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27 of 28 people found the following review helpful
on 4 July 2008
Terrific insight into the meaning of life on a single south London street.

Three main points emerge.

First, there is no such thing as "society" - it is too abstract an idea for most people. But that does not mean people are rampant individualists. People who are solitary individuals are seen as failures.

Second, what really animates people's lives is their relationships, which are embedded in, secured by, the things in their lives - their houses and objects they collect and treasure. The most caring character in the book cares for things - stamps and old cars and for people in equal measure.

Third, the things and the relationships in people's lives need a sense of order - Miller calls it an aesthetic - a sense of balance to sustain people. What most people are trying to achieve is this sense of keeping their relationships in balance, order. They are not rampant consumer individualists and nor are they very interested in the ideals of citizenship. They see themselves as part of tribes.

The lesson for politicians and policy makers is very simple: don't bang on about the dichotomy between - the individual and society - but instead focus on helping people to create and sustain the relationships that count in their lives. Rebuild the state around relationships; reshape the market to sustain relationships. People are not up for collectivism; but nor do they want to lose themselves in fragmented individualism. They want to be sustained by relationships.
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41 of 44 people found the following review helpful
on 23 March 2010
This book is an interesting one almost throughout, Miller's questions and conclusions are pertinent ones, and I've little doubt that his study was conducted with the rigour and discipline that are not always displayed in his presentation of it.

One of the editorial reviews refers to 'beautiful' writing. My eye beholds otherwise. Clauses that don't refer, when read, aren't so comely as that. Sentences that aren't quite. Dickinsonian use of--dashes. These weird constructions and punctuations are only occasional but they do force one to stop and re-read a phrase or sentence to get the meaning. It struck me that Miller must have dictated the book--in speech the problems mightn't have been problems--and the tapes transcribed by someone not up to the job. When I read that 'wicker' was a version of witchcraft, I was certain I'd hit upon it. In the epilogue, Miller speaks of writing up his interviews, though, so perhaps the blame lies with him. There are a couple of other wonderful howlers: that famous Irish patriot Michael Douglas is mentioned, and we're told that the Rosebud of Citizen Kane was a snow-board.)

There is also far too much Daniel Miller in the book. Miller is ostensibly observer not subject, and so why must he inform us that he's a bit of a romantic? I don't care what football team he supports, I really don't care what he thinks of Mark Rothko, and I really and truly don't care about his love of John Peel. Less obviously but even less forgivably he seems to want to force his own reactions to certain subjects upon the reader. He's all but fawning when discussing one family, and tells us of crying after interviewing a lonely man. I don't see that any of these things has a place in a quasi-academic book.

The last reservation I have about the book is that in the descriptions of the subjects and their belongings there's no clue as to the source of Miller's remarks. There's little direct quotation and no internal evidence as to whether a statement like 'the pet iguana's grin was a form of welcome' is an indirect quotation or paraphrase of the iguana's owner, an impression or speculation of Miller's, or a conclusion Miller drew from what he learned during the visit. This to me is the biggest problem with Miller's writing. There's a big difference between deciding to keep the writing casual and witholding necessary information from the reader.

I don't mean to suggest this is a bad book; it isn't. I've gone on at such length to let readers know what to expect; some of them might be hoping, as I was, for writing more scholarly than this. Perhaps this should have been published as two books: one outlining the study, reporting the possessions and interviews, and detailing conclusions in a much longer afterword; the other with a title something like Life is a Funny Old Thing: Musings from an Anthropologist, to be marketed to a different set of readers.
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32 of 35 people found the following review helpful
on 27 June 2008
In common, I suspect, with others whose house is now less a home than an ill-equipped office, I have developed a range of domestic distractions to fend off the demands of work. My current favourites include re-cleaning the bathroom mirror, watering the already well-irrigated plants, and checking that my CDs are still in strict alphabetical order. I'm also capable of more elaborate self-deceptions. Only a few weeks ago, when faced by a particularly dense PhD, I found I'd wandered without any trace of volition into the bedroom where I successfully occupied myself for the best part of an hour with colour-coding my ties.

Now I am able to blame Daniel Miller for an even more enticing distraction. Instead of merely attending to the needs of brute things, I have an anthropological licence to consider what such objects might say about myself. This is much more than a trivial suggestion that my possessions are an adjunct to my identity, elements that accord with my lifestyle. Things, according to Miller, are constitutive of identity. "Material culture matters," he insists, "because objects create subjects more than the other way round". Even more strongly: "the closer our relationships with objects, the closer our relationships with people".

With this hypothesis in hand, Miller and his co-researcher Fiona Parrott set off on a 17-month investigation into the lives and loves and domestic interiors of 30 households in a randomly chosen London street. That word "household" is important. For although Miller's research has all the trappings of an ethnographic community study, he is quick to emphasise that there is no community to be found in the street he studied. Only 23 per cent of the people who answered the door to him were born in London. "People came from everywhere and anywhere, and they were old, young, very gendered and sort of gendered, well off, badly off, and mainly sort of OK off". Neither did they have much to do with each other. "This was not a culture, a neighbourhood or a community".

Rather than this recognition leading Miller into a predictable jeremiad about the fragmentation, alienation and anomie of contemporary urban society, it nicely reinforces his contention that if we wish to look for modern relationships, then we need to look within the confines of single homes, and treat each household "as a tribe". When we do that we find not only that there is a great deal of "connectivity"; we also discover how material things function as a vehicle for all kinds of social interaction.

Consider the Clarke household. "In the bay window is the most perfect Christmas tree, topped by a fairy whose clear features and hand-made white net costume provides the apex to the array of silver and gold baubles and delicately crafted ornaments that adorn every branch and indent the tree offers for decoration". From each ceiling "hangs an elaborate contrivance of circles and spokes from which are suspended a hundred tiny little parcels, wrapped up in green and red crepe". As Miller soon realised, this scene was "the product of a century of devotion to the cultivation of Christmas itself". It is a piece of material culture which is not merely a labour of love but love itself.

When successive generations of children collect their hanging presents and take their place around the tree, they lay at its foot their own experiences and achievements of the year in the form of conversation, listening and appreciation. The Clarkes are as meticulous and devoted to people as to things. And the connection between the two is "nothing obvious or intrusive; rather it flows so naturally that it may take a certain academic, critical distance just to come to an awareness of it being there".

In case this looks too easy a way to make the connection between relationships and things, Miller neatly juxtaposes the Clarke household with George's flat. This was disorienting not because of anything in it, "but precisely because it contained nothing at all, beyond the most basic carpet and furniture". George was not, however, a self-conscious minimalist but someone whose entire life had been characterised by powerlessness, by dependence upon authority, teachers, employers and the state. He had never felt able to take responsibility for anything, let alone the decoration of his own home. "The flat was empty, completely empty, because its occupant had no independent capacity to place something decorative or ornamental within it".

Miller adds that he often encountered horror and tragedy in the interior of people's lives during his time on the street, but "it was particularly after meeting George that we found ourselves in tears outside his flat". Unlike other residents of the street, he could not even find relief from his sadness in the comfort of things.

There are several lorry-loads of other comforting things behind the doors in Miller's London street: collections of plastic ducks and McDonald's Happy Meal toys, mementoes of Franz Ferdinand, bottles of whisky from the Queen's Jubilee, religious images, photographs of reality TV babes, and miniature bottles of foreign liquors. In every case, Miller endeavours to show the parts these material objects play in constituting and organising his subjects' lives.

Not all the connections work. There are times when one almost wishes that Miller would stick with his insightful analysis of the character before him and not keep turning way so assiduously to check what's hanging on their wall. But this is still an outstanding piece of work: a fine example of modern anthropological fieldwork, a powerful corrective to the banal notion that materialism is synonymous with excessive individualism and, perhaps above all, an informed, sensitive, and wholly sympathetic guide to the human diversity to be found through the keyholes of our capital city.

Laurie Taylor presents 'Thinking Allowed' on Radio 4
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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful
on 19 February 2010
Full of empathy, compassion and insight. I don't think I've ever wanted so much to meet the writer behind the book. Whomever is capable of seeing such beauty in everyday objects and human life is worthy of a much better review than I can write.
I strongly recommend this to people interested in anthropology and in design, to anyone who ever wondered about their neighbours and most importantly this book is a valuable lesson about not judging people by their belongings.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
on 17 March 2014
This is a most fascinating book exploring the relationship between human beings and their material possessions. It is a subtle and sensitive analysis of thirty people living in a London street. It has a novelistic feel, despite its genre, giving us the sense of being privileged to peep into others' live in a way that is very revealing of their relationship with such disparate things as tattoos and furniture and even a dog.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
on 3 April 2014
Captivating insight in to other people's life. Accessible to the non academic. Thought provoking but enjoyable. Loved the descriptions of the people, sympathetic but not judgemental.
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3 of 4 people found the following review helpful
on 12 June 2011
There can be no doubting the fascination of this book, regardless of one's position regarding the author's views on social science and society. A book, whether fictional or non-fictional, finds its value in its ability to be thought-provoking. This book, though, in the original English edition, suffers disastrously from the author's apparent incompetence with what one assumes to be his first language. The syntax is generally of a miserable standard, tenses are muddled, singulars and plurals are confused and the spelling would cause a secondary school teacher to despair. Let three examples of the latter serve as illustration: "its" and "it's" are confused, "base" appears instead of "bass" when referring to a musical instrument and a "utility meter" in a household becomes a "utility metre"! Bearing in mind that the author is a university academic, this nonsense is profoundly depressing - or should the responsibility lie with the neglectful publishers? Either way, these deficiencies really spoil and disturb the reading of this work......
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
on 1 February 2013
Absolutely fascinating read about the people of a single street in London, what they have in their houses, their hopes and their fears. Brilliant!
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on 23 July 2014
great book
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