"No play of textual opposites too facile, no miscellany of graboid factlings too precious or twee, no angsty bourgeois whine too petty. How will I find the strength to finish this?"
I didn't.
An exercise in irritation. More, a disquisition on irritation, and on what it means to be irritated. I read this book several years ago, and finished it. It did not irritate me then,
or if it did, I did not notice.
Yet now.. Now, he grates. And grating, the grating of cheese, is a good close metaphor for the experience in its mildness, relentlesness and dispersed harm. We are the cheese.
I find myself, reading Fortey, thinking more and more, not about the rocks, but about the cognitive texture of the man, of how low-grade frustrated I am by him, and of how difficult it is to understand or express how and why I am annoyed.
For subtlety is the very breath of irritation; a discomfort so minor that, in any particular moment, the action taken to relieve it feels a too-great expenditure of effort, and with the mixture of regularity that defines near-drizzling rain, just enough to splash the screen of an exposed phone, or dampen hair, to redouble sweat if you rush, but not enough to ensure you take strong protective measures, like; opening an umbrella, putting up a hood or layering a thicker coat.
THE SUPERIOR TOURIST
Every chapter begins with Richad Fortey visiting some out of the way place, as a tourist,
discovering that it has been overrun by tourists, and moaning about how commercial it is.
THE AGONISING SENTANCE CONSTRUCTION
The man loads a sentence like a junkie shoving stolen goods into a shopping bag;
"A cursory search on the Internet will show the curious observer how many outré' theories exist about the drowned kingdom." [Atlantis].
Think about re-writing that to make a less twatty sentence. A cursory search will show the curious observer? Were you written by a drunk Dickens?
...
"With tragic irony, Marie Curie died of the consequences of the radiation she helped to explain to the world: cancer had yet to be linked with damage to dividing cells."
This sentence has cancer. Its malformed, inside-out and is linked to the damage it does in the colophon, which explains how nobody knew how cancer works in a manner near irrelevant to the meaning at the start. What matters is that radiation causes cancer and that she didn't know, not precisely that it interferes with 'dividing cells'.
Imagine being given a chance to write one sentence to be sent into the past to warn Marie Curie and ending up with "Cancer is linked to damage to dividing cells."
The very next sentence is worse and makes everything worse;
"Radiation was to become at once a medical weapon and the agent of mass destruction."
Probably he thought he was being clever writing 'medical weapon' (which at least sounds cool, though it means little), and 'agent of mass destruction', instead of 'medical agent' and 'weapon of mass destruction.
It didn't happen at once.
Again; superficially clever, awkwardly wrong and totally inaccurate.
...
"Who can doubt the reality of the countries beyond the sea that Jonathan Swift peopled so skilfully for his hero Lemuel Gulliver to visit, not merely to stimulate the imagination, but as a ruse to illustrate human frailties: puffed up and monstrous in Brobdingnag, or shrunk in Lilliput to petty proportions to match the triviality of their concerns?"
Let’s look in detail at what is actually happening in this sentence, and who is doing or making what, and to whom, and in what order.
Part One; We and the Who
"Who can doubt the reality of the countries beyond the sea.."
So the "who" is we/us/me-Richard Fortey. The places are not simpler "strange lands" or "imagined lands", but the slightly longer "countries beyond the sea".
Part Two - The Doer and the Deed
"..that Jonathan Swift peopled so skilfully for his hero Lemuel Gulliver to visit,"
The subject, or one of them; 'Jonathan Swift' has done a verb, 'peopled so skilfully', (not 'skilfully peopled', or 'populated', for another; the Hero belonging to the subject; 'Leumuel Gulliver'.
Part Three - Superficially Smart
",not merely to stimulate the imagination, but as a ruse to illustrate human frailties:"
We break off to tell the reader that the doer and the deed were not involved in anything as _common_ as 'simulating the imagination', but were in fact engaged in a 'ruse', making them tricksters, tricking their audience, (but not Richard Fortey), to 'illustrate human frailties'.
Part Four - The Frailties of the Text
"..puffed up and monstrous in Brobdingnag, or shrunk in Lilliput to petty proportions to match the triviality of their concerns?"
The Liliputians were exactly as 'puffed up' as the Brobingnagians but we will move on and focus first on the simple arrangement of words. Not 'pompous giants of Brobdingnag', but puffed up (?) and monstrous IN Brobdingnag. Then not 'shrunken and small in Lilliput', or 'shrunken to petty proportions in Lilliput', which might match the first half this phrase, but 'shrunk in Lilliput" ..... "to petty proportions to match the triviality of their concerns."
This is one sentence by Fortey, and almost everything about it is *mildly* out of place. The choice of words is always a little too Latinate and disembodied. The arrangement of the 'who' (us), the doer (Jonathan Swift), and the doer-and-done (Lemuel Gulliver), is badly jointed, everything existing, experiencing, doing and being done in a mild garble.
Then comes the superficial and inaccurate self-pleasing cleverness; Fortey is good enough to inform us that Gullivers Travels is a satire, a 'ruse', and not just about pleasing the imagination, making it therefore a legitimate form of art for someone as clever as Richard Fortey thinks he is.
Then, finally, the awkward, arrhythmic, inaccurate and Fomorian final enlightenment; "to petty proportions to match the triviality of their concerns."
And the sentence itself is wrong, because we *can* actually doubt the reality of these islands, because they are fucking imaginary. Fortey intends to use these imagined lands in reference to Gondawana, which he argues, and wishes us clearly to regard as, fundamentally real, but simply hard to imagine.
I don't speak here of cataclysmic argument-destroying wrongs, or crippling inaccuracies; enough to wreck a book, but of a persistently leaky ship, where words, phrases and concepts that should lead cleanly and simply one to another, making the structure whole, are awkwardly annealed and slide past each other like wet planks in ill seas. Yet, and this is absolutely crucial for you to understand, never enough to *ruin*, but always enough to *annoy*.
It is the continual pitter-patter of these sentences, like raindrops, the soft, near-frustrating activation of negative neurones, not enough to scratch the itch, but just enough to flush the skin, and the demoralising relentlessness, the knowledge that more such sentences are coming, several hundred pages worth, and that Fortey will be deeply pleased with all of them. This is what I speak of when I speak of 'irritation'.
...
He is not so bad on the rocks, when he gets onto them, but it is a rough time getting there. I gave up half way through.