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The Emancipation of Dissonance. This book would not have assumed the shape it has without the faith and unflagging support of two remarkable friends: Allen Mandelbaum and Stanley Holwitz. As for the idea of this study, my brother Robert claims credit for that. It took place or would have taken place, for the two of us never remember in quite the same ways during one of those otiose afternoons in Rome, probably in the summer of , perhaps the same day that we both read from our books for video.

After I had held forth for some time about intriguing convergences between Carlo Michelstaedter and other figures of , he convinced me that right there I had my next book. If that is how it happened, I thank him for it, as well as for many other seasons of intellectual exchange. Then there are those whose lives, or rather, whose understandings of them, have inevitably found a place in these pages: I also wish to thank a long list of scholars whose intellectual rigor and research have provided me with models; they have not been cited as often as they deserve in this study: Valuable expressionist collections and personal expertise have been put at my disposal by Drs.

Swollen red eyes, their cavities spreading out through the flesh as if under an order not to sleep. Pupils dilated to the point where they seem to transmit rather than receive perceptions, like a knowing gaze of a fish long dead.

The redness of these eyes marks a painful and ghastly emanation out of what seems to have once been a person. This face is being reclaimed, its features giving way to the miasma with which it is stricken. If there is any victory here it is only one of recognition. The Red Gaze of May What is the affliction from which his face suffers?

Is it personal or communal in nature? Does it stem from the year , when Schoenberg's wife abandoned him for Richard Gerstl, the expressionist painter, who then took his own life when, at the urging of their friend Anton Webern, Mathilde returned to her husband? Or does it look forward to the collective catastrophe of World War I? Or is it something in its present that it fears and finds all but impossible to bear?

Had Schoenberg been able to answer these questions he would not have needed to paint such a painting. Here, as in other canvases of , he expresses something that neither his music nor his writings can convey. Yet we, in front of the painting, still seek words, and in a way that rarely happens before an impressionist or a cubist work. There is something about the rawness, the emotional extremity—the "expressionism"—of its style that calls for an explanation.

We want to know the concern of this unsettling art and why it arose at precisely this moment in time. On May 17, , Halley's comet shatters the peace of Europe's skies. As tends to happen at such moments of cosmic disturbance, the event evokes deep-seated anxieties, articulated in newspaper editorials on doom and degeneration.

For each collective concern there are thousands of personal ones. Two weeks before the comet, on May 2, Anna Pulitzer, the close friend of the Triestine writer Scipio Slataper, makes her way home from a botched tryst with her friend and shoots herself in front of the mirror.

Apparently she has lost some life-sustaining faith. Two weeks earlier, on April 19, and not far from Anna's own home in Tnieste, Sigmund Freud and his Vienna Psychoanalytic Society are so vexed by the rise of suicide among the Austro-Hunganian youth that they hold a conference to determine its motivations.

Among Italians, the most remarkable young suicide is not Anna Pulitzer but the student Carlo Michelstaedter. Not in Trieste this time but Gonizia, another city on the outskirts of Austria-Hungary, on October 17, , this twenty-three-year-old artist, philosopher, and poet is so determined to end his life that he shoots himself not once but twice with his revolver. It happens on the birthday and in the home of his mother, following an argument with this, her youngest son the older one had died a year earlier, allegedly also from suicide.

Is there any "idea" at work in these deaths? Two days after Michelstaedter's gesture Sabina Spielrein, the schizophrenic patient and lover of Carl Jung, jots down in her journal an intuition that now, four years before the Great War, is beginning to assume collective proportions. On the same day that Spielrein records her secret, researchers who believe that personal behavior is always a function of larger, communal patterns meet for the First Conference of the German Society for Sociology October 19— For original titles at least where I know of no English translations please consult the two lists of sources at the end of this book.

Citations from non-English texts appear in my own translations or in slightly modified versions of those listed. None of these events can be directly tied to Schoenberg's painting. They occur in widely disparate places, among people whose sexes, nationalities, and cultural formations have little in common.

And yet they partake in a strange commonality of atmosphere, a wordless similarity of concern. This concern or mood, this knowledge or perception, is the subject of this book. Called nihilism in philosophy and expressionism in the arts, it comprises a vision of history as nightmare, an obsession with mortality and decay, a sense of human marginalization from the autonomous developments of culture, and the responses they spur.

Its protagonists are the student Michelstaedter and a set of his intellectual peers: Other figures occupy either side of the year in question: Many also died young, sometimes, like Michelstaedter, by their own hand. Nearly all had as precarious a grasp on their intentions as the age on its course.

Michelstaedter's suicide occurs the same day he completes one of the most unusual works of the early twentieth century: In a sense, however, the real act of completion lies in the suicide itself, for the work on which he had labored so intensely over the course of the year tolerates no breach between theory and practice. Whether the suicide is to be interpreted as an expression or a refutation of the "moral health" described in Persuasion and Rhetoric , as scholars still hotly debate, it cannot be separated from the thinking that it ends.

For one and the same thing is at work in both, something strangely redolent of the voiceless anxiety of Schoenberg's painting. Nineteen ten is also the date on the most anguished self-portraits of Egon Schiele and Oskar Kokoschka, the younger compatriots of Gustave Klimt. In Germany rather than Austria three occurrences definitively announce the advent of a new and expressionist art: In this year—when Freud.

The young Austrian drug addict Georg Trakl begins to write the most disquieting poetry of the first half of our century. Simultaneously, south of the Alps, his counterpart Dino Campana lays the foundations for his Orphic Songs , eventually rewritten from memory and published in Committed to correctional institutions throughout his life, Campana is permanently confined to an asylum in , at age thirty-three. Trakl, incestuously attached to his younger sister takes his life before reaching his thirties.

Schiele, born three years after Boine, dies a year latet in , at the age of twenty-eight. The first artist ever to be imprisoned in Austria for "offenses against public morality," he finds the first model for his tormented nudes in his fourteen-year-old sister Gerti. In we also witness a resurgence—perhaps the final great resurgence—of the traditional European ideal to liberate human spirit from the pressures of material reality.

It is the moment when the leader of the German lodges of the Theosophical Society, Rudolf Steiner, writes his outline of Occult Science and discovers the principles of anthroposophy; when Arthur Edward Waite publishes his Key to the Tarot and P.

Ouspensky furnishes "the key to the enigmas of the world" in his Tertium Organum. Italian philosophy, at the same time, experiences the more studied idealism of Benedetto Croce and Giovanni Gentile. Most decisively perhaps, the year signals the astonishing revolution of abstraction in art. Three years earlier the art historian Wilhelm Worninger had linked symbolic and non-figurative art to a "spiritual space-phobia" in the cultural psyche.

By he has perceived the phobia in the age at hand, an age described by Vasily Kandinsky in the first and still most philosophical manifesto for abstract art, On the Spiritual in Art. What was at stake for Worninger and Kandinsky alike was the relation between soul and form, or between intuited truth and its figurative articulation. The most thorough study of such a relation can be found in a book published that year under the very same title: Soul and Form by the twenty-five-year-old Hungarian, Georg Lukacs.

In a "mood of permanent despair over the state of the world," as he later characterizes this period of his life in Theory of the Novel , Lukacs writes yet another essay to include in the book's German edition of As for the forms at the disposal of this "soul," the years preceding the Great War of see them successively splintered.

But in still others are bent on distinguishing between meaning and nonsense, especially in that Habsburg empire to which Michelstaedter himself belonged: Kraus and Wittgenstein see the expressive content of language as depending less on the conscious intentions of speakers than on the ethics they inherit from their community; and how fallen ethics seem to be at this moment in time can be gauged by a treasured reading of not only Wittgenstein and Kraus but their entire generation: He, too, a suicide at age twenty-three, Weininger argued that no woman or Jew had the spiritual constitution necessary for moral behavior.

Action in accordance with the noblest possibilities of being was beyond the reach of all but the most gifted of men. Of course, the fact that Kraus and Wittgenstein were of Jewish origin did not stop them from subscribing to Weininger's views any more than it did Italo Svevo or Arnold Schoenberg. After all, Weininger was himself a Jew and, if we are to believe the thesis of Theodor Lessing, at this moment in history Jewish self-hatred was a matter of pride.

The Jewish anti-Semite Max Steiner suggested as much when in he also took his life. Countless thinkers of the prewar years were all too prepared to assume responsibility for the guilt described by Weininger. His Jew was in essence an ideal type, a spiritual outsider in normative, Christian culture, without firm roots or faith, reluctant to accept any principle of belief before examining each letter of its word.

To Weininger the work of each of these figures would have smacked of the elucubrations of the Jew in exile, wandering through a desert laid bare by the spiritual diaspora of history.

In truth, a good number of Weininger's themes had already been announced by the cultural critics of the turn of the century: Anti-Semitism itself was just a channel for the fear of moral dissolution which such self-styled opponents of decadence as Houston Stewart Chamberlain and Julius Langbehn had inspired in the intellectual classes of Europe.

As dozens of sold-out editions of Sex and Character convinced them that "being oneself" was far from an innocent matter; an even more notorious thinker was amassing evidence for the spiritual vacuity of the age. His name was Oswald Spengler and his findings were published in as volume one of The Decline of the West. By the nihilistic visions of Europe begin to worry observers as distant as America:.

Every reader of the French and German newspapers knows that not a day passes without producing some uneasy discussion of supposed social decrepitude; falling off of the birthrate;—decline of rural population,—lowering of army standards;—multiplication of suicides;—increase of insanity or idiocy;—of cancer;—of tuberculosis;—signs of nervous exhaustion,—of enfeebled vitality,—'habits' of alcoholism and drugs,—failure of eyesight in the young,—and so on, without end.

The words belong to Henry Adams, addressed to historians in February Indeed, it is historians who are most alarmed, for at the moment of which Adams speaks, events that might otherwise appear incidental take on the dimensions of portentous omens: Military Plan 19 of Czarist Russia, to open hostilities on two simultaneous fronts against Austria and Germany; the total solar eclipse; the "calculated insult" to the Austrian monarchy of the Adolf Loos House, constructed across the square from the Habsburg palace in Vienna.

In these occurrences are read as revelations, as warnings, as a call to arms. The true call to arms, four years later had been anticipated in the dramatic account of a German attack on Western Europe called The Invasion of If the English novelist William Le Queux was "prescient" in staging his war in , it is because this moment best formulates a dialectic that was to inform so many decisions of the belligerent powers of — It was a dialectic that rooted all cre-.

By it has grown darkly literal, fueling the unstudied conviction that conflagration is a means of cauterization, and that razing all life to the ground will purge it of its infections. Did thinkers of suspect that their own dialectic would fall prey to the negativity it strove to overcome?

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I'm ashamed of my handwriting. It exposes me in all my spiritual nakedness. My handwriting shows me more naked than I am with my clothes off. No leg, no breath, no clothes, no sound. Instead, a whole man's being, shriveled and misshapen, like his scribble-scrabble. The uneven tracings of his pencil on paper, so minimal that a blind man's fngertips would hardly detect them, become the measure of the whole fellow.

Io Introduction Q Today, this shame, which overcomes the hero of Botho Strauss's last love story, Dedication, whenever he sees his handwriting, is no more than an anachronism.

The fact that the minimal unevenness between stroke and paper can store neither a voice nor an image of a body presupposes in its exclusion the invention of phonography and cinema.

It wrote and wrote, in an energetic and ideally uninterrupted flow. And what applied to writing also applied to reading. Effort had been removed from writing, and sound from reading, in order to naturalize writing.

The letters that educated readers skimmed over provided people with sights and sounds. The "nameless throng" to quote the dedication of Faust , too, was to hear an "early song" that, like "some old half-faded song," revived "old griefs" and "old friends. In the last letter he wrote and sealed but did not send off before committing suicide, Werther gave his beloved the very promise of poetry: Their death elevated them to a paradise that under the storage monopoly of writing was called poetry.

And maybe that paradise was more real than our media-controlled senses can imagine. Reading intently, Werther's suicidal readers may well have perceived their hero in a real, visible world. I wonder how people who do not flm, take photos, or record tapes remember, how humankind used to go about remembering. Its "liberation"28 is its end. As long as the book was responsible for all serial data flows, words quivered with sensuality and memory. It was the passion of all reading to hallucinate meaning between lines and letters: And the passion of all writing was in the words of E.

Once memories and dreams, the dead and ghosts, become technically reproducible, readers and writers no longer need the powers of hallucination. As Diodor of Sicily once wrote, "it is no longer only through writing that the dead remain in the memory of the living.

In contrast to the arts, media do not have to make do with the grid of the symbolic. A reproduction authenticated by the object itself is one of physical precision. Media always already provide the appearances of specters. What Leopold Bloom in Ulysses could only wish for in his Dublin graveyard meditations had already been turned into science fction by Walter Rathenau, the AEG chairman of the board and futurist writer. This already occurred in r , in the case of Senate President Schreber: In our mediascape, immortals have come to exist again.

This list enables the!. Of course the Pentagon does not keep a handwritten list of good and bad days. Offce technology keeps up with media technology.

Cinema and the phonograph, Edison's two great achievements that ushered in the present, are complemented by the typewriter. In order to store series of sights and sounds, Old Europe's only storage technology frst had to be mechanized. Remington, not Edison, took over Sholes's discourse machine gun.

Thus, there was no Marvelous One from whose brow sprang all three media technologies of the modern age. On the contrary, the beginning of our age was marked by separation or differentiation. From the beginning, the letters and their arrangement were standardized in the shapes of type and keyboard, while media were engulfed by the noise of the real-the fuzziness of cinematic pictures, the hissing of tape recordings. In standardized texts, paper and body, writing and soul fall apart. Typewriters do not store individuals; their letters do not communicate a beyond that perfectly alphabetized readers can subsequently hallucinate as meaning.

Everything that has been taken over by technological media since Edison's inventions disappears from typescripts. The dream of a real visible or audible world arising from words has come to an end. That electric or electronic media can recombine them does not change the fact of their differentiation. In r 8 60, fve years before MaIling Hansen's mechanical writing ball the frst mass-produced typewriter , Gottfried Keller's "Misused Love Letters" still proclaimed the illusion of poetry itself: Around 1 poetry turned into literature.

The symbolic now encompasses linguistic signs in their materiality and technicity. That is to say, letters and ciphers form a fnite set without taking into account philosophical dreams of infnity.

For that reason, Lacan designates "the world of the symbolic [as 1 the world of the machine. Finally, of the real nothing more can be brought to light than what Lacan presupposed-that is, nothing. It forms the waste or residue that r 6 Introduction neither the mirror of the imaginary nor the grid of the symbolic can catch: And structuralist theory simply spells out what, since the turn of the century, has been coming over the information channels. Only the typewriter provides writing as a selection from the fnite and arranged stock of its keyboard.

It literally embodies what Lacan illustrated using the antiquated letter box. In contrast to the flow of handwriting, we now have discrete elements separated by spaces. Thus, the symbolic has the status of block letters. Film was the frst to store those mobile doubles that humans, unlike other primates, were able to mis perceive as their own body. Thus, the imaginary has the status of cinema. And only the phonograph can record all the noise produced by the larynx prior to any semiotic order and linguistic meaning.

Rather, they are free to babble. His essence escapes into apparatuses. Machines take over functions of the central nervous system, and no longer, as in times past, merely those of muscles. The physiology of eyes, ears, and brains have to become objects of scientifc research. So-called Man is split up into physiology and information technology. When Hegel summed up the perfect alphabetism of his age, he called it Spirit.

The readability of all history and all discourses turned humans or philosophers into God. A computer A and human B exchange data via some kind of telewriter interface. The exchange of texts is monitored by a censor C, who also only receives written information.

But the game remains open-ended, because each time the machine gives itself away-be it by making a mistake or, more likely, by not making any-it will refne its program by learning. Of course, computer programs could simulate the "individuality" of the human hand, with its routines and mistakes, but Turing, as the inventor of the universal discrete machine, was a typist.

Though he wasn't muc h better or skilled at it than his tomcat Timothy, who was allowed to jump across the keyboard in Turing's chaotic secret service offce,54 it was at least somewhat less catastrophic than his handwriting. The teachers at the honorable Sherborne School could hardly "forgive" their pupil's chaotic lifestyle and messy writing. He got lousy grades for brilliant exams in mathematics only because his handwriting was "the worst. Sholes's typewriter, reduced to its fundamental principle, has supported us U this day.

All it works with is a paper strip that is both its program and its data material, its input and its output. But there are even more economizations: It can then move the paper strip one space to the right, one to the left, or not at all, moving in a jerky i.

From a letter to Turing: I have come to prefer discrete machines to continuous ones. As a feedback system it beats all the Remingtons, because each step is controlled by scanning the paper strip for the sign or its absence, which amounts to a kind of writing: But no computer that has been built or ever will be built can do more. Also, while not all computers have to be Von Neumann machines, all conceivable data processing machines are merely a state n of the universal discrete machine.

This was proved mathematically by Alan Turing in 6, two years before Konrad Zuse in Berlin built the frst programmable computer from simple relays.

And with that the world of the symbolic really turned into the world of the machine. From the Remington via the Turing machine to microelectronics, from mechanization and automatization to the implementation of a writing that is only cipher, not meaning-one century was enough to transfer the age-old monopoly of writing into the Introduction 19 omnipotence of integrated circuits. Not unlike Turing's correspondents, everyone is deserting analog machines in favor of discrete ones.

The CD digitizes the gramophone, the video camera digitizes the movies. All data streams flow into a state n of Turing's universal machine; Romanticism notwithstanding, numbers and fgures become the key to all creatures. In July 1 , 8 1 years before Turing's moving paper strip, the recording was still analog. Upon replaying the strip and its vibrations, which in turn set in motion the diaphragm, a barely audible "Hullo!

While he or Kruesi was turning the handle, Edison once again screamed " into the mouthpiece-this time the nursery rhyme "Mary Had a Little Lamb. Mechanical sound recording had been invented. Comme les traits dans les camees J'ai voulu que les voix aimees Soient un bien qu'on garde a jamais, Et puissent reperer Ie reve Musical de I'heure trop breve; Le temps veut fuir, je Ie soumets. Like the faces in cameos I wanted beloved voices To be a fortune which one keeps forever, And which can repeat the musical Dream of the too short hour; Time would flee, I subdue it.

The wondrously resistant power of writing ensures that the poem has no words for the truth about competing technologies. An invention that subverts both literature and music because it reproduces the unimaginable real they are both based on must have struck even its inventor as something unheard of.

Hence, it was not coincidental that Edison, not Cros, actually built the phonograph. A physical impairment was at the beginning of mechanical sound recording-just as the frst typewriters had been made by the blind for the blind, and Charles Cros had taught at a school for the deaf and mute.

They await inventors like Edison whom chance has equipped with a similar dissolution. The phonograph does not hear as do ears that have been trained immediately to flter voices, words, and sounds out of noise; it registers acoustic events as such. In the frst phonograph letter of postal history, Edison wrote that "the articulation" of his baby "was loud enough, just a bit indistinct.

In Tristan, Brangane was allowed to utter a scream whose notation cut straight through the score. Composers of 1 8 80, however, are allied with engineers. In Wagner's case this applies to both text and music. The Rhinegold prelude, with its infnite swelling of a single chord, dissolves the E-flat major triad in the frst horn melody as if it were not a matter of musical harmony but of demonstrating the physical overtone series.

By the time Schoenberg, in 19 ro, produced the last analysis of harmony in the history of music, chords had turned into pure acoustics: And the grooves of Edison's phonograph recorded nothing but vibrations. Such was the logic upon which was founded everything that, in Old Europe, went by the name of music: The nineteenth century's concept of frequency breaks with all thisY The measure of length is replaced by time as an independent variable.

It is a physical time removed from the meters and rhythms of music. It quantifes movements that are too fast for the human eye, ranging from 20 to 16, vibrations per second.

In frequency curves the simple proportions of Pythagorean music turn into irrational, that is, logarithmic, functions. Conversely, overtone series-which in frequency curves are simply inte- Gramophone 25 gral multiples of vibrations and the determining elements of each sound-soon explode the diatonic music system. That is the depth of the gulf separating Old European alphabetism from mathematical-physical notation.

Which is why the frst frequency notations were developed outside of music. First noise itself had to become an object of scientifc research, and discourses "a privileged category of noises.

Even Edison's 1 article on phonography intended such toy mouths voicing 26 Gramophone the parents' names as Christmas presents. Continuing these experiments, Willis made a decisive discovery in 1 8 For the frst time pitch no longer depended on length, as with string or brass instruments; it became a variable dependent on speed and, therefore, time. The synthetic production of frequencies is followed by their analysis.

Fourier had already provided the mathematical theory, but that theory had yet to be implemented technologically. In 1 , Wilhelm Weber in Gottingen had a tuning fork record its own vibrations. He attached a pig's bristle to one of the tongues, which etched its frequency curves into sooty glass. Such were the humble, or animal, origins of our gramophone needles. From Weber's writing tuning fork Edouard Leon Scott, who as a Parisian printer was, not coincidentally, an inhabitant of the Gutenberg Galaxy, developed his phonautograph, patented in 1 8 A bell-mouth amplifed incoming sounds and transmitted them onto a membrane, which in turn used a coarse bristle to transcribe them onto a soot-covered cylinder.

Thus came into being autographs or handwritings of a data stream that heretofore had not ceased not to write itself. Instead, there was handwriting. Scott's phonautograph, however, made visible what, up to this point, had only been audible and had been much too fast for ill- Gramophone 27 equipped human eyes: A triumph of the concept of frequency: Phonetics and speech physiology became a reality.

Higgins at the end of the play in order to learn "bookkeeping and typewriting" at "shorthand schools and polytechnic classes. The synthetic production of frequencies combined with their analysis resulted in the new medium. Edison's phonograph was a by-product of the attempt to optimize telephony and telegraphy by saving expensive copper cables.

First, Menlo Park developed a telegraph that indented a paraffn paper strip with Morse signs, thus allowing them to be replayed faster than they had been 28 Gramophone transmitted by human hands. The effect was exactly the same as in Willis's case: By touching the needle, the hearing-impaired Edison could check the amplitude of the telephone signal. Legend has it that one day the needle drew blood-and Edison "recognized how the force of a membrane moved by a magnetic system could be put to work.

Functions of the central nervous system had been technologically implemented. When, after a hour shift ending early in the morning of July r6, r 8 8 8 , Edison had fnally completed a talking machine ready for serial production, he posed for the hastily summoned photographer in the pose of his great idol. The French emperor, after all, is said to have observed that the progress of national welfare or military technology can be measured by transportation costs.

Artifcial mouths and ears, as technological implementations of the central nervous system, cut down on mailmen and concert halls. Technological sound storage provides a frst model for data streams, which are simultaneously becoming objects of neurophysiological research. Which is why sound storage, initially a mechanically primitive affair on the level of Weber's pig bristle, could not be invented until the soul fell prey to science. They have taken my head, my head-and put me into a tea tin!

What is most surprising in history, almost unimaginable, is that among all the great inventors across the centuries, not one thought of the Phonograph! And yet most of them invented machines a thousand times more complicated.

Abraham might have built it, and made a recording of his Gramophone 29 calling from on high. A steel stylus, a leaf of silver foil or something like it, a cylinder of copper, and one could fll a storehouse with all the voices of Heaven and Earth.

There are also immaterials of scientifc origin, which are not so easy to come by and have to be supplied by a science of the soul. Only when the soul has become the nervous system, and the nervous system according to Sigmund Exner, the great Viennese neurophysiologist so many facilitations Bahnungen , can Delboeuf's statement cease to be scandalous. In 1 8 8o, the philosopher Guyau devoted a commentary to it. Thanks to the invention of the phonograph, the very theories that were its historical a priori can now optimize their analogous models of the brain.

Only that which reminds us of something else makes an impression, although and precisely because it differs from it. To understand is to remember, at least in part. Thus, the human brain has been compared to all kinds of objects. Taine makes of the brain a kind of print shop that incessantly produces and stores innumerable cliches.

Yet all these similes appear somewhat sketchy. One normally deals with the brain at rest; its images are perceived to be fxed, stereotyped; and that is imprecise. There is nothing fnished in the brain, no real images; instead, we see only virtual, potential images waiting for a sign to be transformed into actuality.

How this transformation into reality is really achieved is a matter of speculation. The greatest mystery of brain mechanics has to do with dynamics-not with statics. For some time now I have been wanting to draw attention to this comparison, ever since I came across a casual observation in Delboeuf's last article on memory that confrmed my intentions: The cells vibrate in the same way they vibrated the frst time; psychologically, these similar vibrations correspond to an emotion or a thought analogous to the forgotten emotion or thought.

This is precisely the phenomenon that occurs when the phonograph's small copper disk, held against the point that runs through the grooves it has etched, starts to reproduce the vibrations: If the phonographic disk had self-consciousness, it could point out while replaying a song that it remembers this particular song. Let us add that it could distinguish new songs from those already played, as well as new impressions from simple memories.

Indeed, a certain effort is necessary for frst impressions to etch themselves into metal or brain; they encounter more resistance and, correspondingly, have to exert more force; and when they reappear, they vibrate all the stronger. But when the point traces already existing grooves instead of making new ones, it will do so with greater ease and glide along without applying any pressure.

The inclination of a memory or reverie has been spoken of; to pursue a memory, in fact: There is, therefore, a signifcant difference between impressions in the real sense and memory. Impressions tend to belong to either of two classes: To recognize an image means to assign it to the second class.

One feels in a less forceful way and is aware of this emotion. A memory consists in the awareness, frst, of the diminished intensity of an impression, second, of its increased ease, and third, of the connections it entertains with other impressions. We project this or that impression back into the past without knowing which part of the past it belongs to.

A further analogy between the phonograph and our brain exists in that the speed of the vibrations impressed on the apparatus can noticeably change the character of the reproduced sounds or recalled images. If you turn the handle faster, a song will rise from the deepest and most indistinct notes to the highest and most piercing.

Does not a similar effect occur in the brain when we focus our attention on an initially blurred image, increasing its clarity step by step and thereby moving it, as it were, up the scale? And could this phenomenon not be explained by the increased or decreased speed and strength of the vibrations of our cells? At times they vibrate in the depths of our being like a blurred "pedal "; at times their sonic fullness radiates above all others.

As they dominate or recede, they appear to be closer or farther away from us, and sometimes the length of time separating them from the present moment seems to be waning or waxing. These analogies could be multiplied. It remains an eternal mystery that is less astonishing than it appears, however. Were the phonograph able to hear itself, it would be far less mystifying in the fnal analysis than the idea of our hearing it.

But indeed we do: We therefore have to concede the transformation of movement into thought that is always possible-a transformation that appears more likely when it is a matter of internal brain movement than when it comes from the out- Gramophone 3 3 side. From this point of view it would be neither very imprecise nor very disconcerting to defne the brain as an infnitely perfected phonograph-a conscious phonograph.

It doesn't get any clearer than that. The psychophysical sciences, to which the philosopher Guyau has absconded, embrace the phonograph as the only suitable model for visualizing the brain or memory. Thus memory, around 1 a wholly "subordinate inner power, "31 moves to the fore eighty years later.

And because Hegel's spirit is thereby ousted from the start, the recently invented phonograph, not yet even ready for serial production, is superior to all other media. Which is why all concepts of trace, up to and including Derrida's grammatological ur-writing, are based on Edison's simple idea.

Guyau understood that the phonograph implements memory and thereby makes it unconscious. Rather than hearing the random acoustic events forcing their way into the bell-mouth in all their real-time entropy, Guyau's conscious phonograph would attempt to understand32 and thus corrupt them.

Phonographs do not think, therefore they are possible. But impartial and external observers would continue to see it as the result of a fairly simple mechanism. When Guyau, who had observed the brain simply as a technical apparatus, turns his experimental gaze inward, he falls short of his own standards.

It was, after all, an external gaze that had suggested the beautiful comparison between attention and playback speed. In both cases it boils down to programming.

Don't listen to him! He doesn't know what he is talking about. In serious matters such as test procedures or mass Gramophone 3 5 entertainment, TAM remains triumphant. Of course Europe's written music had already been able to move tones upward or downward, as the term "scale" itself implies.

If the phonographic playback speed differs from its recording speed, there is a shift not only in clear sounds but in entire noise spectra. Time axis reversal, which the phonograph makes possible, allows ears to hear the unheard-of: The Beatles are said to have used this trick on "Revolution 9" to whisper the secret of their global success to the tape freaks among their fans: The phonograph cannot deny its telegraphic origin. Technological 3 6 Gramophone media turn magic into a daily routine.

We were intending to visit the Criterion and the nearby Blue Boar on our trip to Leicester. We'd had quite a few in the Blue Boar and enjoyed it last year. But this time we stayed put in the Criterion. Service wasn't the friendliest and we were served out of turn. The latter was a new one for me. Traditional pub that may not be the best in Leicester these days. But I have a feeling I've still to visit a better pub or two in the city.

We tried this place yesterday after seeing it in the new Good Beer Guide. Unfortunately it was nowhere near as good as Broood. So we'd wished we'd done these 2 the other way round. I asked for the Rum Cider. But there was an overwhelming taste of pipe cleaner with perhaps a hint of mango. I've still no idea if it was the correct cider.

Ales weren't in the best condition either. A good CAMRA discount is offered though and the long, thin interior of the pub allows for plenty of space with a mixture of drinkers, families and diners.

There is a pool table at the far end. We'd been here before when it was called something else. Bar snacks are served. I stuck to the cider on my first visit. But I did also have the Dark Horse later when we returned.

Friends raved about the North Pale. A massive improvement on what was here before and somewhere we're likely to return to again next time we're in Leicester. The Tabard is still just about the best pub in Chiswick. It's tucked just around the corner from Turnham Green tube station.

The clientele were a bit rowdy and the atmosphere was noisy in general. But a fairly decent place. Greene King pub on the main drag in Chiswick. It's a fairly large place with plenty of space for drinkers. Live Premier League football was being shown on my Friday evening visit. Probably one of Chiswick's better pubs. But nothing special in the grand scheme of things. This place has re-opened as No.

It's an upmarket gastropub that was quite busy on our Friday evening visit. There is an oval shaped bar in the centre with an open-plan kitchen and seating for diners at the rear. The solitary ale was London Pride. Not my cup of tea. This place has long been on my hitlist of Liverpool pubs.

It is back open again and is one of quite a few pubs and bars along this stretch of Smithdown Road. We had been to the excellent Handyman Supermarket and equally good Craft Taproom, with a visit to the disappointing Frank's in between. Kelly's Dispensary has an aged feel to it, with a bit of faded splendour. Champions League football was on the TV. The Weetwood beer was undrinkable. So we both ended up with the Lees Bitter, which was fairly decent. There is also an Addlestones pump. But the barmaid proclaimed this to be off.

Not the best of places. But there's plenty of other decent pubs along here to make this a worthy stop on a crawl along the Smithdown Road. The interior and exterior of this place is to be admired and the real ale selection is better than I had expected.

Sadly it looks like the real cider mentioned in the last review has been discontinued. Still a reliable old boozer in the Cavern Quarter. Stopped in here for a swift half yesterday afternoon. It was fairly quiet, with only 3 others in. Although we didn't venture any further than the front bar.

Closed last week and it's now boarded up ready for demolition and the building of yet more houses. Food-dominated place next to the canal. Beware of a 3 hour limit for parking, with cameras enforcing the restriction. But the focus is on the food and drinkers are ushered to the small seating area around the bar. We had Sunday lunch, which was fine, albeit on the expensive side.

This was my 9th port of call in Essex and I'd been to a wide selection of pubs and clubs. But this was the kind of establishment I enjoy the most - a nice cosy and traditional country pub. But seating was available. Others in had seemingly eaten earlier in the evening. As with the previous review in , there are still just the two real ales. But the choice is more adventurous and local these days.

The regular beer is Bishop Nick Ridley's Rite. The guest beer was Mighty Oak Captain Bob. It looks like the same landlady is in charge and as the previous customer had ordered the Captain Bob from her, I decided to follow suit.

But unfortunately, it was way past its best. But not on this showing it wasn't. The Eagle is in the current Good Beer Guide. But it was excellent. Neither are listed on BITE. I will request the latter to be added to the site. Enter the former at your peril, unless you enjoy a lager in a raucous atmosphere with a disco populated with drunken youths! Despite the less than perfect beer quality in the Three Compasses, I would definitely recommend a visit here.

The Old Windmill, South Hanningfield. It's clearly very food-focused. As a drinker, I wasn't made to feel particularly welcome. There is no seating area as such set aside for drinkers. In fact, I sat in an area of tables already reserved for Sunday lunchtime diners. I left with pretty much the same sentiments as the previous reviewer. Not worth your time unless you're eating. This is a food-oriented pub to the south of Chelmsford in a rural setting.

We initially walked into the restaurant area, where the bar was looking pretty sparse. We exited and walked round the pub to the busier bar area. Unfortunately our plans to eat here seemed to flounder initially as children were not allowed in after 6pm.

But staff eventually let us bring our charge in with us. We enjoyed a nice pub meal in here. It's clearly a popular place. This pub is based in a complex dominated by a large antiques centre. The River Crouch is just over the road and this weatherboarded pub makes it quite a picturesque scene. There were a number of staff around when we entered.

But all of them decided to ignore us for a few minutes. An initial idea to eat here was rejected by the lack of any kind of welcome. Drinks were inordinately expensive. Clearly Essex youngsters are not sufficiently skilled in mathematics!

We left this pretentious place behind in search of a decent pub. Incidentally, I later noted that a micropub has opened in the Antiques Centre complex. I'm sure that is a far better option. South Benfleet Social Club, Benfleet.

Fifth stop on our Essex crawl was this excellent social club. It ended up being my favourite stop of the day. The interior has two rooms either side of the central bar, with one seemingly used as a function room. The main bar area was comfortable and cosy, with a number of friendly locals. Staff were also pleasant. The Chelsea match was on a TV at one end. Weston's Family Reserve was also available in a box in the fridge.

I recommend this place, if you ever find yourself in South Benfleet. This is a Greene King pub close to South Benfleet station. It was packed on our early Saturday evening visit with some rowdy Essex locals, both young and old. Some may have found the atmosphere a little intimidating. Football was showing on the TV. There were plenty of bar staff. But getting served was a challenge. Greene King IPA is a regular beer.

There's a nice garden area just over the opposite side of the car park, which is pay and display. The Gun was last in the Good Beer Guide in But it appears to have gone downhill since then.

The interior is fairly bland and characterless and the garden has been closed off. Sharp's Doom Bar is the regular ale. There is no real cider and bar staff didn't seem to know what a real cider was. Can't see this one staying open for much longer. This is of course a Wetherspoon's pub on the edge of the Eastgate Shopping Centre and near to both the railway and bus stations. The area feels a little dilapidated. But the Moon On The Square is a typical old 'spoon's with an open-plan interior.

There were the usual mix of daytime Wetherspoon's miscreants. But this was one of only 2 places where I found real cider in this part of Essex. So it does deserve some credit. I was back in the Pheasant for another works do on Friday evening. The place was heaving as usual. There's a mixture of locals and people staying in the airport hotels.

I stuck to Aspall's Cider. We migrated to the restaurant area which opens at 6pm. The food is always reliable here and portions are large. It's not cheap though. You can also eat in the bar, if you can find a table. Probably the best pub in the Heathrow area.

But it doesn't really have much competition. I remember going in a pub on the Bath Road many years ago. I'm not sure if it was this one or not. But I think this was in fact my first visit here. It's quite a large pub with a seating area set aside to the rear left-hand side of the bar for dining. However early on a Friday evening, it was mainly drinkers. This is a John Barras pub. There is no real cider. The Sussex Arms still gets my vote as one of the best pubs in London. We were here on Thursday and both the inside and the large garden at the rear were busy when we arrived.

It actually got busier throughout the evening, which made service slower than usual. Whilst I started on the cider, some of the ales we initially ordered in our group were cloudy and well past their best. Whether they were having issues with the beer quality or whether it was the volume they were getting through, I don't know. But beers were changing at a rapid rate. Beer quality certainly improved as the evening wore on.

Thursday is steak night. So we took advantage of a steak deal which included a pint. Don't forget to get your stamps too. Get every 10th pint free. Another good evening in the Sussex Arms. Visited here for the first time early on Thursday evening.

I was surprised to find 4 ales. The regular ale is Fuller's London Pride. We tried both of the Caledonian beers and neither were in a particularly good condition. Didn't spend much time inside, as we sat outside on the patio at the front. But the interior did seem nice enough. Didn't inspire me sufficiently to attempt a return visit.

I'm fairly sure that this was the first pub I've visited in N Situated nextdoor to Arnos Grove tube station, this is a large establishment with a modern but not unpleasant interior, which now serves real ales. There are plenty of craft beers too. Most of the clientele seemed to be families in for Sunday brunch.

It was still morning on my visit. So it was probably not the most representative time. But there was only one other drinker. I'd definitely come back here though. Neither are listed on here. But they are recommended. So I will request their addition. Sunday morning and it was time to do the new pubs in the Good Beer Guide that I had not previously visited in North London. I was here for a breakfast and an early pint. Greene King Abbot is the regular ale.

I opted for the latter. The solitary barman was very efficient and was dealing with a fair few customers for the time of day. Another plus point is for the ground floor toilets. It's very rare that you don't have to go up or down stairs to spend a penny in a 'Spoons. Fairly average Wetherspoon's that would be above average in my view if they served a real cider.

But there's probably not much call for it locally. Luckily for us, we had saved the best pub of the day until last. It's fairly close to the A So you will unwittingly travel very close to here without knowing it when driving between London and the West Country.

It's a fairly large, but traditional place with areas for both drinking and dining. Despite arriving fairly late, they fitted us in for a meal and I enjoyed a very nice meal.

There is a children's meal too. Otter Amber is the regular ale. The bill was handed over without the drinks on. Staff seemed surprised and appreciative of my honesty to point this out. But they had been friendly and helpful during our visit. So I was not about to fiddle them out of a few quid. Village pub with a bar area and a more formal dining area.

There are plenty of tables. But we felt that it had a real pretentious feel to it. Although it was more upmarket than other pubs we had visited during the day. I went for the latter, with no real cider available. The place soon filled up with diners. But we took a look at the menu and decided that it was not for us. There were a number of dogs too - far too many for our liking.

Boules can now be played at the front. Not overly enamoured with this pub though. I had really high hopes for this pub. But once again, my hopes were shattered. The place is a great old fashioned boozer with a few different spit and sawdust rooms, including one with a pool table at the far end. The menu looked interesting.

But food is only served at lunchtime. The disappointment for me was the ale selection. I ordered Teignworthy Neap Tide. But that had run out. That left just St Austell Trelawny.

I resorted to a fizzy cider Rattler. Otter Bitter was later pulled through. But with just one real ale on my arrival, the ale selection was worse than Mad Dog's opposite.

But a terrible ale selection. If this is the best Sherborne has to offer, I won't be returning any time soon. Sherborne is a lovely little town. But it's pretty awful for real ale. This place is now called Mad Dog's and is set out similar to an American diner. Live football was on the TV. Doesn't really feel like a pub. The Chetnole Inn was another bonus pub for us in Dorset. But this was another disappointment. The cider was Cheddar Valley dispensed from a font.. But the barmaid informed me that it was fizzy.

So I politely declined. Several tables had dinner reservations laid out on them. There is another separate bar area. With two pubs in Sherborne closed, it was time to call in on a couple of standby pubs!

The first was the White Hart in Yetminster, which is open all day on a Saturday. I was suitably impressed by this place, especially the cider range. A number of locals were crowded around the bar, leaving plenty of seating space. There is a nice outdoor area with a skittles alley also situated at the rear.

Touring the country regularly, Dorset is my favourite county for pubs. But this visit was largely disappointing, until I reached the Kings Arms. Finally a pub that offered a warm welcome with friendly staff and customers.

It was quiet on our Saturday afternoon visit, with only a couple of customers and a few staff. This is everything that a good village pub should be. Set on the bend of a main road, this pub has a bar area and a separate dining area.

It was a bit chilly inside. A family eating in one corner were creating a fair amount of noise and there were a couple of locals in the bar area. There is plenty of seating. Set in a lovely Dorset village, this place looked very promising from the outside. But the inside has been modernised and the strange and varied furniture didn't seem in keeping with a village pub. There was abstract artwork on the walls.

The real ale was Dartmoor Best Bitter and there was no real cider. Two locals were propping up the bar. But they were the only other customers.

The gents is outside and entered from the side of the pub. I'm not sure I've ever witnessed so many spiders in one small place. Accommodation is in separate outhouses at the rear of the car park. I found this a fairly soulless place and am really struggling to find too much to recommend about it. Not quite sure how it has made the Good Beer Guide. This pub on the edge of town changed its name to the Teddy Rowe.

But it is closed again now. There was a light on inside. But various rubble in the car park and a chain across the car park entrance was sufficient to indicate to us that it wouldn't be opening for custom on the day of our visit. The Crown was closed on our Saturday lunchtime visit. It looks like they're looking for new tenants. Lovely village local that opens at We chose this as a starting point for a pub Dorset crawl, as many including this one close during the afternoon.

We arrived to find the lights switched off. We were the first in and it was deadly quiet. A couple were in for lunch and another guy was obviously a local drinker. You enter through a hallway, which feels like somebody's house. Beyond is the bar and a restaurant area. One of the best pubs we visited on Saturday. As the review states, this is no longer a pub featuring local Tirril ales.

It's now a Robinson's place, which seems to be more geared up towards food. Drinks are very expensive. Nice place though with low ceilings and a number of rooms.

Olde worlde pub tucked away off the main road in the village of Yanwath. Seems to specialise in food. I was hoping to find a real cider. But there were none. At least the barman was an Everton fan though! Wetherspoon's branch unusually tucked away from the centre of Penrith and all of its nightlife. The building looks nice from the outside. Apparently it used to be a nightclub.

Inside is fairly bland. There is a roof terrace upstairs. The cider was Old Rosie. Had a reasonable breakfast here on Sunday evening. Thwaite's pub that advertises on its Facebook page as being open until 1am on a Saturday night.

However they wouldn't serve me shortly after Just found this pub on the site. It was my third stop in Penrith on Saturday evening. This was a lively place, supposedly with late night opening hours. Yet it is also a nice, traditional place. Unfortunately there were no local ales. Although a third one was being poured through at They also had Weston's Old Rosie. Foundry 34 was a lively place tucked away off the main drags in Penrith.

There was a rather loud band on during my late Saturday night visit. It's a modern-looking place with a solitary real ale. I was hoping to find real cider here. But sadly there was none. Moved on from here to the Royal, which was much better. I will request it to be added. My final pub after that was the Castlegate. But that's definitely not worth adding to the site! This is now the Fell Bar. It's a small place, with not much space for seating.

But there are other floors and the turnover of customers was quick. Beers, both cask and keg are on a blackboard, alongside ciders, a craft lager and ciders.

Bar staff seemed to be knowledgeable. Reminiscent of a micropub, this is a welcome addition to the pub scene in Penrith and probably the best in town. This was the 5th pub in a row in North East Cumbria that was unable to serve us food. Apparently this one stops serving as early as 8pm. Whilst the others were apologetic, service in here was fairly miserable. We ended up resorting to a kebab in Penrith.

It's a shame that nowhere around here serves food on a Saturday evening. There was no real cider. It was dark by the time we got to this village. But you could tell it is an archetypal English village with a lovely stone church and this pub. We'd hoped to eat here. They advertise that they serve food from 6pm until 9pm. But shortly after 8pm, they had decided that they didn't want any customers.

After failing to find food in the previous 3 pubs, we'd hoped to get something to eat here. The food smelt good, which only made us feel worse. A nice pub in a lovely village. But they need to get their act together where food is concerned. We arrived here well after 7pm on a Saturday evening and the pub was closed. We were just about to head off when a light appeared. Apparently they don't open until 7: There's no real ale here.

The owners still have a lot of work to do with this place. There seems to be work ongoing with a large room at the rear, which contained some strange mannequin-type models. There is a pool table in a room down a couple of stairs from the main bar. Pool is free to play. Although space is tight. Not one for the ale connoisseur. But a friendly village local situated just up from the village's popular open-air heated pool and playground. We tried both pubs in this lovely small village, set on a hill.

The Fetherston Arms was easily better than the Crown. It had a good crowd of drinkers and the dining area looked full too. There were a few dogs in the bar. Theakston Best Bitter is the permanent beer. As with the Crown, the real cider was Weston's Family Reserve.

The Fox and Pheasant Inn, Armathwaite. It's a country pub with a bar area and a separate dining area. A roaring coal fire was in action on our early Saturday evening visit. There were a few locals in the bar and a couple of families in the dining room. It's run by Robinson's. There are 3 of their ales and a guest. The guest was Hawkshead Windermere Pale. Our final pub in Durham was the Cross Keys. It's a pub that is clearly central to the local community. A group of kids wandered in for fish and chips to takeaway.

Inside is quite cosy, with several secluded areas. A few people were eating in one corner. The latest Saturday football scores were on the TV. This pub is the brewery tap for the Yard of Ale brewery.

The pub doesn't look much from the outside. But inside, there is a decent community local with 3 rooms and a serving hatch from a central corridor. Some kind of group was meeting in the one room. Friendly service and a very nice traditional boozer. I agree with the previous review.

This is a proper village boozer with three small rooms and a decent selection of ales. Parking is just opposite the road, overlooking rolling fields. The pub has no music or other electronics. It specialises in conversation. Locals and staff are friendly. I went for the Savage Wit, which was a dark wheat bear with orange. It was not the best and tasted on the turn. Can't fault the pub itself though. Stanley Jefferson, Bishop Auckland.

It ended up being my favourite pub in the town. As it's a Wetherspoon's, that doesn't say too much for the pubs in the town. The pub has a little more character than most branches of the chain, with several separate drinking areas, rather than one large open room. It was quiet on my late Friday night visit. It's a fairly basic pub inside.

But locals and staff are friendly. Karaoke was on during my Friday visit. The landlord spent a good while chatting to me about the pubs in the town.

The pub has accommodation. But unfortunately, I'd booked the Premier Inn on the outskirts of town. The Grand is near the station and much more central. This was certainly one of the better pubs in the town. None of these are listed on the site. The last two are the only two worth adding. Was here today following a visit to the nearby Beefeater and some shopping.

Although it was a little quieter than normal. We managed to grab a booth in the raised seating area at the rear. As usual, the cider was Black Dragon. Our final stop in Devon was the Royal Oak. It took us much longer to get here than normal, as the main road into the village was closed. Whilst it was already dark, we could appreciate that this was the archetypal village pub situated in the centre of the village overlooking the village green. There is a lounge bar which served food and a more basic and traditional public bar.

The guest beer was Otter Amber. They also had Black Rat Perry. Certainly a very nice pub. But I did have high expectations after reading reviews. The Rock was a strange find in this part of Devon. It's a large place with a number of big rooms, with an outdoor area at the front where you can get your ale from a hatch.

But it was certainly busy. Ales were fairly standard for the area. I was disappointed by this pub. It has a large interior and was quite busy.

A few were eating. There is also a garden area with a children's play area. I'm surprised this is in the Good Beer Guide. This was easily the best of 22 pubs I visited in Devon and Cornwall over the weekend. We missed it at first. The signs are currently hidden by scaffolding. But it is right in the centre of this quaint Dartmoor village. New owners have taken over the pub and seem to be making a real go of it.

The pub could certainly do with a small makeover. But I couldn't fault the ale and cider selection and the food was pretty decent too. It seemed to be enjoying a good local custom. But it was the cider selection that impressed me most. There were a number of boxes at the one end of the bar.

Although I think they were left over from a cider festival held the previous weekend of the August Bank Holiday. There is a small garden at the rear.

I wasn't convinced that this pub would be open during the late afternoon. It advertises as being closed. But we dropped by and found it open. There were only 2 other customers. The owners seemed friendly enough though. The pub has a bar area and a similar sized restaurant area.

The car park and trout farm are opposite. Take care if crossing the road, as cars come around the bend quite rapidly. But there was no real cider. Moved on from here to the Whitchurch Inn, which was on the opposite side of Tavistock and is not listed on here. This is a delightful small village with a castle, a church and a nearby gorge owned by the National Trust.

The Castle is owned by St Austell. It's a nice place with a decent size garden at the rear. I had the Trelawny, which was ok until a wasp decided to do a front crawl in it. Ironically the first 3 pubs we tried were all better.

This pub is a fairly cosy place for drinkers. But it feels a bit out on a limb and was very quiet on what should presumably be its busiest time of the week. I was the only person in the one bar. But there were a few more in a lounge. The solitary ale was Keltek Magik, which was quite a nice way to finish. The Fountain was open on my visit this weekend. It was a fair slog uphill from the Crown and was another bonus pub where I was hoping to find a few ciders.

Alas, the best I could manage was Rattler. It was quite busy with people watching golf. Not really worth the walk uphill from town. It's tucked away just off a main street on the corner of a square. It's only a small pub with a bar and an ever smaller side room. Customers were a strange mix. The pub had a bohemian type feel. But my Porter was only fairly average. I agree with the last reviewer.

Whilst there are generally better pubs than Wetherspoon's in most towns I visit, this was actually my favourite pub in Penzance. It's not much to look at from the outside and I'm never encouraged by the sight of bouncers. But this place was packed, with a usual mix of elderly drinkers, diners and younger people starting their night out. I'd also finally located ciders other than Old Rosie in Cornwall. It was 1 of only 12 pubs with anything other than the Herefordshire staple.

The Turk's Head was a bonus pub for me that I'd not planned on visiting. Just a few doors up from the more famous Admiral Benbow, the Turk's Head is actually older and a little less pretentious.

It was very busy on my Saturday evening visit, with all food tables occupied and people spilling outside. I managed to grab a stool at the bar. Cider was Old Rosie. Strange place that certainly wins the award for most quirky pub in Penzance.

It has many different seating areas and many many naval artefacts around the walls and ceilings. But the ale selection is disappointing. I went for the Treen's ale.

But the seating I selected was fairly uncomfortable and it was next to a group of rugby fans who'd clearly consumed a few too many. Worthy of a visit to admire the interior. But don't expect anything special ale-wise. Strange pub, just off the seafront in Penzance. I've never seen a crazy golf course in a pub garden before. But I've still got plenty to do! This wasn't a nice enough day to be outside anyway, with fog and drizzle.

The concept of spending a penny is still alive and kicking here. Ladies have to take a penny from the bar to spend one. Gents toilets are more accessible. But they weren't serving food. So we nipped round to the Thai restaurant a couple of doors up. This is a pub that seems to be stuck deep in the past.

It's located in the North West outskirts and is a reasonable choice. Having had high hopes of finding real cider in Cornwall, it was the first place I'd visited with any on. Never had an Old Rosie seemed more appealing. It was busy on our early Sunday evening visit with a mixture of drinkers and diners. I'd planned to eat here. The idea of tapas did appeal. But we soon found out that they only serve it until 5pm, unless like a couple of locals who walked in after us, you know the owners!

Still a nice pub though. Disappointing local pub not far from Penzance. It has a fairly basic interior. Locals were watching final football scores come through on the TV on our Saturday afternoon visit. A couple of younger ones were playing pool in one corner. The solitary ale was Cotleigh Seahawk. There is no longer any real cider.

I'd read that the licensing hours of this place are limited to But sadly they are even more limited than that now. A sign on the door declares that this is no longer a pub. So I guess the selection is much more limited, with a reduced footfall. But unfortunately we were unable to see, as the notice on the door made it quite clear that passing trade is not welcome. Second stop in St Just was the Star.

It's a two room village local with seemingly friendly locals and staff. It has a mobile phone policy. Rugby was being shown on the TVs. But they did have a guest, which was Bath Gem. Healey's Rattler was on for the wife.

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