And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods make heaven drowsy with the harmony.

I was thinking about those lines in books and plays that strike a chord with us, that make our hearts quicken, and cause those little moments of happiness. I have no idea why, but at this moment I'm in a hopelessly romantic mood ... no reason for this really. Anyway, are there certain lines that you read that just seem to sum up the notion of love and harmony for you? Or that you see, and think 'yes, that's a concept I want to hang on to'?

I'm not even sure what I'm driving at - I just feel like quoting Shakespeare. And who needs a proper reason for doing that?

Walking around the Actor's church in Covent Garden, there is a plaque to Vivien Leigh, with this epitaph on it:

"Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparalleled."

It's from Antony and Cleopatra, and always manages to touch me when I see it.

'Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me!'
- Twelfth Night

'Serve God, Love me, and mend'
Benedick - Much Ado About Nothing

'This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.'
- Henry V

'The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way: we, this way.'
- Love's Labours Lost

Trying to choose a favourite sonnet is like trying to choose which ice cream flavour to have, when every flavour in the world is offered. Here are a couple at random ....

What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit,
What's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
- sonnet 108

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other,
When that mine eye is famished for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother;
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart:
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part.
So either by thy picture or my love,
Thy self away, art present still with me,
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee.
Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.
- sonnet 47

I think I'll go to bed now. I've got quite a full weekend, what with selling books and going to Blenheim for a literary festival on Sunday, although Nicola Beauman of Persephone books has cancelled her talk, so I'll only be hearing Jane Austen's letters spoken aloud. Ample time to wander around the grounds though, and take a massive amount of pictures!!

Word of the day

Floccinaucinihilipilification - the act of describing something as worthless, or making something to be worthless by deprecation.

Hmmm - does that remind anyone of certain financial situations at the moment???

Booking through Thursday - on a Friday

I don't normally do the BTT, but Peta has inspired me this time, so here goes ...

What was the last book you bought?

Err, Oh yes - I remember. I bought 'Jo's Boys' by L.M. Alcott and 'George' by Daphne du Maurier on my way back from an interview on Tuesday!

Name a book you have read MORE than once

I do re read books, although this year I've made an effort not to. I think I shall say 'The Age of Innocence' by Edith Wharton - although Austen could make an appearance too.

Has a book ever fundamentally changed the way you see life? If yes, what was it?

I'm not really sure a book has ever made me change the way I am - but I have had profound experiences from certain books - this year 'Human Traces' by Sebastian Faulks and 'Daphne' by Justine Picardie

How do you choose a book? eg. by cover design and summary, recommendations or reviews

I was going to say I don't read reviews - but what do you call a blog post when it's at home if it's not a review?! Covers are more often than not the thing that tempts me (or the writing of the title), but recommendations from people I trust might also cause me to try something I wouldn't normally have considered

Do you prefer Fiction or Non-Fiction?

It depends on what mood I'm in - I've been in a fiction mood recently.

What’s more important in a novel - beautiful writing or a gripping plot?

They are both very important for different reasons

Most loved/memorable character (character/book)

Most loved? Ummm. Piglet from Winnie the Pooh, Beatrice from Much Ado About Nothing and Elizabeth Bennet. Sorry Peta, I stole your answer - but it remains true for me too!

Which book or books can be found on your nightstand at the moment?

Err - well I'm not reading the ones on my nigtstand so not sure it counts!

What was the last book you’ve read, and when was it?

Mrs Miniver by Jan Struther on Sunday - I'm reading The King's General at the moment.

Have you ever given up on a book half way in?

More than once

A smallish hole in the shelves

You can never tell how many books you have until you begin getting rid of some. I've been pulling things off the shelves in a ruthless manner. If I've not read it, and I look at it and think I never will read it, then it's coming off.

The problem with this is what to do with my spreadsheet. Some I have actually read, and I don't want to lose track, so I can't just delete them. Therefore there is now a new page devoted to 'books discarded.

Surprisingly, there are less sacrifices than I thought .... and although I promised I wouldn't, five have gone back on my shelves and I'm trying to make up my mind about that biography of Lucrezia Borgia ...

And now, although I said I would not do this, I am going to post what I'm getting rid of. I don't intend on doing a pick and choose, but if anyone sees something and has been desperately looking for it for years etc. then please comment before Saturday morning, when I will be taking them to Blackwell's second hand department, where I will be trying to sell them ....

Napoli, Donna Jo	Daughter of Venice
Newbury, Linda	Flightsend
Drabble, Margaret	The Seven Sisters
Menzies, Gavin	1421: The Year China Discovered the World
Sperber, A. N. & Lax, Eric	Bogart
Scott, Sir Walter	The Bride of Lammermoor
Plutarch	Roman Lives
Garfield, Simon	Mauve
Maclaine, Shirley	Out on a Limb
Tannahill, Reay	Fatal Majesty
Wells, H.G.	A Short History of the World
Bogdanovich, Peter	This is Orson Wells
Callow, Simon	Charles Laughton
Holinghurst, Alan	The Line of Beauty
Orwell, George	Nineteen Eighty-four
Baker, Nicholson	U & I
Kapuscinski, Ryszard	The Soccer war
Ondaatje, Michael	The English Patient
Wolff, Tobias	In Pharoah's Army
Harris, Robert	Archangel/Fatherland
Haggard, H. Rider	King Solomon's Mines
Breslin, Theresa	Rememberance
Tyler, Anne	The Amateur Marriage
Sandford, Christopher	McQueen
Pennington, Kate	Tread Softly
O'Connor, Joseph	Star of the Sea
Barnes, Julian	Flaubert's Parrot
Mailer, Norman	An American Dream
Kundera, Milan	Slowness
Rathbone, Julian	Kings of Albion
Fowles, John	The French Lieutentant's Woman
Falk, Quentin	Anthony Hopkins
Thakeray, William	Vanity Fair
Scott, Sir Walter	Ivanhoe
Bosworth, Patricia	Marlon Brando
Tiffany, Grace	My Father had a daughter
Molony, Rowland	After the death of Alice Bennet
Rushdie, Salman	Midnight's Children
Brown, Peter Harry	Howard Hughes
Ibbotsen, Eva	A song for summer
Christie, Agathe	A Murder is Announced
Kerouac, Jack	The Dharma Bums
Penman, Sharon	When Christ and his Saints Slept
Marshall, Dorothy	Victoria
Sorenson, Theodore C.	Kennedy
Farmer, Francis	Will there really be a morning?
Bunyan, John	Pilgrim's Progress
Frieda, Leonie	Catherine de Medici
Hawkes, Howard	Bringing up Baby
Lerner, Alan Jay	The Street Where I Live
Bronte, Emily	Wuthering Heights
Davies, Martin	The Conjuror's Bird

Poem of the Week

Today is the anniversary of Edgar Allen Poe's death (in 1849). So, here - have something suitably autumnal to celebrate!

The Raven


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Oxford-Reader: Ruthless weeder of bookshelves

I looked at my bookshelves last night, and came to a realisation:

I have too many books and not enough space. To deal with this problem I can do one of two things.

1. Stop buying books.

2. Take anything from my shelves that I will never read, will never re-read or have two copies of.

Obviously, number one is a sheer impossibility, so I have to turn to number two. This is hard. I mean, I have actually spent money on these books, and I obviously wanted them at the time. However, I took the bit between my teeth this evening and have been pulling left, right and centre, and have a towering pile of 66 on the floor. (In an interesting parallel, I have read about 66 books this year.)

I'm going back to review the shelves now. I need the space, and I MUST be ruthless. Wish me luck!

Poem of the week

This week's poem is taken from 'Consider the Years' -- I've been trying to find one that expresses my feelings of uncertainty and nerves coupled with a general feeling that all will be well, and it will be well soon.

Unfortunately I've failed - but I've found a beautiful one that's right for the dusk that is drawing around me at this moment.

'I Can Hear Music' -- 1946

I can hear music from a long way off.
Faint it is, but there are people stopping to listen,
pausing in the middle of their work to turn
their heads towards the unrecognizable tune.
It is not much of a sound at the moment;
but everywhere, all over the world,
there are stiff hands stretching out to grope
for slack-stringed violins and tarnished trumpets,
for out-of-tune pianos and reedless bassoons.
There is a snapping open on velvet-cases,
and a whisking of green baize off the keys,
and a tinkle of rosin on to the parquet floor.
there is a moistening of lips grown dry with words of command,
and a trembling of fingers rigid from rifle's rim.
The voices are lifted again, uncertain, strange,
but coming towards us every day from the seas
and the desert lands, the dark lands where singing
has been muffled under the sad beat of the drums.
Soon we shall know the tune, and shall run to our doors
as the orchestras thunder by with bright bugles blowing,
to join in the song which though lost was never forgotten,
the heart, like an unchaged bird, winging to God.

Truly, if you only every buy one Persephone book in your life, it should be this collection of poetry by Virginia Graham - her poems on war time are small gems.

Mostly Books

Well, I know that I've been feeling in university reading mood recently, by wanting to read lots of classics, as if someone had handed me a Victorian Novel reading list to make my way through, but if today's splurge is anything to go by, I am most CERTAINLY in University mood.

I couldn't spend £73 in one go if I wasn't.

Within my haul are the following:

'The Victorian Chaise-Longue' by Marghanita Laski (Persephone book) -- Having finished 'The Yellow Wallpaper' this morning, this seems like a natural follow on. I'm loving it.

'From A to X' by John Berger

'Counting my Chickens' by Deborah Devonshire -- I've been looking for this for years. Whoo!

'Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day' by Winifred Watson (Persephone book) -- loved the film, hope to love the book.

'Flush: A Biography' by Virginia Woolf (Persephone book) -- another of Justine's 'what to read' recommendations. Will go well with 'Lady's Maid' by Margaret Atwood that I bought last week.

'Consider the Years' by Virginia Graham (Persephone book)

THEN - having a browse through the Oxfam bookshop on st Giles, I found 'Mrs Miniver' by Jan Struther, and my life was complete!

Two other matters:
- Simon - the Diary of a Provincial Lady omnibus has a woman at her desk, with a man slumped in a chair - not the one you described.

- If anyone is in Oxford, there's a first edition of 'Trilby' in the st Giles Oxfam. It's £20 - I'm not stretching to that, so thought it would be a good idea to spread the news!