“We usually believe gossip about ourselves to have been inspired by a level of malice far greater [or more critical] than the malice we ourselves feel in relation to the last person we gossiped about, a person whose habits we could mock without this in any way altering our affection for them.” So wrote Alain de Botton (photo: Vincent Starr) in his book How Proust Can Change Your Life, quite a long time ago. Since then his writing has come in for a fair amount of malicious criticism of its own; at times even causing him to lose his temper, which is somehow hard to believe. But he’s also sold millions of copies of his books.

His TV series ‘The Perfect Home ’ and ‘Status Anxiety’ have recently been screened in New Zealand (on the Living and Documentary Channels respectively). ‘The Perfect Home’, adapted from his book The Architecture of Happiness, is that rare and endangered beast: a TV show that educates. Its three, unmissable hour-long episodes critique mass developer housing and make the case that property developers need to give people a choice before they glibly claim a particular architectural style is what house-buyers want.

In The Pleasure and Sorrow of Work (discussed here on video) de Botton considers a loss of meaning through endless job specialisation, and mentions the break he made from academic writing when he decided to place himself in his work.

In 2009 de Botton won a search for a Writer-in-Residence at London’s Heathrow Airport, and wrote a book about his experiences, A Week at the Airport. Also last year, de Botton was made an honorary fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects in recognition of his services to architecture.

NZBC caught up with Alain for a Davidoff Café Riche, quizzed him on steamroller capitalism and asked for directions to Gate 12, Terminal One. Read on…

Labels: architecture, de Botton, Five minutes with, interview, philosophy

Long-time NZBC readers may remember my short story ‘Shem-el-Nessim’, first posted here in instalments, back in 2006. Since then, it has appeared in print, in Zahir magazine in the US and a Postscripts anthology called ‘This Is The Summer of Love’ in the UK.

The story was inspired by a framed advertisement from an old magazine for a real perfume called Shem-el-Nessim, made by the London company J. Grossmith and Son. Before writing it I did some internet research to attempt to find out whether the company still existed, what its address was in the 1920s when the story was set, and to try to find out as much as I could about the perfume’s history. At the time, other than some auctions of vintage packaging and advertising material on eBay, I couldn’t find much in the public domain. However, in the process, I did stumble on an unexpected link to the infamous occultist Aleister Crowley. That, of course, had to be included in the story.

You can imagine how pleased I was a couple of months ago to hear from a direct descendant of John Grossmith, Simon Brooke, who has recently re-launched Grossmith and its perfumes: “Your story is very special for me and I would very much like to know what inspired you,” Simon emailed.

He tells me Shem-el-Nessim is now the best seller of Grossmith’s three new launch scents, and today wrote with further news about the perfume and his connection with the Grossmith dynasty. Read on…

I wasn't really looking forward to going and seeing The Lovely Bones - I felt I had to. But I came out a fan.

I've read what the critics have said and seen the, rather ugly, US box office numbers. I don't care, I like this film.

Yes, it is sentimental, pulling a lot of heartstrings - and sentimentality is the enemy of great art. But somehow Jackson, Wilde and company pull it off, for me anyway.

The CGI was significant, and at one point I thought too much, but then even that redeemed itself.

I've never read Alice Sebold's book and probably never will. But the film held my attention throughout with very good performances, tension and, I thought, great non-exploitative taste in the way a brutal subject was depicted.

All of the reviewers I’ve taken notice of so far seem uncertain about whether this book should have been published. I’ve only just started reading it so I’ll reserve judgement on its literary merits. But I’ve said it before and I think it bears saying again: the experience of a book shouldn’t be defined by story alone. A book can also—and nowadays I might even be able to make a case for should—be an artefact. Even insubstantial works can be something to treasure, to covet, to grace your furniture and your life. I’m enjoying just holding and looking at The Original of Laura; weighing the stock in my hand, marvelling at the care that went into the selection of the typefaces, the work that went into matching the printing of the reverse sides of the index cards with their fronts then micro-perforating them. Renowned book jacket designer Chip Kidd has shown great restraint in creating a cover that is both classy and modern. Some of the snootier reviewers are rattling on about questionable constructions in the introduction by and resorting to insults (calling Dmitri snobbish brings to mind the words pot, kettle and black). Others pointlessly compare it with earlier, completed works. For now I’m happy to enjoy Laura as artefact, reminding myself that we can still make luxurious mass-produced objects when we try, and confirming for myself that there’s no substitute for printed word on paper and won’t be for a while.

Nick Cave’s The Death of Bunny Munro has rightly received upbeat notices elsewhere. For a book written by a rock star hobby novelist it’s admirably free of writerly showing off and holds the reader’s attention until the final line. It’s even rarer for a modern novel to be unencumbered by typographical and editing errors. At least, it is until you get to the ending; I’m going to be charitable and suggest it’s bad editing and not bad writing. Because it would be unusual for a writer to destroy so much of the goodwill he’s created in the preceding pages in the final paragraph. This book succeeds with a clunker. I’d go as far as to say I was loving it until I got to the final line, and I say this largely because I haven’t seen the ending referred to in any of the other reviews I’ve read.

The editors at the Text Publishing Company deserve to be locked in a room with access only to style manuals for a month for letting it go to press. It has a “Will this do?” quality, not to mention a tautology worthy of the late Hylda Baker. Anyway, you be the judge. Here, with the obligatory SPOILER ALERT for those who haven’t read it, is the final paragraph in its entirety.

“Bunny Junior watches a policewoman with long blonde hair trailing behind her like moulded plastic and her radio transmitter squelching its own private language and her warm, merciful, adult face smiling down at him as she kneels on the street and says, ‘Come on, little man, let me help you,’ and Bunny Junior gently pushes her outstretched hand to one side and, standing, stands up above.”

Things I learned from watching 2012.

That the world values novelists, especially failed ones, and that they will be welcomed into refuge should the world look like ending, even if they endanger the lives of thousands of people.

That plastic surgeons will not be valued should the world look like ending, likewise Russian billionaires.

The Chinese can build anything, real quick.

A major shock will stop a seven-year-old wetting the bed.

Even if you are a neglectful, obsessive jerk, your ex-wife and children will forgive you, given enough time.

You should not live on an earthquake faultline, even if your career depends on it. Or in the Third World.

My week in the media for In a Word turned into a month or so, thanks to the interest of radio and TV. I did lots of interviews in the end, and had chats on Radio NZ and TVNZ, in the form of Media Watch and Media7, blabbing about words and subbing (and the book).

Mediawatch here and Media7 here.

I was very grateful for the attention, refreshed in finding that other people in the media still care about words, and hope my warbling made people who love language smile and nod and frown and shake their heads, and maybe a few pick up the book in shops to see if it's their thing.

Oddly, and it may be ironically, the papers and mags didn't make much of the book. In that I mean they hardly mentioned it. A very positive review appeared in the Your Weekend magazine that goes out in Saturday's DomPost, Press and Waikato Times, thanks, but I had hoped one of the nation's print publications, who seem to take words seriously, would have a good go at the book, spotting its strengths and weaknesses, its intent and hubris. Nup. Maybe someone in the UK press will, now it's over there.

My original week in the media is here.

A church has been fined for blocking cellphones during services.

You can, at least for the moment, freely import cellphone signal jammers, but you are not allowed to make or use them without gaining a licence from MED. Corrections is one of the few bodies that can use them, to curtail the freedom of prisoners digitally as well as physically.

This is the wrong way round. All cinemas should be able to block the use of cellphones, as should theatres, hospitals, restaurants, clubs and bars. Churches even. Anywhere people gather for pleasure and a bit of peace. Go outside.

Compare smoking. This is no longer permitted anywhere indoors for the deleterious effect it has on those who don't choose to inhale. Cellphone yappers and yellers should not be allowed to pollute the world of sound, or the cinema's dark cocoon with their flashlight screens. Be important somewhere else.