It's been a long day ...

 

 

Every morning except on Thursdays, the warm-water pool is standing room only, as a whole bunch of geriatrics do their aquarobics until lunchtime, and I don't know anyone who can hold on for that long when up to the neck in warm water.

Thursday morning being a "safe" day and having the pool almost to ourselves, we made an early start and followed it up with lunch with friends at the Batemans Bay Soldiers Club, and my usual visit to Vinnies to look for some more interesting books (not that I haven't already a whole library full of them!) I picked up "Trading in the Zone" by a Mark Douglas, which clearly hadn't made anyone a fortune yet as it was still in its shrink-wrap, and then a little lower on the same shelf, I found a completely unread "Ham on Rye"! Who in the Bay reads Charles Bukowski? No one, judging by the pristine condition of the book.

 

 

I also picked up "The Unknown Nation - Australia after Empire" and "There goes the Neighbourhood - Australia and the Rise of Asia", both published around 2010 and therefore already superseded by events.

 

BHP on Thursday, going back to Tuesday

 

Anyway, I might as well start on "Trading in the Zone" because I am not (yet) a trader. If I were, I would have sold all my BHP shares yesterday after they had jumped from $50.13 to $52.40, because today they've given up everything they had gained yesterday, and closed at $50.36.

 

 

There's even an online audiobook of "Trading in the Zone", so there's no excuse for you not to have the same sleepless nights as I have. Go for it! After seven hours of listening, you may still be just as bad at it as I am.

 

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Don't judge a book by its movie

 

 

Somerset Maugham’s work is still in print, but this once-popular writer is no longer fashionable or much read. He is thought to be too middle-class, too in thrall to empire, too British. He is all these things, but he’s so much more. His many books merit their two metre of shelf in my library.

He is a consummate storyteller, whether in short or long form, and his notebooks and The Summing Up (1938) are essential reading for all writers. "Of Human Bondage" (1915) is perhaps the best novel of obsessive love ever written. "Cakes and Ale" (1930), with its insider’s portrayal of literary fame and envy, is a gem.

"The Razor’s Edge" (1944) is a subtle yet complex story of a privileged young man in search of spiritual meaning. It is a thought-provoking and introspective work that explores the quest for meaning and purpose in life. The story revolves around Larry Darrell, a young American aviator who has recently returned from the war. However, instead of embracing the conventional path of material success and security, Larry embarks on a journey to discover the true meaning of life.

It is a timeless work that continues to captivate readers with its profound exploration of the search for meaning, the pursuit of personal freedom, and the eternal quest for Truth. Maugham's vivid storytelling and deep insights into the complexities of human nature make this book a compelling and thought-provoking read.

 

 

Neither its 1984 film adaptation nor the earlier 1946 version do the book justice. Many of his short stories were made into fims, such as the anthologies "Trio" and "Quartet", but the only film adaptation of any of his novels which did the book any justice was "The Painted Veil".

I'm no longer searching for the meaning of life. I mean, we're all going to die, all of us. That alone should make us go easy on ourselves. Instead, we're terrorised by trivialities and eaten up by nothing.

 

 

Why not instead read about other people's search for the true meaning of life? Why not read "The Razor's Edge" one more time? - click here.

 

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The Big Dipper

 

5-Day Chart

 

Many years ago when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, I lived for a few short months in an old boarding-house at Blues Point in Sydney. If I stood on my toes to look over the mirror bolted to the dressing table that obscured the window, I could see Luna Park on the other side of Lavender Bay.

At night, I heard the screaming funseekers as they launched themselves down the Park's Big Dipper. It kept me awake but not for long, as soon afterwards I returned to the peace and quiet of the islands. I am no longer in the islands but my present location is just as peaceful and quiet, and the only 'Big Dipper' I still endure is the occasional crazy day on the sharemarket, such as today when BHP went from yesterday's close at $50.13 to a screaming $52.54, to close the day at $52.40.

Overnight, BHP had closed in New York at $51.80 ( in Australian money) and I expected it to follow suit here. So I placed a sell-order for part of my holdings and retired to the library which, on a hot day like today, acts like an air-conditioner as it is windowless and double-bricked.

 

 

Little did I know that my sell-order at $52 would leave me flat-footed, as BHP not only hit $52 but, without going through the usual lunchtime lull, went to a new high of $52.54, leaving me out of breath and slightly out of pocket. Still, as they say, "You can't go broke taking a profit".

 

One-day movements

 

What was the call when I could still run and ran with the Hash House Harriers? I think the call was "on-on", shouted by the runners in the lead to let the others know they are on the right track. "On-on" to tomorrow!

 

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The Shadow Line

 

 

These days I'm only a shadow of my former self, or else I would've already rowed out to the yacht that moored last night across from "Riverbend", and whose white anchor light I'd kept an eye on during the night, dreaming of the times when I was still dreaming of sailing away from it all.

There were many such moments, but reality - and an inborn sense of obligation, of "doing one's duty" - always intervened, and I remained hide- and desk-bound, my one rejection of the conventional life being my rejection of a permanent job and moving from country to country.

Which is how Joseph Conrad begins his novel "The Shadow Line":
"Only the young have such moments. I don’t mean the very young. No. The very young have, properly speaking, no moments. It is the privilege of early youth to live in advance of its days in all the beautiful continuity of hope which knows no pauses and no introspection."

 

 

This short 1917 novel would have a difficult time finding a publisher today. For one thing, it’s about men. Only. There’s not a single female in its 128 pages. For another, it’s a sea story without much of a plot: a young sailor, never named, becomes captain of a ship and has to lead the ship and its crew through a lot of difficulties before reaching harbour. No pirates. No swashbuckling. No mutiny. No desert islands. No treasures. And, for that matter, no sex, no romance, no drugs.

Its subtitle, "A Confession", already seems to make it clear that it wasn't written to entertain but to offer the reader a chance to consider core questions of what it means to be alive. It's about an older man who is recounting with more than a little ruefulness a key moment in his life, a moment when he crossed the line — that shadow line — between boyishness and adulthood, between happy-go-lucky and battle-tested, between self-ignorance and grimly won self-knowledge.

The older man is recalling how, on the spur of the moment, he quit his ship and decided to return to his home port. It was, he says, the product of boredom, weariness and dissatisfaction. "My action, rash as it was, had more the character of divorce — almost of desertion. For no reason on which a sensible person could put a finger I threw up my job — chucked my berth — left the ship of which the worst that could be said was that she was a steamship and therefore, perhaps, not entitled to that blind loyalty which…. However, it’s no use trying to put a gloss on what even at the time I myself half suspected to be a caprice."

Strictly speaking, it's not an autobiography, but a heavily fictionalised, semi-autobiographical novel of Conrad's life, to which I can relate, albeit without the ship. Complex as it is, the French tried to make a movie out of it - in French. Get out your dictionary, sit back and relax.

 

 

Which is what I'm doing, as I sit on the verandah in the morning sunlight, with one eye on the yacht across the river to watch for any sign of life.

 

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Walk, don't run

 

 

A very dear person who was the most important person in my life gave me for a birthday present this bottle opener. I used it for nothing else, until the subtle message finally revealed itself to me - too late, as so much else in my life.

For years I moved from one place to another, and dreamt continually of stopping. And because my desire to stop haunted me, I didn't stop. I continued to wander without the slightest hope of ever going anywhere.

I gave myself up to the drift, veering, detouring, and circling back, always one step ahead of nowhere, inventing the road I had taken as I went along. And for all I had left behind, it still anchored me to my starting place and made me regret ever having taken the first step.

And yet I went on. For even though I lingered at times, I was incapable of taking roots, for what I wanted is what I didn't want.

In the end it was the sheer distance between myself and what I had left behind that allowed me to see what I am not but might have been.

 

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