“Can’t make the woman out at all, myself. Know what she said to me this morning? Asked me if I’d slept well, and when I told here that it beat me how anyone could sleep at all, with a dashed lot of cockerels crowing their heads off, she said that rural sounds exhilarate the spirit, and do something or other to languid nature!”
“Cowper,” said Kitty, in a depressed tone. “‘Restore the tone of languid nature.'”
“Well, it’s a bag of moonshine!” said Freddy. “What’s more, I always thought so! … It’s my belief, Kit, the woman’s touched in her upper works.”
“No, she is merely addicted to poetry,” explained Kitty.
“Well, that just shows you!” said Mr Standen, reasonably.
Oh Freddy! For you I’d give up my favourite most comfortable pair of pyjamas with the holes in and wear nothing but the most uncomfortably and beautifully tailored clothes forever. Continue reading
Oh sorrow! Oh woe!! T’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see!
Talk what you please of future spring
And sun-warm’d sweet to-morrow:–
Stripp’d bare of hope and everything,
No more to laugh, no more to sing,
I sit alone with sorrow.
I like to imagine dogs howling mournfully at this point, and big black thunderclouds with lashings of rain.
I saw the original of this once in London at a Millais exhibition, it absolutely took my breath away. It’s one of the most beautiful and detailed things I’ve ever seen, it glows so much it feels realler than real, if you know what I mean. I occasionally think about it and always thought it was the Lady of Shalott, even though she was looking out the window. I just looked it up and it’s actually supposed to be Mariana, from Tennyson’s poem. Which actually, I love, so that’s quite a revelation. It’s so cool how you can look at a painting like this, or read a poem, and … and… It’s like the most amazing music sweeping you up and carrying you away in its strong manly muscly sexy arms, it’s like:
Sweet sounds, oh, beautiful music, do not cease!
Reject me not into the world again.
With you alone is excellence and peace,
Mankind made plausible, his purpose plain.
Enchanted in your air benign and shrewd,
With limbs a-sprawl and empty faces pale,
The spiteful and the stingy and the rude
Sleep like the scullions in the fairy-tale.
This moment is the best the world can give:
The tranquil blossom on the tortured stem.
Reject me not, sweet sounds; oh, let me live,
Till Doom espy my towers and scatter them,
A city spell-bound under the aging sun.
Music my rampart, and my only one.
A soft, whispering or rustling sound; a murmur. How wonderful is this word?
Another one of the authors I grew up on has passed away. http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/23/anne-mccaffrey-pern-dies-85
One of my most favourite writers ever passed away over the weekend. I grew up reading her books and there’s never been a point in my life when I’ve not enjoyed them. I don’t feel up to saying anything more other than she was fantastic, and she will be missed, I feel very saddened by the news.
Reading anything by Penelope Lively is like meditating. If you’re feeling anxious or worried about living or dying, or time and how it passes, she somehow manages to leave you serene and peaceful. I can understand why people might not like her books; her main characters usually have a degree of thoughtfulness which makes them seem almost like they are a vacuum sucking up their surroundings and reflecting them and (with their introspection) amplifying them back. It would not suit the more pragmatic and practically minded individual. If you read the books and try and cling to feeling down to earth it’s just not going to work. You have to give yourself up to it, like floating with a current and being swept away.
I also like the way not that much happens in her books. There is no epic story behind it. The supernatural element present in the House at Norham Gardens may be real or may be imagined. There’s a new tenant coming to live with the heroine, there’s a small accident, and that’s it. Yet somehow I was completely caught up and couldn’t stop reading.
Sometimes, after years of living in a big city, I feel a little alarmed to look out of my window and see the horizon with nothing blocking it. No houses, no hills, just the sea stretching out and out. It’s a jarring sort of emptiness and in my head I sometimes fill it with large buildings which clash and jangle to fill it up. And anyway, this is a bit of a strange way of describing it, but Penelope’s books make me happy that it’s just the ocean there, if you see what I mean.
You guys! I have a new author I can add to my list of ‘Authors I really like’! I read the Europeans by Henry James over the weekend and I really loved the multi-layered character sketches he gave for his heroine and hero, the brother and sister.
So, if an Englishman said to an American “We have regular trains here”, would the American think they meant they were standard/average trains? Let’s ignore context giving him cues and prompts as to the real meaning as well.