a gallimaufry

A Nocturnall upon S. Lucies day, Being the shortest day, by John Donne

(Aert van der Neer, Landscape with a mill in the moonlight, oil on canvas; found here)

’Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
         The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
         Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
                The worlds whole sap is sunke:
The generall balme th’ hydroptique earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunke,
Dead and enterr’d; yet all these seeme to laugh,
Compar’d with me, who am their Epitaph.

 

Study me then, you who shall lovers bee
At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:
         For I am every dead thing,
         In whom Love wrought new Alchimie.
                For his art did expresse
A quintessence even from nothingnesse,
From dull privations, and leane emptinesse;
He ruin’d mee, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darknesse, death; things which are not.

 

All others, from all things, draw all that’s good,
Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have;
         I, by loves limbecke, am the grave
         Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood
                Have wee two wept, and so
Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two Chaosses, when we did show
Care to ought else; and often absences
Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.

 

But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;
         Were I a man, that I were one,
         I needs must know; I should preferre,
                If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; All, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

 

But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.
You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne
         At this time to the Goat is runne
         To fetch new lust, and give it you,
                Enjoy your summer all;
Since shee enjoys her long nights festivall,
Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call
This houre her Vigill, and her Eve, since this
Both the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.

(From Donne: Poetical Works, ed. Herbert J.C. Grierson, OUP 1929)

(Ferdinand Keller, Böcklin’s Tomb, 1901–1902; oil on canvas; found here)

‘Bermudas’, by Andrew Marvell

Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean’s bosom unespied
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song.
    ‘What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate’s rage,
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pom’granates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet,
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, he stores the land.
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel’s pearl upon our coast,
And in those rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.
Oh let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at heaven’s vault:
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.’
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note,
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

Sometimes I post poems here (though only those out of copyright!) and today I felt like posting this one. I like Marvell’s poetry and I like the fact that much of it is so ambiguous – ‘Bermudas’ is, in my opinion, no exception. At first glance it seems a hearty seventeenth-century endorsement of colonialism and of the paradisical nature of the Bermudas, which it seems had long been associated with Puritan emigrants. Marvell probably wrote it in 1653, when he was living in the house of John Oxenbridge, a Non-conformist divine and commissioner with responsibility for the Bermudas. It draws particularly on the Psalms. But there are complications. We know that the rowers are in an English boat but not who they are or where they are going (not far, presumably, since it’s a small boat). Nor is it clear at all why they are keeping time with their oars in order ‘to guide their chime’, rather than singing to help them keep time with their rowing as would seem natural.

The luxuriantly sensual nature of the imagery doesn’t seem to be quite the sort of thing that Puritans and Non-conformists fleeing England should be celebrating. There is perhaps something rather oppressive in the abundant fertility, the figs pressing themselves to ‘our mouths’ and the melons being thrown at ‘our feet’, or so it seems to me; in any case, it’s all slightly comical and over the top. It was by then known in England that the Bermudas were not at all like this and were distinctly lacking in pomegranates stuffed with jewels, so if this is supposed to be propaganda, it’s odd. And while the oarsmen celebrate the Bermudas, they are not there, only nearby, at sea, working so that they can sing.

Since Marvell’s other poetry is riddled with complications and ambiguities to the point that his own views are often obscured, I don’t think accepting this poem at face value really works. But what is it really about? Is it a sort of allegory of life and are the rowers souls seeking Heaven – but, erroneously believing that Heaven is filled with fleshly delights and riches, unable ever quite to reach it? Does that interpretation even begin to work? I really don’t know, but I love the poem.

There’s an interesting article about ‘Bermudas’ here.

(‘The Tree of Life’, embroidered canvas, British, from the first half of the seventeenth century; given to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, in 1964 by Irwin Untermeyer and found here. The Tree of Life shown here is a multi-fruiting tree which grows in the City of God and is described in Revelations; it is entwined with a vine symbolizing the Passion of Christ and the promise of eternal life. Isn’t it lovely?)

The Liebster Award (I)

I was touched and honoured, when pottering over to Tales from the Reading Room, to find that litlove had very kindly given me – along with Miss Darcy, Desperate Reader, Dolce Bellezza, Nooks & Crannies, Mrs Carmichael and Curate’s Egg – a Liebster Award! It’s the first award and also first meme I’ve ever received; I feel a little bit as if I’ve ‘arrived’ in the land of blogs...

The Liebster Award is given to web-logs with fewer than 200 followers. You answer the seven questions posed by the person who gave you the award, and then devise a further seven which you give to seven people to whom you in turn award the Liebster. I loved litlove’s questions, in fact I couldn’t get to sleep that night for fantasising over my ideal study God I am sad, only to find that kind Miss Darcy had also given me a Liebster Award (here I am in the fine company of ). Well, I may say that I have been secretly swanking about since then, two awards eh?, and the knowledge has cheered me through a week of hard work, I know the majority of the world works hard but I am lazy and find it a struggle, I have the temperament of a princess rather than an ordinary working person and it’s too bad that I am indeed an ordinary working person.

What with all the work (which I should be doing now, but I have no self-discipline) and not wanting to flood the internets with my opinions all at once, I am going to answer litlove’s questions this week and Miss Darcy’s next. I am also facing the problem of tagging fourteen readers – I don’t think I have fourteen readers, let alone fourteen readers with blogs with fewer than 200 hundred followers. Hmm.

1. What do you think of literary prizes? Good idea or bad?

I used to accept the idea of prizes unquestioningly. Then I went through a period of doubt. I like them because the longlists and shortlists may bring to my attention novels I would not otherwise find (especially now I live outside Britain). If you look back at all the Booker winners, for instance, I think you see interesting snapshots of the literary establishment, what sort of novel might be valued at any given moment, how tastes change. Literary prizes can drag literature into the news, and encourage people who don’t read a lot of books to pick up a collection of poetry or a biography or novel ‘safe’ in the knowledge that others have deemed this particular volume to be ‘good’ and they are unlikely to waste their time or money. On the other hand, I dislike the idea of there being a ‘winner’ among art forms and the implication that this novel is ‘better’ than that one, when there is inevitably such a hearty dollop of personal taste involved in the selection. Everyone loves the suspense of a competition, but I think really I’d prefer it if prizes were awarded to a shortlist rather than one single book, perhaps six Booker winners per year instead of one, for instance.

2. If you could write any sort of book, what would you write?

(Woman with a writing tablet, fresco, Pompeii 1st century AD; from here)

Since this isn’t contingent on talent... I’d write a novel which experimented with form or language but yet was richly perceptive in its portrayal of character and had something about it which would compel the reader to the end (perhaps plot, perhaps not). It would be the sort of novel which would change for ever the reader’s view of the world, and which would be, like Jane Eyre, regularly cited by people in years to come as something which changed their lives.

3. Describe your ideal home library/study.

This was such fun! My ideal library or study would be accessed by fireman’s pole or, for the untrousered or less nimble, a velvet-and-gilt, slightly zippier version of a Stannah stairlift, which would spiral gently downwards round the pole. The room would be wood panelled, perhaps hexagonal, the walls lined with bookshelves, there would be windows with deep window-seats and views over a garden of apple trees and old roses. There would be treasured paintings hanging on the walls and a large globe. The ceiling would be decorated white plasterwork and there would be a fireplace with a Jacobean mantelpiece, carved grotesques on it which would flicker and dance in the firelight. (A fire in winter would keep all those books on their toes.) A device for hanging a kettle over the flames, a toasting fork for teacakes, a tea service, caddy of tea and other tea-making necessities would all be to hand, while a tray on a polished table would hold sherry, whisky and glasses to fortify the imagination when required. A couple of comfortable old armchairs for visitors would be pulled up near a day bed where I’d generally be found, because I prefer reading lying down. Faded Persian rugs on the stone-flagged or wooden floor on which a couple of fat smelly old dogs would doze (sorry Mister Puss) and a massive desk with ample space for all my heaps of messy papers, oh and I’d have a fancy set of ink bottles for my fountain pens. There would be a secret panel to hide my cheese supply, and a couple of whizzy ladders on wheels for reaching distant books (more than one ladder would offer the opportunity of races). The entire room would magically clean itself and the bookshelves stretch themselves to accommodate new purchases. Actually I’d never leave.

4. Name two new authors whose work you think will last the test of time, and explain your choices.

I’ve fallen out of the habit of reading contemporary fiction rather, so this is tricky. I am going to restrict myself to British adult literature because I know very little about other English literary traditions and almost any novel which succeeds in being translated out of its first language into English is on a fast track to classic status within its own culture at least, so choosing it feels like cheating. I first thought of Beryl Bainbridge with her idiosyncratic eye, but sadly she is no longer publishing. On the strength of The Accidental, which I read a few weeks ago, I’d say Ali Smith had a good claim on the future. I’d also nominate Susanna Clarke because although she has only published one novel and one excellent collection of short stories, she almost single-handedly changed the wider reading public’s opinion of fantasy novels with Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell and thus I think has an assured place in literary history. (Image of Susanna Clarke from the Bloomsbury Publishing site.)

5. Which books do you hope to get for Christmas?

I should be particularly pleased to receive Richard Holmes’s The Age of Wonder: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science and Antal Szerb’s The Queen’s Necklace, although that would be a bittersweet gift as it would be the last of Szerb’s works I’d be reading for the first time.

6.  What’s the last book you did not finish and why?

I rarely abandon a book because I have become quite good at finding books with something that will interest me, and I’m prepared to work reasonably hard to find that. Recently I read The Storyteller by Mario Varga Llosa and that was a struggle at first, I wasn’t initially keen on the passages narrated by someone who is ostensibly a Machiguenga Indian, but I pushed on and soon began to understand the book better and enjoy it. Like many of you I have a hefty number of unread books lying around, plus plenty of books I’d like to reread, so I can generally find one which suits my mood. And yet, I must say there is a book which I haven’t finally cast into the outer darkness but which I haven’t finished and am finding problematic, and I am not sure why. It’s The Lives of the Muses: Nine Women and the Artists they Inspired, by Francine Prose. The author writes well, the biographies are well researched, and yet… I feel a lack somewhere. I can’t work out if it’s the nature of the book to which I object – the biographies have to be short and I wanted more – or the fact that the women whose chapters I read first – Alice Liddell, Lizzy Siddal and Lou Andreas Salomé – seemed to inspire such dislike in Prose, and I prefer biographies whose authors are to some degree sympathetic with their subjects, or that I felt that too much of the lives were too clearly filtered through Prose’s own analysis for my taste to the degree that I had no space for my own impressions (and that analysis is presented as objective). But then I think I am punishing this book for not being what I want it to be, rather than judging it for what it is. Has anyone else read it? Enjoyed it? Anyway, we are not getting on, and I cannot help contrasting it with a book on a similar subject, Kate Zambreno’s Heroines, which I am zipping through – it’s messy, repetitive, personal, angry, partisan, annoying (!) and more my cup of tea.

7. Would you accept 20 books that were absolutely perfect for you and dependably brilliant reads, if they were also the last 20 books you could ever acquire?

No no no! Even if ‘acquire’ excludes borrowing from the library. It would be like shutting me out of the sweet shop. I don’t want anything dependable or perfect for me, I want flawed and prickly and I want to explore and change as I read...

(A mermaid, fish and other animals depicted in the Jacobean plasterwork overmantle of the Kings Room at Westwood Manor, near Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire; National Trust; ©NTPL/Robert Morris)

And now my seven questions, two of which I am stealing from litlove because I enjoyed them:

1. Describe your ideal home library/study.
2. With which literary character would you spend a week’s holiday in the location of your choice?
3. Name two new authors whose work you think will last the test of time, and explain your choices.
4. If you could live in a novel, which one would it be and why?
5. Is there a literature from a particular time and place (medieval Chinese, nineteenth-century Russian for instance) which is a favourite of yours?
6. What book have you read in the last year or so which you feel so evangelical about you would press it on everyone you meet? Explain further...
7. If you had to memorise a novel or book of poetry to preserve it à la Fahrenheit 451, which would it be and why?

I am tagging Alex, Joan, Michelle, Christine, Harriet, Catie and Bibliolathas (and if you all have a thousand followers please don’t be offended that I picked you!) but really anyone who wants to join in can do so. If you don’t have a web-log, you could write your answers in the comments below...

Midwinter gallimaufry

(Gijsbrecht Leytens, ‘Winter Landscape with People strolling on the Banks of a Frozen River where Children Play’, seventeenth century, oil on panel; found here)

Winter has got its claws in now, with dark, icy days and long nights. Streets, houses and trees are festooned with ropes of glittering lights; every village has its ‘stable’ by the church (a life-sized crib, usually including a few live sheep, hens, perhaps a donkey) and the kerstmarkten are in full swing. Despite having little to do to prepare for Christmas, I have not done it, so no proper post until after Boxing Day. Instead, another little gallimaufry to keep the cold at bay...

The wonderful Claire Massey writes about chasing shadows: ‘There's a sense of our own shadow being an escaped part of us, a leakage of ourselves into the world that we can’t control and this can feel dangerous...’

‘There is so much to do, and I do so little. Look at the stories that wait and wait, just at the threshold. Why don’t I let them in?’ Anne Fernald quotes from the diaries of Katherine Mansfield.

The artist Rima Staines paints her winter card design of travellers in snowy woods.

I intend to curl up under a blanket with a mince pie and reread the magical ‘Babette’s Feast’, in Anecdotes of Destiny by Isak Dinesen:

When at last the company broke up it had ceased to snow. The town and the mountains lay in white, unearthly splendour and the sky was bright with thousands of stars. In the street the snow was lying so deep that it had become difficult to walk. The guests from the yellow house wavered on their feet, staggered, sat down abruptly or fell forward on their knees and hands and were covered with snow, as if they had indeed had their sins washed white as wool, and in this regained innocent attire were gambolling like little lambs. It was, to each of them, blissful to have become as a small child; it was also a blessed joke to watch old Brothers and Sisters, who had been taking themselves so seriously, in this kind of celestial second childhood. They stumbled and got up, walked on or stood still, bodily as well as spiritually hand in hand, at moments performing the great chain of a beatified lanciers.

‘Bless you, bless you, bless you,’ like an echo of the harmony of the spheres rang on all sides.

Martine and Philippa stood for a long time on the stone steps outside the house. They did not feel the cold. ‘The stars have come nearer,’ said Philippa.

Merry Christmas everyone!

(Francesco Bonsignori, ‘The Virgin and Child with Four Saints’, around 14901510, oil on canvas, in the National Gallery; I love the expression and posture of the Virgin)