Not in a Million years. To channel Roy Walker..."It's good, but it's not right"
P.
P.
Morrissey "could win the Booker prize", Autobiography review by Terry Eagleton - theguardian.com
- Thread starter Uncleskinny
- Start date
Bluebirds
Well-Known Member
Terry Eagleton, celebrated literary critic, reviews Morrisey autobiography
Autobiography by Morrissey – review
The celebrated literary critic judges Mozzer's book to be superb: he is so devastatingly articulate he could win the Booker
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/nov/13/autobiography-by-morrissey-review
Not content with being voted the greatest northern male ever, the second greatest living British icon (he lost out to David Attenborough) and granted the freedom of the city of Tel Aviv, Morrissey is now out to demonstrate that he can write the kind of burnished prose no other singer on the planet could aspire to. There are, to be sure, a few painfully florid patches in this superb autobiography ("Headmaster Mr Coleman rumbles with grumpiness in a rambling stew of hate"), but it would be hard to imagine Ronnie Wood or Eric Clapton portraying the "Duchess of nothing" Sarah Ferguson as "a little bundle of orange crawling out of a frothy dress, the drone of Sloane, blessed with two daughters of Queen Victoria pot-dog pudginess".
Morrissey despises most of the people he meets, often with excellent reason. He is scurrilous, withdrawn and disdainful, an odd mixture of shyness and vitriol. The dreamy, heart-throbbish photo on the cover of the book, the nose rakishly tilted above the Cupid's-bow lips, belies what a mean old bastard he is. He finds an image of himself in (of all people) the minor Georgian poet AE Housman, who preferred art to humanity and whose ascetic, spiritually tortured life seems to echo Morrissey's own. He admires wayward, bloody-minded types much like himself, and takes a sadistic delight in discomforting interviewers. "Why did you mention Battersea in that song?" a journalist asks him. "Because it rhymes with fatty," he replies. Taken by his father at the age of eight to watch George Best play at Old Trafford, he swoons at the sight of such artistry combined with such rebelliousness. Years later, others will swoon at his own mixing of the two.
Some of his bloody-mindedness springs from a damaged childhood. Born into a working-class Irish-Mancunian family, Steven Patrick Morrissey sang his way out of what struck him as a soulless environment, as other working-class Irish Mancunians have written or acted their way out. The vitriol started to flow early: his bleak mausoleum of a Catholic primary school was ruled by Mother Peter, "a bearded nun who beat children from dawn to dusk", and by the time he was 17 he was already emotionally exhausted. Manchester, still in its pre-cool days, was a "barbaric place where only savages can survive … There are no sexual guidelines, and I see myself naked only by appointment." His eloquent contempt for his fellow citizens is terrifying: "non-human sewer-rats with missing eyes; the loudly insane with indecipherable speech patterns; the mad poor of Manchester's armpit." The final indignity is to be turned down for a job as a postman at the local sorting office. At the hour of the birth of the Smiths, which gave him the exit from Manchester he craved, he felt himself dying of boredom, loneliness and disgust. "I would talk myself through each day," he writes, "as one would nurse a dying friend."
Not long afterwards, hordes of young people throughout the world are wearing his face on their chests. He returns to the streets where he grew up, now with a police escort, to sing to 17,000 fans from a stage overlooking an odious Inland Revenue office where he once worked. Having failed to find love from one man or woman, he can now find it from thousands. Mick Jagger and Elton John are eager to shake his hand. He enjoys his celebrity, but the sardonic self-irony of the book seeks to persuade us otherwise. There is a relish and energy about its prose that undercuts his misanthropy. Its lyrical quality suggests that beneath the hard-bitten scoffer there lurks a romantic softie, while beneath that again lies a hard-bitten scoffer. Implausibly, he claims to be "chilled" by road signs reading "Morrissey Concert, Next Left". It's true, however, that having spent years yearning to be seen, he now spends years longing to be invisible. Living in Hollywood is hardly the best place for that. He deals with his own egocentricity by being wryly amusing about it: his birth almost killed his mother, he comments, because even then his head was too big.
Even so, he remains for the most part icily unillusioned, like a monk passing through a whorehouse. His contempt for the music industry is visceral, and he prefers to spend his time reading Auden and James Baldwin. (Spotting Baldwin in a Barcelona hotel, he decides not to approach him, since even the mildest rejection would apparently mean he would have to go and hang himself.) The solution to all problems, he tells us, "is the goodness of privacy in a warm room with books". David Bowie tells him that he's had so much sex and drugs that he's surprised he is still alive, to which Morrissey replies that he's had so little of both that he feels much the same. Tom Hanks comes backstage to say hello, but Morrissey doesn't know who he is. The press lie that he is a racist, that he opened the door to a journalist wearing a tutu, that he hung around public toilets as a youth and that he would welcome the assassination of Margaret Thatcher. The Guardian runs a disapproving piece on him adorned with a photo of somebody else. When he discovers that a Smiths record released in Japan includes a track by Sandie Shaw, he begs the people around him to kill him. "Many rush forward," he adds.
"Although a passable human creature on the outside," he comments of himself, "the swirling soul within seemed to speak up for the most awkward people on the planet", of whom he himself ranks among the most adept. He is one of the great curmudgeons and contrarians of our time. He even puts in a good word for the Kray brothers.
Surprisingly, he goes easy on his passion for animal rights, but observes no such restraint when it comes to George Bush ("the world's most famous active terrorist") and Tony Blair, at whose feet he lays the London deaths of 2005. At least the vindictive music industry has taught him how to hate, though one suspects he didn't need much tutoring. The music impresario Tony Wilson "managed a lengthy and slow decline which some thought was actually an ongoing career". There is a cameo of Julie Burchill of such sublime savagery that one expects the page to ignite. The former Smiths who took him to court are subjected to 50 pages of devastatingly articulate venom.
Though he is careful to inform us that he drives a sky-blue Jag, fame hasn't changed him much. He is still the same miserable old Mozzer he always was. The death of friends leads him to wonder movingly whether life isn't "all too burdensome, with so much loss taking its root in the heart, as the body goes spinning on towards a dreadful cessation". It isn't the kind of sentence Robbie Williams would come up with. His interest in the dead, his father warns him, outstrips his affection for the living. He sees a ghost on Saddleworth Moor, burial ground of the Moors murders, and narrowly avoids being kidnapped in Mexico. Everywhere he looks he sees violence: "military science whaling, nuclear weapons, armed combat, the abattoir, holy war … riot police assaulting innocent civilians." When a small, flightless bird comes to live in his back garden, he fences it in with boxes to ward off predators. He has quite a few such boxes of his own.
Perhaps the time has come for a new career. If he could get treatment for his addiction to alliteration and stop using phrases like "for you and I", this prodigiously talented "small boy of 52", as he described himself two years ago, could walk away with the Booker prize
Autobiography by Morrissey – review
The celebrated literary critic judges Mozzer's book to be superb: he is so devastatingly articulate he could win the Booker
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/nov/13/autobiography-by-morrissey-review
Not content with being voted the greatest northern male ever, the second greatest living British icon (he lost out to David Attenborough) and granted the freedom of the city of Tel Aviv, Morrissey is now out to demonstrate that he can write the kind of burnished prose no other singer on the planet could aspire to. There are, to be sure, a few painfully florid patches in this superb autobiography ("Headmaster Mr Coleman rumbles with grumpiness in a rambling stew of hate"), but it would be hard to imagine Ronnie Wood or Eric Clapton portraying the "Duchess of nothing" Sarah Ferguson as "a little bundle of orange crawling out of a frothy dress, the drone of Sloane, blessed with two daughters of Queen Victoria pot-dog pudginess".
Morrissey despises most of the people he meets, often with excellent reason. He is scurrilous, withdrawn and disdainful, an odd mixture of shyness and vitriol. The dreamy, heart-throbbish photo on the cover of the book, the nose rakishly tilted above the Cupid's-bow lips, belies what a mean old bastard he is. He finds an image of himself in (of all people) the minor Georgian poet AE Housman, who preferred art to humanity and whose ascetic, spiritually tortured life seems to echo Morrissey's own. He admires wayward, bloody-minded types much like himself, and takes a sadistic delight in discomforting interviewers. "Why did you mention Battersea in that song?" a journalist asks him. "Because it rhymes with fatty," he replies. Taken by his father at the age of eight to watch George Best play at Old Trafford, he swoons at the sight of such artistry combined with such rebelliousness. Years later, others will swoon at his own mixing of the two.
Some of his bloody-mindedness springs from a damaged childhood. Born into a working-class Irish-Mancunian family, Steven Patrick Morrissey sang his way out of what struck him as a soulless environment, as other working-class Irish Mancunians have written or acted their way out. The vitriol started to flow early: his bleak mausoleum of a Catholic primary school was ruled by Mother Peter, "a bearded nun who beat children from dawn to dusk", and by the time he was 17 he was already emotionally exhausted. Manchester, still in its pre-cool days, was a "barbaric place where only savages can survive … There are no sexual guidelines, and I see myself naked only by appointment." His eloquent contempt for his fellow citizens is terrifying: "non-human sewer-rats with missing eyes; the loudly insane with indecipherable speech patterns; the mad poor of Manchester's armpit." The final indignity is to be turned down for a job as a postman at the local sorting office. At the hour of the birth of the Smiths, which gave him the exit from Manchester he craved, he felt himself dying of boredom, loneliness and disgust. "I would talk myself through each day," he writes, "as one would nurse a dying friend."
Not long afterwards, hordes of young people throughout the world are wearing his face on their chests. He returns to the streets where he grew up, now with a police escort, to sing to 17,000 fans from a stage overlooking an odious Inland Revenue office where he once worked. Having failed to find love from one man or woman, he can now find it from thousands. Mick Jagger and Elton John are eager to shake his hand. He enjoys his celebrity, but the sardonic self-irony of the book seeks to persuade us otherwise. There is a relish and energy about its prose that undercuts his misanthropy. Its lyrical quality suggests that beneath the hard-bitten scoffer there lurks a romantic softie, while beneath that again lies a hard-bitten scoffer. Implausibly, he claims to be "chilled" by road signs reading "Morrissey Concert, Next Left". It's true, however, that having spent years yearning to be seen, he now spends years longing to be invisible. Living in Hollywood is hardly the best place for that. He deals with his own egocentricity by being wryly amusing about it: his birth almost killed his mother, he comments, because even then his head was too big.
Even so, he remains for the most part icily unillusioned, like a monk passing through a whorehouse. His contempt for the music industry is visceral, and he prefers to spend his time reading Auden and James Baldwin. (Spotting Baldwin in a Barcelona hotel, he decides not to approach him, since even the mildest rejection would apparently mean he would have to go and hang himself.) The solution to all problems, he tells us, "is the goodness of privacy in a warm room with books". David Bowie tells him that he's had so much sex and drugs that he's surprised he is still alive, to which Morrissey replies that he's had so little of both that he feels much the same. Tom Hanks comes backstage to say hello, but Morrissey doesn't know who he is. The press lie that he is a racist, that he opened the door to a journalist wearing a tutu, that he hung around public toilets as a youth and that he would welcome the assassination of Margaret Thatcher. The Guardian runs a disapproving piece on him adorned with a photo of somebody else. When he discovers that a Smiths record released in Japan includes a track by Sandie Shaw, he begs the people around him to kill him. "Many rush forward," he adds.
"Although a passable human creature on the outside," he comments of himself, "the swirling soul within seemed to speak up for the most awkward people on the planet", of whom he himself ranks among the most adept. He is one of the great curmudgeons and contrarians of our time. He even puts in a good word for the Kray brothers.
Surprisingly, he goes easy on his passion for animal rights, but observes no such restraint when it comes to George Bush ("the world's most famous active terrorist") and Tony Blair, at whose feet he lays the London deaths of 2005. At least the vindictive music industry has taught him how to hate, though one suspects he didn't need much tutoring. The music impresario Tony Wilson "managed a lengthy and slow decline which some thought was actually an ongoing career". There is a cameo of Julie Burchill of such sublime savagery that one expects the page to ignite. The former Smiths who took him to court are subjected to 50 pages of devastatingly articulate venom.
Though he is careful to inform us that he drives a sky-blue Jag, fame hasn't changed him much. He is still the same miserable old Mozzer he always was. The death of friends leads him to wonder movingly whether life isn't "all too burdensome, with so much loss taking its root in the heart, as the body goes spinning on towards a dreadful cessation". It isn't the kind of sentence Robbie Williams would come up with. His interest in the dead, his father warns him, outstrips his affection for the living. He sees a ghost on Saddleworth Moor, burial ground of the Moors murders, and narrowly avoids being kidnapped in Mexico. Everywhere he looks he sees violence: "military science whaling, nuclear weapons, armed combat, the abattoir, holy war … riot police assaulting innocent civilians." When a small, flightless bird comes to live in his back garden, he fences it in with boxes to ward off predators. He has quite a few such boxes of his own.
Perhaps the time has come for a new career. If he could get treatment for his addiction to alliteration and stop using phrases like "for you and I", this prodigiously talented "small boy of 52", as he described himself two years ago, could walk away with the Booker prize
realitybites
making lemonade
Excellent review. He obviously read the book and enjoyed it very much.
A
Anonymous
Guest
Re: Terry Eagleton, celebrated literary critic, reviews Morrisey autobiography
Well, yes - as the review makes clear. If he improves he could win in the future with another book - but not this one. It's a good debut, though.
Well, yes - as the review makes clear. If he improves he could win in the future with another book - but not this one. It's a good debut, though.
CrystalGeezer
My secret's my enzyme.
I can see the steam coming out of bitter people's ears at this accolade. 
MORRIZSEY
Wrong species
The celebrated literary critic judges Mozzer's book to be superb: he is so devastatingly articulate he could win the Booker - theguardian.com
by Terry Eagleton
Excerpt:
Morrissey despises most of the people he meets, often with excellent reason. He is scurrilous, withdrawn and disdainful, an odd mixture of shyness and vitriol. The dreamy, heart-throbbish photo on the cover of the book, the nose rakishly tilted above the Cupid's-bow lips, belies what a mean old bastard he is.
by Terry Eagleton
Excerpt:
Morrissey despises most of the people he meets, often with excellent reason. He is scurrilous, withdrawn and disdainful, an odd mixture of shyness and vitriol. The dreamy, heart-throbbish photo on the cover of the book, the nose rakishly tilted above the Cupid's-bow lips, belies what a mean old bastard he is.
Johnny Barleycorn
Well-Known Member
AE Housman didn't leap to my mind when reading the book.
He is actually reminding me more and more of Kenneth Williams, someone I admired greatly. An erudite misanthrope, mired in his latent sexuality, lauded for his work, but as the years pass increasingly sidelined, eventually becoming a caricature.
I wonder if they will also share a fate? Shorter odds than winning the Man Booker, I would think.
He is actually reminding me more and more of Kenneth Williams, someone I admired greatly. An erudite misanthrope, mired in his latent sexuality, lauded for his work, but as the years pass increasingly sidelined, eventually becoming a caricature.
I wonder if they will also share a fate? Shorter odds than winning the Man Booker, I would think.
Last edited by a moderator:
Playcat2000
New Member
Dont be surprised if he wins.
Bluebirds
Well-Known Member
Last edited by a moderator:
BrummieBoy
Well-Known Member
Terry Eagleton is just another beady Boomer eulogising the fake Manchester heritage industry. As if anyone with a brain thinks that Liverpool with The Beatles or Brum with Black Sabbath are/were ever in awe of Manchester's patchy bandscape.
And he's got a few issues to reflect on. Link to his article on Bono and compare and contrast his failure to note Morrissey's flaunting of tax avoidance as an expat, just like Bono:
" As a multimillionaire investor, world-class tax avoider"
Morrissey caving in to pressure to do a solo album as ransom to corporates for The Smiths imploding:
"grovelled at the feet of corporate bullies"
Ditto Morrissey accepting the keys to Tel Aviv and parading it as somehow meaningful without ever an explanation of why that might be:
"sucked up to the Israelis"
Clearly, consistency is not an issue. The same issues are glaringly obvious in Morrissey, yet totally ignored.
"There are, to be sure, a few painfully florid patches in this superb autobiography"
In the same sentence we read of "painfully florid patches" yet are asked to consider "this superb autobiograpy". Ridiculous. As is this garbled rubbish:
" he can write the kind of burnished prose no other singer on the planet could aspire to...it would be hard to imagine Ronnie Wood or Eric Clapton portraying the "Duchess of nothing" Sarah Ferguson.." "The death of friends leads him to wonder movingly whether life isn't "all too burdensome, with so much loss taking its root in the heart, as the body goes spinning on towards a dreadful cessation". It isn't the kind of sentence Robbie Williams would come up with. "
Putting to one side Morrissey's flight to private concierge medicine from his Peru loo fiasco, thus exposing his suicide chic as bogus trash, this 'classic' has merit because singers and guitarists cannot write such stupid prose? Terry Eagleton cannot expect to be taken seriously by serious people like me. Penguin can no longer be taken seriously as a publisher. If the Booker Prize goes over the cliff, then all that proves is how shallow narcissistic celebrity memoirs have trashed serious literature. Nothing else. LOL!
"The press lie that he is a racist, that...he would welcome the assassination of Margaret Thatcher."
"the only sorrow of the Brighton bombing is that Thatcher escaped unscathed". Morrissey
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brighton_hotel_bombing
"You can't help but feel that the Chinese are a subspecies."
Eagleton ends with the following statement:
"Perhaps the time has come for a new career."
Yes, but not as a writer. LOL! And time for Eagleton to give up the reviewing gig. Not up to it.
http://gawker.com/5630157/washed+up-morrissey-still-racist-still-worshipped
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/jun/26/frontman-bono-harry-browne-review
regards
BB
And he's got a few issues to reflect on. Link to his article on Bono and compare and contrast his failure to note Morrissey's flaunting of tax avoidance as an expat, just like Bono:
" As a multimillionaire investor, world-class tax avoider"
Morrissey caving in to pressure to do a solo album as ransom to corporates for The Smiths imploding:
"grovelled at the feet of corporate bullies"
Ditto Morrissey accepting the keys to Tel Aviv and parading it as somehow meaningful without ever an explanation of why that might be:
"sucked up to the Israelis"
Clearly, consistency is not an issue. The same issues are glaringly obvious in Morrissey, yet totally ignored.
"There are, to be sure, a few painfully florid patches in this superb autobiography"
In the same sentence we read of "painfully florid patches" yet are asked to consider "this superb autobiograpy". Ridiculous. As is this garbled rubbish:
" he can write the kind of burnished prose no other singer on the planet could aspire to...it would be hard to imagine Ronnie Wood or Eric Clapton portraying the "Duchess of nothing" Sarah Ferguson.." "The death of friends leads him to wonder movingly whether life isn't "all too burdensome, with so much loss taking its root in the heart, as the body goes spinning on towards a dreadful cessation". It isn't the kind of sentence Robbie Williams would come up with. "
Putting to one side Morrissey's flight to private concierge medicine from his Peru loo fiasco, thus exposing his suicide chic as bogus trash, this 'classic' has merit because singers and guitarists cannot write such stupid prose? Terry Eagleton cannot expect to be taken seriously by serious people like me. Penguin can no longer be taken seriously as a publisher. If the Booker Prize goes over the cliff, then all that proves is how shallow narcissistic celebrity memoirs have trashed serious literature. Nothing else. LOL!
"The press lie that he is a racist, that...he would welcome the assassination of Margaret Thatcher."
"the only sorrow of the Brighton bombing is that Thatcher escaped unscathed". Morrissey
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brighton_hotel_bombing
"You can't help but feel that the Chinese are a subspecies."
Eagleton ends with the following statement:
"Perhaps the time has come for a new career."
Yes, but not as a writer. LOL! And time for Eagleton to give up the reviewing gig. Not up to it.
http://gawker.com/5630157/washed+up-morrissey-still-racist-still-worshipped
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/jun/26/frontman-bono-harry-browne-review
regards
BB
King Leer
Leering since '97
Thought this post might awaken the cracken (misspelling intentional).
Recently some very big names in the music industry have bristled over Autobiography. Giants like Stephen Street and Craig Gannon. When will Mighty Mike Joyce tweet about it? Thousands of netizens await. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?
But now compare yourself to those names.
Your epic missives on here are about as relevant as a reply to a comment on a Facebook post by one of them. The digital equivalent of dissipating farts.
Tony Wilson's ghost's ghost writer, if you're very lucky.
Carry on.
Recently some very big names in the music industry have bristled over Autobiography. Giants like Stephen Street and Craig Gannon. When will Mighty Mike Joyce tweet about it? Thousands of netizens await. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?
But now compare yourself to those names.
Your epic missives on here are about as relevant as a reply to a comment on a Facebook post by one of them. The digital equivalent of dissipating farts.
Tony Wilson's ghost's ghost writer, if you're very lucky.
Carry on.
Orson Swells
Well-Known Member
Well, Autobiography is surely influenced by the Diaries. Williams was an outrageous talent, touched by genius... but death by (a potential) suicide, do you mean?
Ha! How true! A great little piece by Eagleton (yes, it's "a review I agree with") which neatly highlights the book's self-evident literary merits, despite all the protestations in this place to the contrary.
Well, the Man Booker is for fiction... so maybe he has a chance! (*winks ironically*)
Willo the Wisp, isn't it?
A
Anonymous
Guest
brum with black sabbath-hahahahahahahaha
seriously, is that all youve got??
barrels scraped and thats the best analogy you could come up with!!
black fukin sabbath, hahahahahahahahaha
more desperate posturing from bummie. do you spend you afternoons on ozzy solo?? do give them the benefit of your daily mail piss and wind pompous bullshit??
joe frady
Vile Refusenik
A little close reading of Tel's reverie should establish that he is not saying 'Autobiography' could win the Booker prize. He is positing the notion that the literary skills on display within 'Autobiography' could, with some minor tweaks, produce a work that would be 'worthy' of that prize. (Although I do seem to remember Paul Morley stating back in '92 that the 3 minutes of 'We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful' were of more merit than the previous ten years of Booker Prize winners. On 'This Morning' no less...) So, enough.
Can you imagine the scene in Guardian Towers when they got Eagleton's review back? The ex-NME schoolboys must have choked on their Ribena. They'd clearly submitted it to the Prof in the belief that he'd give it a lit-crit-kicking and they could set twitter aflame with all their chums. What larks!
But then the old Salford Marxist sends back this rhapsody....
Can you imagine the scene in Guardian Towers when they got Eagleton's review back? The ex-NME schoolboys must have choked on their Ribena. They'd clearly submitted it to the Prof in the belief that he'd give it a lit-crit-kicking and they could set twitter aflame with all their chums. What larks!
But then the old Salford Marxist sends back this rhapsody....
I've often wondered, why do people actually write down laugher?
I find it very strange.
It looks more like a keyboard malfunction than an attempt to communicate derision.
A
Anonymous
Guest
I'm very much in favour of excessive civic pride, but I think this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever read. And I've read Morrissey's autobiography.
A
Anonymous
Guest
Re: Terry Eagleton, celebrated literary critic, reviews Morrisey autobiography
Was Morrissey kidnapped by Los Palillos? Just because he escaped before they could ransom him doesn't mean he was not actually kidnapped. My poor Moz. Thank Goddess he escaped so he could take care of the birds.
Was Morrissey kidnapped by Los Palillos? Just because he escaped before they could ransom him doesn't mean he was not actually kidnapped. My poor Moz. Thank Goddess he escaped so he could take care of the birds.
A
Anonymous
Guest
Re: Terry Eagleton, celebrated literary critic, reviews Morrisey autobiography
Love the swirling soul within! So, why does a broad on Chelsea Lately wear a shirt that says "lighten up Morrissey" and post a screen capture on Facebook to which this comment follows?
KrisTeen Young (killing) 2 birds. One shirt.
Moz is the one who helps the birds! He doesn't need to lighten up because he is so right on and that makes him a ray of sunshine in my book!
Yesterday at 4:40am · 1
Love the swirling soul within! So, why does a broad on Chelsea Lately wear a shirt that says "lighten up Morrissey" and post a screen capture on Facebook to which this comment follows?
KrisTeen Young (killing) 2 birds. One shirt.
Moz is the one who helps the birds! He doesn't need to lighten up because he is so right on and that makes him a ray of sunshine in my book!
Yesterday at 4:40am · 1
The Booker is given to works of fiction, which Autobiography is not. It will not come into consideration for the prize. Eagletons point is rather that his writing is of that calibre, which is a huge compliment.
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