tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-342776492024-02-20T13:01:58.379+00:00Commonplace BookGail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.comBlogger283125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-69164663208436193932024-01-20T23:05:00.000+00:002024-01-20T23:05:01.466+00:00from Tom Brown's Schooldays, part II, chapter I, How the Tide Turned (Thomas Hughes)Within a few minutes therefore of their entry, all the other boys who slept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing, and talking to each other in whispers; while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed talking and laughing.<br /><br />“Please, Brown,” he whispered, “may I wash my face and hands?”<br /><br />“Of course, if you like,” said Tom, staring; “that's your washhand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the morning if you use it all.” And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.<br /><br />On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little lonely boy; however, this time he didn't ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.<br /><br />Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his back was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and sneered, and a big, brutal fellow who was standing in the middle of the room picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow.<br /><br />“Confound you, Brown! what's that for?” roared he, stamping with pain.<br /><br />“Never mind what I mean,” said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling; “if any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to get it.”<br /><br />What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his usual “Good-night, gen'lm'n.”<br /><br />There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.<br /><br />It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven the School, the tables turned; before he died, in the School-house at least, and I believe in the other house, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to school in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then he began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and then that it didn't matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not confess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.<br /><br />Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his heart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which he loathed was brought in and burnt in on his own soul. He had lied to his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do. The first dawn of comfort came to him in swearing to himself that he would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him, and help him, and bear his burdens for the good deed done that night. Then he resolved to write home next day and tell his mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And then peace came to him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford to let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him first all his old friends calling him “Saint” and “Square-toes,” and a dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be misunderstood, and he would only be left alone with the new boy; whereas it was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to the largest number. And then came the more subtle temptation, “Shall I not be showing myself braver than others by doing this? Have I any right to begin it now? Ought I not rather to pray in my own study, letting other boys know that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I should go on as I have done?” However, his good angel was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had been so strong, and in which he had found peace.<br />Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-7417515505917736032024-01-09T23:18:00.002+00:002024-01-09T23:18:24.983+00:00from Helena, chapter 11, Epiphany (Evelyn Waugh)<p>'Like me,' she said to them, 'you were late in coming. The shepherds were here long before; even the cattle. They had joined the chorus of angels before you were on your way. For you the primordial discipline of the heavens was relaxed and a new defiant light blazed amid the disconcerted stars.</p><p>'How laboriously you came, taking sights and calculating, where the shepherds had run barefoot! How odd you looked on the road, attended by what outlandish liveries, laden with such preposterous gifts!</p><p>'You came at length to the final stage of your pilgrimage and the great star stood still above you. What did you do? You stopped to call on King Herod. Deadly exchange of compliments in which began that unended war of mobs and magistrates against the innocent!</p><p>'Yet you came, and were not turned away. You too found room before the manger. Your gifts were not needed, but they were accepted and put carefully by, for they were brought with love. In that new order of charity that had just come to life, there was room for you, too. You were not lower in the eyes of the holy family than the ox or the ass.</p><p>'You are my especial patrons,' said Helena, 'and patrons of all late-comers, of all who have a tedious journey to make to the truth, of all who are confused with knowledge and speculation, of all who through politeness make themselves partners in guilt, of all who stand in danger by reason of their talents.</p><p>'Dear cousins, pray for me,' said Helena, 'and for my poor overloaded son. May he, too, before the end find kneeling-space in the straw. Pray for the great, lest they perish utterly. And pray for Lactantius and Marcias and the young poets of Trèves and for the souls of my wild, blind ancestors; for their sly foe Odysseus and for the great Longinus.</p><p>'For His sake who did not reject your curious gifts, pray always for all the learned, the oblique, the delicate. Let them not be quite forgotten at the Throne of God when the simple come into their kingdom.'</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-26262325343770131232024-01-09T23:02:00.003+00:002024-01-09T23:02:54.416+00:00from Little House on the Prairie, chapter 2, Crossing the Creek (Laura Ingalls Wilder)<p>'This creek's pretty high,' Pa said. 'But I guess we can make it all right. You can see this is a ford, by the old wheel ruts. What do you say, Caroline?'</p><p>'Whatever you say, Charles,' Ma answered.</p><p>Pet and Patty lifted their wet noses. They pricked their ears forward, looking at the creek; then they pricked them backward to hear what Pa would say. They sighed and laid their soft noses together to whisper to each other. A little way upstream, Jack was lapping the water with his red tongue.</p><p>'I'll tie down the wagon-cover,' Pa said. He climbed down from the seat, unrolled the canvas sides and tied them firmly to the wagon-box. Then he pulled the rope at the back, so that the canvas puckered together in the middle, leaving only a tiny round hole, too small to see through.</p><p>Mary huddled down on the bed. She did not like fords; she was afraid of the rushing water. But Laura was excited; she liked the splashing. Pa climbed to the seat, saying, 'They may have to swim, out there in the middle. But we'll make it all right, Caroline.'</p><p>Laura thought of Jack and said, 'I wish Jack could ride in the wagon, Pa.'</p><p>Pa did not answer. He gathered the reins tightly in his hands. Ma said, 'Jack can swim, Laura. He will be all right.'</p><p>The wagon went forward softly in mud. Water began to splash against the wheels. The splashing grew louder. The wagon shook as the noisy water struck at it. Then all at once the wagon lifted and balanced and swayed. It was a lovely feeling.</p><p>The noise stopped, and Ma said, sharply, 'Lie down, girls!'</p><p>Quick as a flash, Mary and Laura dropped flat on the bed. When Ma spoke like that, they did as they were told. Ma's arm pulled a smothering blanket over them, heads and all.</p><p>'Be still, just as you are. Don't move!' she said.</p><p>Mary did not move; she was trembling and still. But Laura could not help wriggling a little bit. She did so want to see what was happening. She could feel the wagon swaying and turning; the splashing was noisy again, and again it died away. Then Pa's voice frightened Laura. It said, 'Take them, Caroline!'</p><p>The wagon lurched; there was a sudden heavy splash beside it. Laura sat straight up and clawed the blanket from her head.</p><p>Pa was gone. Ma sat alone, holding tight to the reins with both hands. Mary hid her face in the blanket again, but Laura rose up farther. She couldn't see the creek bank. She couldn't see anything in front of the wagon but water rushing at it. And in the water, three heads; Pet's head and Patty's head and Pa's small, wet head. Pa's fist in the water was holding tight to Pet's bridle.</p><p>Laura could faintly hear Pa's voice through the rushing of the water. It sounded calm and cheerful, but she couldn't hear what he said. He was talking to the horses. Ma's face was white and scared.</p><p>'Lie down, Laura,' Ma said.</p><p>Laura lay down. She felt cold and sick. Her eyes were shut tight, but she could still see the terrible water and Pa's brown beard drowning in it.</p><p>For a long, long time the wagon swayed and swung, and Mary cried without making a sound, and Laura's stomach felt sicker and sicker. Then the front wheels struck and grated, and Pa shouted. The whole wagon jerked and jolted and tipped backward, but the wheels were turning on the ground. Laura was up again, holding to the seat; she saw Pet's and Patty's scrambling wet backs climbing a steep bank, and Pa running beside them, shouting, 'Hi, Patty! Hi, Pet! Get up! Get up! Whoopsy-daisy! Good girls!'</p><p>At the top of the bank they stood still, panting and dripping. And the wagon stood still, safely out of that creek.</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-64105696599002698782023-10-08T22:16:00.004+01:002023-10-08T22:16:43.079+01:00from letter no. 131 to Milton Waldman, 1951 (J.R.R. Tolkien)<p>It was begun in 1936, and every part has been written many times. Hardly a word in its 600,000 or more has been unconsidered. And the placing, size, style, and contribution to the whole of all the features, incidents, and chapters has been laboriously pondered. I do not say this in recommendation. It is, I feel, only too likely that I am deluded, lost in a web of vain imaginings of not much value to others - in spite of the fact that a few readers have found it good, on the whole. What I intend to say is this: I cannot substantially alter the thing. I have finished it, it is 'off my mind': the labour has been colossal; and it must stand or fall, practically as it is.</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-63533144222086545292023-10-06T23:47:00.005+01:002023-10-06T23:47:57.501+01:00from Farmer Boy, chapter 15, Cold Snap (Laura Ingalls Wilder)<p> The air was still and cold that night, and the stars had a wintry look. After supper Father went to the barns again. He shut the doors and the little wooden windows of the horses' stalls, and he put the ewes with their lambs into the fold.</p><p>When he came in, Mother asked if it was any warmer. Father shook his head.</p><p>'I do believe it is going to freeze,' he said.</p><p>'Pshaw! surely not!' Mother replied. But she looked worried.</p><p>Sometime in the night Almanzo felt cold, but he was too sleepy to do anything about it. Then he heard Mother calling:</p><p>'Royal! Almanzo!' He was too sleepy to open his eyes.</p><p>'Boys, get up! Hurry!' Mother called. 'The corn's frozen!'</p><p>He tumbled out of bed and pulled on his trousers. He couldn't keep his eyes open, his hands were clumsy, and big yawns almost dislocated his jaw. He staggered downstairs behind Royal.</p><p>Mother and Eliza Jane and Alice were putting on their hoods and shawls. The kitchen was cold; the fire had not been lighted. Outdoors everything looked strange. The grass was white with frost, and a cold green streak was in the eastern sky, but the air was dark.</p><p>Father hitched Bess and Beauty to the wagon. Royal pumped the watering-trough full. Almanzo helped Mother and the girls bring tubs and pails, and Father set barrels in the wagon. They filled the tubs and barrels full of water, and then they walked behind the wagon to the cornfield.</p><p>All the corn was frozen. The little leaves were stiff, and broke if you touched them. Only cold water would save the life of the corn. Every hill must be watered before the sunshine touched it, or the little plants would die. There would be no corn-crop that year.</p><p>The wagon stopped at the edge of the field. Father and Mother and Royal and Eliza Jane and Alice and Almanzo filled their pails with water, and they all went to work, as fast as they could.</p><p>Almanzo tried to hurry, but the pail was heavy and his legs were short. His wet fingers were cold, the water slopped against his legs, and he was terribly sleepy. He stumbled along the rows, and at every hill of corn he poured a little water over the frozen leaves.</p><p>The field seemed enormous. There were thousands and thousands of hills of corn. Almanzo began to be hungry. But he couldn't stop to complain. He must hurry, hurry, hurry, to save the corn.</p><p>The green in the east turned pink. Every moment the light brightened. At first the dark had been like a mist over the endless field, now Almanzo could see to the end of the long rows. He tried to work faster.</p><p>In an instant the earth turned from black to grey. The sun was coming to kill the corn.</p><p>Almanzo ran to fill his pail; he ran back. He ran down the rows, splashing water on the hills of corn. His shoulders ached and his arm ached and there was a pain in his side. The soft earth hung on to his feet. He was terribly hungry. But every splash of water saved a hill of corn.</p><p>In the grey light the corn had faint shadows now. All at once pale sunshine came over the field.</p><p>'Keep on!' Father shouted. So they all kept on; they didn't stop.</p><p>But in a little while Father gave up. 'No use!' he called. Nothing would save the corn after the sunshine touched it.</p><p>Almanzo set down his pail and straightened up against the ache in his back. He stood and looked at the cornfield. All the others stood and looked, too, and did not say anything. They had watered almost three acres. A quarter of an acre had not been watered. It was lost.</p><p>Almanzo trudged back to the wagon and climbed in. Father said:</p><p>'Let's be thankful we saved most of it.'</p><p>They rode sleepily down to the barns. Almanzo was not quite awake yet, and he was tired and cold and hungry. His hands were clumsy, doing the chores. But most of the corn was saved.</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-91185570302978911332023-10-06T23:22:00.000+01:002023-10-06T23:22:44.236+01:00from Far from the Madding Crowd, chapter XXI, Troubles in the Fold - A Message (Thomas Hardy)<span style="font-family: inherit;">Gabriel was already among the turgid, prostrate forms. He had flung off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and taken from his pocket the instrument of salvation. It was a small tube or trochar, with a lance passing down the inside; and Gabriel began to use it with a dexterity that would have graced a hospital surgeon. Passing his hand over the sheep’s left flank, and selecting the proper point, he punctured the skin and rumen with the lance as it stood in the tube; then he suddenly withdrew the lance, retaining the tube in its place. A current of air rushed up the tube, forcible enough to have extinguished a candle held at the orifice.<br /><br />It has been said that mere ease after torment is delight for a time; and the countenances of these poor creatures expressed it now. Forty-nine operations were successfully performed. Owing to the great hurry necessitated by the far-gone state of some of the flock, Gabriel missed his aim in one case, and in one only—striking wide of the mark, and inflicting a mortal blow at once upon the suffering ewe. Four had died; three recovered without an operation. The total number of sheep which had thus strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was fifty-seven.<br /><br />When the love-led man had ceased from his labours, Bathsheba came and looked him in the face.<br /><br />“Gabriel, will you stay on with me?” she said, smiling winningly, and not troubling to bring her lips quite together again at the end, because there was going to be another smile soon.<br /><br />“I will,” said Gabriel.<br /><br />And she smiled on him again.</span>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-72429371689828881732023-09-10T11:27:00.004+01:002023-09-10T11:27:55.880+01:00from Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded (Samuel Richardson)<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I came near the Place, as I had been devising, I said, Pray, step to the Gardener, and ask him to gather a Sallad for me to Dinner. She called out, <i>Jacob! </i></span>—<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i>Said I, he can’t hear you so far off; and pray tell him, I should like a Cucumber too, if he has one. When she had stept about a Bow-shot from me, I popt down, and whipt my Fingers under the upper Tile, and pulled out a little Letter, without Direction, and thrust it in my Bosom, trembling for Joy. She was with me before I could well secure it; and I was in such a taking, that I feared I should discover myself. You seem frighted, Madam, said she: Why, said I, with a lucky Thought, (alas! your poor Daughter will make an Intriguer by-and-by; but I hope an innocent one!) I stoopt to smell at the Sun-flower, and a great nasty Worm run into the Ground, that startled me; for I don't love Worms. Said she, Sun-flowers don’t smell. So I find, said I. And so we walked in; and Mrs. <i>Jewkes</i> said, Well, you have made haste in </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">— You shall go another time.</span>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-60261232516726133512023-05-30T22:22:00.002+01:002023-05-30T22:22:26.490+01:00from Over to Candleford, chapter XXVIII, Growing Pains (Flora Thompson)Her mother, with five children to keep and care for, was hard-pressed, especially as she still insisted upon living up to her old standard of what she called 'seemliness'. Her idea of good housekeeping was that every corner of the house should be clean, clean sheets should be on the beds, clean clothes on every one of the seven bodies for which she was responsible, a good dinner on the table and a cake in the pantry for tea by noon every Sunday. She would sit up sewing till midnight and rise before daybreak to wash clothes. But she had her reward.Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-74273223433055890972023-03-07T18:24:00.007+00:002023-03-07T18:24:55.724+00:00Autumn Journal IX (Louis MacNeice) Now we are back to normal, now the mind is<div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span>Back to the even tenor of the usual day</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Skidding no longer across the uneasy cambers</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> Of the nightmare way.</span><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>We are safe though others have crashed the railings</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span> Over the river ravine; their wheel-tracks carve the bank</span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span>But after the event all we can do is argue</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span> And count the widening ripples where they sank.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span>October comes with rain whipping around the ankles</span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span> In waves of white at night:</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span>And filling the raw clay trenches (the parks of London</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span> Are a nasty sight).</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span>In a week I return to work, lecturing, coaching,</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> As impresario of the Ancient Greeks</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span>Who wore the chiton and lived on fish and olives</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And talked philosophy or smut in cliques;</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Who believed in youth and did not gloze the unpleasant</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Consequences of age;</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>What is life, one said, or what is pleasant</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Once you have turned the page</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Of love? The days grow worse, the dice are loaded</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Against the living man who pays in tears for breath;</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Never to be born was the best, call no man happy</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> This side death.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Conscious - long before Engels - of necessity</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And therein free</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>They plotted out their life with truism and humour</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Between the jealous heaven and the callous sea.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>And Pindar sang the garland of wild olive</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And Alcibiades lived from hand to mouth</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Double-crossing Athens, Persia, Sparta,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And many died in the city of plague, and many of drouth</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>In Sicilian quarries, and many by the spear and arrow</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And many more who told their lies too late</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Caught in the eternal factions and reactions</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Of the city-state.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>And free speech shivered on the pikes of Macedonia</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span> And later on the swords of Rome</span><br /></div><div><span>And Athens became a mere university city</span></div><div><span><span> And the goddess born of the foam</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span>Became the kept hetaera, heroine of Menander,</span></span></div><div><span><span><span> And the philosopher narrowed his focus, confined</span><br /></span></span></div><div>His efforts to putting his own soul in order</div><div><span> And keeping a quiet mind.</span><br /></div><div><span>And for a thousand years they went on talking,</span></div><div><span><span> Making such apt remarks,</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span>A race no longer of heroes but of professors</span></span></div><div><span> And crooked business men and secretaries and clerks;</span><br /></div><div><span>Who turned out dapper little elegiac verses</span></div><div><span><span> On the ironies of fate, the transience of all</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span>Affections, carefully shunning an over-statement</span></span></div><div><span><span><span> But working the dying fall.</span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span>The Glory that was Greece: put it in a syllabus, grade it</span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span> Page by page</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>To train the mind or even to point a moral</span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span> For the present age:</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span>Models of logic and lucidity, dignity, sanity,</span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span> The golden mean between opposing ills</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span>Though there were exceptions of course but only exceptions - </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> The bloody Bacchanals on the Thracian hills.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>So the humanist in his room with Jacobean panels</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Chewing his pipe and looking on a lazy quad</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Chops the Ancient World to turn a sermon</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> To the greater glory of God.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>But I can do nothing so useful or so simple;</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> These dead are dead</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>And when I should remember the paragons of Hellas</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I think instead</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Of the crooks, the adventurers, the opportunists</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> The careless athletes and the fancy boys,</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>The hair-splitters, the pedants, the hard-boiled sceptics</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And the Agora and the noise</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Of the demagogues and the quacks; and the women pouring</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Libations over graves</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>And the trimmers at Delphi and the dummies at Sparta and lastly</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I think of the slaves.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>And how one can imagine oneself among them</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I do not know;</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>It was all so unimaginably different</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And all so long ago.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-19154009825021123972023-01-21T16:45:00.003+00:002023-01-21T16:45:23.270+00:00The Scholar-Gipsy (Matthew Arnold)<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;<br />Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!<br />No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,<br />Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,<br />Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head.<br />But when the fields are still,<br />And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,<br />And only the white sheep are sometimes seen<br />Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green,<br />Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!<br /><br />Here, where the reaper was at work of late—<br />In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves<br />His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,<br />And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,<br />Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use—<br />Here will I sit and wait,<br />While to my ear from uplands far away<br />The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,<br />With distant cries of reapers in the corn—<br />All the live murmur of a summer's day.<br /><br />Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field,<br />And here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.<br />Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,<br />And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see<br />Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;<br />And air-swept lindens yield<br />Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers<br />Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,<br />And bower me from the August sun with shade;<br />And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.<br /><br />And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book—<br />Come, let me read the oft-read tale again!<br />The story of the Oxford scholar poor,<br />Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,<br />Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door,<br />One summer-morn forsook<br />His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore,<br />And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood,<br />And came, as most men deem'd, to little good,<br />But came to Oxford and his friends no more.<br /><br />But once, years after, in the country-lanes,<br />Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,<br />Met him, and of his way of life enquired;<br />Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew,<br />His mates, had arts to rule as they desired<br />The workings of men's brains,<br />And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.<br />"And I," he said, "the secret of their art,<br />When fully learn'd, will to the world impart;<br />But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."<br /><br />This said, he left them, and return'd no more.—<br />But rumours hung about the country-side,<br />That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,<br />Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,<br />In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey,<br />The same the gipsies wore.<br />Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;<br />At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,<br />On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors<br />Had found him seated at their entering,<br /><br />But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.<br />And I myself seem half to know thy looks,<br />And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;<br />And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks<br />I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;<br />Or in my boat I lie<br />Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats,<br />'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,<br />And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills,<br />And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.<br /><br />For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground!<br />Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe,<br />Returning home on summer-nights, have met<br />Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,<br />Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,<br />As the punt's rope chops round;<br />And leaning backward in a pensive dream,<br />And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers<br />Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,<br />And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.<br /><br />And then they land, and thou art seen no more!—<br />Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come<br />To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,<br />Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,<br />Or cross a stile into the public way.<br />Oft thou hast given them store<br />Of flowers—the frail-leaf'd, white anemony,<br />Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves,<br />And purple orchises with spotted leaves—<br />But none hath words she can report of thee.<br /><br />And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here<br />In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,<br />Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass<br />Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames,<br />To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass,<br />Have often pass'd thee near<br />Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown;<br />Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,<br />Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—<br />But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone!<br /><br />At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills,<br />Where at her open door the housewife darns,<br />Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate<br />To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.<br />Children, who early range these slopes and late<br />For cresses from the rills,<br />Have known thee eyeing, all an April-day,<br />The springing pasture and the feeding kine;<br />And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine,<br />Through the long dewy grass move slow away.<br /><br />In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—<br />Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way<br />Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see<br />With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey,<br />Above the forest-ground called Thessaly—<br />The blackbird, picking food,<br />Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;<br />So often has he known thee past him stray,<br />Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray,<br />And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.<br /><br />And once, in winter, on the causeway chill<br />Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,<br />Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,<br />Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,<br />Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge?<br />And thou has climb'd the hill,<br />And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;<br />Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,<br />The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—<br />Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.<br /><br />But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown<br />Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,<br />And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe<br />That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls<br />To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;<br />And thou from earth art gone<br />Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—<br />Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave<br />Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,<br />Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.<br /><br />—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!<br />For what wears out the life of mortal men?<br />'Tis that from change to change their being rolls;<br />'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,<br />Exhaust the energy of strongest souls<br />And numb the elastic powers.<br />Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen,<br />And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,<br />To the just-pausing Genius we remit<br />Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.<br /><br />Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so?<br />Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire;<br />Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead!<br />Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire!<br />The generations of thy peers are fled,<br />And we ourselves shall go;<br />But thou possessest an immortal lot,<br />And we imagine thee exempt from age<br />And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page,<br />Because thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.<br /><br />For early didst thou leave the world, with powers<br />Fresh, undiverted to the world without,<br />Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;<br />Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,<br />Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.<br />O life unlike to ours!<br />Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,<br />Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives,<br />And each half lives a hundred different lives;<br />Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.<br /><br />Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,<br />Light half-believers of our casual creeds,<br />Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd,<br />Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,<br />Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd;<br />For whom each year we see<br />Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;<br />Who hesitate and falter life away,<br />And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—<br />Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too?<br /><br />Yes, we await it!—but it still delays,<br />And then we suffer! and amongst us one,<br />Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly<br />His seat upon the intellectual throne;<br />And all his store of sad experience he<br />Lays bare of wretched days;<br />Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs,<br />And how the dying spark of hope was fed,<br />And how the breast was soothed, and how the head,<br />And all his hourly varied anodynes.<br /><br />This for our wisest! and we others pine,<br />And wish the long unhappy dream would end,<br />And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;<br />With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend,<br />Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair—<br />But none has hope like thine!<br />Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray,<br />Roaming the country-side, a truant boy,<br />Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,<br />And every doubt long blown by time away.<br /><br />O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,<br />And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;<br />Before this strange disease of modern life,<br />With its sick hurry, its divided aims,<br />Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife—<br />Fly hence, our contact fear!<br />Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!<br />Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern<br />From her false friend's approach in Hades turn,<br />Wave us away, and keep thy solitude!<br /><br />Still nursing the unconquerable hope,<br />Still clutching the inviolable shade,<br />With a free, onward impulse brushing through,<br />By night, the silver'd branches of the glade—<br />Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,<br />On some mild pastoral slope<br />Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales<br />Freshen thy flowers as in former years<br />With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,<br />From the dark tingles, to the nightingales!<br /><br />But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!<br />For strong the infection of our mental strife,<br />Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;<br />And we should win thee from thy own fair life,<br />Like us distracted, and like us unblest.<br />Soon, soon thy cheer would die,<br />Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers,<br />And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made;<br />And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,<br />Fade and grow old at last, and die like ours.<br /><br />Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!<br />—As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,<br />Descried at sunrise an emerging prow<br />Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily,<br />The fringes of a southward-facing brow<br />Among the Ægæan Isles;<br />And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,<br />Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,<br />Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine—<br />And knew the intruders on his ancient home,<br /><br />The young light-hearted masters of the waves—<br />And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail;<br />And day and night held on indignantly<br />O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,<br />Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,<br />To where the Atlantic raves<br />Outside the western straits; and unbent sails<br />There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,<br />Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;<br />And on the beach undid his corded bales.</span></p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-2702989018501246182022-12-31T23:39:00.000+00:002022-12-31T23:39:01.394+00:00BC:AD (U.A. Fanthorpe)<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was the moment when Before<br />Turned into After, and the future's<br />Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.<br /><br />This was the moment when nothing<br />Happened. Only dull peace<br />Sprawled boringly over the earth.<br /><br />This was the moment when even energetic Romans<br />Could find nothing better to do<br />Than counting heads in remote provinces.<br /><br />And this was the moment<br />When a few farm workers and three<br />Members of an obscure Persian sect<br />Walked haphazard by starlight straight<br />Into the kingdom of heaven.</span>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-3023653165217983032022-12-31T23:27:00.000+00:002022-12-31T23:27:39.329+00:00Introduction from Delia Smith's Christmas (Delia Smith)<p>If there's one person in the world who probably needs this book more than anyone else, it's me. For years my own Christmas preparations have been, to say the least, fragmented and fraught: recipes here, notes there, and fading memories of what I might have done last year if only I could be sure! What I needed, it seemed to me, was a sort of personal Christmas organiser, something I could reach for in October and keep by me as a guide all the way through to the point where the last of the Christmas leftovers have been dealt with.</p><p>Then I began to think: if that's what <i>I</i> need, how many other people might need the same? It would be nice of course to be able to say at this point that the contents of this book can zip you through all that Christmas catering without a worry or a care. Unfortunately that is not the case, because unless you are superhuman, believe me, there will still be some hectic days ahead of you. But what I have set out to do here is to be a sort of friend in the background, providing practical information, offering new and different recipes (as well as the more traditional ones), and if not entirely removing the pressure of Christmas cooking then going some way to ensuring its success.</p><p>Christmas has its critics and, if we were honest, I'm sure each one of us has, at some time, wished we could quietly quit the planet and come back when it was over. On the other hand, at what other time of the year can we turn our minds to the sheer joy of feasting? The sharing of fine food and wines with family and friends is a deeply ingrained human (as well as religious) activity, without which our lives would surely be diminished.</p><p>As a veteran of many a Christmas campaign, my final message to you is not to worry. You will be pressured, you will get grumpy, but it <i>will</i> all be worth it. Just set your mind on that glorious moment on Christmas Day when the last of the washing-up has been done. By then you will probably have enough food in the house to last for several days, so fill your glass, put your feet up and forget all about it for another year!</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-73390352837252775472022-12-31T23:16:00.001+00:002022-12-31T23:16:20.303+00:00from Farmer Boy (Laura Ingalls Wilder)<p> The kitchen was full of hoopskirts, balancing and swirling ...</p><p>... Almanzo tried to fill more baskets than Alice, but he couldn't. She worked so fast that she was turning back to the bin while her hoopskirts were still whirling the other way.</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-43588345334416900712022-05-19T01:47:00.002+01:002022-05-19T01:47:40.312+01:00from The Lord of the Rings, book 3, chapter 10, The Voice of Saruman (J.R.R. Tolkien)<p>'Do you indeed?' said Gandalf. 'Well, I do not. I have now a last task to do before I go: I must pay Saruman a farewell visit. Dangerous, and probably useless; but it must be done. Those of you who wish may come with me - but beware! And do not jest! This is not the time for it.'</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-8652890729080266942022-05-17T22:44:00.003+01:002022-05-17T22:44:34.170+01:00Bellum Civile 4.121-3 (Lucan)sed parvo Fortuna viri contenta pavore<br />plena redit, solitoque magis favere secundi<br />et veniam meruere dei.<div><br /></div><div>But Fortuna, content with having frightened her favourite a little, returned in full, and, exercising their favour even more than usual, the gods earned forgiveness.</div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-35731589848920779582022-05-17T22:33:00.000+01:002022-05-17T22:33:02.858+01:00from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, chapter thirty-eight, The Second War Begins (J.K. Rowling)<p> 'Yes, it was rather horrible,' said Luna conversationally. 'I still feel very sad about it sometimes.'</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-72632633779766270212022-03-02T23:00:00.004+00:002022-03-02T23:00:55.156+00:00In Westminster Abbey (John Betjeman)<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let me take this other glove off<br />As the <i>vox humana</i> swells,<br />And the beauteous fields of Eden<br />Bask beneath the Abbey bells.<br />Here, where England's statesmen lie,<br />Listen to a lady's cry.<br /><br />Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans,<br />Spare their women for Thy Sake,<br />And if that is not too easy<br />We will pardon Thy Mistake.<br />But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be,<br />Don't let anyone bomb me.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Keep our Empire undismembered</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Guide our Forces by Thy Hand,<br />Gallant blacks from far Jamaica,<br />Honduras and Togoland;<br />Protect them Lord in all their fights,<br />And, even more, protect the whites.<br /><br />Think of what our Nation stands for,<br />Books from Boots' and country lanes,<br />Free speech, free passes, class distinction,<br />Democracy and proper drains.<br />Lord, put beneath Thy special care<br />One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square.<br /><br />Although dear Lord I am a sinner,<br />I have done no major crime;<br />Now I'll come to Evening Service<br />Whensoever I have the time.<br />So, Lord, reserve for me a crown,<br />And do not let my shares go down.<br /><br />I will labour for Thy Kingdom,<br />Help our lads to win the war,<br />Send white feathers to the cowards<br />Join the Women's Army Corps,<br />Then wash the steps around Thy Throne<br />In the Eternal Safety Zone.<br /><br />Now I feel a little better,<br />What a treat to hear Thy Word,<br />Where the bones of leading statesmen<br />Have so often been interr'd.<br />And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait<br />Because I have a luncheon date.</span></div></div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-6583040773002201562022-01-05T23:58:00.001+00:002022-01-05T23:58:04.620+00:00from The Balkan Trilogy (Olivia Manning)<p>The difficulty of dealing with Guy, she thought, lay in the fact that he was so often right. She and Clarence could claim that their evening had been spoilt by the presence of Dubedat. She knew it had, in fact, been spoilt not by Guy's generosity but their own lack of it. </p><p>-</p><p>Guy had taken her there once but the visit had depressed her. She liked the Greek boys but was shy with them - being so constituted that she could cope with only one or two people at a time; but Guy, she saw, was having the time of his life. He was an adolescent among adolescents, and they were all elevated by the belief that, together, they would reform the world. She was made uneasy by their faith in certain political leaders, their condemnation of others, the atmosphere of conspiracy and her own guilty self-doubt. She was an individual and as such had no hope of reforming the world. The stories that inspired them - stories of injustic and misery - merely roused in her a sense of personal failure.</p><p>'But you must sacrifice your individuality,' Guy told her. 'It's nothing but egoism. You must unite with other right-thinking, self-abnegating people - then you can achieve anything.'</p><p>The idea filled her with gloom.</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-41382180496938835912021-12-26T22:24:00.003+00:002021-12-26T22:25:50.902+00:00I Stop Writing the Poem (Tess Gallagher)<span style="font-family: inherit;">to fold the clothes. No matter who lives<br />or who dies, I'm still a woman.<br />I'll always have plenty to do.<br />I bring the arms of his shirt<br />together. Nothing can stop<br />our tenderness. I'll get back<br />to the poem. I'll get back to being<br />a woman. But for now<br />there's a shirt, a giant shirt<br />in my hands, and somewhere a small girl<br />standing next to her mother<br />watching to see how it's done.</span><br />Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-73505784877354578062021-12-26T22:21:00.006+00:002021-12-26T22:22:26.478+00:00from Lark Rise, chapter XV, Harvest Home (Flora Thompson)<div style="text-align: left;">After the jubilee nothing ever seemed quite the same. The old Rector died and the farmer, who had seemed immovable excepting by death, had to retire to make way for the heir of the landowning nobleman who intended to farm the family estates himself. He brought with him the new self-binding reaping machine and women were no longer required in the harvest field. At the hamlet several new brides took possession of houses previously occupied by elderly people and brought new ideas into the place. The last of the bustles disappeared and leg-o'-mutton sleeves were 'all the go'. The new Rector's wife took her Mothers' Meeting women for a trip to London. Babies were christened new names; Wanda was one, Gwendolin another. The innkeeper's wife got in cases of tinned salmon and Australian rabbit. The Sanitary Inspector appeared for the first time at the hamlet and shook his head over the pigsties and privies. Wages rose, prices soared, and new needs multiplied. People began to speak of 'before the jubilee' much as we in the nineteen-twenties spoke of 'before the war', either as a golden time or as one of exploded ideas, according to the age of the speaker.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And all the time boys were being born or growing up in the parish, expecting to follow the plough all their lives, or, at most, to do a little mild soldiering or go to work in a town. Gallipoli? Kut? Vimy Ridge? Ypres? What did they know of such places? But they were to know them, and when the time came they did not flinch. Eleven out of that tiny community never came back again. A brass plate on the wall of the church immediately over the old end house seat is engraved with their names. A double column, five names long, then, last and alone, the name of Edmund.</div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-50799729421015940072021-12-26T22:12:00.003+00:002021-12-26T22:13:54.299+00:00Epistles 1.9 to Minicius Fundanus (Pliny the Younger, trans. adapted from Betty Radice) Mirum est quam singulis diebus in urbe ratio aut constet aut constare videatur, pluribus iunctisque <br />non constet. Nam si quem interroges “Hodie quid egisti?,” respondeat: “Officio togae virilis interfui, sponsalia aut nuptias frequentavi, ille me ad signandum testamentum, ille in advocationem, ille in consilium rogavit.” Haec quo die feceris, necessaria, eadem, si cotidie fecisse te reputes, inania videntur, multo magis cum secesseris. Tunc enim subit recordatio: “Quot dies quam frigidis rebus absumpsi!” Quod evenit mihi, postquam in Laurentino meo aut lego aliquid aut scribo aut etiam corpori vaco, cuius fulturis animus sustinetur. Nihil audio quod audisse, nihil dico quod dixisse paeniteat; nemo apud me quemquam sinistris sermonibus carpit, neminem ipse reprehendo, nisi tamen me cum parum commode scribo; nulla spe nullo timore sollicitor, nullis rumoribus inquietor: mecum tantum et cum libellis loquor. O rectam sinceramque vitam! O dulce otium honestumque ac paene omni negotio pulchrius! O mare, o litus, verum secretumque μουσεῖον, quam multa invenitis, quam multa dictatis! Proinde tu quoque strepitum istum inanemque discursum et multum ineptos labores, ut primum fuerit occasio, relinque teque studiis vel otio trade. Satius est enim, ut Atilius noster eruditissime simul et facetissime dixit, otiosum esse quam nihil agere. Vale.<div><br />It is extraordinary how, if one takes a single day spent in Rome, one can give a more or less accurate account of it, but scarcely any account at all of several days put together. If you ask anyone “What did you do today?”, the answer would be: “I was present at a coming-of-age ceremony, a betrothal, or a wedding. I was called on to witness a will, to support someone in court or to act as assessor.” All this seems important on the actual day, but quite pointless if you consider that you have done the same sort of thing every day, and much more pointless if you think about it when you are out of town. It is then that the realisation comes to you, “How many days I have wasted in trivialities!” I always realise this when I am at Laurentum, reading and writing and finding time to take the exercise which keeps my mind fit for work. There is nothing there for me to say or hear said which I would afterwards regret, no one disturbs me with malicious gossip, and I have no one to blame—but myself—when writing doesn’t come easily. Hopes and fears do not worry me, and I am not bothered by idle talk; I share my thoughts with myself and my books. It is a good life and a genuine one, a seclusion which is happy and honourable, more rewarding than almost any business can be. The sea and shore are truly my private Mouseion, an endless source of inspiration. You should take the first opportunity yourself to leave the din, the futile bustle and useless occupations of the city and devote yourself to literature or to leisure. For it was wise as well as witty of our friend Atilius to say that it is better to have no work to do than to work at nothing. xx</div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-2879967786691143952021-10-27T21:42:00.003+01:002021-10-27T21:42:32.550+01:00from Boy, Goodbye School (Roald Dahl)<p>After that we spent months at the Head Office in London learning how the great company functioned from the inside. I was still living in Bexley, Kent, with my mother and three sisters, and every morning, six days a week, Saturdays included, I would dress neatly in a sombre grey suit, have breakfast at seven forty-five and then, with a brown trilby on my head and a furled umbrella in my hand, I would board the eight-fifteen train to London together with a swarm of equally sombre-suited businessmen. I found it very easy to fall into their pattern. We were all very serious and dignified gents taking the train to our offices in the City of London where each of us, so we thought, was engaged in high finance and other enormously important matters. Most of my companions wore hard bowler hats, and a few like me wore soft trilbys, but not one of us on that train in the year of 1934 went bareheaded. It wasn't done. And none of us, even on the sunniest days, went without his furled umbrella. The umbrella was our badge of office. We felt naked without it. Also it was a sign of respectability. Road-menders and plumbers never went to work with umbrellas. Businessmen did.</p><p>I enjoyed it, I really did. I began to realize how simple life could be if one had a regular routine to follow with fixed hours and a fixed salary and very little original thinking to do. The life of a writer is absolute hell compared with the life of a businessman. The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him. If he is a writer of fiction he lives in a world of fear. Each day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it.</p>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-78609789314782797062021-06-18T11:55:00.004+01:002021-06-18T11:55:50.804+01:00from The Watsons (Jane Austen)<span style="font-family: inherit;">With much concern they took their seats - Lord Osborne near Emma, and the convenient Mr. Musgrave in high spirits at his own importance, on the other side of the fireplace with Elizabeth. <i>He</i> was at no loss for words; - but when Lord Osborne had hoped that Emma had not caught cold at the ball, he had nothing more to say for some time, and could only gratify his eye by occasional glances at his fair neighbour. </span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Emma was not inclined to give herself much trouble for his entertainment - and after hard labour of mind, he produced the remark of its being a very fine day, and followed it up with the question of, 'Have you been walking this morning?'<br /><br />'No, my lord. We thought it too dirty.'<br /><br />'You should wear half-boots.' - After another pause, 'Nothing sets off a neat ankle more than a half-boot; nankin galoshed with black looks very well. - Do not you like half-boots?'<br /><br />'Yes - but unless they are so stout as to injure their beauty, they are not fit for country walking.'<br /><br />'Ladies should ride in dirty weather. - Do you ride?'<br /><br />'No my lord.'<br /><br />'I wonder every lady does not. - A woman never looks better than on horseback. -'<br /><br />'But every woman may not have the inclination, or the means.'<br /><br />'If they knew how much it became them, they would all have the inclination, and I fancy Miss Watson - when once they had the inclination, the means would soon follow.'<br /><br />'Your lordship thinks we always have our own way. - <i>That</i> is a point on which ladies and gentlemen have long disagreed. - But without pretending to decide it, I may say that there are some circumstances which even <i>women</i> cannot control. Female economy will do a great deal my Lord, but it cannot turn a small income into a large one.'</span></div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-18911878542348653692021-03-21T22:49:00.001+00:002021-03-21T22:49:03.869+00:00from My Family and Other Animals, The Return (Gerald Durrell)Our mountain of possessions was arranged in the Customs shed, and Mother stood by it jangling an enormous
bunch of keys. Outside in the brilliant white sunlight the
rest of the family talked with Theodore and Kralefsky, who
had come to see us off. The Customs officer made his appearance and wilted slightly at the sight of our mound of
baggage, crowned with a cage from which the Magenpies
peered malevolently. Mother smiled nervously and shook her keys, looking as guilty as a diamond smuggler. The Customs man surveyed Mother and the luggage, tightened his
belt, and frowned. <div><br /></div><div>'Theese your?' he inquired, making quite sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>'Yes, yes, all mine,' twittered Mother, playing a rapid
solo on her keys. 'Did you want me to open anything?'</div><div><br /></div><div>The Customs man considered, pursing his lips thoughtfully.</div><div><br /></div><div>'Hoff yew any noo clooes?' he asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>'I’m sorry?' said Mother.</div><div><br /></div><div>'Hoff yew any noo clooes?'</div><div><br /></div><div>Mother cast a desperate glance round for Spiro.</div><div><br /></div><div>'I’m so sorry. I didn’t quite catch ...'</div><div><br /></div><div>'Hoff yew any noo clooes ... any noo clooes?'</div><div><br /></div><div>Mother smiled with desperate charm.</div><div><br /></div><div>'I’m sorry I can’t quite ...'</div><div><br /></div><div>The Customs man fixed her with an angry eye.</div><div><br /></div><div>'Madame,' he said ominously, leaning over the counter, 'do yew spik English?'</div><div><br /></div><div>'Oh, yes,' exclaimed Mother, delighted at having understood him, 'yes, a little.'</div><div><br /></div><div>She was saved from the wrath of the man by the timely
arrival of Spiro. He lumbered in, sweating profusely,
soothed Mother, calmed the Customs man, explained that
we had not had any new clothes for years, and had the
luggage shifted outside on to the quay almost before anyone could draw breath. Then he borrowed the Customs
man’s piece of chalk and marked all the baggage himself, so
there would be no further confusion. <br /></div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34277649.post-32859375689067402822021-03-21T22:38:00.007+00:002021-03-21T22:38:53.991+00:00from 'On Keeping a Notebook' (Joan Didion)It all comes back. Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in having one’s self back in that kind of mood, but I do see it; I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be; one of them, a seventeen year-old, presents little threat, although it would be of some interest to me to know again what it feels like to sit on a river levee drinking vodka-and-orange-juice and listening to Les Paul and Mary Ford and their echoes sing “How High the Moon” on the car radio. (You see I still have the scenes, but I no longer perceive myself among those present, no longer could even improvise the dialogue.) The other one, a twenty-three-year-old, bothers me more. She was always a good deal of trouble, and I suspect she will reappear when I least want to see her, skirts too long, shy to the point of aggravation, always the injured party, full of recriminations and little hurts and stories I do not want to hear again, at once saddening me and angering me with her vulnerability and ignorance, an apparition all the more insistent for being so long banished.<div><br />It is a good idea, then, to keep in touch, and I suppose that keeping in touch is what notebooks are all about. </div>Gail Westhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05251346166825114207noreply@blogger.com0