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[3003] Reading Gertrude Stein’s Paris France

I am conflicted about Gertrude Stein’s Paris France. There are some great observations in there but the writing style and most of all, the essentializing of a society are something that do not sit comfortably with me.

Stein typed up her stream of consciousness casually with little regards to punctuation. Stein appears not believing in commas no she does not believe in it although sometimes she does, and she does not believe in question mark or quotation marks or full stop as she goes on to stress the same point multiple times although there are times some points are unstressed but I could imagine easily a friend of hers would have asked but don’t you believe in structure to which she would reply but structure is structure is structure like how a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

When the back cover of the book claims Paris France is the perfect introduction to her work oh boy I said in my head what an introduction it is with long sentences where nobody is permitted to take a real or imaginary breath so much so that the readers run the risk of asphyxiation for focusing too long on a sentence that runs for what ought to be an impossible length measuring longer than the tail of a long cat or a long dog’s or a long cat’s or a long dog’s or am I suffering from dementia but I would not know but would I know but perhaps I am just frustrated with the writing style.

At times, the style of writing makes reading the book feels like reliving somebody’s fever dream as an anecdote flows into another anecdote before another anecdote takes over the narrative.

Style asides, the essentializing of the French especially of the 1900s-1930s (the book was published in 1940) offers too much generalization. Generalization of money, of luxuries, of logic, of family, of tradition and of fashion.

That got me thinking, how does one write about a society without a hint of essentialization? Maybe essentializing is a big word that I should avoid and that I should not equate it with term generalization with ease. But to write about a society without generalizing to some extent is a tall order. I thought that was something I struggled while writing The End of the Nineteen-Nineties: some form of generalization (if not essentializing) had to be made before any coherent critique could be offered in return.

Or am I too afflicted with apophenia?

Maybe. Yet a society is clearly different from one another and that differences point towards some form of way of life that is true for a particular society but not the other. What is to be written critically of a society when everything is atomized anarchically?

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Books & printed materials Conflict & disaster Politics & government

[3002] Reading George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia or… “Nak PN ke?”

I suppose if we are intent on finding similarities between two events however different they are, we would find it one way or another. Some of us are wired to find patterns or connections, even where none exists. A cat in the clouds that sort of things. Apophenia.

I kept telling myself that while reading George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia recently. However I tried adjusting down my pattern-finding bias, my mind kept on returning to contemporary Malaysian politics each time Orwell describes the republican politics of the late 1930s Spanish Civil War. As I opened Wikipedia to understand the war through a wider lens, I thought, indeed, there was a lesson, or two, from Spain for Malaysia.By Hafiz Noor Shams. Some rights reserved.

The differences between the 1920s/1930s Spain and the 2010/2020s Malaysia are aplenty. Spain experienced multiple military coups during those decades that makes Thailand a more appropriate comparison instead of Malaysia. And the Spanish conflict was bloodier than what Malaysia underwent in the 2010s and 2020s: our currently political conflicts are more boring when compared to the Spanish passion of the interwar period.

But if the Spanish Civil war was to be stripped of its details and the conflict made general, there are parallels to the today’s Malaysian reality. And the parallel is this: by the 1920s, support for the traditional powers—that is the monarchy along with the religious Christian class—was in rapid decline (within Malaysian context, throughout the 2000s and the 2010s, traditional power holders in the form of Umno suffered sustained severe erosion of support). So much so that by 1931, the king fled country over rising republican influence. Soon, the Second Spanish Republic was established (again here within Malaysian context, that runs parallel to the election of Pakatan Harapan as the federal government in 2018).

The Republic went through some difficulties right from the beginning. The traditionalists were feeling the heat of radical reforms. Land redistribution and restrictions imposed on the Church from owning properties were proceeding rapidly and pushing the traditionalists out of power further. Meanwhile, weak official responses to certain events that favored the traditionalists left republican supporters thinking the government was betraying them. All this took place with the Great Depression happening in the background. Times were just tough for almost everybody. This feels all too familiar for the 2020 Malaysia.

For the 1930s Spain, the political tensions eventually boxed everybody into an armed conflict. One on side was the republican government supported by the communists, the anarchists and the liberals, who are largely urban dwellers supported by the Soviet Union and Mexico. On the other side were the nationalist rebels comprising the monarchists, Christian conservatives and a group of fascists. By and large, the nationalists were rural folks backed by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy.

Of interest is here the divisions within the republican ranks, which is one of two main subjects of Homage to Catalonia (the other being war conditions experienced by Orwell). By 1937, a year after the civil war officially began, republican politics was becoming immensely complex but it could be generalized as a competition between the anarchists and the communists. While there was a republican government at the national level, various institutions and cities were controlled by different factions of the republican supporters, with the anarchists and the communists being the more influential factions.

The anarchists wanted a revolution in the sense that workers would control the means of production. The communists wanted those means controlled by the state. The rivalry created a civil war within a civil war, which the communists won and purged the anarchists from government (while I am in no way stating that Rafizi Ramli is an anarchist, the leading-PH party PKR did push Rafizi aside). That communist victory was irrelevant however. So weak was the government from infighting that they eventually succumbed to the fascist rebellion led by Francisco Franco, who would hold on to power for the next 40 years.

Orwell, who was fighting for the Spanish republic with the anarchists, saw the purging as a betrayal, which is perhaps the same feeling many Pakatan Harapan supporters currently feel of the current government. In fact, Orwell writes several pages about being disillusioned, which again, a feeling that appears to be widespread about Pakatan Harapan supporters.

Yes, he felt betrayed but the realist him wrote something for the disillusioned:

As for the newspaper talk about this being a ‘war for democracy’, it was plain eyewash. No one in his senses supposed that there was any hope for democracy, even as we understand it in England or France, in a country so divided and exhausted as Spain would be when the war was over. It would have to be a dictatorship, and it was clear that the chance of a working-class dictatorship had passed. That meant that the general movement would be in the direction of some kind of Fascism. Fascism called, no doubt, by some politer name, and—because this was Spain—more human and less efficient than the German or Italian varieties. The only alternatives were an infinitely worse dictatorship by Franco…

Whichever way you took it it was a depressing outlook. But it did not follow that the Government was not worth fighting for as against the more naked and developed Fascism of Franco and Hitler. Whatever faults the post-war Government might have, Franco’s regime would certainly be worse. [George Orwell. Homage to Catalonia. 1938]

In other words, “Nak PN ke?”

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Books & printed materials

[2998] Reading Dina Zaman’s Malayland

When communal conflicts hit the Malaysian headlines like how it did during the recent temple controversy near downtown Kuala Lumpur, identities would experience a kind of centripetal force. In this case, the Malay identity gets solidify in the popular imagination as hardliners—politicians and ordinary people alike—rally up the crowd to join in the fight. This is true with the other communities too. When egging for a fight, it is easier to rally up a generalized identity: Malays versus Indians or Muslims versus Hindus. To appeal to emotions, simplify. The controversy has been dialed down, but the ill-feeling still lingers.

How do we fight off that centripetal pull all with the hope of undoing all those riled up emotions?

Within that context, one is tempted to take the idea of centripetal forces on identities and invert it. Instead of generalizing, maybe it is useful to de-generalize and make identity a complicated idea, which it is.

If that is so, then reading of Dina Zaman’s Malayland will prove useful. In it, the author lays out the various Malaynesses that exist in contemporary Malaysia and briefly show interest of these subgroups is not always aligned and in fact almost always diverges. The Malays are not a monolithic community, a fact that is sometimes easy to forget.

The book is not an encyclopedia of Malay subgroups and the author explores what she seems to consider the most influential ones only. She provides actual individuals behind the labels. In that way, the book feels less theoretical and more real.

One criticism that keeps popping at the back of my mind while reading Malayland is its length. There are multiple instances where the author approaches the interesting (such as events that shaped the subgroups) but almost every time that happens, the elaboration does not happen. The path ends abruptly. It is a tease and the readers are left to their own devices to satisfy their curiosity.

But there are different ways to read. Different books require different approach. To approach one in a way it is not meant to be read will left any reader dissatisfied. I think here is where the foreword by Tunku Zain Al-‘Abidin Tuanku Muhkriz is useful in framing the right approach:

The subjects in Malayland show case an even broader set of identities than its predecessor of seventeen years before—Dina’s 2007 book I am Muslim. [Page IX. Malayland. Dina Zaman.]

The purpose of Malayland, if I as a reader could be so daring, is to show the existing diversity within the Malay community. It is neither an encyclopedia nor an academic work, which several critics of Malayland, I feel, implicitly rest their (and mine too) criticism upon. The book is window for those who do not already know of identity diversity and there are many who still do not know while living in a cocoon where their outside world is a caricature of prejudice. For them, Malayland is a hook to change a worldview.

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Books & printed materials

[2996] Reading The Flash Boys ten years after purchase

There was a time ages ago when I was enamored with the idea of finance. Just out of university, finance was the in thing. It was during this phase that I picked Michael Lewis’s Liar’s Poker. The author describes his bond trading experience in the late-1980s and early 1990s. He has written other books over the years: Moneyball and The Big Short among them. But it took me roughly 10 years after picking up Liar’s Poker to return to Lewis. Sometime in the mid-2010s, I bought The Flash Boys from Kinokuniya Kuala Lumpur.

But it would take me another 10 years to read and finish it. I have a bad habit of buying multiple books and later forgetting about them completely. On my shelves, I think between a fifth and a tenth of books there are unread. I am glad to say there is one more book out of the unread list.

The market has changed over the past 20-30 years and the contextual contrast between Liar’s Poker and The Flash Boys is huge. The former was set in a world where there were people on the trading floors taking bids and making offers for all kinds of financial instruments. By the 2010s, the floors were empty, the financial instruments had increased in complexity beyond the comprehension of most finance-people and computers had taken over buying and selling activities. Now, the most advanced markets are driven by algorithmic trading (before everything was labelled as AI), computing power and ultimately, super high-speed internet. That is the context of The Flash Boys: it is about high-frequency trading or HFT.

The greatest lesson I get from The Flash Boys is something that I already know: not all competition is good and for the financial markets, fragmentation (including multiple listings) largely creates room for inefficiencies.

The proliferation of stock exchanges has created unfair arbitrage opportunities for those with access to the most computing power and the fastest speed. That room for arbitrage exist in less than a tenth or even a hundredth of a microsecond, a window too small for a human to notice but a lifetime for computers. Here, having competing stock exchanges means having lags introduced into the whole financial system and that lag will be manipulated by high-frequency traders that thrive on delays too small for the human senses to detect. That manipulation comes in the form of frontrunning legitimate transactions which raises the cost a great majority in the market with HFT firms pocketing the additional charges.

This is just one example where competition is counterproductive to the market. For stock exchanges, we really do want to create a deep, one-location transparent market. Anything else creates information asymmetry.

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Books & printed materials Conflict & disaster

[2995] Reading The Lady from Tel Aviv

Rashid Khalidi’s The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine was the first in a set of books I bought and read during the height of Israel’s latest aggression against Palestine. Khalidi’s work turned out to be the authoritative must-read book of the year and it reframed things I thought I knew about the Israel-Palestine conflict from before. A mixture of personal and national history, the book helps me understand the messy Israeli-Palestinian history easier, compared to the effort of going through Wikipedia’s voluminous and even messier entries.

Khalidi’s is excellent but non-fictions sometimes are unable to capture certain aspects of the real world. Over the years, I have discovered that the work of fiction can close the gap. So, I went on another spending spree purchasing a few Palestine-linked literature. One that I actually read (as opposed to being left on my shelf) was Rabai Al-Madhoun’s translated work The Lady from Tel Aviv. Originally written and published in Arabic in 2009, The Lady was translated by Elliott Colla into English and then republished a year later.

In summary, The Lady is a story about a Palestinian exile’s return to Gaza post-the Second Intifada. The book appears to a semi-autobiography of the author. The three layers of reality governing the story suggest as much: the author Al-Madhoun (a journalist himself) has his exiled journalist protagonist as an author working on a homecoming novel.

For quite a heavy subject, The Lady is a light reading. So light that I feel the novel could do with more details. The book skims the surface regarding the mistreatment Palestinians faced by Israeli occupying forces, the corruption of the Palestinian Authority and the general conflict between Fatah and Hamas. It is a picture of hopelessness that Gazans embrace as a way of life, that all the troubles they face are taken as given as stoics would.

Despite all the conflicts, corruptions and injustices, he does not explore any of them deep enough. He is content to have them mentioned and unexplored, taking it as a universal obvious truth unworthy of elaboration. And then there are loose ends left to the readers’ imagination. That I think is the most frustrating thing about The Lady.

But Al-Madhoun might be aware of this particular criticism even as he was writing the novel. In a scene where the lead character, the journalist, visits his blind childhood friend Muhammad (Abu Saber) for the first time in 40 years, who is now a poor beggar with nobody else to rely on:

I think I am going to leave. I shut my eyes, unable to keep looking at the shape Muhammad is in. This is an unrecognizably distorted copy of the boy whose friendship had lit up my childhood. Abu Hatem waits for me a short way off. I turn away so no one can see the tears in my eyes.

[…]

Abu Hatem turns the key in the ignition and Muhammad realizes I am about to go. He waves his cane around the air and screams so loudly it splits my heart. As we drive away, he calls out, “Who are you—you stranger who is not a stranger?”

[…]

“Why didn’t you tell Abu Saber who you were?” asks Abu Hatem. “You broke his heart—and mine too.”

“I couldn’t do it. It would have been worse had he known it was me. If he knew I saw him like that.

 

That makes me wonder whether the lack of details is just Al-Madhoun’s way to protecting the readers from the difficult reality in Gaza.