dovegreyreader scribbles

The Abbess of Crewe ~ Muriel Spark (redux)

First published here in 2010

For The Abbess of Crewe, published in 1974, think Wimplegate, because this was the era of Nixon and Watergate and I might have lived through it but for reasons various my memories are hazy.

1973/74 would have seen me in my second and third years as a student nurse, enjoying a new life in London, being a bridesmaid at my brother's lovely, funny, happy wedding and then three weeks later having to come to terms with his diagnosis of Acute Leukaemia. Life truly would never be the same again and looking back on that phase of my life really no amount of scandalous news was going to penetrate that sadness with any permanence.

However, intrigue is afoot at the supposedly traditional Benedictine Abbey of Crewe where prayers are said around the clock including Lauds at 3am, and where the senior nun stands at the refectory lectern reading the from the great and ancient Rule of Benedict.

'To fear the day of judgement.
To be in dread of hell...
In every place to know for certain the God is looking at us...
To keep our mouth from low and bad talk...'

And so it goes on to the percussion of forks clinking on plates and on this occasion fish pie on the menu, but the unsuspecting nuns are frequently served something 'unnamed on toast' which might be either a cat-food by the name of Mew or some rather tasty dog food.
As one reading stops the nun calmly closes the book and begins another...

'A frequency is the number of times a periodic phenomenon repeats itself in unit time.
For electromagnetic waves the frequency is expressed in cycles per second or, for higher frequencies, in kilocycles per second...'


It is clear, if the bugging of the trees in the first chapter hadn't already alerted me to the fact, that the Abbey of Crewe is up to its bell tower in corruption as Sister Alexandra vies with the rather emotional Sister Felicity for the election to the post of Abbess. Sister Alexandra certainly stoops to conquer, employing the lowest of methods and all in the name of God to achieve election, and I roared.

The inner sanctum contains a bank of electronic equipment monitoring every word spoken in the Abbey, though they have stopped short of bugging the Confessional, and even I, with the scant facts of Watergate to hand, spotted the significance of the characters and much that happens which mirrors the original political scandal. 

Be assured you'll find the peripatetic Henry Kissinger in a wimple.

It's pure Sparkian humour, deliciously funny as she casts her ascerbic eye over religious and political hypocrisy and delivers her verdict.

So I wasn't as up on Watergate as I should have been and it has been Martin Stannard and his biography to the rescue, filling in the gaps and offering much more detail about how Muriel's imagination, fired up by political scandal translated it into her convent setting and 'high theological comedy'. Martin Stannard (who I also thank immeasurably for his book, it will be a golden read ) quotes Frank Kermode and so will I because, as you'd expect it throws even more light on the novel,

'If you impose [the novel] on Watergate you get not a simple transparency but a distortion: and it is in the distortion that the real interest of the book resides.'

In retrospect I can see that distortion clearly but I'm not going to elaborate because if you decide to read the book you will want to find it for yourselves. In amongst the humour, as is always the case it seems with Muriel Spark, there is a huge amount to ponder.

An interesting anecdote from Martin Stannard, Muriel Spark was at the height of her writing career and in the midst of a lucrative three book contract when the rather slender Abbess of Crewe was submitted. There was a sharp intake of breath and undisguised alarm at the publishers; thin pickings for the money on the table and actually had the Nixon debacle passed?

'the former President was now a broken man, confined to a wheelchair'

as Martin Stannard suggests, was this really the best moment to market a political satire?

Muriel Spark exempted The Abbess of Crewe from the contract, negotiating a separate deal for it and the book received excellent reviews on both sides of the pond. 

Reading thirty-five years on there is much that translates into 21st century life too. The thought had occurred to me as I read and I was about to seize on it as original and my own and present it for your delectation, except I've had to concede that David Lodge also read The Abbess of Crewe and thought of it first back in 1974,

'a parable on the familiar theme that absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

 

The Ballad of Peckham Rye ~ Muriel Spark (redux)

First published here in 2010.

'A bewitching storyteller and, however unreflectingly, the first tribute readers pay to her art is surrender to the engrossing tales she tells. Storytellers are in slight evidence as our century lengthens,and the novelist who aims to entertain, nearly extinct.'

According to William McBrien, one time editor of the scholarly journal Twentieth Century Literature, that's how good Muriel Spark was, and how seemingly dire things were considered to be in the early 1980s. This according to his essay Muriel Spark, the novelist as dandy which I came across whilst reading  Twentieth Century Women Novelists edited by Thomas Staley.

Nothing I've read by Muriel has disappointed me in the slightest, but I think reading a Muriel Spark novel is a bit of an act of faith for me because I can't pretend complete understanding or total comfort as I turn the pages, I just have to dive in from the high board and forget any elegant and well-practised piked triple twist somersault entries with a stack of Sparkian expertise to assist, this feels like a clumsy, feet first plunge and one that  relies heavily on Muriel's all-seeing authorial eye to get me to the end with a modicum of enlightenment. 

Bless her, Muriel always comes good 


I find it helps to keep Muriel Spark's own words in mind,

'Fiction to me is a kind of parable, you have got to make up your mind it's not true. Some kind of truth emerges from it, but it's not fact.'



So to The Ballad of Peckham Rye published in 1960, 

The inimitable Stevie 'waving not drowning ' Smith (and why haven't I read more of her?) reviewing The Ballad of Peckham Rye in the Observer in 1960 suggested 

'Muriel Spark has a real genius for being gruesome and hilarious in practical circumstances, gay in city graveyards, gothic in factories.'

and that is exactly what you get in this little 143 page novel and then to discover that Muriel herself had decided

'I wanted to give my mind a holiday and write something light and lyrical - as near a poem as a novel could get, and in as few words as possible.'

and I'm inclined to think hallelujah for you Muriel.

The eccentric and enigmatic Dougal Douglas, the hump-backed, lop-shouldered young man who has two lumps on his head which he explains are the remains of a set of surgically removed horns, arrives in the south London suburb of Peckham Rye in the 1950s. Apparently famed for being the site of Boadicea's suicide, it's not long before this normally staid working-class community is thinking about following her example as young Dougal proceeds to create turmoil, because as well as ghosting the biography of a retired actress, he's also conducting research into the factory working environment and meeting some wonderful Sparkian characters along the way. 

Muriel Spark does real, normal, ordinary people so well...

'Here they were, kneeling at the altar. The vicar was reading from the prayer book...
    The Vicar said to Humphrey, 'Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?'
  'No,' Humphrey said, ' to be quite frank I won't.'
   He got to his feet and walked straight up the aisle...got to the door and into his Fiat, and drove off by himself to Folkestone. It was there they had planned to spend their honeymoon.'

So I had a smile on my face by page eight and I don't think it left me through to the end. 

In amongst it all there is of course the inevitable moment of Sparkian comic- tragedy and that horror when I was caught with the smile on my face as someone was being murdered, and all I could think was 'Muriel, how could you do that to me.'

It's almost impossible for me to explain or define with any clarity, in fact I don't feel like I'm saying much in depth about the book at all, but on entering Muriel Spark's world I happily leave disbelief and sensibilities at the door, throw myself into the spirit of the game and I know I love going there.
William Boyd in his excellent introduction to my new Penguin edition suggests that Muriel Spark...


'hovers over her fictional world like a Dickens or a Trollope,happily telling us first what this character is thinking and then that one.'

and perhaps this is how Muriel gets me so successfully to the other end of the book in one piece, but could anything be truer than this assertion...

'It is worth remembering that life actually inclines to be this weird and this confusing - and that human beings are, on the whole, extremely odd....the Sparkian world in full-throated and exuberant splendour.''

A Far Cry From Kensington ~ Muriel Spark (redux)

This post first published on dovegreyreader scribbles in 2009.

I wonder if anyone else had the chance introduction to the writing of Muriel Spark that I did?

I would have been about fourteen, maybe fifteen and dare I say fed up with a school library that was full of tatty and ancient over-borrowed books. Should anything new arrive, often a gift from a school leaver, I'd borrow it whatever it was, just for the chance to have and to hold a brand new book.
Shallow I know, though I do still have that 'thing' about new books, but occasionally it paid dividends though I must have wondered quite what as I lugged home a hardback copy of the Complete Short Stories of Muriel Spark on the 408 bus from Cheam to Wallington and then walked it home. 
One story from that volume has stuck in my mind ever thereafter, The Black Madonna and I then devoured the rest of the book.
 
I suspect my reading of Muriel Spark, for whatever reason then went the way of all things and I have read her sporadically ever since. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, The Girls of Slender Means but I don't think I have ever read A Far Cry From Kensington until now.

Off the shelf another book, Muriel Spark by Peter Kemp, this one a library reject last borrowed just the once from Cleveland County Libraries and to be returned on 7 Jan 1977, and bought by me years ago for £2.50 should the day ever dawn when I took a shine to Muriel again. 

The fact that this was published in 1974 and A Far Cry From Kensington in 1988 confirms what I already knew but hadn't quite appreciated; the depth and longevity of Muriel Sparks' literary career and perhaps how much catching up I have to do. By 1974 Muriel Spark had already written enough to merit a critical appraisal of her work and the introduction, though doubtless dated, does offer some wonderful anecdotes and insights into her life and writing.

'Fiction to me is a kind of parable. You have got to make up your mind it's not true. Some kind of truth emerges from it, but it's not fact...if fiction is not stranger than truth, it ought to be'

Novelists emerge as professional liars, the art they engage in that of deception and Muriel Sparks' own books declared in her own words to be 'a pack of lies'. I think Fay Weldon said as much of her own writing in her dovegreyreader asks...replies. 

Peter Kemp then goes on to elaborate that, in reading the work of Muriel Spark,

'To approach them looking for naturalism, then -- fidelity to the usual, steady reflection of all the probabilities --
is to invite disappointment.'

It was Peter Kemp's suggestion that Muriel Spark's books usually focus on a semi-closed society, a self-contained community, that helped to shape my thinking about A Far Cry From Kensington.

This is 1954 and the world seen through the eyes of young, war widow Mrs Hawkins is the world of publishing and the life in her 'rooming house' populated by a disparate range of highly amusing characters. Mrs Hawkins self-consciously well-proportioned, which, as Ali Smith points out in her introduction to this new Virago edition,

'...literally larger than life. large enough in a post-war time of rationing and utilitarian discomfort to suggest a comforting abundance to everyone who simply looks at her.'

Blessed not plagued by insomnia, an older Mrs Hawkins reflects back with enjoyment on the world that was hers, the people and the events that have shaped the life she lives now adding in some age advice about insomnia too

'Insomnia is not bad in itself. You can lie awake at night and think; the quality of insomnia depends entirely on what you decide to think of. Can you decide to think? - Yes, you can. You can put your mind to anything most of the time...for who lives without problems every day? Why waste the nights on them?'

My favourite housemate needless to say, Kate Parker, the district nurse waging a war of her own on unseen germs 'the work of the devil.'

'She was very thorough and eager about her cleaning, indeed about everyone else's house-cleaning; when she entered anyone else's room , for a cup of tea or to take their temperature, she would often say, politely, 'Your room's nice and clean.' If she failed to say this it meant your room wasn't clean.'

Time's are hard, the working day is long and through the first-person of Mrs Hawkins, an editor for Ullswater Press, Muriel Spark takes an acerbic look at the world of the novelist, satirising the publishing industry in the process and in the way that only an insider can. 
This is pure Muriel.
Offering advice to would-be novelists Mrs Hawkins suggests

'You are writing a letter to a friend...write privately not publicly; without fear or timidity, right to the end of the letter, as if it was never going to be published, so that your true friend will read it over and over and want more enchanting letters from you...remember not to think of the reading public, it will put you off.'

Throughout the authorial voice steps back in to remind us this is a novel

'I offer this advice without fee; it is included in the price of this book.'

but of course it might all be 'a pack of lies' too.

A deviously plotted hate-campaign from a writer Mrs Hawkins has called a pisseur de copie leads to tragedy at 14 Church End Villas, South Kensington but Muriel Spark has a way with tragedy. It certainly isn't overwrought and there is always comedy, yet scratch beneath the surface, find the cracks and society's shallowness and prejudices are mercilessly exposed.

In the words of Peter Kemp as he sums up the novels of Muriel Spark,

'The facts to which they insistently return - that men are lonely, divided, prone to deceit and treachery, die and do not want to - are hardly comfortable...These books may be elegant but they are elegant disturbers.'

It's Muriel Spark's week...

'Books make futures - even their own futures - negotiable. Long ago finished books are themselves still strangely open, changeable, adaptable...'

Ali Smith writing a tribute to Muriel Spark.

I had already planned a week of posts about Muriel Spark to celebrate the centenary of her birth on February 1st 1918. I had a flurry of reading Muriel back in 2009/10 and had been rummaging around in the basement to find the posts, when the Guardian Review arrived yesterday, with Ali Smith's essay. (an extended version of which will be broadcast on Radio 3 on 5 February as part of The Essay: All Miss Brodie's Girls celebrating Muriel Spark.)  

I must digress for a brief moment to say how much I am loving the new look Guardian, and most especially the Review. It's small, compact and collectable, and whilst many of the Twitterati Litterati are complaining that it is a depleted, shrunken shell of its former self, I am busy lapping up every word and keeping this neat and compact version to hand, rather than snippeteering it to ribbons and using the rest to light the fire.

That quote from Ali Smith, and with reference to a poem by Muriel Spark entitled Authors' Ghosts, brought to mind those thoughts about Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse last week.

I think that authors' ghosts creep back
Nightly to haunt the sleeping shelves 
And find the books they wrote.
Those authors put final, semi-final touches,
Sometimes whole paragraphs.

Whole pages are added, re-written, revised,
So deeply by night those authors employ 
Themselves with those old books of theirs.

How otherwise 
Explain the fact that maybe after years 
have passed, the reader 
Picks up the book - But was it like that? 
I don't remember this . . . Where 
Did this ending come from? 
I recall quite another.

Oh yes, it has been tampered with 
No doubt about it - 
The author's very touch is here, there and there, 
Where it wasn't before, and 
What's more, something's missing - 
I could have sworn . . .

So it's chocks away on five posts about five books by Muriel Spark over the next five days...

A Far Cry From Kensington
The Ballad of Peckham Rye
The Abbess of Crewe
The Driver's Seat
Memento Mori

Please do comment and share the love if you would like to; maybe even pick up one of the books, read-along and come back and comment. Bless Muriel for her concision and brevity, 

And meanwhile, in honour of Muriel's centenary, I'm going to read another this week that I haven't read for years, The Girls of Slender Means. 

 

 

 

Virginia Woolf’s Day

I always think Virginia Woolf's birthday, and thoughts of remembering it in some way on here, is quite a tough call in the middle of January when, up this side of the Equator, plenty of us are starting to feel that any of the anticipatory thrills attached to winter are starting to pall.

I hardly want to add to the mix with a maudlin post on Virginia, and they do seem to end up that way, except hopefully for this one.

I start off the winter with such enthusiasm for jumpers, woolly leggings, fires, afternoons curled up reading in front of them and the like, but by the third week in January I'm feeling the need to uncurl and get out in the garden. We've had biblical rainfall and Dartmoor is afloat and not for walking on right now. No snow as yet (still plenty of time) just a lot of stormy windy rainy floody-muddy stuff, but no matter because at least I have had a wonderful reading January, more of which to come gradually.

For some strange reason Virginia Woolf’s birthday always stays in my mind too, today January 25th, I sense it approaching, along with George Eliot’s on November 22nd. Maybe it’s because I know of friends and family who share the birthdays, I’m never quite sure, but I am grateful to have had reason to revisit Virginia Woolf this last week or so.

Someone eulogised about To the Lighthouse to a group of us recently. An impassioned defence of a book that she would choose above all others if only one could be chosen, and with particular reference to the chapter Time Passes. It was a while since I had read it but I was so entranced that as soon as I arrived home later that evening I headed for the Virginia Shelf, found the book and read the passage, and I have read it several times over and again since.

I think we had agreed in the discussion that some books read differently at different times in life and To the Lighthouse would be one of those I would add to my list of Ever-Changing. I’m not sure how many times I’ve read it, or listened to it, having struggled with it for years before finally slowing down and understanding it (thanks in no small part to the advice from some of you on here) In fact I probably waxed very un-lyrical about it on here in the early days until I saw the light (sorry).

Our conversations about Winston Churchill and the film Darkest Hour  (and thank you for those too, and for some fascinating e mails from some of you with personal anecdotes) sent me to Virginia Woolf’s diaries and letters, which, in the absence of my dad as a primary source had to be the next best thing. I was rewarded with plenty of references to the Prime Minister and the situation. Even more interesting was to turn back a few years and read Virginia Woolf’s accounts of the Abdication of Edward VIII...it’s easy to forget the divisions and opinions (and Virginia Woolf mentions the shame and embarrassment of a monarchy in turmoil) that this had created in the country just a few years earlier. Anything threatening the stability of the country later in the decade was perhaps capable of rocking it to the core, maybe that makes it a little easier to understand those who wished to sue for peace at any price, I’m not sure. Virginia and Leonard are certainly under no illusions about the threats and dangers they will face and which will ultimately add to Virginia’s sad demise.

I’m no expert but if you haven’t read To the Lighthouse and have a copy, I think Time Passes reads just as well as a stand alone chapter. The holiday home so vibrant with life and laughter and happenings in the first chapter is now deserted, its emptiness and echoes arguably becoming an elegy to what has been lost. And bearing in mind both the loss of her parents and that  book was published in 1927, after WW1, those losses take on huge poignancy...

’So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk, and a thin rain drumming on the roof a downpouring of immense darkness began. Nothing, it seemed, could survive the flood, the profusion of darkness which, creeping in at keyholes and crevices, stole round window blinds, came into bedrooms...

and this, yes very much this...

'Night, however, succeeds to night. The winter holds a pack of them in store and deals them equally, evenly. with indefatigable fingers. They lengthen, they darken. Some of them hold aloft clear planets, plates of brightness...'

'With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising, quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely the world shook itself down to sleep...'

And ultimately, thank goodness, this...

'Then indeed peace had come. Messages of peace breathed from the sea to the shore. Never to break its sleep any more, to lull it more deeply to rest.... through the open window the voice of the beauty of the world came murmuring...gently the waves would break...tenderly the light fell...'

As I read it this time around Time Passing is a chapter filled with hope and optimism, and for just a minute... there I was back on Bushey Beach in Oamaru looking for the footprints of the yellow-eyed penguins...

Who'd have thought it.

If you have about three weeks to spare and nothing in mind, then the entire saga of my encounters with Virginia Woolf over the last twelve years or so are all collected here. I've surprised myself with it all, I'd quite forgotten the ongoing endeavours.

I really hope your January is behaving itself too, please do leave a comment advising us of its progress.
 

 

Darkest Hour

Bookhound and I took ourselves off to see Darkest Hour recently. Starring Gary Oldman as Winston Churchill, Kristen Scott-Thomas as his wife Clemmie and Lily James (from Downton Abbey) as the young secretary brought in to assist Churchill, Darkest Hour is a biopic of the first year of Churchill's tenure as Prime Minister during the Second World War. 

We rarely go to the cinema these days unless it is a film we absolutely want to see and can't wait a minute longer, so off we trundled into Plymouth. We have, incidentally, discovered that the best seats in the house are not necessarily the VIP armchairs but the two ordinary seats above the stairwell but don’t tell anyone. One row from the back, no one in front of you, plenty of leg room and space to set out your picnic. The picnic is about dealing with the pang of hunger that overcomes us the minute we set foot in the place, and no matter how well we may have eaten beforehand. Falling back in desperation on a bucket-sized dustbin-sized helping of popcorn or a packet of jelly babies is a recipe for disaster on the scales.

I have tried not to include spoilers, but if you plan to see the film maybe come back and read this afterwards and please do leave a comment.

I know a great deal about Churchill from my mum and dad who, as working class wartime teenagers, and my dad of course as a serving Royal Marine Boy Bugler from the age of fourteen in 1939, would talk about him with a reverence, but one rooted in the realities of the war as they saw it, and with no illusions about the man or what had been at stake.

Interestingly I found my childhood diary for 1965, the year of Churchill's death.

On Sunday January 24th I have noted 'SWC died' , on Friday 29th 'Dad went to catafalque'. I remember my dad taking a day off work unpaid to travel to London where he queued for hours in the freezing cold to pay his respects.

At the bottom of the page (this being one of those diaries for Guides and Scouts and offering helpful life quotes to eleven-year-olds) is suggested this...

'Let the shipwrecks of others be your sea-marks.'

Churchill would have appreciated the sentiment, along with his own shipwrecks of which he was well aware.

The week after I was exhorted to... 

'Have not thy cloak to make when it begins to rain'

Well, Churchill had been warning of the rise of fascism and Hitler's supremacy in Europe for years and by the time he took office there was precious little left with which to make a cloak. Desperate attempts to save France from falling ended at Dunkirk, whilst the Americans were keeping their distance from the conflict.

The week before my diary had pronounced that ...

'Without rivals we may become indolent.'

The quotes all serve to emphasise and perhaps explain the post-war climate that so many of us grew up in during the 1950s and early 60s, but this last one seemed particularly relevant to the film.

I knew of the difficulties and the opposition that Churchill faced from those that held previous failings (Gallipoli) and political leanings against him, so it was fascinating to watch those conflicts and machinations played out on the screen. The King's loathing slowly turned to admiration and unwavering support (fact or fiction I have no idea) but constantly flitting through my mind were analogies with the present. Who nowadays would be opposing the man (or woman) catapulted into the driving seat when the chips were down; who would be suing for peace at any price with a tyrant, plotting downfalls behind the scenes when the country faced a crisis of such immense proportions. And I am making no political statements or judgements about that, merely reflecting on the fact that, as is so often the case, some things, including life at the top, may never change.

Gary Oldman, transmogrified into Churchill after four hours in make-up each day, was extraordinary. Somehow translating the complex mix of  irascible old Winston's body, persona and characteristics onto the screen...the ferocity, the devil-may-care, the irritability, the compassion, the playfulness, the fortitude and determination, but also the moments of personal sacrifice (his family in particular) self-doubt and deep despair. It is now well-known that Churchill was hounded by the Black Dog of his depression, though I'm not sure how well-known it might have been then.

Oh oh, there was so much I really wanted to come home and ask my dad, better still to have had him there with us. He would have loved this.

As a leader, and one imbued with pride, Churchill couldn't allow himself to show signs of weakness, something my dad always recalled when his ship King George V was bringing Churchill home from Africa in 1943 where he had been taken very seriously ill with pneumonia. Covered walkways were set up around the ship to shield a weak and ailing Churchill from the rank and file. My dad always understood that this was about preserving national morale, word could not get out that the leader was in a parlous state of health.

There are too many special moments in the film to convey, but one that has been found wanting by some critics was one that I found quite the opposite, a scene on the tube train where Churchill takes the King's advice and asks the people. Though a fictional construct for the film (apparently) it added an extra something...

It might be a limited representation of the 'people' but I'm not a critic so I'm not worried. The only two people I saw in that train carriage were my mum and dad saying 'we will never surrender.'

And I know that for them, despite all the hardships, that was the case.

As the opening credits rolled the woman in the seat behind us embarked on her large crackly packet of sweets. Bookhound and I glanced at each other with the look that says 'There's always one...' and prepared to be distracted. I have no idea what happened to the sweets after that because two hours later we emerged having barely noticed we were breathing.

Darkest Hour, highly recommended and watch the awards, it should scoop a few. And if you have seen it, or want to add something, please do share your thoughts.

 

 

 

The Bealey Spur Track - Tramping New Zealand-style

I have always been completely convinced that different words have different meanings in different countries, even when we speak the same language. My latest observation is that Kiwi for 'steep' is very different to Devon for 'steep.' and I made this discovery whilst walking climbing the Bealey Spur track.

'Just a bit of uphill...' Offspringette assured me as we set off on October 12th 2017, a glorious day to walk one of the classic trails along Arthur's Pass a few hours out of Christchurch.

The trail begins through woodland and I was uttering the maternal equivalent of 'Are we there yet?' after about thirty minutes of steady uphill, little knowing that I had another two hours of the same to go and before the rewards of the most stunning views I may ever have seen. There were encouraging hints of what was to come along the way...

It takes me about thirty minutes to get into my stride on a strenuous walk. My heart is thumping whilst my knees are asking what is happening, but hopefully won't beg for mercy, before I suddenly and almost invisibly slip into a rhythm with my pace and my breathing. That said I still do a lot of 'Goodness me what a magnificent view,' before grabbing my camera, and affording myself a little rest at the same time, to do things like take pictures of my boots...

and our boots (before)

Bless the Scarpa Women's GTX. Now in their fourth year and heaven-knows how much mileage on the clock, and just about keeping the water out with layers and layers of wax.

On our way up we met a friend of Offspringette's (what on earth are the chances) skipping down hill who offered more words of encouragement and we strode on until, cresting a hill (another one) I began to think maybe...

and then this happened...

Ahead of us the Waimakariri, behind us the Waimakariri

And the braided river which flows into Christchurch still captures my heart and my imagination for its unusual and inexpressible beauty...

We climbed a little higher but had sensibly stopped at the famous Sheffield Pie Shop for ...well for a pie to eat at the top, and I can tell you my Mince & Cheese was never so welcome as we sat and admired the mountains, the colours and the place, before eating the Lamington that we had bought as well. Who knew these even existed until I went to New Zealand.

Then heading back down...

...and of course enjoying all the views in reverse and offering our own words of encouragement to others climbing up behind us...

Empty roads, mile after mile of them as we drove home...

and the geography lessons going on all around as we crossed Arthur's Pass ....

Both of us tired (well I was) sun-filled and happy after such an amazing day.

 

 

 

 

Related articles

New Zealand 2017 ~ Inbound

Reading...

Typepad is currently experiencing a glitch with updating links to Amazon UK on the sidebars at the moment so don’t be surprised if a few links head to Amazon.com for a while. Pending resolution I had typed this update on my current  'READING...' over here >>>>>>>>>>>>> because it was beginning to look as if all I have been reading is Daemon Voices for weeks now (which I have) but of course there is always more...

The Wardrobe Mistress by Patrick McGrath, (published in 2017) which I have almost finished and enjoyed immensely. Thoughts on it here eventually but definitely one I will be recommending, so this is by way of giving anyone who might want to read it a heads up on library reservations. Think 1940's London, post-war theatre-land and revered actor Gricey, in the midst of playing  Malvolio in Twelfth Night, has died in a mysterious encounter. Leaving his wife Joan, the wardrobe mistress at the theatre and their daughter Vera, an actress, to grapple with things previously unknown about their dearly beloved, a very intriguing story has developed.

 

The Mighty Dead - Why Homer Matters by Adam Nicolson and I have to say AT LAST. And with thanks to all of you who have been recommending it over the years. My Homeric lacuna is filling up very slowly and thoughtfully.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dazzling the Gods by Tom Vowler. Must read more short stories, I say it every year and I am grateful to South West-based writer Tom for sending me a copy of his latest collection. I thoroughly enjoyed his previous collection The Method as well as his first novel What Lies Within, which I wrote about here in 2013, and I am enjoying this volume just as much. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chugging along on my Kindle when I am travelling, or out and about, or awake at 3am (rare) I have The Dry by Jane Harper, which the world and its mother seems to be reading right now and I can see exactly why. The Kindle is perfect for thriller/crime page-turners like this one, voted Sunday Times Crime Book of 2017. It's Australia, it's scorchio and a husband has (supposedly) murdered his wife and two of his three children before turning the gun on himself...or has he.

 

 So that's me, how about you...what is on this week's reading pile?

 

Third Summit Attempt : The Magic Mountain ~ Thomas Mann

Blue Monday, the third Monday in January is apparently the most depressing day of the year and I'm not sure whether this will help or not....

Last January it was jolly old Anna Karenina, this year, in my quest for an Everyman Classic to take me into a new year of reading, I settled on The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann published in 1924. It might not be much more jolly.

The idea to read The Magic Mountain was resurrected when Barbara (who blogs about her travels at Milady's Boudoir) and I met for our annual bookish-life-knitting catch up while she was down this way on holiday. Barbara recounted with great enthusiasm that she and a couple of friends were slow-reading Thomas Mann's 1920's novel and I quickly caught a massive dose of her infectious enthusiasm. It was the catalyst I needed. Barbara had been hoping that I would declare it a Year-Long-Read on here one day, much as we had done War & Peace, Ulysses, and Middlemarch. I nearly did, but chickened out at the last minute wondering whether there would be any interest and would my own interest be sustained through writing about a section of the book each month, or might it suck any pleasure out of the reading. It can happen.

In the past  I had gone as far as sectioning up my paperback copy, but I already had two failed attempts at The Magic Mountain under my belt so my confidence wasn't high. It was only on reading around that I discovered a different translation, one that many were recommending as 'better'. For my own purposes I interpreted 'better' as 'easier' (I was struggling with print size for starters) and I had sent for the Everyman's Library of Contemporary Classics edition knowing that at least I would have the feel of a good book in my hands. The translation is by American John E.Woods and I am now best friends with it and him.

The book gathered dust up on the German shelf and the Year-Long-Read didn't materialise (sorry) and it still isn't exactly (sorry again) but I am now slow-reading The Magic Mountain (having also dragooned the Happy Campers in on the read...maybe) and several hundred pages in am beginning to feel that I might be acclimatised and beyond Base Camp for the first time. My hopeful plan is to post about the book occasionally, as I proceed upwards, but taking in all the diversions and reading trails that happen along the way (several already) which I suspect would be different for everyone. It will never be too late to join in if you want to, adding your thoughts in comments whenever I post about the book. In fact I would welcome you, solo climbing is no fun. Barbara sent me this postcard a few years ago which says it all...

For those wondering what on earth the book is about ...

'With this dizzyingly rich novel of ideas, Thomas Mann rose to the front ranks of the great modern novelists, winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1929. The Magic Mountain takes place in an exclusive tuberculosis sanatorium in the Swiss Alps-a community devoted to sickness that serves as a fictional microcosm for Europe in the days before the First World War. To this hermetic and otherworldly realm comes Hans Castorp, an "ordinary young man" who arrives for a short visit and ends up staying for seven years.'

And for those who might be wondering whether to start the climb or not there is an excellent piece in The Guardian here that may help you decide.

So far the secondary infections have led me to think about Disease Reading because I realise I have a healthy-looking shelf of it. There's nothing I like more than a good book about polio or the plague or cholera in the water pump or worse, so expect more about that.

Then I've wandered off into three photo albums that Bookhound rescued from a market stall here in Tavistock. Perhaps from a house clearance after a death but each a meticulous compilation of trips to Switzerland in the 1930s (we think) with monochrome images of Switzerland alongside commentary and location.

Do you remember how we used to do photo albums, with the white pen on the black paper and the sticky photo corners...

The albums are all so atmospheric of the time and place that to look at them is adding another dimension to my reading of the The Magic Mountain. Although the pictures are of the Bernese Oberland, a different part of Switzerland to the book, it is the part of the alps that we have visited and walked several times, and there is still snow and chalets and mountains and trains. Some things never change in Switzerland. We don't know full names or exact dates but there are clues in the pictures that we are exploring. Meanwhile here's the mysterious  'Gladys on the roof of Switzerland,' having taken the train up to the Jungfraujoch...

And here's Mr & Mrs Gladys (we assume, but who knows)  'An obliging stranger takes our photograph.'

There are forty-four wonderful images in the album, expect more from Mr & Mrs Gladys to help cheer us on our way up the mountain.

We have to talk about blankets too...there is a special way to wrap yourself up and we must practise.

You see I told you there would be diversions.

The next post, whenever it appears, will definitely be about the book itself, probably, meanwhile please do add your thoughts in comments.

 

Preserving the memories...the Christmas gift

Though I didn't visit Lake Hawea on this recent trip to New Zealand, it is a place that holds many memories of a special day on my last trip in 2016.

Four days of wilderness camping and we trundled into a cabin at Lake Hawea for a bath and to do our washing. I had discovered that actually my hair dries perfectly well without a hair dryer which was a bit of a revelation, but the love hadn't died, I was still pleased to see one again. We swam in the lake, in water so blue I will never forget it  and also because I keep this picture as my screen saver. I dive in here every day.

When I arrived home in 2016 I made a wall-hanging using a template from Euro-JapanLinks, called it Lake Hawea, and quilted all the memories into it.

Well I arrive home from my second trip at the end of October 2017 and we are well along with November before I am the right way up again and think to ask Offspringette what she would like for Christmas. An Organised Person would have asked this in July and taken it all out with her. Thinking it will be something useful (as in useful = easy) I am ambushed by something much better...

'Well, Mum...do you know what I'd really like... a wall-hanging of a place we've been to together...'

'What, like this one...' I said as I turned the camera on Lake Hawea.

Cue raptures in New Zealand, cue panic in Devon as I envisage the last posting date just two weeks away. 

I decided to use some of my own Shibori-dyed fabric for the sky, and now I look at it I can see the potential for braided rivers too. More haste, less speed, I cut one whole lot of mountains wrong and had to ditch them (memo to self: always check you are ironing freezer paper on top for the hand-applique and not bondaweb) and start over. That would normally have had me weeping with much gnashing of teeth...no time...get over it and crack on.

The sky utilises Arashi Shibori. A tube of fabric is wedged and scrunched down tightly around a length of drainpipe before being immersed in the dye vat and the effect was one of my favourites.

Look at that green turning indigo when it hits the air...

And can you believe the perfectly lovely gorgeousness of the finished colour and the patterning . Proper job and seeing that again inspires me to get my indigo vat going again in the spring...

The sky was a dream to quilt with those flowing lines to follow. I used some multi-coloured (blue and white) Japanese Sashiko thread (thicker than normal thread) which worked itself into the whole beautifully...

I added a little cabin by the lake, because my goodness were we pleased to see it that day, and quilted walking trails and all sorts of little extras all over the mountains.

The little ceramic house button came from Injabulo though I haven't seen them in stock there for a while now.

And I used some vintage Japanese kimono fabric for the backing.

There was a lot of midnight and early morning oil burned in the making of this I can tell you, and then you hold your breath waiting for the parcel to arrive safely. We watched Lake Hawea  being opened at 9pm on our Christmas Eve (their Christmas morning) in its new forever home. It was a happy teary moment and with memories of special days.

 

 

 

 

New Zealand 2017 ~ Inbound

I haven't written much about my October trip to New Zealand (yet) having intentionally saved some posts for these early months of the year, when I don't know about you but I find some blue skies, colour and sunshine thinking really add cheer to the grey days. I also knew that it would be good to look back on it all and remember those special weeks with Offspringette, especially as two years ago this week I was visiting for the first time. These journeys have been a gift from my dad in his legacy to me, and one of the things we talked about in those last days before he died. I am beyond excited when I go but never forgetting him, especially at this time of year.

I started the journey on September 27th, the day after my 64th birthday, and with the When I'm 64 song ringing in my ears  and having already packed notebooks (including the large Moleskine journal I took last time). However I was thrilled with the birthday gift of this little magnetic clasp ( 6" x 4" Flame Tree) from my student nursing friend (and bridesmaid) Wiz, with the advice to write a

'little poem or two while you are away? It takes a lot less time than a diary and produces some lovely memories.'

I don't have much confidence in my poetic abilities, in fact make that none, but I ditched all other notebooks and carried this one around with me everywhere, taking notes of what I did, where I was, what I was seeing, what had inspired me.

Wiz also added..

'Have an absolutely fabulous time and I hope your flight is as smooth as silk.'

Well the flight was almost as 'smooth as silk' apart from Los Angeles, that failed attempt at landing and then having to enter and leave the US and board another flight within three hours, not helped by inadvertently leaving my passport in the electronic machine. But we'll gloss over that because I did have an 'absolutely fabulous time' and looking back through the notebook, there it is all recorded.

And now I am reliving the excitement I felt as the plane travelled down the east coast of South Island from Auckland to Christchurch. I'd talked to two New Zealand women at Auckland Airport. They were poring over a copy of Hello magazine and just couldn't get enough of the pictures of William and Kate and their children, so we had a bit of a Royal natter and they were delighted. We'd also discussed the fact that no matter what seat number I had I always seemed to board the plane last, so they pushed me to the front of the queue saying 'On you get and have a great trip.'

From my window seat I had my first view of the Waimakariri River as we flew over the Canterbury Plains...

I swam in the Waimakariri last visit though not this time. This time we walked up into the hills to look down on it, more of which soon. Meanwhile the braided river is just shouting 'QUILT' at me, so for now I am pondering how best that might work...any creative suggestions gratefully received.

As soon as I arrived Offspringette and I headed for the Port Hills. It was my first view last time, first view this time, and I am in agreement with Ngaio Marsh who felt likewise. I'm sure I quoted this extract from her autobiography Black Beech and Honeydew before but it has stayed in my mind...

'Whenever I return to New Zealand I like to come home by the the hills and still think that an arrival at the pass on a clear dawn is the most astonishing entry one could make into any country.'

I was returning, I qualified, it was astonishing all over again.

It's a view now beautifully embedded in my imagination and one I can call on at any time. Lyttleton down below, Diamond Harbour across the water, the easily-visible crater rim of the ancient volcano and the thoughts of the first settlers making their way up and over the hills to Christchurch...

'The crater of this volcano is now a deep harbour into which a hundred and fifteen years ago, sailed the First Four Ships: Sir George Seymour, Randolph, Cressy and Charlotte Jane, bringing the founders of the Canterbury Settlement. These intrepid emigrants landed at the port of Lyttelton, wearing stovepipe hats, heavy suits, crinolines and bonnets....'

'They climbed the Port Hills and reached the summit where, with a munificent gesture, their inheritance was suddenly laid out before them..'

But just imagine the challenges of that as swamp land.

Anyway I was back and ready for action.

I must now confess that at the back of my journal we compiled a Hot Chocolate & Cake Map of our travels which I have just revisited.

Shame on me.

Honestly, what a disgraceful record of sugar and calorific intake, except, as I have now learned; I emerge from a trip to New Zealand quits on the weight because I walk it all off while I am there, and the other food is beyond healthy...except perhaps for the famous Sheffield Pie Shop, but then when in NZ etc. More of that dreckly too.

Whisking me off to Hanmer Springs and a bask in the hot pools the next day was a good plan and after a picnic (Brie, grapes, rice crackers and dip and Fentiman's Rose Lemonade, it says in my journal) we drove high up into the mountains to the now abandoned St James's Homestead via Jack's Pass.

How isolated can any place possibly be...

Good for my soul...heavens how I loved the silence and the views across the tussock; the colours and the big sky. But imagine living here and the isolation and loneliness. I feel it enough up on Dartmoor but New Zealand brings a whole new dimension to 'being a long way from the shops.'

We peeked in the windows...biscuits and boots...

...before heading back down Jack's Pass to civilisation and shops.

My eyes hardly felt big enough to take in the vastness ahead of us. This great big beautiful country and me with three lovely weeks ahead with our lovely daughter to savour it.

I've turned the page and it says that the next day I wandered around Christchurch, the Botanic Gardens and went to the Art Gallery.

The BOTANIC GARDENS...oh yes, flower pictures coming soon.

And the ART GALLERY...I have so much to tell you about my discoveries in there.

But I'm interested to know how any of you record your travels...

Journal...

Notebook...

Scrapbook...

Blog...

Committed to memory and nothing written down...

 

 

 

 

 

View from...

I was given a new toy for Christmas, a little tripod to hold my mobile phone safely whilst it does a time-lapse video. This is infinitely preferable to propping it up and hoping it's still there an hour later.

Much as I would like to I wouldn’t normally stand for an hour and watch the mist rolling and clearing around the Tamar Valley, especially on this glorious Wednesday morning because it was my Dartmoor day with my Walking Friend. So with grateful thanks to my phone for sitting outside on the bedroom windowsill and doing the Standing & Staring for me while I packed my rucksack and made the flask of hot chocolate (oh alright, Bookhound made that) and to the birds for flitting in and out of the picture. By the time I went back for it the phone battery was flat but the sun was shining.

My next challenge is The Bird Table....

 

The Balkan Trilogy ~ Olivia Manning

Did ever it take me SO long to read a book...

Finally, finally I have turned the last page (of 924) and finished my  £4.95 1980's edition of The Balkan Trilogy, though I think it might have taken me longer to read all three books than it took Olivia Manning to write them. I made a start back in the day and have been stop start with them ever since. Each return has meant starting over so I’ve read Book One The Great Fortune at least three times, Book Two The Spoilt City twice and now finally Book Three Friends and Heroes. The starting over has been no punishment, Olivia Manning writes exquisitely and the re-read felt imperative to regain mood and atmosphere as newly-weds Guy and Harriet Pringle travel by train to Bucharest where Guy is to resume his job as an English teacher at the university. The trouble is the wedding has been an impulse decision after a mere three weeks of knowing each other, but these are troubled times for Europe and it is September 3rd 1939 when the couple arrive in Rumania just as war is declared

As the old order crumbles around her in a country she doesn’t know, and living with a man she barely knows or understands , Harriet is trying to make sense of both. Learning more about Guy each day, his ‘neurotic intensity’ coupled with his ‘supernatural confidence in dealing with people,’ slowly Harriet’s opinions shift and settle, first impressions dissolve and despite her best efforts the gloss loses its shine.

Guy, twenty-four, tall, be-spectacled and likes to be well-thought of, is largely mediated through Harriet’s eyes emerging as a deeply principled man who cares about everything, always wanting to do the right thing, but does his selflessness mask a deep-rooted selfishness...an element of control, of always wanting his own way regardless of Harriet’s feelings or wishes. Guy is persuasive but with little interest in the consequences and I often wondered if this was how he had wooed Harriet who he largely ignores in the pursuit of his own ideals

Harriet meanwhile is twenty-three and, lacking in confidence, finds herself in a strange country. It’s hard to out-do Guy in the caring stakes; he quickly seizes the moral high-ground with his monopoly on caring whilst Harriet will think things through more carefully, her eyes wide open to the perils. It is Harriet who has to take responsibility for Guy’s impulsive benevolence.

As a couple they bring such different qualities to their relationship that when the cracks start to show it is fascinating to watch how they deal with them.

’it might not, after all, prove to be what it had seemed at first, an eternal marriage.’

It was helpful to learn that these novels are deeply autobiographical. Olivia Manning married Reggie Smith after a three week fling and travelled by train to Bucharest where he was working as a teacher, arriving on the day War was declared . The war is being played out in small spaces in the country and Olivia Manning was ideally placed to observe and record what she saw. There is a wonderful stand off in the hotel bar when the European ex-pats from countries various seize the space according to whose wartime fortunes are in the ascendant. News of a British defeat and the Germans take charge, vice-versa and the English resume superiority. It’s a fiction that couldn’t be invented without that element of primary source truth and veracity invested in it by Olivia Manning.

Meanwhile there is a growing sense of danger and unease as poor old Romania is carved up by the demands of her voracious German ally. Rumour and gossip abound, accurate information is at a premium as the balance of power so delicately and unfavourably balanced after World War One begins to shift around Europe, and how fascinating is was to watch this from Olivia Manning’s eastern vantage point of the Balkans. Fortunes are embedded in the landscape, metaphors and allegories abound and Olivia Manning captures the atmosphere perfectly as a result.

The moment when the King is stripped of his power a fine example of many ...

’Above the palace, a single star, embedded in the cerulean satin of the sky, shone with great brilliance. The roofs were lustrous with the last radiance from the west.’

That 'last radiance from the west' will fade and Guy and Harriet will have to make some serious decisions...or Harriet will and Guy will just have to figure it out for himself.

Reading The Balkan Trilogy in this way, so slowly (Friends and Heroes has taken me since August) has been a real lesson in unhurried reading and this book is ideally suited to it (fortunately).  I have been able to set the book aside and pick it up after a long gap, quickly get back into step with Guy and Harriet and move along with them. Proof positive for me that Olivia Manning is an assured and accomplished writer who surely deserves to be more widely feted than I suspect she is.

If you have read The Balkan Trilogy please heave a sigh of relief on my behalf and do share your thoughts in comments, and if you haven't read it I can recommend it highly. When my eyes wearied of my old paper copy, and its smaller print, I resorted to the Kindle edition which was well worth the investment. 

Meanwhile we have now watched half the BBC serialisation Fortunes of War with Our Emma and Our Ken. Bookhound enjoyed it with no knowledge of the book, whilst I provided a running commentary ....

'They've left that bit out...'

'Wait for it, don't get attached to that kitten...'

'Oh dear Sacha...'

...before bemoaning the fact that 926 pages and goodness how many years of my reading life were compressed into a mere four hour-long episodes.

Now I must move on to The Levant Trilogy, expect my thoughts on that in about 2035 (deo volente etc).

Over to you...

 

 

Thank you...

...to the many for your support today and for all the encouraging and heartening messages and emails, many from people who don’t comment but are out there reading and enjoying what happens here never the less. I know this place has seen some of you through tough times and I am always humbled by that.

I am keeping comments closed on this subject now but please do email me if you would like to.

Onwards and bookwards into 2018.

With grateful thanks

Lynne @dovegreyreader

 

 

 

Dear Blog....

You may have noticed a little new addition on the sidebar >>>>>> in the shape of a PayPal button, which I just wanted to explain.

Firstly there never has been, and there never will be a paywall or subscription fee for reading here. If I had £1 for everyone who has suggested it, along the lines of ‘You have been writing this for twelve years and not earned a penny, you have a loyal following, monetise, monetise...’

Or 'Sell advertising space, generate income...'

And I have resisted.

The only income EVER generated here is via any clicks through and purchases via the books on the sidebar, which sends a miniscule commission to my Amazon Associates account. I then eventually receive that as gift voucher with which I buy more books to write about here. At most now it averages £15-20 or so on a good month...many of us are feeling the pinch I suspect, or supporting local independent bookshops and libraries which I do too, and which can only be a Good Thing. I accept a few books from publishers, far fewer than in previous years, having opted to buy my own choices rather than feel I am part of a marketing campaign. If I do throw myself behind a newly-published book it is because I love it and want to see it out there and being enjoyed, and I will ask publishers for free copies for you too in the form of prize draws.

For twelve years Dovegreyreader Scribbles has been in my gift. Something that I could create and give of freely to all of you and for pleasure, mine and yours whilst hopefully supporting authors and publishers along the way. Many of the years of writing this have been those of full employment and earning. Covering the cost of the blog and the website domain name were part of the affordable outgoings as were the hours spent at my desk writing it. For the last few years that has not been the case.

And now the next phase of our lives beckons here. Bookhound was 65 this week, I will be catching him up soon and we must make decisions about where to next, and whilst I will (deo volente etc) keep writing the scribbles I am also having to be fiscally pragmatic about it all, and about life.

The PayPal button  is there for supportive donations. Pure and simple and nothing compulsory or guilt-inducing, but if you like what you read, and find a bit of joy and solace and company here sometimes, well, any donations would be received with grateful thanks and contribute towards the upkeep.

Along with a little shop on the sidebar where I intend to sell some of the books I have read and recommended (my reading copies, often annotated, the house is bursting at the seams) we also have a few ideas 'up the sleeve' that may or may not come to pass...we'll see.

Bookhound is hoping to offer some day-long beginner bookbinding courses which will include the miniatures that he made for me..

 

And I'm thinking about some Walking-Talking-Books sessions around us here in the Tamar Valley and maybe up on Dartmoor... 

We are looking forward to this next phase in our lives and hopefully taking you all along with us.

Thank you for reading and now on with our bookish year.

 

The Dark is Rising ~ Susan Cooper #thedarkisreading

There is always some debate here about Twelfth Night...

Is it January 5th or January 6th?

My mum always took our Christmas decorations down on January 6th and we have followed suit... except for the year the tree fell over, or the year the needles had all fallen off by Boxing Day, or the years when we really feel we must clear Christmas away to make way for Bookhound's birthday on January 2nd.

I turned to my definitive and much-thumbed copy of Steve Roud's The English Year for some advice, and once he had unravelled the confusion of 'Old and New Style dates created by the change of calendar in 1752'  the date became clear...

'In earlier times, 'Twelfth Night' meant 5 January, i.e. the Eve of Twelfth Day, in the same way Christmas Eve precedes Christmas Day. But nowadays most people regard 'Twelfth Night' as meaning the evening of Twelfth Day (6 January).

My mum was right enough.

Anyway, it's only January 4th, I'm a bit ahead of the day but thought it would be good to wind up any thoughts on The Dark is Rising.

The discussion on Twitter continues and has been a well-conducted, erudite and proper book group discussion, much of it investigating and interrogating the book and its meaning and allegories in some depth, with some fascinating observations and contributions. Proof that these things can work even when contributors have only 280 characters to play with.

Me...well, I've read much more superficially this time, for the joy of a page-turner knowing others were reading simultaneously around the world, and for the way it somehow accessed my Inner Child reader.

So I have no deep and meaningful thoughts to share, just the feeling that comes from turning the last page on a book that contributed so much to my Christmas and Midwinter atmosphere and mood this year. Sometimes I find myself in overdrive, trying too hard to feel 'Christmassy'... this year it just happened of its own accord and much of it thanks to The Dark is Rising and paying some mindful attention to Midwinter, the solstice and the Shortest Day...

And not forgetting this poem by Susan Cooper which someone mentioned in comments here, and I thank them for it. 

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper

So the shortest day came, and the year died,

And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world

Came people singing, dancing,

To drive the dark away.

They lighted candles in the winter trees;

They hung their homes with evergreen;

They burned beseeching fires all night long

To keep the year alive,

And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake

They shouted, revelling.

Through all the frosty ages you can hear them

Echoing behind us – Listen!!

All the long echoes sing the same delight,

This shortest day,

As promise wakens in the sleeping land:

They carol, fest, give thanks,

And dearly love their friends,

And hope for peace.

And so do we, here, now,

This year and every year.

Welcome Yule!!

 

Please do add your The Dark is Rising thoughts in comments; learned, deep and meaningful, or just happy-to-have-read-it... all are welcome, and thank you one and all for joining in.

I have really enjoyed this shared read so how about (deo volente) we read The Box of Delights by John Masefield over Christmas 2018... someone please remind me I suggested that.

 

 

To the New Year ~ W.S. Merwin

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible