When you work in higher education, you become highly attuned to everything written on the subject. As the A levels release date comes ever closer, I can be sure of one thing: that when they are released, newspapers will claim three things: A levels are getting easier, it's becoming more expensive to study at university and Oxbridge are discriminating against state schools.
I don't know enough about the first to be able to comment properly, and I would likely go into rant mode if I were to try and discuss the third (although it's not true, by the way!); but the second observation is one that i can talk about - here goes!
It is no secret that university fees are going up astronomically. From 2012, many universities will be allowed to charge £9,000 for their degrees, and although many are putting support packages in place to provide for students who would otherwise struggle with this financial burden, the question still remains on how universities will be able to prove their courses are worth the money. Much has been said on teaching quality, research and lecture time for students, but one vital aspect appears - to my mind - to have been completely omitted from the discussion.
When I was at university (I did my undergrad at Keele and my MA at UEA in Norwich) my mother impressed upon me the need to visit the careers centre. I hardly ever did, for the very simple reason that they were rubbish. The staff never seemed very helpful and their layouts were ill organised and confusing. When i first started my current job in the academic office at Somerville College - part of Oxford University - I was invited, as part of my induction programme, to visit the University's Career service. What I saw there amazed and impressed me.
Real thought has gone into the layout of the rooms, so that a student can be guided through the various stages of thinking about and applying for jobs, so there's a section where one can get guidance on preparing a CV and covering letter, and once that's sorted, another section dedicated to every type of career - some I'd not even thought about. Of course the prestige of an Oxford education holds its own special significance and there are lots of summer internships available for those who are part way through their degrees. Each college has its own dedicated rep from the careers service who can come out and give help and advice to those who who are about to set foot into 'real life'. So much is offered and it truly is a great asset for the University.
The point I am trying to make (without letting my passion run away with me) is that with employment being as hard to obtain as it currently is, and with more and more companies requiring university education from their employees, the careers service is quickly becoming one of the more vital aspects of university life. To my mind, money should be invested in this service at every university, because the more help our students get, the quicker they grab hold of a job that pays well, then the better able universities will be to prove that spending the money was worth it, thereby ensuring higher education can continue for the next generation.
Hmmm .... I think I let my passion run away with my meaning! I'm slightly worried that I'm sounding snobby or elitist here, and I certainly don't mean to. I am more than aware that higher education is not for everyone - I certainly never agreed with the Labour party policy of a target of 50% in higher education. It always seemed to be such an arbitrary figure and something that might end up forcing those better suited to apprenticeships or vocational courses into a form of education that did not suit them.
I can't think of a decent way of wrapping up this post without getting overly passionate (and as I've just engaged in a heated discussion with my parents' next door neighbour about whether or not any arts degree is worth while - she thought not, and managed to term my entire 4 years at University as a 'Mickey Mouse degree' - I'd best not start ranting.) My main point is, as I'm sure you'll all have gathered, is that Oxford's careers service rocks, and other universities would be well served by using some of the £9,000 fees to improve theirs. It's the way forward - you heard it here first!
Friday, 5 August 2011
Black dog days
It's not a subject that people like to discuss that much - depression that is. we have instead developed a variety of euphemisms by which to express the feeling. In my opinion, Winston Churchill used the best one - terming it as being visited by the black dog, which absolutely manages to conjure up the bleak feelings one is subject to, whilst simultaneously allowing for the levity of spirit that can still be obtained when a bout of depression hits.
As I was wandering through Gatwick recently, on my way to France (on which more in a later post) I felt compelled to browse the airport bookshop and was drawn to a book with a silhouette of a large dog resplendent in top hat and cigar on its front cover.
'Mr Chartwell' by Rebecca Hunt is about the black dog that so torments Churchill. Alternating between scenes with the great man (about to retire - at 89 no less) and a young woman - Esther - whose husband killed himself two years before and whose life is about to become intertwined with Churchill's, the novel is a stark and poetic look at the subtlety with which depression can impress itself and the force of will that is required to overcome.
Mr Chartwell is, at the root of all, a dog. A very large Labrador, he trails in his wake all the chaos and destruction for which that breed is known. Esther may think she is just having to cope with the mess her canine 'lodger' creates, but in actual fact Mr Chartwell is slowly tapping away at her resolve, hoping to create a chink by which he can ingratiate himself and bring her into his depressive fold.
When Esther is called to be Churchill's secretary for the day, to help him write his retirement speech, the two sides of the story are drawn together and the battle to save Esther from Mr Chartwell's clutches begins in earnest. Churchill is portrayed brilliantly in this little gem. It is so easy to caricature the man that everyone is so familiar with; to reduce him to a cigar and profound words. In a way, this is what happens, but you get such a sense of who he is and what he has struggled with throughout his life that his essence shines through.
It's an uplifting book, for all its somber subject, and is well worth spending a few quiet hours with. For all I keep saying I don't need and more books, I'm very glad I succumbed this time!
More on the Churchill trail:
I've always thought him interesting and now, I think, would be the time to delve into his life. Heaven only knows that I have enough to keep me occupied - the massive biography by Martin Gilbert notwithstanding, I've got biographies of his parents and wife, as well as his letters to Clemmie. Perhaps I should start there .... there's the Cabinet war rooms to visit too, and Chartwell itself. Lucky I've got some holiday coming up, eh?!
As I was wandering through Gatwick recently, on my way to France (on which more in a later post) I felt compelled to browse the airport bookshop and was drawn to a book with a silhouette of a large dog resplendent in top hat and cigar on its front cover.
'Mr Chartwell' by Rebecca Hunt is about the black dog that so torments Churchill. Alternating between scenes with the great man (about to retire - at 89 no less) and a young woman - Esther - whose husband killed himself two years before and whose life is about to become intertwined with Churchill's, the novel is a stark and poetic look at the subtlety with which depression can impress itself and the force of will that is required to overcome.
Mr Chartwell is, at the root of all, a dog. A very large Labrador, he trails in his wake all the chaos and destruction for which that breed is known. Esther may think she is just having to cope with the mess her canine 'lodger' creates, but in actual fact Mr Chartwell is slowly tapping away at her resolve, hoping to create a chink by which he can ingratiate himself and bring her into his depressive fold.
When Esther is called to be Churchill's secretary for the day, to help him write his retirement speech, the two sides of the story are drawn together and the battle to save Esther from Mr Chartwell's clutches begins in earnest. Churchill is portrayed brilliantly in this little gem. It is so easy to caricature the man that everyone is so familiar with; to reduce him to a cigar and profound words. In a way, this is what happens, but you get such a sense of who he is and what he has struggled with throughout his life that his essence shines through.
It's an uplifting book, for all its somber subject, and is well worth spending a few quiet hours with. For all I keep saying I don't need and more books, I'm very glad I succumbed this time!
More on the Churchill trail:
I've always thought him interesting and now, I think, would be the time to delve into his life. Heaven only knows that I have enough to keep me occupied - the massive biography by Martin Gilbert notwithstanding, I've got biographies of his parents and wife, as well as his letters to Clemmie. Perhaps I should start there .... there's the Cabinet war rooms to visit too, and Chartwell itself. Lucky I've got some holiday coming up, eh?!
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Purple, White and Green
Women's suffrage and Cricket? Can there be two more disparate topics upon which to found the basis of a novel? Probably not, yet that is what Anthony Quinn in 'Half of the Human Race' uses to frame his beautifully simple tale.
I admit to being drawn in initially by the cover, with its striking suffragette colours, but the desire to learn more about a subject that has always been at the edge of my consciousness, but about which I know little, caused me to pluck it from the pile last Saturday.
It's got a tremendously wide scope - starting in 1911 and moving at great pace towards the war and beyond. Hearing that, one might be forgiven for thinking it could be heavy handed and ponderous, but instead the action moves quickly and simply, with Quinn never allowing us to become bogged down in pity which can be at a readers' elbow whenever the tragic events of those four years are mentioned.
This chaotic world, in which the tennants of the Victorian era are slowly being broken down, is home to Constance and Will, the two central characters whose commitment to their causes mean that they end up hurting each other, but are simply unable to sever the link between them. Love, trust and friendship are the themes Quinn works with and in the end the reader is left acknowledging the seismic shift that has happened to the world between 1911 and 1920. It's a truly fascinating period of history to document and read about, and will inspire and enthrall readers of all ages.
P.S. In one of those serendipitous (is that a word? It is now) moments, I was in Blackwells today and stumbled across a book with almost the same cover as above .... 'The Ascent of Woman; A History of the Suffrage movement'. Needless to state, I bought it and look forward to reading more.
I admit to being drawn in initially by the cover, with its striking suffragette colours, but the desire to learn more about a subject that has always been at the edge of my consciousness, but about which I know little, caused me to pluck it from the pile last Saturday.
It's got a tremendously wide scope - starting in 1911 and moving at great pace towards the war and beyond. Hearing that, one might be forgiven for thinking it could be heavy handed and ponderous, but instead the action moves quickly and simply, with Quinn never allowing us to become bogged down in pity which can be at a readers' elbow whenever the tragic events of those four years are mentioned.
This chaotic world, in which the tennants of the Victorian era are slowly being broken down, is home to Constance and Will, the two central characters whose commitment to their causes mean that they end up hurting each other, but are simply unable to sever the link between them. Love, trust and friendship are the themes Quinn works with and in the end the reader is left acknowledging the seismic shift that has happened to the world between 1911 and 1920. It's a truly fascinating period of history to document and read about, and will inspire and enthrall readers of all ages.
P.S. In one of those serendipitous (is that a word? It is now) moments, I was in Blackwells today and stumbled across a book with almost the same cover as above .... 'The Ascent of Woman; A History of the Suffrage movement'. Needless to state, I bought it and look forward to reading more.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
Back in business (sort of)
It's been a long six months, and I have found myself battling a lot of things - none of which made me want to sit down and blog.
The goalposts of my life seem to have shifted. What was the point, I found myself asking, of writing these things down, when so many people do it much better than I, and with much greater depth? I was, however, loath to give up the thing entirely and close down that section of my life. I like to write about what is interesting, and even though I'm a lone voice, that doesn't mean I should cause it to stop me expressing my thoughts.
With this in mind, I have come to the conclusion that I will be better served if I don't try to compete. I should not restrict myself to books, for I will never manage to be ahead of the game and read the latest releases to inform you all of. I simply cannot afford it! Henceforth, I will attempt to put across my views on theatre, education, books - basically the world I see. Hopefully you'll still want to read (if you do), but even if not I'll have found a voice - which can be no bad thing.
The goalposts of my life seem to have shifted. What was the point, I found myself asking, of writing these things down, when so many people do it much better than I, and with much greater depth? I was, however, loath to give up the thing entirely and close down that section of my life. I like to write about what is interesting, and even though I'm a lone voice, that doesn't mean I should cause it to stop me expressing my thoughts.
With this in mind, I have come to the conclusion that I will be better served if I don't try to compete. I should not restrict myself to books, for I will never manage to be ahead of the game and read the latest releases to inform you all of. I simply cannot afford it! Henceforth, I will attempt to put across my views on theatre, education, books - basically the world I see. Hopefully you'll still want to read (if you do), but even if not I'll have found a voice - which can be no bad thing.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Questions
How is everyone? Has January been a good month for you, or are you glad it's almost over? Have you managed to read much this year? Do you like dogs? Does the buying of books fill you with any special pleasure? Have you taken a moment to wonder why I've not written anything so far that does not end with a question mark?
Are you one of those people who can go for a walk without an apparent destination? Does having time to read and drink coffee matter to you? What is your favourite manifestation of punctuation? How many mugs do you own? Have you heard of Padgett Powell? What are your favourite kind of flowers? Do you find split ends heartbreaking? Do you write a diary? Do you enjoy reading those that have been published? Are all these questions getting you down? What is your favourite piece of classical music? Do you think Bette Davis deserved a slap?
Do you wish I'd get to the point? Do you enjoy sunrise or sunset more? Do you think a book composed entirely of questions can be termed a novel? Do you read much fanfiction? Does a crisp white shirt do it for you? Can you credit the fact that I still buy books, even though I have enough unread to last me for over eight years? Is a pearl necklace somehow calming? Have I confused you? Would you ever start a war, if you could? Do you like the concept of royalty? Do you think Lawrence Olivier or Kenneth Brannah was better at Shakespeare? Can you conceive of a world without dogs? Should I stop now, or carry on indefinitely? Should you read 'The Interrogative Mood'? Do you need me to tell you yes or no?
Do you mind if I put a stop to this now and read something with no questions whatsoever? Will you seek out the book?
Are you one of those people who can go for a walk without an apparent destination? Does having time to read and drink coffee matter to you? What is your favourite manifestation of punctuation? How many mugs do you own? Have you heard of Padgett Powell? What are your favourite kind of flowers? Do you find split ends heartbreaking? Do you write a diary? Do you enjoy reading those that have been published? Are all these questions getting you down? What is your favourite piece of classical music? Do you think Bette Davis deserved a slap?
Do you wish I'd get to the point? Do you enjoy sunrise or sunset more? Do you think a book composed entirely of questions can be termed a novel? Do you read much fanfiction? Does a crisp white shirt do it for you? Can you credit the fact that I still buy books, even though I have enough unread to last me for over eight years? Is a pearl necklace somehow calming? Have I confused you? Would you ever start a war, if you could? Do you like the concept of royalty? Do you think Lawrence Olivier or Kenneth Brannah was better at Shakespeare? Can you conceive of a world without dogs? Should I stop now, or carry on indefinitely? Should you read 'The Interrogative Mood'? Do you need me to tell you yes or no?
Do you mind if I put a stop to this now and read something with no questions whatsoever? Will you seek out the book?
Sunday, 2 January 2011
New Year's Reformations
I should start this post by apologising for my extended absence. 2010 was an interesting year, but not one I could really write about. The last few months have pretty much been consumed by work - in part a way of ignoring other things that were going on about me. From September I barely had tme to read, and what I did manage seemed hardly worth talking about. I've never been one for the newest reads, and so I seemed to lose my reason for blogging in the face of so many other voices.
In view of tidying things up, here's a list of what I read in 2010
I started the new year in a very familiar way - by reading. However, I chose a non-fiction book. You may be able to tell from the list above that 2010 was dominated by fiction, and on leaving the house this morning I made a grab for 'Venice' by Peter Ackroyd. I've made small inroads into it, and am already fascinated by the way it weaves around the many layers of history - much like the city's many canals.
It's also made me make a decision about how I go about reading, and talking about it all. Whilst I may not comment on the newest things out there, I believe I can still take you all on a journey. We'll start in Venice, but after that who knows? I may take you to India or Greece; back in time to the Plantaganet era, or whisk you off into war torn London. There are a lot of strong women out there, and we might get accquainted with the Georgian Duchess of Devonshire, or perhaps her Tudor ancestor. Thomas Hardy might welcome us to his part of England, and Rasputin might issue a warning from the Russian Steppes.
Do not expect me to stand still this year - I'm broadening my horizons and I suggest you come along for the ride!
In view of tidying things up, here's a list of what I read in 2010
| Barbery, Muriel | The Elegance of the Hedgehog |
| Barker, Pat | Life Class |
| Byatt, A.S. | The Children's Book |
| Chevallier, Tracy | Remarkable Creatures |
| Christie, Agathe | Murder in Mesopotamia |
| Christie, Agathe | Dumb Witness |
| Christie, Agathe | The Moving Finger |
| Collins, Wilkie | The Moonstone |
| Collins, Wilkie | The Woman in White |
| De Santis, Pablo | The Paris Enigma |
| Dexter, Colin | The Way Through the Woods |
| Du Maurier, Daphne | Mary Anne |
| Du Maurier, Daphne | The House on the Strand |
| Dunant, Sarah | Sacred Hearts |
| Gaiman, Niel | The Graveyard Book |
| Grossmith, George and Wheedon | Diary of a Nobody |
| Hardy, Thomas | Jude the Obscure |
| Holt, Tom | Who's Afraid of Beowolf? |
| Holt, Tom | My Hero |
| HRH Princess Michael of Kent | The Serpent and the Moon |
| Kingsolver, Barbara | The Poisonwood Bible |
| Lake, Deryan | The King's Women |
| Laurens, Stephanie | The Ideal Bride |
| Maitland, Sarah | A Book of Silence |
| Mantel, Hilary | Wolf Hall |
| McCall Smith, Alexander | The Sunday Philosophy Club |
| Morton, Kate | The House at Riverton |
| Morton, Kate | The Distant Hours |
| Murdoch, Iris | The Bell |
| Picardie, Justine | Coco Chanel |
| Smith, P. Robert | Up a tree at night in a park with a hedgehog |
| Tolkein, J.R.R. | The Hobbit |
| Beerbohm, Max | Zuleika Dobson |
| Green, Grahame | Travels with my Aunt |
| Barbery, Muriel | The Gourmet |
| Gregory, Philippa | The White Queen |
I started the new year in a very familiar way - by reading. However, I chose a non-fiction book. You may be able to tell from the list above that 2010 was dominated by fiction, and on leaving the house this morning I made a grab for 'Venice' by Peter Ackroyd. I've made small inroads into it, and am already fascinated by the way it weaves around the many layers of history - much like the city's many canals.
It's also made me make a decision about how I go about reading, and talking about it all. Whilst I may not comment on the newest things out there, I believe I can still take you all on a journey. We'll start in Venice, but after that who knows? I may take you to India or Greece; back in time to the Plantaganet era, or whisk you off into war torn London. There are a lot of strong women out there, and we might get accquainted with the Georgian Duchess of Devonshire, or perhaps her Tudor ancestor. Thomas Hardy might welcome us to his part of England, and Rasputin might issue a warning from the Russian Steppes.
Do not expect me to stand still this year - I'm broadening my horizons and I suggest you come along for the ride!
Monday, 8 November 2010
Colouring around the facts
I was going through my back catalogue of posts, trying to spark an idea (having started out writing two posts this evening and failing to put my thoughts across coherently) when I discovered a post that I'd mistakenly left languishing as a draft back in 2008.
It does, however, say much which I still believe, so I thought I'd allow it to find it's audience after so long a wait in the wings. I've just spruced it up a bit - the wings can be an awfully dusty place ....
It should be no secret to those that have read this blog in the past to be told that I have always been fascinated by learning how a life was lived long ago. I have been hungry, ever since childhood, to know the most trivial or mundane details and perhaps this is why fiction seems to me to be such a suitable medium for capturing a life. I remember at the age of about eleven getting lost within the pages of 'Legacy' by Susan Kay - a wonderful narrative of Elizabeth I's life that wove the power of her status with the vulnerability of her personal life expertly and created a rich and broad tapestry whose focus seemed to shift with every new reading.
It can be hard for a straight biographer to do the same. Not unless you are Leon Edel or Martin Gilbert and intent on capturing for posterity every movement your subject makes (Henry James and Winston Churchill respectively) will you be able to devote the kind of microscopic attention to detail in a work of fact. The why and wherefore this is demanded as part of the package can drag the work down to the point of dullness. And if Winston Churchill was dull, then I'll take up smoking. This is where fiction allows a greater freedom.
A friend of mine, having read 'Regeneration' by Pat Barker, suggested that the true art of biographical fiction was the ability to 'paint around' the facts. This sums up, for me, the essence of what biographical fiction should be doing, and what - at its best - it does do. Many novels spring to mind which have biography at their hearts, but the ones which stand out to me as 'painting around' their central characters with the finest tools can be narrowed down to a select group.
2004 was, as David Lodge put it, 'the year of Henry James'. Three novels came out within months of each other, and it is 'Author, Author' by Lodge and 'The Master' by Colm Toibin that will always stand out for me, not least because of the way they managed to capture the essence of the man within their stories, although in very different ways.
These novels focus on the almost the same period of time; Lodge taking James' theatre career as the central theme, whilst Toibin uses the feelings of failure that arose from this unsuccessful period of James' life as his starting point. In one, James feels absolutely at the top of his game, ready to conquer the world, only to have his hopes dashed, and a friend (George du Maurier) appear to be much popular than he ever could be. In the other, James is in a world of depression, struggling to cope with the mere fact of his failure, but it is also a darker look at James' sexuality too. Both novels show a certain part of Henry James that perhaps isn't as well known as the figure of an extremely loquacious man that has been made so famous today. I think they are both fantastic - although only one was shortlisted the Booker prize - so perhaps my judgement isn't as sound as I'd like to believe.
In a biography the smaller details that the novels seek to address are sometimes cast aside to make room for larger events. 'Daphne' by Justine Picardie is just such a novel that seeks to throw the magnifying glass on smaller events that go into making a much larger one (in this case the writing of her biography on Branwell Bronte). You all know my enthusiasm for that novel, and I feel the need to borrow from Dovegreyreader, who wrote this (back in 2008) 'It's certainly hard to temper enthusiasm and not plunge overboard without a lifebelt when a book touches your heart.'
'Daphne' is certainly a novel that seeks to 'paint around' the general idea of one writing a book. Justine weaves so many threads into her novel, of deceit, jealousy, passion (both human and for literature), despair, obsession, madness, loss, failure. I could go on. I won't. We are allowed to view a side to Daphne that the public world would never see. A side aware of her own failures in her writing and in her personal life. Something that both Lodge and Toibin (Toibin to a greater extent) wrote about in their portrayals of James.
The point I am trying, inexpertly, to make, is that the genre of fiction is, by it's very essence, a natural way to present a life that has it's roots in reality. The books talked about above are ranked among my favourites, and that is because they are what I sought when younger - they fulfil the fascination I have for filling in the gaps, where the truth is just that little bit dusty.
It does, however, say much which I still believe, so I thought I'd allow it to find it's audience after so long a wait in the wings. I've just spruced it up a bit - the wings can be an awfully dusty place ....
It should be no secret to those that have read this blog in the past to be told that I have always been fascinated by learning how a life was lived long ago. I have been hungry, ever since childhood, to know the most trivial or mundane details and perhaps this is why fiction seems to me to be such a suitable medium for capturing a life. I remember at the age of about eleven getting lost within the pages of 'Legacy' by Susan Kay - a wonderful narrative of Elizabeth I's life that wove the power of her status with the vulnerability of her personal life expertly and created a rich and broad tapestry whose focus seemed to shift with every new reading.
It can be hard for a straight biographer to do the same. Not unless you are Leon Edel or Martin Gilbert and intent on capturing for posterity every movement your subject makes (Henry James and Winston Churchill respectively) will you be able to devote the kind of microscopic attention to detail in a work of fact. The why and wherefore this is demanded as part of the package can drag the work down to the point of dullness. And if Winston Churchill was dull, then I'll take up smoking. This is where fiction allows a greater freedom.
A friend of mine, having read 'Regeneration' by Pat Barker, suggested that the true art of biographical fiction was the ability to 'paint around' the facts. This sums up, for me, the essence of what biographical fiction should be doing, and what - at its best - it does do. Many novels spring to mind which have biography at their hearts, but the ones which stand out to me as 'painting around' their central characters with the finest tools can be narrowed down to a select group.
2004 was, as David Lodge put it, 'the year of Henry James'. Three novels came out within months of each other, and it is 'Author, Author' by Lodge and 'The Master' by Colm Toibin that will always stand out for me, not least because of the way they managed to capture the essence of the man within their stories, although in very different ways.
These novels focus on the almost the same period of time; Lodge taking James' theatre career as the central theme, whilst Toibin uses the feelings of failure that arose from this unsuccessful period of James' life as his starting point. In one, James feels absolutely at the top of his game, ready to conquer the world, only to have his hopes dashed, and a friend (George du Maurier) appear to be much popular than he ever could be. In the other, James is in a world of depression, struggling to cope with the mere fact of his failure, but it is also a darker look at James' sexuality too. Both novels show a certain part of Henry James that perhaps isn't as well known as the figure of an extremely loquacious man that has been made so famous today. I think they are both fantastic - although only one was shortlisted the Booker prize - so perhaps my judgement isn't as sound as I'd like to believe.
In a biography the smaller details that the novels seek to address are sometimes cast aside to make room for larger events. 'Daphne' by Justine Picardie is just such a novel that seeks to throw the magnifying glass on smaller events that go into making a much larger one (in this case the writing of her biography on Branwell Bronte). You all know my enthusiasm for that novel, and I feel the need to borrow from Dovegreyreader, who wrote this (back in 2008) 'It's certainly hard to temper enthusiasm and not plunge overboard without a lifebelt when a book touches your heart.'
'Daphne' is certainly a novel that seeks to 'paint around' the general idea of one writing a book. Justine weaves so many threads into her novel, of deceit, jealousy, passion (both human and for literature), despair, obsession, madness, loss, failure. I could go on. I won't. We are allowed to view a side to Daphne that the public world would never see. A side aware of her own failures in her writing and in her personal life. Something that both Lodge and Toibin (Toibin to a greater extent) wrote about in their portrayals of James.
The point I am trying, inexpertly, to make, is that the genre of fiction is, by it's very essence, a natural way to present a life that has it's roots in reality. The books talked about above are ranked among my favourites, and that is because they are what I sought when younger - they fulfil the fascination I have for filling in the gaps, where the truth is just that little bit dusty.
Poem of the week
An Arundel Tomb
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly, they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the glass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
Phillip Larkin
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