, a man so pompous he makes Stephen Fry seem humble, who thinks the fact that he once read something by Oscar Wilde and uses words like "shambolic" means he is intelligent. That a man famous for singing lines like "Your boyfriend he / Went down on one knee / Well could it be / He's only got one knee?" believes he belongs on the same shelf as Homer is both hilarious and terrifying.

 

But it isn't Morrissey we should be slating here; it's Penguin. In agreeing to publish Moz's apparently revealing life story as a classic, Penguin has unwittingly set fire to its own reputation. It has shown itself willing to cave in spectacularly to cultural relativism, to embrace the modern fashion for eschewing judgment in favour of squawking: "Everything is equally valid."

 

Got it ordered looking forward to giving it a read.

 

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This they don't teach you at business school. How do you wreck overnight the reputation of a global brand that, since 1946, has built up its worldwide trust on the basis of consistent excellence, expert selection and a commitment to pick and sell only the very best? Easy, really. You chuck 67 years of editorial rigour and learning out of the corporate window and kowtow to the whims of a petulant pop icon.

 

Penguin will next week publish the first edition of Morrissey's Autobiography – which almost no one outside the company has yet read, let alone formed a fashion-proof judgment about – as a Penguin Classic in the familiar black livery. Well. "The Queen is dead," sang the quixotic melancholiac of Davyhulme, so long ago. Penguin Classics, as a noble idea of affordable, accessible enlightenment, has certainly died this month. The verdict has to be suicide.

 

"Such a little thing, such a little thing," to cite the man himself, "but the difference it made was grave." Or, more obviously, "You just haven't earned it yet, baby,/ You just haven't earned it son." I have relished the quiffed warbler's lyrics since the early days of The Smiths (before fanboy David Cameron took to them). I have paid hard cash to hear Morrissey distil the anguish of a million lonely bedrooms in landmark songs that augur well for a top-notch testament. Moreover, I have defended Penguin's Modern Classics list when it pushed the boundaries of the canon to embrace work by the dub poet Linton Kwesi Johnson. Should Penguin ever be able to buy their rights, that series would provide a perfect home for lyrics by, say, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen.

 

This isn't about redefinition of the "classic", though, but abject surrender. Penguin has with breath-stopping cynicism flogged its crown jewel - a precious place on the roster of the world's most enduring literary works – to the moody maverick. Reportedly, he insisted on the honour as a deal-breaker. It makes those rock-star dressing-room demands, for bowls of blue Smarties or pails of pink Cristal, look unduly modest.

 

Morrissey merely asked for a niche beside (let's just stick to the Ms) Montaigne, More, Milton, Marlowe, Melville, Machiavelli and Michelangelo. Nice try. "So for once in my life/ let me get what I want…" That he did seems to indicate that Penguin Books – now merged with Random House – has, after 78 blessed years of blending literary authority with popular appeal, ceased to care for anything beyond its bottom line. However strong the book, Penguin's meek capitulation means that it has sold its most cherished brand down the river - or, perhaps, the Manchester Ship Canal.

Penguin Classics began in 1946 with EV Rieu's prose version of Homer's Odyssey, translated during his wartime service as an act of faith in a brighter future of inspiration and education for all. It went on to sell three million copies. How long before Morrissey matches that? Since then, the Classics catalogue has evolved with postwar tastes. Women's writing, non-Western canons, science, travel and (yes) memoirs: all have justifiably stretched the categories of the time-tested book. Until now, though, you couldn't just buy or blag yourself a spot. The singer-songwriter who denounced Margaret Thatcher so vehemently has shown that firepower in the marketplace can blast away every vestige of professional judgment.

Given his songs' flair for phrase, atmosphere and story, Autobiography may well shine within its genre. But even if it doesn't, that black jacket will still lend it an unearned aura. The imprint has been tainted, arguably beyond repair. In "Reader, Meet Author", Morrissey in his tough-guy pose sang that "Books don't save them, books aren't Stanley knives". Penguin Classics once embodied the opposite point of view. No longer. The list has taken a Stanley knife to its own throat.

 

Lots of suitable outrage!

 

:grandpa:

 

:lol:

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Zero Option by David Rollins

a fictional story based on Korean Airlines going down off Hokkaido in 1983

Great read be ineteresting to see the movie they are making about it

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