Adieu, adieu, I'm leaving you,
It's sad to say goodbye.
I'll still be stuck in books (of course)
I'm off to Hay-on-Wye!
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It's sad to say goodbye.
I'll still be stuck in books (of course)
I'm off to Hay-on-Wye!
The Ross Perot Guide to Answering Embarrassing Questions
When something in my history is found
Which contradicts the views that I propound,
Or shows that I am surely hardly who
I claim to be, here's what I usually do:
I lie
I simply, baldly falsify.
I look the fellow in the eye,
And cross my heart and hope to die -
And lie.
I don t apologize. Not me. Instead,
I say I never said the things I said
Nor did the things that people saw me do.
Confronted with some things they know are true,
I lie.
I offer them no alibi,
Nor say, "You oversimplify."
I just deny, deny, deny.
I lie.
I hate the weasel words some slickies use
To blur their pasts or muddy up their views.
Not me. I'm blunt. One thing that makes me great
Is that I'll never dodge nor obfuscate.
I'll lie.
Bell's, across the way, have bought as many as seven hunting-horns. Each possessor blows it unceasingly, just when one wants to read. They don't do it all together, but take it in turns to keep up one forced note. Really, it might be Eton. They can only produce the one note during the whole day.Contrast that which the first paragraph of the second section. In between there is a brief letter, from B.G. to Seymour, which tells the reader what they have suspected from the title onwards: John has been blinded. I shan't tell you how (it's good to have some specifics left for the reading experience) but immediately we drop out of the self-conscious intimacy of John's diary, and into this paragraph:
In addition to this trifling detail, it is "the thing to do" now to throw stones at me as I sit at my window. However, I have just called E.N. a "milch cow," and shall on the first opportunity call D.J.B. a "bovine goat," which generally relieves matter. These epithets have the real authentic Noat Art Society touch, haven't they?
Outside it was raining, and through the leaded window panes a grey light came and was lost in the room. The afternoon was passing wearily, and the soft sound of the rain, never faster, never slower, tired. A big bed in one corner of the room, opposite a chest of drawers, and on it a few books and a pot of false flowers. In the grate a weary fire, hissing spitefully when a drop of rain found its way down the chimney. Below the bed a yellow wardrobe over which large grain marks circled aimlessly, on which there was a full-length glass. Beyond, the door, green, as were the think embrasures of the two windows green, and the carpet, and the curtains.The buoyancy has gone; the repeated word 'weary', and 'tired', drag the writing down with heaviness which doesn't need to be overstated. Green is excellent at conveying emotion through simple thoughts, allowing the reader to interpret the characters and their states of mind without giving too much overt direction.
Voices as become his great interest, voices that surrounded him, that came and went, that slipped from tone to tone, that hid to give away in hiding. There had been wonder in hers when he had groped into the room upon them both; she had said, "Look." But before she had opened her mouth he had known that there was someone new in the room.It is an interesting coincidence that I am reading this so soon after reading Helen Keller's The World I Live In. Of course there are differences (not least fact and fiction) but, although I can't really know, I think Green writes a plausible narrative of dealing with sudden blindness. And it certainly gives Green restrictions which he approaches impressively: to use, from John's perspective, no visual descriptions. I jotted down a line which I thought summed up much of the novel, and later (because I always read introductions at the end) discovered that Jeremy Treblown had begun his with the same quotation:
Voices had been thickly round him for the past month, all kinds of them. Mamma extracted them from the neighbourhood, and all had sent out the first note of horror, and some had continued horrified and frightened, while others had grown sympathetic, and these were for the most part the fat voices of mothers, and some had been disgusted. She had been the first to be almost immediately at her ease, when she spoke it was with an eager note, and there were so few eager people.
It was so easy to see and so hard to feel what was going on, but it was the feeling that mattered.That's a pretty good summary of any author's task. It's essentially 'show: don't tell', isn't it?
"Yes, an' there's the chicks that get lost in the grass, I love them, an' there's a starling that nests every year in the chimney, and my own mouse which plays about in my room at night, an'..."With my apparent knack for pre-empting Jeremy Treglown's introduction, he also quotes this section - although unambiguously attributing the mental interjection to John. That's certainly the most likely reading, but I like the ambiguity that Green does incorporate. It could easily be Joan's thought (it would certainly match the other thoughts we've heard from her in this scene) or even a shared moment of bored despair - connecting mentally where they do not connect verbally.
G-d, the boredom of this.
"... but sometimes I hate it all."
I, too, can work, and because I love to labour with my head and my hands, I am an optimist in spite of all. I used to think I should be thwarted in my desire to do something useful. But I have found out that though the ways in which I can make myself useful are few, yet the work open to me is endless. The gladdest labourer in the vineyard may be a cripple. Even should the others outstrip him, yet the vineyard ripens in the sun each year, and the full clusters weigh into his hand. Darwin could work only half an hour at a time; yet in many diligent half-hours he laid anew the foundations of philosophy. I long to accomplish a great and noble task; but it is my chief duty and joy to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble. It is my service to think how I can best fulfil the demands that each day makes upon me, and to rejoice that others can do what I cannot.When I say that Keller's worth as an author is not merely as a novelty, I mean that she should not be patronised, nor her writing viewed as some sort of scientific experiment. She is too good and perceptive a writer for that. But, of course, Keller offers a different understanding and interaction with the world than most writers would. The sections I found most fascinating were towards the beginning, where Keller writes about hands. She divides this into three sections: 'The Seeing Hand' (how she uses touch as her primary sense); 'The Hands of Others' (how hands reveal character), and 'The Hands of the Race' (where the explores hands in history and culture.) Her perspective is not entirely unique, I daresay, but I certainly haven't encountered documented elsewhere, nor can I imagine it done more sensitively, or with such a good-humoured demeanour:
As I say, it is these early sections which I found most captivating; similarly, the essay on smell gave a wonderful insight. I hope it is obvious that I intend no offence when I say it reminded me of Flush by Virginia Woolf, where the dog's primary sense is smell, and the world is focalised through this perspective. Keller does not feel that her experience of life is any less full than anybody else's - the senses of touch, smell, and taste give her a vivid comprehension of the world and, what is more, a deep appreciation of it:It is interesting to observe the differences in the hands of people. They show all kinds of vitality, energy, stillness, and cordiality. I never realised how living the hand is until I saw those chill plaster images in Mr. Hutton's collection of casts. The hand I know in life has the fullness of blood in its veins, and is elastic with spirit.[...]I read that a face is strong, gentle; that it is full of patience, of intellect; that it is fine, sweet, noble, beautiful. Have I not the same right to use these words in describing what I feel as you have in describing what you see? They express truly what I feel in the hand. I am seldom conscious of physical qualities, and I do not remember whether the fingers of a hand are short or long, or the skin is moist or dry. [...] Any description I might give would fail to make you acquainted with a friendly hand which my fingers have often folded about, and which my affection translates to my memory.
Between my experiences and the experiences of others there is no gulf of mute space which I may not bridge. For I have endlessly varied, instructive contacts with all the world, with life, with the atmosphere whose radiant activity enfolds us all. The thrilling energy of the all-encasing air is warm and rapturous. Heat-waves and sound-waves play upon my face in infinite variety and combination, until I am able to surmise what must be the myriad sounds that my senseless ears have not heard.
It is more difficult to teach ignorance to think than to teach an intelligent blind man to see the grandeur of Niagara. I have walked with people whose eyes are full of light, but who see nothing in wood, sea, or sky, nothing in city streets, nothing in books. What a witless masquerade is this seeing! It were better far to sail forever in the night of blindness, with sense and feeling and mind, than to be thus content with the mere act of seeing. They have the sunset, the morning skies, the purple of distant hills, yet their souls voyage through this enchanted world with a barren state.
"All snatches of overheard conversation have something of interest in them. I once listened to an elderly lady who travelled with me in the same carriage from Bath to Cornford, telling her neighbour about a creature called 'Agatha.' But who, or what, was Agatha? I never discovered; I never wanted to discover."Does that mean anything to you?
Keller waggled a forefinger in front of my nose. It was our second lesson? Our third?I have an ambivalent relationship with novels about music. I enjoyed The Well-Tempered Clavier by William Coles (although I was glad that Maestro didn't follow it down the Notes on a Scandal-esque path, not least because of the sixty year gap between Keller and Paul, but also because it's not a very original course to take.) I loved The Piano Shop on the Left Bank by Thad Carhart, which is non-fiction. But novels leave me cold when they rely upon the ethos that music is the highest of all forms. I played the piano from the age of seven onwards, and although I later became friends with my piano teacher (the lady who first told me of Miss Hargreaves) and eventually grew to like playing the piano, for many years I passionately hated it. The best feeling in the world (and my brother agrees with me) was when you rang the doorbell for a piano lesson... and the teacher didn't answer! The worst feeling was when you thought the piano teacher wasn't going to answer, and then, after a long gap... she did. So, anyway, this has given me an odd relationship with stories about learning instruments, and my dislike of elitism comes into play with musical maestros.
"This finger is selfish. Greedy. A... a delinquent. He will steal from his four friends, cheat, lie."
He sheathed the forefinger in his closed fist as if it were the fleshy blade of a Swiss army knife and released the middle finger.
"Mr. goody-goody," he said, banging the finger down on middle C repeatedly. "Teacher's pet. Does what he is told. Our best student."
Last came the ring finger.
"Likes to follow his best friend," he told me. "Likes to... lean on him sometimes."
He lifted his elbows upwards and outwards.
"Those are the pupils. This is the teacher. The elbow..."
"Perhaps you could play one of the exam pieces, Paul," my father suggested. "A private concert for the three of us."
"The Brahms?"
"The Beethoven," Keller injected, "might be preferable."
I played Beethoven that night as well as I had ever played, and turned afterwards, smiling, ready for praise.
"Beautiful," my mother breathed. "Don't you agree, Herr Keller?"
"An excellent forgery," he said.
"I'm sorry?"
"Technically perfect," he said.
He drained his wineglass before continuing. It was to be his longest monologue of the evening:
"At such moments I always remember a forged painting I once saw. Each violent brushstroke was reproduced was painstaking, non-violent care. The forgery must have taken many many times longer than the original to complete. It was technically better than the original."
He rose from his chair and walked a little unsteadily towards the door: "And yet something was missing. Not much - but something."
At the door he paused, and turned: "And that small something may as well have been everything."
"Reverend and Mrs. Price and your children!" cried the younger man in the yellow shirt. "You are welcome to our feast. Today we have killed a goat to celebrate your coming. Soon your bellies will be full with our fufu pili-pili."
At that, why, the half-naked women behind him just burst out clapping and cheering, as if they could no longer confine their enthusiasm for a dead goat.[...]"Nakedness," Father repeated, "and darkness of the soul! For we shall destroy this place where the loud clamour of the sinners is waxen great before the face of the Lord!"
No one sang or cheered anymore. Whether or not they understood the meaning of 'loud clamour,' they didn't dare be making one now. They did not even breathe, or so it seemed. Father can get a good deal across with just his tone of voice, believe you me.
In my early twenties I read a book that referred to a family as "The Gannets" because this family loved to eat, go on picnics with copious ampunts of elaborately prepared food and enjoyed every moment, including the last lick of their fingertips. The family were all rotund. I think the book was written by a British writer and I read the book in 1980ish. It would be super fun to reconnect with it. I recently travelled to New Zealand and watched the gannets as they enthusiastically torpedoed into the water to catch their dinner - this reminded me of the book and I laughed all over again thinking of that family.So... can you help?