I'm Late, I'm Late... Christian Marclay's The Clock at The White Cube

I'm actually never late, at least on purpose. Last night, after a party for Help the Heroes at the Cobden Club (lots of soldiers, and Princess Beatrice), we piled into a taxi and headed to the White Cube Gallery in Mason's Yard. It was all but empty: we got there at 3 am to watch The Clock, an installation by Christian Marclay which is a twenty four hour video. We sat on white sofas and watched the film unfold: it runs in real time, and is made up of excerpts from other films. The effect is hypnotic; even though the time is shown all the, er, time, one doesn't notice it passing because one is so thoroughly drawn into each narrative. And they only last three or four seconds. They flow and segue into each other, blending and fading and echoing each other: sometimes voices from one film will bleed into another scene. At 3am we saw nightmare, insomnia, sex, robbery, desperation, fear and even peace. It was incredibly beautiful and awesomely involving. I am going back, now. If you don't see me for a while, that's where I'll be.... I wonder if anyone has watched it all the way through? It only runs till Saturday, though, so hurry if you want to go...

It also made me think about The White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. 'I'm late, I'm late...' he cries... Late for what? Is he permanently catching up, or is he heading towards his death? Who knows. It reminds me rather of 'Werner Herzog reads Curious George.'

Pride and Punctuality

I wonder if anybody has ever attempted a study of lateness in literature? The business of catching means of transport is often (unsurprisingly) absent from the pages of fiction; however, it is very rare that two characters who arrange to meet don't meet. You never see a person in a novel sitting disconsolately at a table with half a pint in front of them, holding a phone in their left hand whilst attempting to do the Guardian Quick crossword with the other (and getting stuck on number four down). Lateness has always fascinated me: I can never work out how, or why, somebody can miss an appointment, even allowing for traffic, tantrums, and random acts of God. Imagine if you were late for a duel - your entire honour would be besmirched, and you'd be cast out of society. Or if, instead of going to Gatsby's party, you decided you had to clean the bathroom, and when you arrived there was nobody left. The only instance of lateness in literature I can think of causes violent death - if Romeo and Juliet had arranged their diaries a little better they might have lived to hear the patter of tiny Montagues. Of course there's always the White Rabbit - but he's in a state of constant tardiness, so you could argue that actually he's always on time.

The one thing that rises, phoenix-like, from the ashes of lateness, is that if somebody is late for meeting you, you can wait. And oh what pleasures can be gained from waiting. The art of waiting deserves a treatise in itself. It's practically the only time in a city like London where you can achieve a certain sort of stillness and watch everybody else being late for their appointments.

This week has been mostly characterised by caffeine, the abiding spirit of punctuality. I've been immersed in Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth, in which nobody is late, and I've started de Balzac's Black Sheep. If enough people are late I might be able to finish it by next week.