The angst of return; the return of angst.

And so I am returned to my Chair in Heidelburg after a most fruitful and in no small manner stimulating sabbatical in the 'far east'. I am anxious to commence my path breaking exegesis in all due haste so as to shatter the published walls of academe with yet more brilliant articles that will rewrite the laws of linguistic process if not procedure. But what, pray, do I find upon returning to my hallowed oak-lined office?

I am stunned beyond revulsion to discover that my inner sanctum has been occupied by not just one but two junior academics, even lowly assistant professors! I suspected that all was amiss when old Gerhardt the janitor guided me to my door with even more cringing perspiration than was his wont. Upon opening said portal I was afflicted with a vision beyond the wildest infernal depictions of Hieronymus Bosch himself.

My bookshelves had been dishevelled and disrupted beyond repair. And there, inside my antique Duisburg porcelain sink lay stacks of my coveted Caporelli dinner service stained with what I am informed is something called Pizza, but rotted beyond hygiene. One untermensch sat with his filthy boot-clad feet upon the veneer of my precious Vermaelen desk, studiously tearing up my meticulously prepared index cards and rolling them for insertion into the extremity of what I can only describe as home-made cigarillos. His lank, greasy hair barely stirred across a battered leatherette jacket as I spluttered in righteous incandescence. But this was nothing as compared to his totally inappropriate greeting. "Chill, man" was all he uttered before returning to his hideously vandalistic task, as if I was not even therein present.

But it was the second troglodyte that sent me into spasms of cataclysmic apoplexy. This languid baboon had opened all my private mail and had scattered it hither and yon 'twixt the Grundfeld meeting table, the Qubakh carpeting and the De Lorette shelves. "You aint missed much" he opined "and since you wuzzn't here we accepted your invitations to conferences and said we wuz you. Laugh eh? Nobody noticed and we published a shedload. All on expenses, man, cool". Fearing lockjaw and cardiac arrest I turned on my heel and departed forthwith from these heinous scenes of wanton destruction and vile impertinence, marching immediately to the offices of highest authority to demand immediate explanation, satisfaction and rectification.

Imagine, if you will, my utter bewilderment upon reaching the Directorate suite of offices to find an entire change of personnel. A personage with green hair sat at a desk filing her nails and could only say "Yeah?" as if I was some menial underlaborer instead of the most eminent professor in this mighty seat of learning. Upon demanding to see the Rector I was stunned to be ushered into the presence of my nemesis, Dr Egbert von Grollingen, the fanatical schismatic and bane of my career.

Smiling his demonic and triumphant smirk, he rapidly briefed me on developments. It was he who arranged my sabbatical to ensure my absence at the time of his coup d'etat. Rector Pumpfeisten had been retired on 'health grounds' engineered by von Grollingen's fawning toadies (since when did erratic whimsy ever disbar revered academic from senior administrative duty?). von Grollingen then rapidly mobilised his forces and the coup was complete as he settled himself into the Rector's weighty chair.

He'd made some changes, he smirked, "long overdue". We were now running courses in something called 'media studies' and 'business studies', not to mention 'computing'. Enrollment had tripled, as had income. I enquired about the presence of the loathsome pond life in my office and demanded their immediate expulsion. "Ah, O'Hara and Canello, brilliant young academics, fabulous publishing record" he grimaced. "Under our new Proactive Staff Development Initiative we are now nurturing and mentoring the bright young stars by placing them in direct contact with our most eminent professors. I think they'll learn a lot from you".

Feeling faint and pleading jetlag I fled the scene, heading post-haste to the Senior Common Room which - is nothing sacred? - was now a Burger King! Huddled in the corner, nursing a 'Whoppa' and 'Big Gulp' was old Professor J.L.B. Kamala, stout fellow, champion of romanticism and all-round decent chap. Needless to say he was delighted to see me, and, furtive glances aside, a natural ally. But imagine my disdain when he made his apologies and swept from the scene, gown flapping like a demented bat. It was then I noticed his clumsy attempts to conceal himself from ubiquitous close-circuit TV cameras. What the deuce?

Clearly all is not well, and I must regroup and consider tactical if not strategic options. A counter-coup seems almost a duty but I must not be hasty. Nay, I shall be the very imitator of Quintus Fabius Cunctator himself. Victory is assured.

The clamour unending

I am receiving an entirely untoward number of 'e-mails' pleading for me to script a new 'post'. Since I am urgently required in the maturation of several high-level projects I am unable to comply. So I find myself in the situation of urging my devotees to seek patience and fortitude, secure in the hope that I shall someday return to lead this forum of cognoscenti, at such a time that my burdens allow. But not before, I insist.

Proust defended against the barbarians

I am appalled to see a bilious, vomitose and utterly intemperate assault upon Proust by Germaine Greer. By her reading A la recherche du temps perdu is too long, too obscure, grammatically otiose and incomplete. Therefore it is, in her view, 'a waste of time' to ever embark upon reading it.

While it may be true that one may read several pages before encountering any punctuation marks this, surely, marks Proust's genius in innovation. Furthermore Proust so so famously fastidious that extant editions are so heavily over-written as to be virtually illegible. His punctiliousness in the search of perfection in no small way explains the incompleteness of his oeuvre: it was only the Grim Reaper himself that interrupted this process of endless redaction.

But it really is her scurrilous slight of the series being 'too long' and 'too obscure' that draws my near-incandescent wrath. Since when has 'length' been a deterrent to the robust and muscular reader? It reminds me of the fatuous critique of Mozart by the Austrian emperor - 'too many notes'. This point must immediately be dismissed as vapid meaninglessness though, like the Emperor, I am sure that Greer has her sycophantic assenters.

And as for obscurity? What on earth is possibly condemnable about being willingly obscure? Must we have sound-bite clarity in all aspects of this vulgar monochromatic visualisation of correct writing? After all, one man's obscurity (or should that be woman's?) is an epicurean feast to another; possibly, we might add, to one with the intellect to mine nuggets of challenging apercus.

No, Proust is the unchallenged colossus of the literary world in the last century and we cannot countenance these garrulous snipings from our Antipodean harpy. Let time be the judge: will we in the next century be discussing Proust or The Female Eunuch? I rest my case.

Pestilence, I am discommoded.

I am afflicted by a tropical malady of the gravest nature. It had always been my considered view that such pestilences restricted their visitations to uncouth or unwashed personages, but it seems that I may be in error. It would appear that these microbial parasites are utterly undiscerning and may even choose to afflict the fastidious and morally upright.

I have never had to make so many urgent and non-negotiable appointments with la salle du bain, spending not inconsiderable time periods in the most disturbing if not explosive evacuations. It is most fortunate that I had the foresight to install quality porcelain, but then 'forward planning' has always been a passion of mine.

I have urgently consulted with various medical 'types' who have tried to reassure me that my malady is a typical if not low-level food infection but I simply will not be patronised or fobbed off by these uncultured persons. Such is the gravity of my confinement that I have been forced to contract an auxiliary nurse so that I may delegate ablutionary and cleansing duties to one more skilled in these distasteful duties. Meanwhile I must endure the most excruciating headaches (migraine for sure) and cramps that would gratify the most sadistic henchman of Torquemada himself.

Needless to say, I shall be hors de combat for the foreseeable future, but may snatch such pitifully fleeting moments of tranquility that I am allotted to continue with my most pressing duties at the cutting edge of the academic endeavor.

Intrusions & sundry impertenences

As you might well expect, I am regularly invited by various 'magazines' to offer some heavyweight counter-balance to the torrent of dross that habituates such pages. At times their fees can be semi-lucrative but I am not in any way driven by such crude mercenary sentiments; I deem it a duty to offer definitive rulings upon whatever conundrums animate their feeble imaginations.

So imagine, if you can, my utter horror at receiving such an entreaty from something called "Hello!" (note the frightful exclamatory mode wedded to a fatuous sub-greeting) in the form of what they call a 'Questionnaire' (a hideous conflation of Romance language and crass Americanisms, so jarring upon the ear).

These upstart felons launch a violently intrusive assault upon the deepest sanctity of my privacy by expecting me to answer a range of scurrilous questions that can offer no meaningful elucidation or exegesis to the Great Unwashed. While I prevaricate somewhat here, perhaps it may be judicious to leap to an unexpurgated exemplary illustration of the 'types' of information they seek.

"What is your star sign?" they enquire. Not only is such information held on a strictly need-to-know basis but the question is a veritable Trojan Horse that invites me to throw my weight behind the ghastly pseudo-science of astrology simply by providing an answer. I will not tread that path.

"Who is your favorite movie actress?" Answering this question may in no small measure lead the reader to suspect that I have any interest whatsoever in the shallow 'goings-on' of vapid celebrities and air-headed sirens of the screen. This question is simply impossible to answer with any real sense of moral probity.

"What is your pet and what is its name?" This abomination requires no further comment.

"Do you have a favorite spoon?" Now why on Gods earth would anyone at all need to learn the answer to this impudent frippery? I am well known for my predilection for fine cutlery but I simply cannot see how my sharing my erudition on the subject will advance the couture of those unable to understand such niceties.

"What are you doing right now?" I would have thought that the answer to this is superabundantly clear: I am struggling to control an incandescent wrath at their tortured syntax and intrusive assumptions.

I could go on. And even further on. But as Shelley famously noted "'Tis better to remain acquit than expunge to the latter dross". And so this uninvited intrusion was hurled into my 'delete box' from where there shall be no escape, not even for the paltry inducement of $500 that they dangle before me. A stand simply must be made and, as ever, I am the one to make it.

The avoidable horror of sociability

I am not, as a person, noted for any real sense of 'sociability'. This, let me hurry to add, does not suggest that I by any means eschew gatherings with like-minded, highly educated personages of the correct calibre and aesthetic sensitivity. Such coteries may be informative and even pleasant in the right circumstances.

No, I am in fact referring to those 'events' that one is coerced into attending for no other reason than to appear sociable in the eyes of such intemperate personages who really have no right to form such vexatious value judgements and seek to impose them on others. It is nothing short of moral blackmail of a most disarmingly insidious character and the extrication of self from such tangled entreaties leads one to set ones sail almost to the hither shores of creative mendacity.

At Christmas time such complex and abhorrent entrapments loom over the horizon with distressing frequency and urgency. As a confirmed bachelor I am more than contented with my own company, where at least I can be certain of a modicum of decorum and probity. But no, these snooping 'busybodies' feel it incumbent upon themselves to lure me into their ghastly 'sociabilities' without respite or decency. While I fully comprehend how my mere presence would lend some much-needed gravitas and dignity to their proceedings I must of course demur.

"You just cannot be alone at Christmas" they plead. Why ever not? If I wished to follow the swinish herd with their drunken kitsch boorish televisual 'viewing' and over-indulgent frightful lard-ridden foodstuffs then I surely would. (Though I could never, ever, bring myself to don one of those gaudy and horrible paper 'crowns' that seem so essential to such gatherings).

"Think of the children" they cry. Oh but I do. It is my adamant rule to never attempt any conversation with anyone younger than an advanced post-graduate student as it would be simply pointless to try to engage with such juveniles with obviously undeveloped politesse or accomplishment. I recoil with apoplectic horror at the prospect of being entombed with mewling screeching infants whose only discernible skill is to visit the bathroom to defecate with assistance or phonetically mutilate a traditional song whose roots pass their dimmest comprehension. Yet their parents regard such 'abilities' as somehow attractive and engaging and some even go so far as to inflict 'videos' of their brutish progeny performing such monstrosities upon a terrified captive audience. They even seem to view such 'abilities' in their brood as hard evidence of a breakthrough in human evolution to an altogether higher stage. I can think of no greater horror this side of Voltaire.

It has even been tangentially suggested that I hold a soiree of my own, keeping an iron grip upon the list of those invited under a set of stringent criteria of my own personal devising. But the risk of intrusive 'gate-crashers' is simply too great; I cannot bear the thought of them belching and expelling other noxious gases in my own dear home and leaving smeared fingerprints hither and yon, even upon my crystal goblettes. I would simply have to move, there really is no alternative, and the very thought is too stressful to bear.

Since Bangkok seems to boast no obvious Lutheran church where high ritual mingles with solemn liturgy, I shall perforce be spending Christmas alone once more. I will at least be able to dine upon acceptable viands brought in by bespoke 5 star hotels, listen to a decent Sibelius or even a Mahler should the whim strike me, and peruse the current crop of learned journals at my leisure. I can at least be certain that the napkins are crisply ironed and the silver service adequately polished to a lustre not dissimilar to the celebrated vembrace of Menelaus. I will need to check the sherry bottle to establish if it requires replenishment or even replacement after last years festivities but this is not a pressing matter. There is time aplenty to finesse the critical details as needs arise. And I will do so at my own leisure, under no compulsion from the howling pack of pleading coercers who may then go forth and mix with all and sundry, should that be their wish. But in the immortal lines of Ezra Pound "Leave me out, Buster".

Unread authors: crime or vindication?

Over the weekend (hideous phrase! Over two days one week ends and another begins, what gives termination precedence over commencement?). But already I digress. Over the last two days I have received the usual several 'e-mails' pleading for my assistance in solving seemingly intractable problems in the literary and linguistic fields. Normally I tend to ignore these pathetic petitions as below my station but one notification in particular caught my attention as worthy of some contemplation. I will share it with you now.

It seems that there is an academic going by the dubious name of Joe Moron working at a place called Liverpool John Moores University in England (a jaw cruncher of which I had hitherto been blissfully unaware). He has established a 'charity' entitled the Society of Unread Authors (SUA) with the aim of getting woefully unread personages to start to read those publications that have never been read. He wishes to "support all those writers who are left impoverished and traumatised by failing to acquire a readership." This leaves me intrigued and puzzled in roughly equal measure.

While I have a visceral aversion to 'statistics' with their frightful numerical symmetries, he uses such devices to tell an alarming tale. He claims that 200,000 titles are published annually in the UK (he only seems interested in this one country) and 800 appeared on a single day in October as a prelude to Christmas 'sales', most of which were written by someone called Dan Brown or even the disturbing-sounding Ant and Dec. The sheer weight of this publishing pushes other, allegedly worthy authors aside; it seems that they cannot in any way compete with celebrity-obsessed trivia and glutinous 'pot-boilers'. Thousands upon thousands of books are simply not being read at all.

He posits a dual strategy:

1. Recruit enforcers to coerce people into reading the books they buy and ignore, paying them to do so if necessary;
2. Delay publication of many unsuitable books with key words in their title - he cites Angels, Little Book Of, Loose Women, Jeremy Kyle (whoever that is) etc. This should allow people time to read the books they should be reading but, for whatever reason, are not.

I am perplexed by his passion. I myself am no stranger to being an unread author. Indeed I am proud to note that there are few with the stamina or intellect to plough through the dense prolixity of the muscular prose in my published work, not to mention my customarily opaque yet compendious footnoted asides. I am satisfied that my oeuvre is read in the 'right circles', by eminent people with the wit and perspicacity to learn from my cogent analysis. So why should it matter that all these thousands of books be read, even by people completely inadequate to the task?

He feels that this will "enrich our cultural life". I am by no means so sure. Imagine if we unleashed all 'sorts' of menial personages and paid them to read. Who then would empty our garbage, serve our meals or repair our machines? I shudder in trepidation.

We also need to address the question of why these books deserve to be read. I vividly recall the gruesome experience of being trapped in an elevator with a brutish economist who mercilessly harangued me on something he termed 'supply and demand'. Now, using this frightfully simplistic taxonomy, can we not go so far as to suggest that there are simply too many books for people to read? Indeed, there may not actually be that many personages capable of reading them, unless they contain gaudy pictures or came accompanied with coloring sets. If we are producing hundreds of thousands of books a minute when there are so few learned persons actually fitted to read them, then disaster looms.

No, it is better to simply stand back and let the market do its work. We cannot compel or bribe unsuitable persons to read when they are better suited to more menial operations. Likewise, any 'commercially minded' publisher will surely balk at churning out millions of texts when he discovers to his chagrin that nobody is actually buying them. Government intervention, forcing all 'types' of people to read to set targets and quotas, simply will not work and should be resisted on principle. It is but a short step to a bureaucratic strangulation of freedoms and the Ministry of Compulsory Lexicography. Is it not better that uneducated persons are reading trash than nothing at all? So, let them do as they will, even reading this so-called Ant and his doubtlessly worthy colleague Dec. Things will out in the end.