Books
Hi there readers, I'm Kieran Symington, and this is my first ever review.
Exciting isn't it? What do you mean "no"? Well, I suppose if you've read the title of the book I'm reviewing and seen the cover then you're probably thinking "Why the hell would I want to read that?" Why indeed..........
In fact, I can't actually think of an answer to that question. I can't think why anyone would voluntarily read "The Hacker Ethic". However, there are quite a few good reasons why they shouldn't.
Firstly, despite the title, this is not a book about hackers. That might actually be worth reading. Instead, this is a book about computer programmers - known to each other as "hackers" and to everyone else as "gimps". Not content with simply being about computer programmers, it is written by a computer programmer, the prologue and epilogue are by computer programmers, and it seeks to glorify computer programmers. (My apologies to anyone of a nervous disposition that my last sentence contained four "computer programmer"s. That's more than I want to see in a lifetime).
This book doesn't try to say that computer programmers are "cool". That would be lying. What it does try to say is that computer programmers define our age. 'Tis is also lying. Admittedly, I might be persuaded by a good argument and convincing evidence. Sadly, both of these are missing from "The Hacker Ethic".
What "The Hacker Ethic" does have, though, is a lot of quotes; mostly from ridiculous sources, such as a quote from a book by Michel Tournier... No, I don't know who he is either. My favourite quote, however, has to be:
"One of the inhabitants emerged to do some work. He was hairy and hideous, blackened with fire and smoke."
No, it's not Merton, but hell, which is presumably where all those who aren't computer programmers end up ( To be honest, I'd prefer it to a heaven full of computer programmers)
The only way to be spared the horrors of Mer...I mean hell is to live by the Hacker ethic. But what exactly is this ethic? Good question. After reading this book all the way through ( the sacrifices I have to make..... ) I still don't really know. It seems to be that people should spend all their time either writing computer programmes and living "net lives" rather than "flesh lives" (which are what normal people have). It seems as though a computer programmer has taken his own life ( or lack of it) and decided that it typifies the age. If you're a computer programmer then you'll probably agree. If not then you won't be buying this book unless it's to burn. ( Please note that I in no way advocate the burning of anything be it books, flags or computer programmers.
Well.......two out of those three anyway )
In the end, "The Hacker Ethic" is a lot like 10 McDonalds' cheeseburgers. They both cost roughly £8, they're both full of shit, and both will make you feel very, very, ill.
Kieran Stymington
Considering that his book is based on a fundamental error of judgement, Marks' Dope Stories somehow makes an interesting read. The misconception is a simple one. Marks, Julie Burchill and many at the Guardian have assumed that letting the chattering classes gabble on about their drug use is strangely brave, avant garde and stimulating, and not the pathetic and pretentious collection of adolescent platitudes that most empirical evidence has shown it to be.
Our language backs this up. We are happy to say people 'do' drugs, in a general and vague manner, we don't really want to be part of a mature and hopelessly spiritual discourse about their various merits. This isn't latent Puritanism. Surely it would be better to keep a healthy mystique about drugs, keeping alive some vague thrill of experimentation without having the whole thing hijacked by a bunch of mortgage-payers who want to listen to pan-pipe moods whilst smoking, sniffing, inhaling or whatever.
You have to let Marks have it though. He is eloquent, interesting, and quietly unassuming enough for one not to be annoyed by his evangelism. As a follow on (read: shameless cash-in) from Mr. Nice, Marks has loosely assembled a wide ranging assortment of materials collected by him over the years spanning, fiction, journalism, reportage and autobiography including Acid, Marijuana, Ecstasy and Cocaine. Its not big, its certainly not clever, but it is quite entertaining.
It is easy to get annoyed at the preachy accounts of 'a middle aged Ecstasy eater' and the clever-clever selective Biblical quotations that have been shoe-horned in. The claims of Hogshire and the like who sees, 'The Pill as Eucharist', are stultifying in their absurdity. Nevertheless, Marks' wit and tenacity holds the whole ramshackle operation together. The most engaging passages are without a doubt Marks' own, particularly in the early stages of the work where the discussion of Dope is woven into his travel writing.
Ultimately though, one is left a bit underwhelmed. I mean, what is the point? Why bother with such a eclectic compilation that is never drawn together to make the myriad abstractions into a whole. The answer glares at the reader from the cover. There stands a relaxed Howard, shirt open, with yes, a very large joint poised between his fingers. He looks, rather unfortunately, less like the jovial handsome man-of-the-world on the cover of Mr. Nice and more like a demonic David Dickenson. You know, the pompous gimp that swans around on BBC daytime's Bargain Hunt. There he is though, nonchalant and easy going. I'd be surprised if he himself took this book more seriously than a B side cash-in to his autobiography. He appears totally unconcerned that given Afroman's ascendancy in the UK Charts, for Julie Burchill, The Guardian and most of the chattering classes, hashish is just so passé.
Jake Eliot
This book is so staggeringly awful that two of my friends fell off their chairs trying to escape cringe-worthily bad random samples of text. It consists of 350 pages of self-absorbed drivel, telling us the tale of the life of twenty-three year old Lydia, a tall, blonde "interesting-looking" museum worker who goes to a party in Manchester and meets Felix, a guitarist in an as yet unheard of band with the face of "an angelic nymph who had been out on the town with a group of naughty goblins." The first-hand retrospective narrative tells us of how the two fall in love, and how she ends up managing her boyfriend's band.
The supporting characters ("The bassist - Justin - Monosyllabic. Stoned. Broke.") are one-dimensional clichés of everything we're supposed to believe is cool about the music industry. Their problems are trite and boring, there's no chemistry in their interactions, and the "issues" they face are childish and easily resolved. We're told how beautiful and talented the band are so many times that the "happy ever after" ending comes as no surprise whatsoever - after all, even the back page lets us know that Moja are "Unsigned. Undefeated. Unforgettable."
The flatness of the characters is rivalled only by the description of the relationships between them. Hate and love alike are portrayed through the over-use of tired similes, giving the reader the impression that the author got 10 out of 10 in a piece of English homework about similes in Year 9, and has never forgotten about it. The love between Lydia and Felix is meant to be so perfect, so pure, but how could I appreciate that when I was rolling around the floor laughing after reading that Lydia "wanted to get inside the smell of him, let it overwhelm (her).... I was bewildered and frustrated, but God damn it, I couldn't touch him." And just as this supposed perfect love comes across like hormonal fourteen-year-old flirtations, the animosities seem like the squabblings of pathetic spoilt five year olds. How sad.
It may seem that this review hasn't gone into much depth about the plot, but try as I might I cannot find any depth to go into when reviewing this self-indulgent load of bollocks. The main character is a tall blonde who manages a band. The picture of the author shows a tall twenty-something blonde, and guess what she did for a living before she decided to try to be a writer (no prizes for getting it right). If you want to read about beautiful people who lie around getting stoned and bitching about life all day, go to the newsagents and spend £1.50 on "Now" magazine. Whatever you do, do not buy this book. It's awful.
Louise Donaghey
8th Nov 2001