Barker and Smart

After all my recent whining and whinging about the review pages holding little attraction these days something suddenly caught my eye in The Times review supplement last Saturday.
I read these at random depending on supply, which is erratic and based on how soon after dawn the bookhound gets to the village shop, and whether it is in advance of the porter from our divine but newspaper-guzzling neighbours at that lovely hotel I took you to yesterday.
I have long been intrigued by the life of Elizabeth Smart and her infatuation with the poet George Barker, so the news that their son Christopher Barker has just written a memoir of their love and life, The Arms of the Infinite had my full attention.
I bought a volume of Elizabeth Smart's Journals Necessary Secrets at a Book Fair a couple of years ago and on the way home determined to read, and more importantly finish, By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept.
Coincidentally, as is often the way, I had just read a piece on it by Toby Litt in which he "examines the emotionally pompous, yet entirely endearing poetic peachiness" of this book with the helpful suggestion that one way to ensure success is just to sit down and read it in one go.Don't stop, slog on and in Litt's words "let your soul hold its breath from first page to last".
I'll admit to the occasional gasp for air as I valiantly struggled on with a book that still leaves me bemused and in that familiar state of negative capability that is my poetic and Keatsian excuse for anything I don't quite "get".
I suppose you have to accept that some books just leave you with a mood or a feeling rather than any depth of understanding or a shift in outlook.That's fine and different and for me this was one of those.
In contrast the extract from Christopher Barker's book was perfectly clear and lucid, readable and intelligible and enough to make me want to read much more.
"George's temper flashed often, fuelled by attempts to extract Benzedrine deposits from his lighter-fluid residue, and wreaked havoc in the huddled household. His mood only improved when he was at last, surprisingly, able to source a supply of Methedrine from the local doctor that his trip to London had failed to secure...mum even had to chop up furniture to have a fire in the open grate"