Skip to main content

Amusement



The past week or two have been so full that many things have gone undone, such as writing on here, for instance. The issues, both personal and diocesan, are not ones I can write about. Suffice it to say that they have been demanding, draining and time consuming. I am not complaining: this is what I knowingly let myself in for when I accepted nomination all those months ago and the busyness has been an occasion for learning and growth and has thus been oddly invigorating. There have been times though when I have needed an escape of sorts, so along with the full timetable that comes as an inescapable accessory to the pointy hat, I have been frantically reading and watching the occasional video.

There's a distinction I have sometimes used in sermons, between amusement and entertainment. I have taught that the word amuse consists of a negative prefix (a-) attached to the word muse meaning to inspire. Amusement is thus the negation of thinking, and it is contrasted with entertainment which is the adoption, consideration and enjoyment of ideas, aesthetic experiences or whatever. Just as we entertain a guest, the ejoyed thing is invited in, a relationship is built and we consider how far the entertained one will be a part of our future life. Entertainment invites growth. Amusement invites temporary anaesthesia.  It's a useful distinction. So useful in fact that even now, when I have learned after the fact that this little piece of entymology is actually inaccurate, I have decided to retain it's valuable services nonetheless. I don't have a lot of time for amusement as I have previously and erroneously defined it. For me, reading blockbuster novels or films without anything to think about or be moved by is inexpressibly tedious. Watching a sporting match is fine as long as there is a sense of narrative - as for example in a cricket test match- but sports which are purely spectacle, such as competitive ballroom dancing, just don't do it for me, I'm afraid, skillful though they may well be. Contrary to my usual inclinations, I haven't been able to garner the slightest interest in the Commonwealth Games this time around, maybe because of lack of time, maybe because I can't see the venues without thinking about the folks whose homes were bulldozed to improve the view from them.

So, lately I been entertained in a feeling response tear jerking sort of way by Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side and in a stay awake thinking about the implications sort of way by the docudrama Bloodlines. Mostly, I have been entertained by a biography of JRR Tolkien and The Beauty of the Infinite by David Bentley Hart. I've found the odd spot of gardening and home improvement quite entertaining. But as far as amusement - switching off the brain completely in order to escape into some reality completely unconnected from this one- goes, the only thing that has happened this week has been Paul Henry. He's certainly been fairly amusing.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Comments

Mr Truman said…
As someone who likes to think of himself as an entertainer I thoroughly appreciated reading your distinction between amusement and entertainment. The real etymology isn't too far from your guess (as I'm sure you know). My dictionary says this on the subject...

"ORIGIN late 15th cent. (in the sense [delude, deceive] ): from Old French amuser ‘entertain, deceive,’ from a- (expressing causal effect) + muser ‘stare stupidly.’ The current senses date from the mid 17th cent."

To stare stupidly. What a wonderful phrase.
Jules said…
Hi Kelvin : I may have double or triple posted due to a odd browser hiccup.

Only one post, the previous one, on enjoying your reflections, and on Meister Eckhart was intended.

Cheers

Julian.

Popular posts from this blog

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incompatible formats

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and the

Return to Middle Earth

 We had a flood, a couple of weeks back, and had to move all the stuff out of the spare bedroom, including  the contents of two floor to ceiling book cases. Shoving the long unopened copies of Sartor Resartus and An Introduction to Byron into cartons, I came upon my  copy of The Lord of the Rings . Written in the flyleaf are the dates of its many readings, the last one being when I read it aloud to Catherine, when she was about 10 or 11, well over 20 years ago. The journey across Middle Earth took Catherine and me the best part of a year, except for the evening when we followed Frodo and Sam across the last stretches of Mordor and up Mount Doom, when we simply couldn't stop, and sat up reading until 11.00 pm, on a school night.  My old copy is a paperback, the same edition that every card carrying baby boomer has somewhere on their shelves. The glue has dried and hardened. The cover and many of the pages have come loose. I was overcome with the urge to read it again, but this old