Tag Archives: Emma Watson

“The Market” and the potential Counter-Effect on Radical / Subversive / Revolutionary Thought (with links to posts on Russell Brand, Adam Curtis, Stephen Hawking, Paul Mason, Akala, and The Tarnac 9 (or 10))

A nagging doubt that continues to linger after reading/hearing/viewing what might be considered to be radical/subversive/revolutionary works in the form of films/documentaries/podcasts/books, etc., is that can such works actually be so radical/subversive/revolutionary if the owner of such works simply profit from them through the controlled and controlling system of “the market?”

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Basically, if what you want to change is the present system (and it’s worth clarifying that what’s being discussed here is the present post-industrial Westernised system of capitalism based on the rampant consumption of goods), then how can you hope to do so whilst profiting from it – because bringing the system down will ultimately disrupt that source of profit.

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Surely, there has to be some sort of self-sacrifice on the part of the owner of the works, where rather than merely accepting royalties, etc., and using them to fund cars, multiple properties, holidays, pension funds, and the like (which serves to uphold the status quo of the present system), the profits are used in a way in which they are directed against the system itself – use the money to do the things that the system will never do.

It seems logical that to subvert the system you must first cease to consume all else than that of the very basic necessities (food, clothing, housing). This might (depending on geographical location) mean a household imposing its own limits of expenditure, where a figure acts as a barrier to excessive spending, and that all other monies above that figure are used in altruistic ways – and not in the current “philanthropic” way that sees money given to charities only for it to be reduced from a person’s tax bill (and note the inefficiencies of charities in their handling of donations). No. Instead, this form of giving should very much be plentiful, anonymous, and given freely and willingly.

The question is, will anyone be willing to do so?

Links to previous posts (lucky dip):

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Women Who Inspire

After a few arguably negative posts (of stuff I don’t like), I’m inspired to write on something I do like, and such good timing given the explosion of conversations ATM about misogyny, gender disparity, everyday sexism, and stuff like that.

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Emma Watson, and her project Our Shared Shelf, continues to warm the cockles of my heart, which is curious given that I’m reduced to thinking that the human species is fairly stupid (myself included) and probably deserves to go the way of the dinosaurs (think Musk’s mission to land a car (his own car) on Mars, and the current fascination with AI in relation to sex robots (just two of many examples of human stupidity I could produce for you, here)).

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If you feel even the merest prick of curiosity, click the link to read Emma’s own words on the latest choice of book: LINK

And if you don’t, well… more fool you (ya big stupid).


Infinite Jest @20 & @EmWatson (Book Clubs) #2

From my last: “[…] on the forty-five minute bicycle ride home from the train station, the latter part of which involves riding down a few hundred yards of pitch-black, serial-killer kind of country lane.”

Here is said image:

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After listening to one of the Infinite Jest @20 book club’s participants disclose that she cannot now brush her teeth without thinking of Infinite Jest‘s Don Gately, I am minded of an association of my own. Riding the final leg of the journey home down this particular path, in the dark, consistently evokes a childhood memory. As a group of 6/7 year olds my friends and I were fascinated with/horrified by tales of the Red Brick Wall – a wall made of red brick that had a path running by it and which surrounded private land next to a heavily forested area (all very secluded and quiet back in the day). During a session of who could tell the scariest story, someone came up with one about the Red Brick Wall. The wall had a small wooden door that was always locked. The tale goes that one night a couple drove their car down the path, it was raining and all that, and the car broke down unexpectedly, close by the door in the wall. The driver got out and thought of knocking on the door and maybe getting some help. It all goes quiet for a time and the passenger gets nervous/anxious about what has happened to the driver. Suddenly, the driver’s head lands upon the bonnet of the car, attached by rope, and at the end of the rope is a stick, and holding the stick is a crazed, disfigured mad-person who intends to do a similar thing to the passenger.

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And on the Emma Watson front, still working through the bell hooks book – nothing creepy there.


Infinite Jest @20 & @EmWatson (Book Clubs)

February has been a month of book clubs. After reading a tweet about thoughts on what to name Emma Watson‘s feminist book club, #OurSharedShelf, I joined (via goodreads) and got on with reading The Colour Purple, a book I never would have picked up in a million years, mostly because I’d already watched the film. With respect to TCP, the thing I found most intriguing was the use of the letter (epistolary) as a way of moving the narrative forward, along with the familiar beginning to such letters: Dear God.

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The next book club I chose to participate in requires a tad more effort as it’s in the real, as opposed to the virtual, world. Writing this comes after a five-hour round-trip, by bicycle and train, to University of Liverpool, for informal discussion on David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (@20 (years)). A nice little link between the two books, which isn’t necessarily important but it expresses one of those “a-ha” moments where I manage to find something in the text that speaks of something else, is the similarity in voice of Celie (TCP) and Clenette (IJ), which brings on a whole conversation about the rightful (or wrongful) appropriation of dialect, and which further links with a small section in Wallace’s “Authority and Usage” essay. There certainly is plenty to think about on the forty-five minute bicycle ride home from the train station, the latter part of which involves riding down a few hundred yards of pitch-black, serial-killer kind of country lane. It’s a good job I like reading.

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