Friday 14 October 2011

Inductive Detection

He wrote in his notebook, "How delightful on a bright, frosty day when a new sleigh with a rug comes to the door." 
    The General had sent a surprisingly grand, light Finnish sledge of gilded osier and spruce, with birch blades.  An altogether excellent turn-out - with a matching Finka - but no splash-board.
    The surly Jehu, chewing cedar nuts on the box-seat, wore a long coat bordered with matted furs of castor and zibeline.  The liver-coloured racer with nervous, pointed ears, and a mane that sparkled like spun glass, pawed the fresh sleighing snow and quivered with suppressed eagerness. 
    A small boy with a pinched grubby face - one of the town's inevitable street-waifs clambered on to the rear runners.
    The Stationmaster, whom Anton distinguished by that official's singular, venerable, black and red, pancake-shaped cap, sang out cheerily a warning note.
    "Whip behind!"
    The hackman whipt behind.
    A plaintive voice called, "Dai kopeiku!"
    Anton drew aside the lap-robe and tossed a coin to the urchin, as the cast-off child scrambled dejectedly to his feet from a sidewalk of freshly trodden slush.
    The whip cracked again.
    Before them, the pitted road was clean once more, bleached by new-fallen snow.
    Anton had long confessed a sneaking regard for the inductive method of detection popularised by Shklyarevsky* who had imitated the pirated novels of Émile Gaboriau; and, as the sledge surged over the ukhábam – the transverse ruts which furrowed the road – he studied closely the strenuous piaffing of the Orloff in the shafts and deduced, beyond dispute, that the beast in her palmier days must have been harnessed to a distinctly different rig. 
    They were running alongside verst upon verst of hurdle fences raised as snow screens to protect the mainline rails and marshalling tracks from drifts.
    Despite this containment the trotter persisted in veering heavily to the left.
    The animal furnished material for an absorbing deductive digression.
    Anton noticed the drivers's off-side flick of his whip and corrective twitch of the ribbons ; the reins glittered with sharpened metal blades embedded in the thong to strike the roadster's stifles.
    Approaching his task with all the rigour of a good diagnostician, D-r Tchékhov noted, too, that the stinging lash was fashioned from a sazhen length of stolen telegraph wire.
    Another thing. The animal’s left hindleg was sickle-hocked and, when the sled had first moved off, Anton had observed at once the raised hoof on that deformed limb was weighted with a horseshoe kidney† of impacted snow.
    This degenerating weakness of the gambrel and tendency to yaw, coupled with her one-sided gait, were all signs which pointed conclusively to the fact that, in her previous employ, the creature had spent practically all her working life in the out-rigger position of a troika, with the off fore-leg leading.  
    Detektiv Tchékhov could not refrain from imparting his suspicions, and tested his theory on the driver, who grunted his assent.
    “If I gave her her head, given half a chance, she'd chase her own tail!”
    The high-set tail rose and fell before them in rapid motion, as if the mare was cracking nuts.


Notes
*  A. A. Shklyarevsky, author of The Undiscovered Crime (1878), the latter being
    a provisional working title of Chekhov’s A Textbook Case in this segment of his
    manuscript in progress (later deleted and replaced with The Fatal Debut).
†  Motifs drawn directly from his medical studies are rare in this period of Chekhov’s
    literary development.  A horseshoe kidney is a congenital defect producing a fusion
    of two human kidneys into a horseshoe shape.


Additional Editorial Note
This draft requires much discreet amendment. Either the copyist has slipped up or Chekhov is in error! The  horse is called kon' (male) on ms page 1 and loshad' (female) on ms page 2.  Also on page 1 it is called a Finnish horse, and on page 2 an Orloff trotter!

For the origins of this text see my previous posting, D-r  Tchékhov, Detektiv.
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2011/10/d-r-tchekhov-detektiv-long-lost-novel.html



Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
and Listen Close to Me (2011)

D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv. A long lost novel

A long lost crime novel by Chekhov surfacing in the 21st Century? Not possible, you say! Yet Chekhov, himself, referred to such a work in progress in a letter to Pleshcheev on 9 Feb. 1888: "Ah, if you knew what a plot I have in my noddle! What marvelous women! What funerals ...!"

So, the tale that spoke to me across a century from the packet of papers I inherited from my father, when I understood its provenance, was not so altogether surprising that I missed a heartbeat.

The packet was labelled The Fatal Debut (a provisional title, I believe) in Chekhov's own hand on the wax paper wrapper containing his papers. However, the handwriting of the enclosed manuscript was not wholly in Chekhov's own distinctive penscript, but in other hands (his brothers Aleksandr, Nicholya, Misha and others). The work was translated and annotated by my father, from whose ms (see specimen pages) I have drawn for my own restoration of the novel.

His ownership of the original manuscript (deposited in my father's bank) is accounted thus:

My father, a polyglot, born 1903, travelled widely in his schooldays, studying at Herder Realgymnasium, Berlin ; Escuela Alemana, Barcelona ; Institut Minerva, Zurich ; and Handelsschule Weiss, Vienna.

In World War II, my father, by now a naturalised Englishman serving in the British Army, was an interpreter with SHAEF at the Nürnberg Trials.

According to a diary note of March 8 1946, he interrogated a General Vadim Ignatyvich Kulikov, who, in his youth, had been a close friend of Chekhov. (Kulikov, embittered by his failure to protect his Mari family against the post-revolutionary dekulakization in the inter-war years, had, remarkably, at the age of 69, defected to the Germans to lead a Cossack Unit subordinated to a Sicherungs Division, stationed in Glogau, Poland, which was active in the Kiev area and Croatia in 1943, deployed against saboteurs. After the series of interrogations conducted by my father, and following demands from the Soviets for Kulikov's repatriation, he was returned to Russia later in 1946, where after a show trial in Moscow he was executed for treason.)

In his private confession to my father, Kulikov stated he had "... exchanged half a carton of Chesterfields, two tins of cocoa and one can of condensed milk for the 'FD ms' in possession of a fellow prisoner, Vassily Gremoukhin, a collaborator, and émigré son of the ciseleur, Anatoly Gremoukhin, a distinguished former workmaster in the St. Petersburg House of Carl Fabergé".

From extant notes and journal references uncovered by my father, it seems Chekhov visited Gremoukhin in 1901 the month before his marriage to Olga Knipper to lay preparations for the special commission of a wedding gift: "A pair of engraved rock-crystal toilet bottles with mounts of enamelled translucent pink on a guilloché ground, one surmounted by a varicoloured chalcedony dog, the other by a cat in purpurine, each with cabochon ruby eyes."

Chekhov did not warm to Gremoukhin. Evidently, the commission was of a private nature and was not passed through Fabergé's books; Chekhov was, as so often during his courtship, pressed for cash and Gremoukhin demanded security against completion of the gift. (Gremoukhin's telephone number is given as Moscow 1173, by the way.)

Chekhov writes: "The manuscript was to hand (I had only that day assembled the pages for archiving) and, reluctantly, the work was placed in Gremoukhin's safekeeping as my guarantee. The hastiness of the agreement was prompted by the arrival of the maître, Fabergé himself, who benignly greeted me with the words:  'I must tell you at once, sir, the only doctor in whom I have ever put my faith at all is the good Berncasteler Doktor!' (He was referring to his favourite dry white Moselle.)"

In the event, as Gremoukhin's son related to my father, Chekhov never redeemed his manuscript, on which I have presumed to confer the title: D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv.

A sample chapter, Inductive Detection, from 270 transcribed pages (see mss below in a copyist's hand) may be read here ... you'll note the last page is irreverently overwritten by my father with notes on ordnance and supply columns!





A number of extracts from the as-yet-unpublished crime novel, 
D-r TchékhovDetektiv, have been posted here over recent years :

A Skirmish with Wolves
or Chekhov’s talking raven,
or Dead Wife, New Hat,
or Inductive Detection,
or D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv. A long lost novel, 
https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2011/10/d-r-tchekhov-detektiv-long-lost-novel.html


Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
and Listen Close to Me (2011)

Thursday 13 October 2011

Hushed Up Chekhov

In the centennial of Chekhov's death, I wrote the following essay (published in the Jewish Chronicle, December 24 2004) in which I identify the suppression of commentary on the anti-Semitic aspects of Chekhov's correspondence and writings and drama.


In this, the year's end of Anton Chekhov's centenary [2004], many devotees will be unaware that, within international Russian-speaking Jewry, their hero is often vilified.
    In the West a controversy is raging among emigrant critics who claim there's a strain of anti-Semitism editorially suppressed in Chekhov's letters, and who point to a coded Jew-baiting hidden in his writings.
    Specifically, Jewish critics assert that Chekhov's literary career was advanced by influential mentors who were ideological anti-Semites. Certainly, Chekhov's disquieting character flaw was kept well-hidden in the Soviet epoch thanks to discreet censorship.
    Airbrushed out of Soviet history books were these remarks of Chekhov, "... our critics are almost all Jews, who don't know the core of Russian life, and are alien to it, its spirit, its forms, its humour ..."    
    Recently, an American-Jewish magazine condemned Chekhov's alleged silence during the Tsarist anti-Jewish pogroms.
    This accusation prompted me to search in vain within the new centennial collection (Chekhov: A Life in Letters, Penguin) for his correspondence with a certain Jew.
    But nowhere in this selection will you find Chekhov's notorious letter suppressed equally by his principal British biographer and Soviet guardians of the Chekhov legend.
    In 1881, following the rape and carnage of anti-Semitic pogroms, Chekhov writes to his former schoolmate, Solomon Kramariov, "If you are beaten ... I'll come. I like beating up your brother-exploiters ... Let you see in your dreams, Israeli, your move into the paradise! Let the justifiable anger of Russian citizens frighten and undermine your nerves!!!"
    Gallows humour, indeed, and this particular passage has been likewise sanitised by Donald Rayfield in his exhaustive biography. (Anton Chekhov: A Life.)        
    The Penguin selection claims to be the "first uncensored edition" but its editors are careful to shield readers from any hints of Chekhov's youthful anti-Semitism.
    Young Anton was fond of the Judophobic poet, Nekrasov, whose influence on Chekhov's early drama, Platonov, is evident.
     "A Yid stands in higher esteem ... There are fatal words on his forehead: For Sale at Public Auction!" This remark, by echoing Nekrasov's poem maligning a prostitute, equates Jewry with prostitution.
    Chekhov used "Yid" habitually in correspondence.  Similarly, Chekhov's youthful first novel reveals usage of "Yid" to be the norm.
    Unrecorded in the new Penguin edition is Chekhov's letter condemning this novel's publisher: "There's a new administration (Kurepin and Yids) there, more disgusting than the previous one."
    Early in his career, Chekhov fell under the spell, too, of another Judophobic writer, Leskov.
    The charge against Chekhov by Judophile critics is that both he and Leskov were "birds of a feather" who collaborated with reactionary, anti-Semitic periodicals. The entrenched anti-Semite, Suvorin, editor of the Judophobic New Times was Chekhov's lifelong friend.
    There is a sense of intimately shared mockery; on holiday, Chekhov writes to Suvorin: "The place swarms with Jews, among the mangiest specimens ... Jews are cowardly people ..."
    Yet, paradoxically, many years' later, Chekhov became a staunch defender of a Jew, Captain Dreyfus. (In this celebrated scandal Dreyfus was falsely accused of passing French military secrets to the German embassy in Paris.)
    When Suvorin declared New Times to be virulently anti-Dreyfusard Chekhov's opinions rapidly matured, swayed by Zola's famous campaigning article, J'accuse!
    The severing of Chekhov's friendship with Suvorin can be dated from their acrimonious falling out over Dreyfus. Chekhov writes: "The attitude of New Times to the Zola affair has been simply vile."
    Yet, the previous year, Chekhov can write casually: "To defend myself from gossip is like begging a loan from a [Jew]." The Soviets censored the word "Jew".
    Chekhov also writes: "I'm not going to write for The Northern Herald because I don't get on with their Israelites."
    This periodical was published by a woman Chekhov cursed for her "Jewishness".
    One hundred years' later, another woman critic, Viktoria Levitina, writes: "Chekhov is a wonderful legend of Russian literature: humanity, tolerance, tactfulness. There existed a sacramental formula in Russian law-making - 'except Jews'. All Chekhov's virtues don't concern Jews either." Chekhov's humanity is the myth of "a writer who is just considered to be a classical one."
    Judged by this latest Penguin selection, these darker suspicions colouring Chekhov's character are not given space to intrude, a deficiency which denies us revisionist insights to reassess his reputation.
      Not least among allegations of Chekhov's Judophobia is the innuendo that his intended Jewish bride, Dunya Efros, inspired the spirited Jewess in his short story written supposedly as an act of revenge in the year of his broken engagement; its protagonist has "a prejudice against un-Russian faces in general ..." Chekhov referred to Dunya as "Efros with her nose" and a rich zhidovochka.
    Chekhov's play, Ivanov, affirms, too: "Do not marry a Jewess or a bluestocking ..."
    Chekhov's misogynistic anti-Semitic aphorism echoes in our hearts when we consider that Dunya was arrested in WW2 Vichy and gassed by the Nazis.
    With 20/20 hindsight, any critic risks glibness in being too eager to judge.       
    But four years before his death, as late as 1900, Chekhov can still grumble in exasperation with Tolstoy, "I can't think why he bothers to talk to these Jews."

[See page 39. The Full Collection of Works and Letters in Thirty Volumes. Letters in Twelve Volumes. Letters. Volume 1. 1875-1886. Moscow, 1974. The anti-Semitic passage from the diary of February, 1897 is also included in this collection. Oddly enough, the Collection of the 1960s, in 12 volumes, skipped all the letters of 1880-1882. Incidentally, Chekhov refers to Kramariov as "Kramarov" which sounds more Jewish, i.e. son of Kramer = merchant.]

Footnote: a teleological conundrum.

It’s noticeable that the publishing here of the unedited text of my centennial article from 2004 has prompted certain speculations as to my own personal standpoint in relation to the post-pogrom diaspora at the turn of the last century. You’ll perhaps have noted that I wrote in clarification:
The reality of anti-Jewish pogroms in Tsarist Russia is not unknown to my family. My grandmother very closely witnessed, in the East End of London, the impact of Russian Jewish immigrants on communities in England (a mass influx of some 120,000 in the first waves fleeing the Russian empire’s anti-Semitic persecution). Hence, Londoners of the 1880s through to the early 1900s were, like Chekhov, no strangers to Russian Jewish customs and culture and my grandmother’s understanding of them was no less profound than his. In fact, it’s quite probable that Londoners knew more about displaced Russian Jews than Chekhov's countrymen who banished them. 
In reality, my grandparents were also members of a diaspora of sorts – in their case descendants of expelled Huguenots – so their views as Londoners were not coloured by extreme reactionary anti-alienism prejudices against the immigrant condition and the ghettoization of the East End. I will merely note that a common British perception of the refugee Jew in the East End of my grandparents’ times is best summed up by the eminent British socialist, Beatrice Webb, when observing (1888-1889) Jewish immigrant life for Charles Booth’s Life and Labour of the People in London.

Beatrice Webb writes of the new arrivals, fleeing persecution, as representing a survivalist class of entrepreneur that, due to their historic experience of persecution, had ‘weeded out the inapt and incompetent’ and sharpened their instincts into ‘an instrument for grasping by mental agility the good things withheld from them by the brute force of the Christian peoples’ and who regarded the best exemplar of their own kind as ‘in a fair way to become a tiny capitalist — a maker of profit . . . [who] feels himself the equal of a Montefiore or a Rothschild.’ Beatrice Webb, needless to add, was one of the founders of the Fabian Society; she coined the term ‘collective bargaining’ and wrote The History of Trade Unionism (1894). The stark conflict witnessed by my grandparents in the East End – contemporary movements towards organised labour versus the immigrants’ sweatshop practices that drove down wages – can therefore be better appreciated as the goad behind my grandfather and his becoming a very early member of the Fabian Society, that champion of co-operative endeavour and advocate of a welfare state and a national minimum wage.  

See also a variant of this article at:
https://peoples-press.com/index.php/morning-star-online-from-2004/culture/item/8338-chekhov-s-letters


The English View on Pogroms

Today (December 8 2017), astonishingly, I was turning the pages of a little book on East Anglian Dialect (‘Lingual Localisms’), published in London in 1823, and among all the quaint rustic sayings and ‘mitigated oaths’ I found the word, ‘Pogram’

So from almost two hundred years ago, here’s the view of a sophisticated English scholar and etymologist:
POGRAM [original spelling unchanged]: A word that has not been much heard till of late years [i.e. 1821 Odessa pogroms marked the beginning of the 19th century pogroms in Tsarist Russia], though I believe it not to be of recent coinage: indeed I’m pretty sure I have seen it somewhere. It is now generally applied by vulgar churchmen to dissenters of different denominations. Not however to papists, jews, or quakers. The remark that mutual rancour of conflicting sects is inversely as their degree of difference, holds good all the world over. Christians hate each other more than they do Jews or Mahommedans. And the latter, however inveterate against Christians, are yet still more so mutually in regard to sectarian difference: though in fact such difference be unimportant, and comprising no point of faith, beyond who was the fittest man to succeed Mahommed in the Khalifat, or civil and pontifical supremacy. Even the tolerant Hindus, who admit no proselytes, and aver that all mankind are more or less Hindus, have had desolating wars among themselves on points of faith and practice; and hate each other with considerable intensity; greatly exceeding what they feel towards Christians, or Mahommedans. It has been reserved for the Hindus to carry on merciless wars of extermination on a question of physiological function. Yet such are points of history and I believe of fact. The original question was whether their Jupiter or Juno were the most potential in the infancy, or before the infancy, of society?

That last remark, I suspect, teeters very close to iconoclasm yet this writer wrote in the Regency era so it’s not altogether surprising, because this kind of robust opinion was to thrive for over a decade until Victorian stuffiness stifled bluff hearty outbursts like this in the name of good taste.


Silence of the British Press, September 2018.

It should be recorded here that, in the 2018 debates by British mainstream news media on the question of anti-Semitism persisting in the UK Labour Party (September 2018), there was silence on the matter of its enshrinement in the ideological foundations of trade unionism articulated by Fabianism from which the Labour Party sprang. 

Just a further small sample of Beatrice Webb’s writings indicate the source of traditional Labourite/Fabian prejudice.  

In short, the explicit animus levelled by Labourites/Fabians against Jews is defined in Beatrice’s own words: 
‘. . . the immigrant Jew, though possessed of many first-class virtues, is deficient in that highest and latest development of human sentiment – social morality.’ 
Another quote from Beatrice: 
‘In the Jewish inhabitants of East London we see therefore a race of brain-workers competing with a class of manual labourers. The Polish Jew regards manual work as the first rung of the social ladder, to be superseded or supplanted on the first opportunity by the estimates of the profit-maker, the transactions of the dealer, or the calculations of the money-lender . . . ’


Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremisCompulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html
and Listen Close to Me (2011)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/published-this-autumn-listen-close-to.html  

Wilde... apostrophiser of boys but not punctuation

Can punctuation, as well as poetry, provide a critical plot twist in my fiction?

Well. Yes. Remember, Roger Casement, the Irish nationalist, was 'hanged by a comma'.

In my latest collection of fiction, Listen Close to Me (Salt 2011), a bibliophile remarks on Wilde's cavalier use of the apostrophe. '[Wilde ] had a habit of apostrophising possessive pronouns when everyone knows they're absent.'

The truth of this observation I confirm in my miniature essay, Addendum to a Forgotten ms (Ambit, Issue 203, Winter 2011).

Meanwhile, if you doubt my word, take a look at Oscar Wilde's inconsistent apostrophising evidenced by the following writing samples. They are from his manuscript ('it's marble hue ... it's vein of blue ...') for his poem, Roses and Rue, of 1885.

Are these errors pathological? A Freudian graphologist might think so!

At Grass, the Blinking Stars ... Doctored Art?

I'm certain I recall reading in Andrew Motion's biography of Larkin (Philip Larkin: A Writer's Life, Faber and Faber, 1993) that, though he much admired Larkin's well known poem about racehorses put out to grass, he was disturbed by the inaccuracy of the final line of the final stanza ...

Only the groom, and the groom's boy,
With bridles in the evening come.

Motion feels that racehorses 'At Grass', taken by grooms to their stables, by implication, would be led by 'halters'.  The line, then, should read:

Only the groom, and the groom's boy,
With halters in the evening come.

Motion is absolutely right here. The bridles suggest horses equipped for a race, which is quite the opposite of the poem's mood of 'Veterans at Rest' and 'Triumphs Past'.

This brings me to the heretical idea that works of art, conceivably, could be tweaked and doctored to engage more empathetically with latter-day sensibilities. Do I mean bowdlerisation? No! Of course not!

I mean that some modern meanings of certain words can torpedo the effects the lyricist intended.  Shall I ever forget the ripple of laughter at the Royal Festival Hall when that splendid Toulonnais, Gilbert Becaud, sang an English translation of one of his songs: 'The blinking stars are dancing ...'  He simply could not understand the Londoners' (not unkind) laughter.

My sensibilities are also disturbed by the jarring appearance of 'free lances' in Louis MacNeice's classically perfect 'The Sunlight on the Garden', even though I know very well the meaning MacNeice intended, and its pathos. It's just that so many other contemporary – and dullish - associations are now conjured up by the term. That is why I have presumed, for my own private delectation, to doctor the poem so my attention does not waver at the beginning of the second stanza.

A massive presumption, yes! (To loosely change: Our freedom as free lances/Advances towards its end;/The earth compels ...) N.B. The iron 'Siren' neither reflects the Spanish Civil War nor the London Blitz of WW2 since this prophetic poem was completed in the mid 1930s. The dictators who wreaked havoc in both those conflicts I now dub, specifically, the 'unanswerable rogues' who never answered for their actions.

The Sunlight on the Garden

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

We know the rogue who answers
Unanswerably at the end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful, too,
For sunlight on the garden.

Tuesday 11 October 2011

Mr and Mrs Anon.

To return to the theme of the 'mute inglorious' Mr and Mrs Miltons so despised by Kingsley Amis (see my September posting, Commoners' Rights to the Heroic Quatrain).
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2011/09/commoners-rights-to-heroic-quatrain.html
The defence of Anon must be for me a recurrent fixation because I'm reminded I touched upon it in my Elegy from a Locked Drawer in Sister Morphine (2008), where my youthful protagonist's flirtation with Toby Freemartin takes this turn ...

It was clear we were hitting it off.
    'What is your favourite colour?' he asked.
    'Iridescence,' I answered quickly (paying homage to Marianne Moore).
    'And your favourite poet?'
    'Anon.'
    His smile was wary. I suspected he was more than a little stuck on me but puzzled by the immature elusiveness I often contrived to make myself more fetching.

-

So, evidently, my views haven't changed since my teens.  And certainly my notebooks record any number of memorable sayings, saws and proverbs whose authors are Anon, yet whose utterances, like folk tunes, cling fast to the mind with a grip fiercer than that of any named poet.

Look. Here. I've just this minute taken eight random folk sayings and arranged them in two 'found stanzas' ...

Thought lies in Bed and is beshatten.
Mope-eyed for living so long as a Maiden,
She cannot leap an Inch from a Slut
Yet can correct the Magnificat.

They say Old Maids lead Apes in Hell.
The Body is the Socket of the Soul
Put together with a hot Needle and burnt Thread. 
Then ask: Would you know her Secrets? Who’s to know who’s a Good Maid?

Remember, Sir Kingsley, the ballad, the proverb, the inventive oath, the cautionary tale, owe their origin to Mr and Mrs Anon.

A solitary truck ... euphonious assonance.

Talking of poetasters. I should note frankly that memories of my youthful experiences when working on an academic publisher’s poetry list were refashioned as Elegy from a Locked Drawer in my Sister Morphine (Salt 2008). This is how I recall the first day at the publisher's office and meeting the intimidating editorial team ...



    I took to him instantly. His name was Toby Freemartin, the editor's copy assistant and general progress chaser. Opposite him, seated across the aisle, was our office section leader, Desmond, a small, fussy, mild-featured copywriter who could, nonetheless, unsheathe kittenish claws to rake his victims with a lacerating wit.
    Toby made a long arm and boldly withdrew from my grasp the cloth-covered writing-case I had brought with me which bore my name. He untied the tapes and riffled through the thin sheaf of poems I had not dared to show the editor.
    'Audenian,' he sniffed, passing each sheet ponderously to Desmond.
    'Macspaunday without the audacity,' Desmond purringly demurred.
    They were both absolutely right, of course.
    Soon a spirited argument developed which centred on my indictment of a number of curious imprecisions which, in my own view, annoyingly marred Auden's phrasing; I was soon citing '... a solitary truck, the last of shunting in the Autumn ...' as a particularly glaring example of such infelicities. Their protests were silenced when I mentioned my great-uncle had been a locomotive engineman hauling French Sleeping Cars on the Continental Express for more than twenty years. He had shown me his railway company's pre-war Signals Manual, I said, which proved conclusively that shunting in sidings was not exclusively seasonal work.
    ' "During darkness, fog or falling snow," ' I quoted, ' "the trackloading in either direction must not exceed ten goods-wagons and a tail lamp must be placed on the last truck by a handsignalman." '
    My great-uncle and his Marxist footplateman agreed that Auden's phrase was ultimately meaningless, I assured them airily, and simply a case of seductive euphonious assonance.
    Toby and Desmond exchanged thoughtful glances.
    I think I must have succeeded in impressing them.