Book Review: The Neverending Story

 

Image © Alexandre Duret-Lutz

The Neverending Story, by Michael Ende, has ended. Furthermore, it has ended prematurely. This isn’t because the book caught fire or was whisked away by an albatross whilst I was reading it, but because the author has betrayed me, and I am giving both him and his much-loved novel the finger. How have I been betrayed? I’ll explain shortly.

First, in case you’ve been living in the centre of the Moon since the 1970’s, this is the basic premise of the plot; awkward kid steals a book and hides out in an attic, reading about the adventures of a not-awkward kid in a dying fantasy world. Awkward kid realises that only he can save the fantasy land, and enters the world of the book….

I gave up reading shortly after this.* Why? Because having spent a third of the book building up this fantasy world, introducing us to its rules and its characters, and inviting us to invest emotionally in its continued existence, Ende commits the bizarre act of ripping up his own story and effectively starting from scratch.

The entire world and everything in it is destroyed in an instant and made anew. The central characters are unceremoniously written out of the plot in a few throwaway sentences (and they don’t come back – I flicked through to check).

The one piece of continuity with everything that has happened up to this point is the continued existence of Awkward Kid, but within a single chapter, Ende changes not just his appearance, but also much of his personality, effectively making him an entirely new character, beginning an entirely new plotline, in a new world, with a new supporting cast.

Up to this point, I had already found the novel awkwardly written, and a bit of a slog (although it is a translation, which may be partially to blame). I’d found most of the characters to be simplistically-drawn ciphers, and the world itself to be an incoherent hodge-podge of fantasy miscellany.

The book had been very highly recommended to me by a friend, so I had been prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt, but now I’ve actually reached a point where The Neverending Story is having a negative impact on my life. I just don’t want to pick it up and carry on reading. I can’t be bothered to go through the tedium of forced investment in ‘Mark 2’ of Ende’s plot. At the same time, it doesn’t feel right for me to have two books on the go at once, so I’ve read nothing for three weeks – a sad state of affairs for a writer. I need to get back on the horse.

To that end, I’m abandoning The Neverending Story. The hideous grind is over. Goodbye.

Have you read The Neverending Story? What did you think of it? Am I being unfair? Please leave a comment below, or e-mail me.

*My understanding is that the plot of the film version also draws to a close shortly after this. Coincidence? Or simply an indication that I have exactly the same attention span as a Hollywood executive?

Everybody Shut Up Please

© David Saunders

I’ve begun to doubt the merits of freedom of speech. The concept was developed in an age before social media, which is quickly making a mockery of this hard-won freedom. These days, it’s just too easy for any witless chump to pass the most inane of comments, and for it to be broadcast immediately to the world. If people had to work harder for their voice to be heard, perhaps they’d take more time to question the value of their words.

As an example, here’s what Albert Camus had to say on the broad topic of ‘freedom’.

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

Albert Camus lived in an era when to broadcast anything beyond your immediate vicinity required time, money and effort – only thoughts and words of self-evident value made it into the public domain. You may agree, you may disagree, but Mr Camus has, at the very least, given us something interesting to think about. He has made some contribution to our cultural understanding of a complex metaphysical subject.

In the interests of comparison, here’s a selection of what Twitter users have to say on the same subject.

“I've done all I had to do today. #freedom”

I’m pretty sure that not even my closest friends give two shits about whether I manage to achieve all of my goals today. That’s my business. This person has wasted their opportunity to use the unprecedented power that Twitter provides, by making a statement that need never have left the confines of their own skull.

“EARN UP TO $ 10 per 1000 views #money #earnings #visits #financial #freedom #paidtowrite #sites”

Twitter also provides the unprecedented power to take evocative words like ‘freedom’, stick a hashtag on the front, and twist them into a transparent attempt to scam the easily bewildered. Previously, some horrible little man would have had to actively waste his life knocking on doors and handing out flyers to ensnare people with the manipulative nonsense we now call ‘spam’. This is the toxic fallout that unchecked freedom spills into the twinkly ocean of knowledge.

“#anonymous Declaration - January 15 is the day to stand for #freedom http://t.co/natNjCW via @WhyWeProtest”

This is the biggest mockery of freedom of speech you’re likely to find. Thousands of anonymous keyboard-jockeys are now free to click the ‘retweet’ button, and instantly broadcast their profound support for ‘freedom’, without actually saying or doing anything that might cause them strain, either physically or mentally. These people are truly the kind of mindless, bleating sheep who should automatically forfeit all rights to a retweet button, and maybe buttons in general. I hope their trousers fall down.

It’s probably too late to backtrack on freedom of speech. Humanity as a culture is too convinced of its merits. Maybe we can’t remove people’s right to speak – but maybe, somehow, we can remove their right to be listened to.

Pyramid Scheme

 

‘Space/Time Continuum’ by Lee Coventry

Pyramid apologies if you have stumbled into this post hoping for information on pyramids, perhaps for a school history project. I'm afraid you've been misled. Contrary to all the evidence, this post concerns pyramids in only the most tenuous fashion. Allow me to explain. Pyramid.
 
Pyramid having looked at the stats for my fledgling blog, it seems that my most popular post, by a considerable margin, is something I wrote back in October called Be The Pyramid, an ill-conceived rant about social injustice. After checking out Google AdWords, the reason becomes clear - the word 'pyramid' is an incredibly popular search term, and my rant was inadvertently search-engine-optimised. Pyramid.

Pyramid the post you are currently reading is a shameless attempt to capitalise on this phenomenon, and thus confuse more people into reading my blog. Hence my use of the word 'pyramid' in prominent locations throughout the text. Pyramoo. Whoops, I meant to say Pyramid.

That's not to say I won't be providing genuine value for the unwary surfer caught in my pyramid web. For your amusement and edification, I present The 3 Pyramid Ponderings of Jimble:

Pyramid Pondering The Firste (A poem simply entitled 'Pyramid'.) Pyramid Khufu's body, carried deep, inside his wond'rous pyramid, His servants lay his soul to sleep, in granite tomb, and close the lid.

Pyramid Pondering The Seconde (Fun with grammar.) I recently discovered that ‘Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo’ is a grammatically correct sentence. Don’t believe me? Look at this. By this reasoning, we can be fairly confident that ‘Pyramid pyramid Pyramid pyramid pyramid pyramid Pyramid pyramid’ is also grammatically correct. Probably. Despite the fact that I do not fully understand the reasoning behind the ‘buffalo’ sentence, I feel no need to research this further.

Pyramid Pondering The Thirde (A strange phenomenon.) This pondering exists solely to draw your attention to the fact that, now that you have read the word 'pyramid' so many times, it's starting to sound a little bit odd, isn't it? Py-ra-mid.

Pyramid.

I'm Not Worthy

'This egg probably represents something really profound. Except that it doesn't.'

I have now been immersing myself as much as possible in the world of poetry for a few weeks, and something has come to my attention. There's a lot of very 'worthy' stuff out there. It seems that every published poem has to have a political message, or explore the innermost nihilistic thoughts of the artist, or be so abstract and vague that the poet may as well have written the word 'trout' over and over again.

I've had great difficulty finding anything whimsical, frivolous or amusing; something that exists purely to entertain. The closest thing I've found is ctrl+alt+del, which I highly recommend. It's available as a PDF, and its creators encourage people to print it out and spread the love.

During my recent adventures I attempted some 'worthy' poetry of my own, but it's not something that comes naturally to me, and hasn't been particularly well received. Also, writing this kind of material makes me feel like a fraud. I can't escape the feeling that 99% of the people who write this stuff (including me) are straining to be as obtuse as possible, without arousing suspicion that all they're really doing is trying to impress.

This opinion may be very unfair. I intend to look into the academics and 'science' of straight-edged poetry in more detail before I write it off completely. In the meantime, I will continue to knock out whimsical nonsense like this:


My Eggy Friend and Me

I found a very egg-shaped egg,
as egg as egg could be,
and everywhere I, Eggbert, went,
my eggy came with me.

We trounced them in the egg-and-spoon,
whilst mother egged us on,
then dozed off in our eggy bed,
to mother’s eggy song.

One eggy day I dropped my friend,
upon the eggy ground.
He smashed into an eggy mess,
and clumsy Eggbert frowned.

I frowned not for the eggy mess,
nor for my eggy wrong.
I frowned because my friend produced,
a horrid, eggy pong.

Everybody Wave to the Poet

'A tenuous reference to the poem that doesn't even appear in this post.'

I have decided that I am now a published poet, on the grounds that somebody decided to put one of my poems on their blog, and the somebody wasn't me.

Followed, which is at least 50% less whimsical than the poems I've so far added to Pithy Title, has been accepted by Spook City, a growing collection of fiction with ghostly and supernatural themes.

Followed has been generously described (by real people) as 'heart-racing', 'absolutely terrific' and 'chilling'. I also claim that it's Christmas-themed, on the grounds that the second word is 'snow'. You can read it and add your opinion by clicking this.

Ovine Ungulates - is it because I is Welsh?

'Moo!'

I'm particularly proud of this poem, so after a quick word from the inescapable Teddy Whittaker, I'm going to jump straight in. Over to you, Teddy:

'Get lost, I'm having my feet waxed! Oh, very well - five Teddies. Now leave me alone!'

Now, for your utter bemusement, the poem....


Poem In Which a Person Responsible for Illegal Violence at Sea Suffers from Urinary and Fecal Incontinence Caused by Pathogenic Bacteria Present In Undercooked Meat, and Written On the False Premise that Ovine Ungulates Enunciate the Call of Bovine Ungulates, Where In Fact They Demonstrably Do Not

Poor Pirate Percy,
piddle-puddle poo,
mostly meaty mutton,
middle-muddle moo!


Please, no applause.

Words of the Brain

I hate being on the bus. There are multiple reasons for this, and they may become the subject of a future post, but the reasons aren't important right now. What's important is that my hatred of being on the bus forces me to ignore my surroundings and delve deep into my own psyche. It turns out that my psyche is full of epic poetry, among other things, and I have taken to jotting these words of the brain down - these 'brain words', if you will.

I'll reveal my most recent outpouring of 'brain words' in just a moment, but first, here's what Teddy Whittaker of the New Times had to say about it:

'For My Friend, Geoffrey is a work of multiple lines that isn't afraid to tell it like it is. Its powerful sense of restless invention belies a charming simplicity that cannot fail to dazzle and provoke. I give it four Teddies out of five.'

And now, finally, the poem...


For My Friend, Geoffrey

You are long-legged, with knees of knobbliest knoo,
You are long-necked, with hair of yellowy hyoo,
You are long-faced, with eyes of batty blacky bloo,
You are a giraffe, and I have just written a poem about yoo.

I am genuinely thinking of quitting my day job.